Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha

by Dorothy Gilman

The first lesson that Mrs. Pollifax learned in the art of reconnaissance was that there would be no setting foot in Dragon Alley at all. They circled it instead, researching first the street in back of Feng Imports, stumbling through yards and over piles of junk until Mrs. Pollifax finally spotted the high slanted window of Mr. Detwiler's rear workroom, whereupon Robin jotted down location and description in a notebook and stared with particular interest at what looked to be an empty warehouse room on the top floor of a nearby building.

  They next moved to the lane on the other side of Dragon Alley and scouted the shop from this approach, squeezing through narrow apertures in a fence and peering around trees until they located the building that faced the front door of Feng Imports. This proved to be a rooming house, a ramshackle wooden affair listing subtly toward the street below. The proprietor of the rooming house was not on the premises, and Mrs. Pollifax was enchanted by the dispatch with which Marko and Robin dealt with this problem: they simply entered the building by the back door and walked up and down halls knocking on doors until they found someone at home.

  Their discovery was a man named Pi and they had interrupted his sleep. He slept, he said, because he had lost his job a week ago, and who were they? Over his shoulder Mrs. Pollifax looked into the cubicle he occupied and saw that not only did it have a window, but that the window looked out on Dragon Alley and directly down at Feng Imports. Twenty minutes later Pi had bundled up his belongings—they made a pile no larger than Marko's knapsack—and had sublet his cubicle to them for a week. From the amount of money that was paid to him for both his silence and his absence Mrs. Pollifax thought that he could very well afford to move into the Hong Kong Hilton but Robin and Marko had their stakeout. Once he had gone she and Robin lingered only briefly to help Marko rearrange the furniture, to lay out his lunch—Mrs. Pollifax tried not to regard it too wistfully—and to set up his radio; then they too left.

  "What now?" asked Mrs. Pollifax, intrigued by the thought of more revelations.

  "Now I'll drop you off at the hotel," Robin said deflatingly, "because I've got to go back and see about renting that second-floor space overlooking the rear of Feng Imports, and for that I'll need some fake business cards that I don't have with me, and a change of outfit. After that I'll set up the radio in our hotel suite and establish contact with Marko. What I hope you'll do is find Mr. Hitchens for me and set up some kind of appointment. I'd like very much to have him verify the news photo of Eric the Red, but also"—Robin gave her a sheepish glance—"also . . ."

  She smiled. "You want to borrow his psychic talents. The only problem may be that with all the publicity he's suddenly getting we may have to stand in line."

  Robin swung the Renault into a parking space at the mall entrance to the hotel. "Nonsense," he said. "If that's the case you must gently but firmly remind him of who gave him sanctuary last night in his moment of travail, and just who called a doctor for him, and you might throw in the hint of a terrorist or two and remind him that you and I are on the side of justice, peace and order, etcetera—relatively speaking—and then pray hard that he can answer Inspector Hao's WHEN? We desperately need a date ... a week, a month, a day."

  "That's a tall order," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax.

  "All orders are tall in this business," said Robin, "and at the moment I'm feeling very short." He reached over and opened the door for her. "It's already midaftemoon, there's no telling when Hitchens will turn up and I've a great deal to do; we'd better settle for a very firm date early tomorrow morning. I'm a reasonable man," he added. "Offer Mr. Hitchens a luxurious breakfast with us in my suite at eight o'clock. He's just mislaid his employer and he could be wondering where his next meal's coming from."

  "I wish I'd thought of that," she said warmly. "Robin, you are nice."

  He grinned. "Of course I'm nice ... If anything comes up, I'll be manning the radio until it's time to meet planes at the airport tonight. See you!" He saluted and drove away to find a parking space and to undoubtedly make his entrance by way of the freight elevator, on which he was becoming a regular commuter. Mrs. Pollifax entered the hotel through the mall to begin a search for Mr. Hitchens.

  But she was thinking as she walked through the mall that she would still have no news of Alec to give Mr. Hitchens, and this would be one of the first questions he would ask of her because Alec was the reason for his being in Hong Kong, just as Detwiler was her reason for being here. On the heels of this thought came the realization (hat she'd not thought very much about Detwiler at all today. She had been concerned with Mr. Hitchens and the missing Alec; she had helped discover a body and the identity of the man with the violent aura, and she'd enjoyed very much observing how Robin and Marko set up the surveillance point from which they'd watch Feng Imports, but she'd scarcely given a thought to either Detwiler or Sheng Ti, and they were both her immediate assignment.

  She paused to glance idly over the jackets of magazines in one of the shops but they all seemed to have names like Peek, Spy, Prowl and See. She thought, If there's a connection between Mr. Detwiler and Eric the Red—and Alec still mysteriously missing—isn't it possible that Detwiler might be hiding Alec in his home, wherever it might be? She wondered if Detwiler lived in an apartment or a house, and where she could find the nearest phone directory to see if he were listed. Leaving magazines behind, she headed for the escalator to the lobby.

  She had just found Detwiler's address and was copying it into her memo pad when she felt herself tapped on the shoulder and Mr. Hitchens said, "I've been looking for you!"

  She turned to find herself face to face with a Mr. Hitchens whose face had almost vanished under a huge hat that looked like a cross between a panama and a Stetson. Repressing an urgent impulse to laugh she said in amusement, "Are you in disguise, Mr. Hitchens?"

  He said reproachfully, "No, I've an ice pack on my head and it didn't seem quite the thing to wear in the lobby while I waited for you so the manager very kindly loaned me his hat. Shall we sit down?"

  "Yes, do let's," she said heartily, and they moved toward the nearest couch.

  "I can't tell you how wonderful they've been to me here," he confided. "I've been given another room because apparently I put up quite a fight last night with that—that thug, and the maid found my room a shambles this morning. I'm in room 302 now, and"—he paused for breath, beaming at her happily—"and I'm going to be on the television news tonight, it's already taped, and just look—" He held out his newspaper to her. "Fresh off the press!"

  They established themselves on the couch, and Mrs. Pollifax unfurled the paper to gaze at a photograph of two policemen and Mr. Hitchens blinking in the sun. Lower on the page was a large close-up of Mr. Hitchens, his bandage at a slightly rakish angle, and a smaller-case headline that read NOTED AMERICAN PSYCHIC IN HONG KONG.

  "I'm noted," said Mr. Hitchens happily.

  "What fun," she said. "You occupy most of the front page, too, I'm delighted for you, but how are you feeling, Mr. Hitchens? Your wound, I mean."

  His hands groped toward his head. "The ice seems to have melted now. It was just fatigue, I'm sure, but my head had begun to throb." He removed the hat and the ice bag dropped into his lap. Picking it up he said, "You wouldn't have room for this in your purse, would you?"

  "No," she said calmly, "I'm already carrying a Beretta pistol and a suicide note and there's no room for an ice bag."

  Nodding philosophically he tucked it into his pocket. "But you've not found Alec?"

  "Unfortunately not yet," she said, and they both fell silent as a gorgeously robed and bejeweled man entered the lobby, followed by a retinue of equally as exotic personages, moved across the lobby to the elevators and were whisked out of sight.

  "Squantum was never like this," said Mr. Hitchens with a shake of his head.

  "Squantum?"

  "Where I live, near Boston, but what about Alec?"

  "We didn't find him but we found a number of highly interesting clues," said Mrs. Pollifax, "and Robin wants u
s both to have breakfast with him in his suite tomorrow at eight o'clock to talk about possibilities."

  Mr. Hitchens looked pleased.

  "He also wants you to look at a photograph, and to—" She paused, seeing that Mr. Hitchens's gaze was now on a tour group that had entered the lobby, a group of tired-looking Americans led by a young Chinese woman with an insignia on her jacket. What startled Mrs. Pollifax was that Mr. Hitchens's jaw was slowly dropping and his eyes widening in astonishment.

  "What is it?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  Mr. Hitchens closed his mouth with a snap. "I don't believe it," he said, and then, "I don't believe it!" A smile spread slowly across his face. "It's Ruthie," he said, and stood up and called out her name.

  A woman in the group turned, peered across the lobby, saw Mr. Hitchens and looked as astonished as he had looked a moment ago. Detaching herself from the others, she took a few hesitant steps toward him, stopped, then hurried on to be met in midlobby by Mr. Hitchens, who gave her a shy embrace. Their approaches implied a difficult parting long ago, and a certain amount of uncertainty about meeting.

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled as she watched. Ruthie, she remembered, was the wife who had never expected Mr. Hitchens to live an exciting life. His first wife, he had told her, was a kindergarten teacher, his second an aspiring young actress, and his third wife an aspiring young magician. Ruthie, she felt instinctively, was the first wife because no show-business aspirant would ever conceal her personality so firmly behind character. Ruthie was small, and at first glance plain, but at second glance there was an arresting piquant quality about her plainness; her nose, for instance, had an interesting upturn and her chin, though small, was stubborn, and her brown eyes almost too large for her face. She was wearing a brown suit and sensible shoes and she was nearing forty: a nice little brown sparrow of a woman, thought Mrs. Pollifax, smiling at the sensible and practical manner in which she was meeting her former husband. Only the suddenly flushed face betrayed her pleasure at seeing him.

  "But I don't understand," Mrs. Pollifax heard her saying. "What are you doing in Hong Kong of all places?"

  Mr. Hitchens turned eagerly toward Mrs. Pollifax. "She's here on a tour," he called. "It's Ruthie!"

  Ruthie turned quickly to follow his glance, and Mrs. Pollifax recognized the sudden fear in her eyes as she searched for the person to whom Mr. Hitchens was speaking. She still loves him, thought Mrs. Pollifax; is she expecting another young actress or magician ? For Mrs. Pollifax was already writing the scenario of their last parting, and was waiting only to discover if it was accurate.

  Ruthie's glance softened as she saw Mrs. Pollifax. "Oh," she said. "Oh!"

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled on her with warm understanding. "The reasons for Mr. Hitchens being here," she said, leaving the couch to join them, "are so intricate— I'm Emily Pollifax, by the way—and he has become so embroiled that why don't you just show her the newspaper, Mr. Hitchens?"

  The flush on Ruthie's face had subsided; now it burgeoned again as Mr. Hitchens unfolded his newspaper and showed her the photographs on the front page. "Police business," he explained. "Ruthie, you're looking absolutely lovely!"

  "And I," said Mrs. Pollifax firmly, "have another errand to do and so I will excuse myself and leave you both to enjoy the rest of the afternoon together.''

  Ruthie said breathlessly, "Oh no—that is, you mustn't think—I'm on a tour, you know, and we're kept very busy, for instance tonight we visit Hong Kong's nightclubs and—"

  Mr. Hitchens, regarding her with pleasure, said "But why not see Hong Kong's night life with me tonight, Ruthie?"

  At this point Mrs. Pollifax withdrew, leaving them to the pitfalls and delights of reunion, and escaped to room 614 to find quieter clothes for a reconnaissance trip all her own.

  8

  Once in her room Mrs. Pollifax exchanged her dress for a plain cotton skirt, striped shirt and sandals, and tied a blue-striped scarf around her head. Following this she dug into her suitcase for the hard-cover notebook she always carried with her. Tearing out its first page—into which she'd copied data on the birds at the Zoological Garden for Cyrus—she critically inspected the remaining unlined pages until, nodding with satisfaction, she cut some twenty sheets from their binder and slid them into her purse. Leaving her room she visited the mall again, where she bought a professional-looking clipboard. Then she headed for the main exit where she captured a taxi and gave the driver the name of the street on which Mr. Detwiler lived, but not the precise number.

  A surprise soon awaited her: on an island where space was at a premium Mr. Detwiler lived at the base of Victoria Peak in what was obviously a prime residential area, on a pleasant, tree-shaded street where space was of no concern at all, and well-manicured lawns stood between each house. Mrs. Pollifax paid her fare, thanked the driver and stood looking around her, wishing she'd worn her dress and hat after all. Casually she strolled up the street past number 3216 with its discreet sign planted among the shrubs: 3216—Detwiler—Jasmine House.

  "Small but elegant," she murmured, and comparing it with his shop in the central district, so modest in size and placed in such an out-of-the-way corner, she reminded herself that he did, after all, deal in diamonds. With a sigh she thought, In for a penny, in for a pound, Emily. Courage! and continuing past his house she turned in at number 3218—The Finch-Bertrams—The Beeches.

  A maid answered her ring, a little Chinese woman in a voluminous apron. "Good afternoon," said Mrs. Pollifax pleasantly, "I'm taking an advertising survey on how many hours of television you watch each day?"

  The woman looked blank. Behind her a clipped English voice called, "Who is it, Ming?" and a chic young woman appeared, looked Mrs. Pollifax over carefully, shrugged and invited her inside.

  "Why not?" she said. "My husband won't be home for hours, Ming speaks no English and my God it gets boring in this place."

  Some thirty-five minutes later Mrs. Pollifax wrenched herself free, having learned rather too much about Mrs. Finch-Bertram, about her bridge games and her shopping, how little she saw of her husband and of how when she did see him he was either on the telephone all evening or they were entertaining clients at the club. Mrs. Finch-Bertram's attention apparently did not include her neighbor at number 3216; she did, however, watch television and Mrs. Pollifax carefully noted down her replies: soap operas when she was at home, "although of course they're too boring for words," and anything suspenseful "where I can see what clothes they're wearing these days." The problem with being a listener, thought Mrs. Pollifax as she achieved the street again, was that one became such a repository of unsolicited information, and in this case the wrong sort for her purposes.

  She had much better luck across the street at number 3217—The Wongs; the door was opened by a stunning young Chinese mother wearing blue jeans, her three children lurking behind her and giggling through the entire interview.

  "Television? Oh it's my baby-sitter," Mrs. Wong told her with a laugh. "You've hit the right house, it's on constantly, I bless RTV every day."

  Mercifully Mrs. Pollifax was not invited inside, and after scribbling down Mrs. Wong's answers to her mythical survey, she asked brightly, "And the house just across the street, are there children at number 3216?"

  Mrs. Wong shook her head. "Oh no, that's Tom Detwiler, he's a bachelor. Haven't seen him around for ages but his housekeeper watches TV, I'm sure."

  A bachelor ... a housekeeper . . . Mrs. Pollifax thanked her profusely, gave the children a last cheerful wave and decided to proceed directly to Detwiler's house before meeting another Mrs. Finch-Bertram. Crossing the road she looked at the house with an eye this time for convenient comers in which to hide the very inconvenient son of a murdered police inspector. There was, for instance, a large garage at the end of the drive, with rooms above it. The house itself gave the impression of being small but on closer inspection Mrs. Pollifax noticed an added wing that had been rendered invisible from the street by trees. Its architecture was a sophisticated blen
d of European and oriental: a bluetile roof that curved upward at each corner in the best Chinese style but below the roof the structure was sleekly contemporary, with discreet touches of stone and teak, and at the front door a massive brass knob in the shape of a dolphin. She rang and waited, hoping that Mr. Detwiler hadn't been seized by an overwhelming impulse to dash back to his house at this hour, and that his housekeeper might be cherishing as many grievances as Mrs. Finch-Bertram to pour into a listening ear.

  As it turned out, his housekeeper had only one grievance, and a very unexpected one, but for another voice and a listening ear she had a real need; Mrs. Pollifax had no sooner announced her advertising survey than she was urged to come in and do her survey in the kitchen over a good cup of tea.

  "For I get that lonesome," she told Mrs. Pollifax with a shake of her head. "O'Malley's my name, by the way, Jane O'Malley . . . and if it wasn't for me soaps I don't know but what I'd hand in me notice, even though Mr. Detwiler pays me the moon, nothing stingy about 'im at all, but still if he don't come home soon—!" She led the way into the kitchen, poured tea for Mrs. Pollifax in a charming Haviland cup, and sat down opposite her at the table.

  Somewhat confused by this statement Mrs. Pollifax shook her head sympathetically, her voice subtly changing. "Alone all day? I suppose that means leaving dinner for the family on the stove instead of serving it decently.

  "Family!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Malley. "There's only him and no dinner at all, for he's not been to home for two months now."

  "Not been to—" Mrs. Pollifax stopped and began again. "Oh yes, you must get lonesome, I can see that." Was she serious, Mrs. Pollifax wondered: not at home for two months . . . ?

  Mrs. O'Malley nodded. "Yes, and being here twenty-four hours of the day, too—I've an apartment over the garage, all very shipshape—there's some as would say 'Oh, what an easy time for you' but who's to cook for? A woman likes to have a man to cook for."

  "And a fine cook I'm sure you are," said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding.