Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha

by Dorothy Gilman

  "Don't try to talk," she told him, "I'll call a doctor."

  "No," he gasped, rousing at this and suddenly opening those strange silver eyes. "Not safe. After me. How—must find how ..."

  His eyes closed and he lapsed again into unconsciousness while Mrs. Pollifax stared at him and considered his words, weighing the gash in his head against his panic. She did not believe that he would die from the blow but on the other hand he might very well die from infection if unattended. His panic, however, she implicitly believed in; his very presence here proved that he was terrified, for this was, after all, the Hong Kong Hilton where every amenity was available, yet he'd chosen to come to her room. For that matter he could scarcely have come far, she realized, for no one could possibly have wandered through the hotel's lobby in such a state without causing pandemonium.

  It must have happened in his room, she thought, and— not safe, he'd said. Did he mean that he might have been followed?

  She had closed the door but not locked it; now she jumped up to snap the lock but as it slammed into place with a ping! she became aware of movement outside in the hall. Her eyes fell to the door knob and to her horror she saw it turn slowly, silently, to the left and then to the right, accompanied by a subtle sound of metal probing metal.

  Mrs. Pollifax forced down a scream. Except I want to scream, she cried silently, watching the knob twist back and forth, "/ wantoscream I wantoscream I wan-toscream ..."

  The door opened and Robin Burke-Jones stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything," he said cheerfully, "I saw you cross the lobby a few minutes ago and—" His glance fell to the man lying at her feet. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "Been at your karate again? Who on earth—!"

  Thoroughly shaken Mrs. Pollifax stammered, "N-not karate, it's Mr. H-H-Hitchens, he just sort of f-fell into my room terrified of being f-f-followed, and then you then you—"

  Robin whistled. "And you thought—I say, I'm frightfully sorry. The thing is, I'm being followed, too, and I simply couldn't afford to knock on your door and stand around waiting for it to open." Regarding Mr. Hitchens with considerable fascination he said, "Chap needs a doctor, doesn't he?"

  She'd forgotten the crisp British accent Robin had worked so hard to acquire. "He begged me not to call one."

  "You know him, of course."

  "Scarcely this well," she told him. "That is, we flew in on the same plane, where we had a very interesting talk about psychic phenomena—he's a psychic, you see, he's come here to find a missing person—and then we had breakfast together this morning, I think it was this morning although it seems forever ago, but I certainly didn't expect to see him again."

  "And now he's here."

  "Yes, now he's here."

  Robin knelt beside Mr. Hitchens. "Nasty bash, this . . . someone did a damn good job on him, but if he could still utter words and all that, it's promising. If he was capable of talking how exactly did he explain his— er—impetuous arrival?"

  Mrs. Pollifax closed her eyes and thought about it. "First he whispered 'something terribly wrong . . . how . . . how' and then when I told him I'd call a doctor he gasped 'Not safe . . . after me ... how . . . must find how . . .' "

  Robin stood up and gave her a thoroughly startled look. "Would you mind repeating that, word for word?"

  Obligingly she repeated it. "Why?"

  Robin's eyes had narrowed. "And you say he's here to find a missing person?"

  She nodded. "What is it, Robin?"

  Ignoring this he said thoughtfully, "I can provide a doctor who won't ask questions and I think I'd like very much to stick around and hear what else your friend Mr. Hitchens has to say when he regains consciousness." He walked over to the phone, dialed a number and stood waiting, smiling at her. "And to think," he told her, shaking his head, "that I stopped in just to say hello and talk over old times! You know, such as how you rescued young Hafez and karate-chopped the sheik's men and—hello, Chiang?" he said into the phone. "Three-oh-one here, I'm at the hotel; can you come discreetly to room 614—repeat, 614? Chap with possible concussion, unconscious at the moment, bad gash in the head, probably needs stitching . . . Right-oh. Good." He hung up. "He'll be here in five minutes. You know, it crossed my mind when I saw your friend here that it might be Cyrus, but you wrote us that Cyrus is six feet four, and this chap simply doesn't extend that far on the floor.''

  "He's bird-watching," she told him. "In Vermont.

  Is this conversation making any sense? I had to leave in a great hurry and—"

  "So you are on a job for Carstairs!"

  She smiled. "A very small one," she admitted. "Reconnaissance, you might say. Robin, what startled you when I quoted Mr. Hitchens's words to you, and why do you want to hear what he has to say when he wakes up?"

  Robin perched on the arm of a chair and looked at her. "I am naturally sworn to secrecy but considering that I owe you my lovely bride and my new job—what startled me, my dear Mrs. P., is that for the past two days I've been looking for a missing man who happens to be named Hao."

  It was her turn to be startled. "Named . . . You mean—you mean 'must find how' could be a name?"

  He smiled. "In Hong Kong, yes. Hong Kong is filled with Hu's and Hao's and Yu's and Wi's ... It could of course be coincidence—"

  "And your name for this occasion is Lars Petterson?"

  "Oh you know that, do you." He looked amused.

  "Actually it was Mr. Hitchens who told me at breakfast, he'd just seen you on Hong Kong television this morning before you walked into the restaurant." She shook her head at him. "Third-richest man in the world, Robin?"

  "Mmmm," he murmured, grinning. "It was hoped that it might bring just the right kind of attention—or wrong kind, whichever way you look at it—my arriving with great fanfare and lots of money to invest, possibly very naive and definitely a playboy."

  "And now you're being followed?"

  "Only since I began looking for the missing Mr. Hao, which is interesting, don't you think?"

  She stared at him thoughtfully and then she said, "All right, why are you here, Robin?"

  His face sobered. "To put it very simply I'm here because there's something terribly wrong in Hong Kong . . . disturbingly and alarmingly wrong, and I'm here to discover what it is."

  There was silence and then Mrs. Pollifax said musingly, "You know, that's the third time today that someone's told me something is 'terribly wrong': you, Mr. Hitchens, and someone I talked with earlier this evening. In your case, Robin—"

  "That will be Chiang," Robin said as three staccato knocks interrupted her. "Let me open it, he knows me."

  Dr. Chiang hurried into the room, a diminutive man in a nearly threadbare suit. He gave Mrs. Pollifax one quick, curious glance before he opened up his medical kit, and then he knelt beside Mr. Hitchens, who stirred, groaned, opened his eyes and began to gag.

  "Basin," called Dr. Chiang imperatively, and Mrs. Pollifax, lacking a basin, flew to the wastebasket and extracted a plastic bag.

  Presently, after Mr. Hitchens had been thoroughly sick, he was carried to the chaise longue where Dr. Chiang began to deal expertly with his wound: cleaning, sterilizing, applying a local anesthetic and then eight stitches. "He'll be all right," Dr. Chiang said at last, stepping back to observe his patient. "No concussion . . . He's lucky because he was hit hard but fortunately not in a really vulnerable area, although he's going to have one hell of a headache. I've given him a tetanus shot, an antibiotic and something to relax him. If he's still restless in an hour try him on a little brandy but nothing else until morning."

  "Thanks, Chiang," said Robin.

  The doctor gave Mrs. Pollifax a second interested and curious glance. "Husband?"

  She shook her head. "Oh no."

  Dr. Chiang looked amused. "I see, yes . . . well-good luck and call me if you need me."

  "Nice," said Mrs. Pollifax when he'd gone. "It's just that he doesn't look like a doctor somehow."

 
; Robin laughed. "In about four years' time he just may find a free hour to shop for a new suit, or then again he may not. A good man, Chiang—does a great deal of work with the boat people over in Aberdeen. Harvard Medical School, actually. By the way he did mention brandy, didn't he? Because frankly I could use some fortifying myself, it's beginning to feel like a very long day."

  Mrs. Pollifax hurried to the small refrigerator and inspected its contents. "Did you find your refrigerator crammed full of food and drink when you arrived, too?"

  "Ah yes," said Robin, "but I must warn you, they keep a very efficient eye on what's removed."

  "How deflating," she said. "But I see a sample bottle of champagne, of white wine, and—ah yes, brandy." She brought it to Robin with a glass, after which they sat and looked expectantly at Mr. Hitchens, who was staring at them with considerable bewilderment.

  "I'm Mrs. Pollifax," she reminded him, leaning forward and speaking in a clear firm voice. "We met on the plane and flew into Hong Kong together and shared breakfast, remember? And this is—uh—Mr. Petterson, who happened to be—er—passing by, and who happens to be looking for a man named Mr. Hao."

  Mr. Hitchens turned his silver eyes on Robin and examined him; if he recognized him as Third Richest Man in the World he gave no sign. He said, "Damien Hao?"

  Mrs. Pollifax heard Robin's quick intake of breath but his voice when he spoke was calm. "Damien Hao, yes. I believe you've been looking for him too?"

  Mr. Hitchens made the mistake of nodding, promptly groaned and clutched his head. "Got hit—in my room," he explained and then his voice turned urgent. "Alec, where's Alec?"

  Robin said quietly, "That would be Inspector Hao's son, Alec?"

  "Yes—yes! Asked me to find his father. With me all day."

  Mrs. Pollifax, weaving certain threads together, said eagerly, "He told me one of his former students at Boston University begged him to come here to find a missing relative. Robin, who is Damien Hao?"

  "He was the head of Hong Kong's specially formed police unit to investigate drugs, crime and corruption," said Robin grimly. "I say 'was' because he suddenly resigned three weeks ago in the midst of rumors that he'd been found in some sort of compromising situation. He resigned, he said, to clear his name and—as he phrased it—to continue his own private investigations. It was headline news because he's known for his rock-like integrity, and the Governor, whom I interviewed, feels personally that Hao was framed. And then ten days ago he disappeared."

  Mrs. Pollifax turned to Mr. Hitchens. "Did you find him today?"

  The silver eyes closed. "No . . . used a map—"

  "Yes?"

  Mr. Hitchens sighed. "Saw . . . visioned . . . plache'd been . . . hut or barn, green fields, water wheel in distance ... we drove, Alec and I ... place called New Territories."

  "Go on," Robin urged, nodding.

  "... growing dark . . . saw it."

  "Saw the hut and the water wheel," prompted Mrs. Pollifax.

  Mr. Hitchens opened his eyes. "Yes. And walked . . . searched it. Very small, earth floor, and then, and then ..." A look of pain crossed his face. "A man— a farmer we thought —came to see who we were and . . . when I woke up Alec was gone." His voice ended in a weak sob. "So I walked and walked ... too woozy for Alec's car . . . walked ... a taxi . . . can't remember and then . . . my room . . . hotel room. And someone there. In dark. Pow."

  Puzzled, Mrs. Pollifax said, "This farmer—you went to sleep?"

  "Something . . . chloroform I think," Hitchens said. "But they took . . . Alec. I think . . . God it hurts to think . . . think they planned to come back for me. Nightmare," he added miserably. "Bloody awful nightmare."

  "One more question," said Mrs. Pollifax firmly. "When you used the map for your visioning, Mr. Hitchens, did you feel that Inspector Hao was still alive?"

  "Yes," he murmured, and then again, "Bloody awful nightmare."

  "Yes indeed," said Robin. "Hang in, old chap, we'll find them both, you know."

  Mr. Hitchens blinked at him. "We?"

  Robin nodded. "First thing tomorrow if you feel up to it."

  "Want to ... must . . . sleep now," said Hitchens, and closed his eyes and slept.

  "Looks as if you'll have a roommate for the night," said Robin. "Can you manage?"

  "I'd manage better if you'll tell me what's wrong in Hong Kong that brought you here."

  Robin glanced at Mr. Hitchens and nodded. "Let's try the bathroom, I'd just as soon he not hear this and I can't be sure he's asleep." Entering first, he said generously, "You can have the edge of the tub."

  She laughed and sat down. "All right, I'm perched. Now talk."

  "In capsule form?" He glanced at his watch. "It's well past midnight, definitely in capsule form, so try picturing a map with arrows converging on Hong Kong—arrows from Europe, the Middle East and the United States, all pointing to this tiny island in the China Sea."

  Mrs. Pollifax said crisply, "The arrows denoting what?"

  With equal crispness Robin replied. "Puzzling rumors, coincidences, tips, thefts, the possibility that guns are being smuggled somewhere into the area, and now a man like Inspector Hao mysteriously missing."

  "Involving Hong Kong?" she said incredulously.

  "I know," he said, nodding sympathetically. "A tight little island protected by Britain's Army and Navy, a haven for international money, the commercial hub of the East. Yet behind the scenes here there is an active criminal element dealing heavily in narcotics—it's called the Triad—and lately rumors of an explosion of corruption in the police echelons. Inspector Hao just may have learned more than was healthy for him because his disappearance is as mysterious as his abrupt departure from the special force. All we do know for certain is that Hong Kong has become a magnet that's pulling together a number of unrelated incidents in the criminal world, which spells out something violent being planned here."

  Frowning over this Mrs. Pollifax said, "Yet as evidence none of this sounds very substantial."

  Robin laughed. "My dear Mrs. P., if the evidence were more substantial Interpol would have an army of men here instead of just Marko and myself."

  "Marko?"

  He grinned. "You don't think the third-richest man in the world travels without a social secretary, do you? You'll have to meet him, except of course he's not really a secretary, he's Marko Constantine, one of Interpol's best, but for the moment he does remarkably well answering my phone and taking messages."

  "So you're a sort of reconnaissance, too," she said almost absently. "But those arrows, Robin ... I mean how—?"

  "Diamonds."

  ' 'Diamonds ?''

  He nodded. "Interpol's principal job is narcotics control but the drug syndicates frequently use diamonds to make their payments, so we keep an eye on that, too. Diamonds are small, easy to smuggle from one country to another and far more convenient than currency, as you can imagine. Three months ago, in January and February, there came a sudden rash of diamond thefts and murders: two in New York, three in Antwerp, and four in London. Quite extraordinary, actually."

  "Why so extraordinary?"

  "Because the diamond industry is very tightly controlled—De Beers and its subsidiaries see to that," explained Robin. "Diamonds are not particularly scarce, and if too many should be unleashed on the market at any one time their prices would plunge and their mystique—which is basically illusion and good advertising—would crumble. Therefore the sudden disappearance of a large number of gems sent quite a shock wave through the market and the industry.

  "But it's extraordinary for another reason, too," he continued. "I don't suppose you've ever contemplated how diamonds travel from the mines to their markets?"

  "No," said Mrs. Pollifax dryly, "I can't say that I have."

  "Well, it's handled in an outrageously casual manner, always has been, and it works. The gems travel by insured mail, by ship, by plane, by courier and by salesmen, and the latter two would shame any secret agent in the way they move around the world,
making advance reservations in major hotels, then switching at the last minute to some dive of a rooming house, carrying diamonds in shoe boxes, paper bags, money belts, attaché cases. A very discreet and clever group, and the incidence of thefts has been practically nonexistent, yet inside of six weeks eight salesmen or couriers were murdered—at airports, in hotel rooms, on the street, in their cars. And when it all ended—and it ended as suddenly as it began—nearly eight million dollars' worth of diamonds had been stolen."

  "Good heavens," said Mrs. Pollifax, "that's certainly a great deal of tax-free money for someone! You feel they were all linked together?"

  Robin nodded. "There were definite similarities between the two New York murders and eventually a link with Hong Kong, too, because in March three packages of those stolen diamonds were found in a shipment of narcotics being smuggled into Hong Kong. Landed by boat, actually, on one of the islands. The packets were in the same wrappings in which they'd been stolen, which was certainly very careless of someone!"

  "How much were those three packets worth?"

  "Nearly two million. One package came from an Antwerp murder, two from New York, again implying connection between them all."

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled faintly. "Your evidence grows a shade more substantial, yes?"

  Robin nodded. "That's what shifted our attention to southeast Asia, where we began picking up other rumors lying around in wait for us. The most alarming one is that we've been told by a reliable informant that some very fancy guns have either passed—or are due to pass-through Sri Lanka on their way to Macao. Macao," he added pointedly, "being only forty miles from Hong Kong."

  "Guns!" echoed Mrs. Pollifax, startled. "But that changes the picture considerably, Robin!"

  He said grimly, "Especially where one of them is rumored to be a multiple rocket launcher called 'Stalin's Organ,' which is very portable, small enough to be carried on the roof of a minibus or small boat and its rockets launched from either."

  Mrs. Pollifax drew in her breath sharply. "You haven't learned their destination?"

  He shook his head. "The silence—the cover-up—is astonishing; we can't pierce it, there are almost no leaks and that's highly unusual. Our normal informants have gone mum."