Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha (14 page)

Mr. Hitchens looked appalled. “But he’s the man no one can find … he’s—wait a minute, Eric the Red they call him, the Liberation 80’s leader?”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Yes, and on Monday morning, after we’d breakfasted together, you and I, I saw him coming out of Feng Imports, an obscure little shop in an obscure alley where I happened to be looking for a young man I met in China last year. Then, as you know, I met Robin, who happens to have come to Hong Kong because of mysterious rumors about this area, and by accident—”

Mr. Hitchens shook his head. “Nothing happens by accident,” he said firmly. “Nothing.”

Somewhat taken aback, Robin said, “Be that as it may, Mrs. Pollifax and I met and it looks now as if our two missions are amalgamating, so to speak. We’ve put a watch on Feng Imports, hoping Eric the Red may return there, but whether he does or not, he’s here in Hong Kong, and although it’s possible that he may have come to visit an ailing Aunt Hortense it’s extremely unlikely under the circumstances. Putting all the facts together it would seem that something—
something
—is due to happen here.”

Mr. Hitchens whistled. “Except you don’t know what.”

“Or when,” said Robin. “Or how, or where … Mr. Hitchens, can you help us?”

He said fervently, “I’ll do everything possible—I will, I will, and I can assure you—” A knock at the door interrupted him.

“That will be our breakfast, I ordered it for eight
o’clock on the button.” Robin glanced at his watch as he strode toward the door. “While the waiter brings it in I suggest we turn on the news and hear if there’ve been any developments on Hao’s murder—but softly, because Marko’s sleeping—and postpone serious business until we’ve eaten.”

The police, according to the newscast, were still looking for Alec Hao and distributing flyers with his photograph—it was shown on the screen—and searching for the murder weapon, at which point the glances of both Robin and Mr. Hitchens flew to Mrs. Pollifax’s purse on the couch, and she made a face and nodded. There was no further news; police were still pursuing a number of leads, and to wrap it up Mr. Hitchens appeared again on the screen in a replay of his earlier interview.

“Well done!” said Robin, snapping off the set. “Now I refuse all shop talk, my digestion demands it, we speak of cabbages and kings, please, and myriad other things.”

Mrs. Pollifax smiled. “All right—Cyrus is coming,” she announced. “There was a cable last night; he expects to be here by tomorrow evening.”

“Marvelous,” said Robin, beaming at her. “I shall be able to give Court a full report on him. And how was your night on the town, Mr. Hitchens?”

Mr. Hitchens said almost shyly, “That was wonderful, too. Ruthie and I did a little dancing but mostly we talked and talked and talked. Her tour’s here until Saturday.” He turned to Mrs. Pollifax? “We’re meeting later this morning for a short cruise of the harbor. Would you care to come with us? Ruthie would like to meet you again, she said so.”

Mrs. Pollifax, interrupting a breakfast of ham and eggs, bean curd, papya, watermelon, bacon, sausage and
orange juice, toast and coffee, said that she would be delighted to accompany them.

“High time Mrs. P. did some sightseeing,” contributed Robin. “All work and no play, and all that. Tell us about Ruthie, Mr. Hitchens, the wife who didn’t mind your being quiet and dull, as you phrased it.”

Slowly, awkwardly, Mr. Hitchens began to speak of Ruthie, and Mrs. Pollifax discovered that her guesses had been surprisingly accurate: they’d been high school sweethearts and had married young, after which she’d been the only woman he’d looked at for ten years.

“But then—I
don’t
know how it was,” Mr. Hitchens said fiercely, with a scowl as he glared into his past.

They waited to hear how it was, Robin’s fork suspended in midair and Mrs. Pollifax studying Mr. Hitchens’s scowl while she sipped her coffee.

“I guess what happened,” said Mr. Hitchens unhappily, “was that my first book on psychic phenomena was published, I was interviewed on a Boston talk-show and met Sophie Simms.”

“Ah,” murmured Robin and his fork went into motion again.

“Sophie was an actress?” prompted Mrs. Pollifax.

Mr. Hitchens nodded, looking acutely miserable. “Trying to be, yes—with the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen … She’d been doing improvisations in a small nightclub, and I think I’ve already told you that being psychic is of
no
help where my own life is involved.”

Robin asked gently, “And how long did it last?”

“It was horrible for Ruthie—horrible,” went on Mr. Hitchens, his eyes fixed blindly on his plate of food, “and I can’t tell you how it surprises me that she even agreed to spend an evening with me. I was completely dazzled—hypnotized, really, I suppose. Sophie was so—
so—well, it was all so
glamorous
.” His glance lifted from his plate to advance to the pink rose at the center of the table. “I felt—it’s hard to explain, but I felt so initiated into such a feminine world.” He shook his head. “Just watching Sophie put on her makeup every morning, for instance, was—well, like watching Cezanne mix colors on his palette, it was so intimate, such a ritual … And her clothes—I helped her look for just the right sort, they had to be rather outrageous, you know, and—” He broke off and sighed. “To answer your question, there was one good year, but only because I was so dazzled, and then two more years before she wandered off with a third-rate producer who she hoped would be of more use to her career than I had been.” He added sadly, “He wasn’t.”

“No, they never are,” said Robin. “I believe you mentioned a third—er—”

“Mistake? Misadventure?” Mr. Hitchens’s laugh was bitter. “Oh yes, Sophie had a friend … that was Rosalie, also in show business. I’d given Rosalie readings—without charge, of course—and she was very sympathetic over everything that happened with Sophie, and listened to all my problems, and of course didn’t realize that being married to a psychic wouldn’t advance
her
career, either.” He shook his head. “I have been—I scarcely need say—very naïve as well as very immature.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax calmly.

He gave her a reproachful glance. “You don’t have to agree so flatly; no one enjoys hearing the truth.”

Robin said lightly, “I had no idea the life of a professional psychic could be so hazardous but I can agree with you on glamour becoming addictive. It certainly seduced me for a long time and I went to great lengths
to enter the world of Beautiful People—however illicitly,” he added with a humorous glance at Mrs. Pollifax. “After all, I started out in life as the son of a London locksmith, dropping all my h’s, and ended up hobnobbing with sheiks and princes.”

Mr. Hitchens looked at him in surprise. “You did?”

“But none of them had long eyelashes,” Robin said gravely.

Mr. Hitchens shook his head. “I appreciate your sympathy but I feel—have felt since that third divorce over a year ago—so ashamed, really. You see, I always wanted—always planned—to live a life of the spirit—I hope that doesn’t sound pretentious?—and all I’ve learned is how weak and shallow a person I am.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Pollifax sturdily, “we all betray ourselves from time to time or how else would we find out what our selves are? I refuse your hair shirt, Mr. Hitchens, you’re missing the point … namely it’s where you are
now
that matters.”

His scowl had returned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, feel ashamed if you must,” she told him, “but look at Robin if you will. He lifted himself out of a frustrating environment into one where he could use his considerable talents and craft—however illicitly,” she added with a mischievous glance at Robin, “but if he hadn’t done this—in the only way he saw how, at the time—he would never have acquired the specialized skills or been in a position to join and appreciate Interpol, where presumably he’s of great help in policing the world—”

“Hear! hear!” murmured Robin.

“—and he’d certainly never have met his wife Court, whom he loves dearly. Whereas you, Mr. Hitchens—you wouldn’t be here in Hong Kong this morning, attempting
to solve a murder, making headline news in the paper and meeting Ruthie again—if two women hadn’t spun you dizzily off balance and left you open to coming here, now would you? If living is a process, then how does one arrive anywhere except by just such painful routes?”

Mr. Hitchens looked at her with interest. “You too?”

Mrs. Pollifax laughed. “Of course! It wasn’t
that
long ago that I felt my life totally useless and wondered if it was worth continuing. Actually a doctor found me depressed enough to urge that I look for some work I’d always wanted to do—and off I went to apply for work as a spy! Which I must say changed my life considerably,” she added humorously, “but this is
not
finding Alec, is it, or using Mr. Hitchens’s considerable talent.”

“Amazing,” Mr. Hitchens said, staring at her.

“Of course,” Robin told him with a quick, warm smile.

“Last night I felt quite strongly that Alec’s still alive,” Mr. Hitchens said shyly. He turned his attention away from Mrs. Pollifax but occasionally he glanced back at her with frank curiosity.

Robin said, “Is there some way you could find out—psychically—if it’s Hong Kong itself, rather than Kowloon or New Territories or Macao, where Eric the Red plans his drama?”

“Drama!” said Mr. Hitchens.

Robin shrugged. “That’s what terrorism is, basically—pure theater. Nothing in particular is ever accomplished by it, other than to focus attention on a small group of people who seize absolute power by threatening everything that holds civilization together.”

“Absolute power,” mused Mrs. Pollifax. “Like
monstrous children thumbing their noses at adults who live by codes and laws and scruples.”

Robin said in a hard voice, “In my line of work I’ve tangled with narcotic dealers and suppliers—that’s Interpol’s job—and I can say of them that at least they give value for their money. If what they sell destroys human lives their victims cooperate by choice in their own destruction, and if drug dealers bend and break every law in the book they as least
know
the laws.

“But terrorists—” He shook his head. “They’re the parasites of the century. They want to make a statement, they simply toss a bomb or round up innocent people to hold hostage, or kill without compunction, remorse or compassion. If they need money, they simply rob a bank. I have to admit not only my contempt for them,” he added, “but my fear, too, because their only passion is to mock and to destroy, and that really
is
frightening.”

“Antilife,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax, remembering Eric the Red’s glance on the plane.

Mr. Hitchens said abruptly, “Get me a map—as many maps as you have.”

Robin brought him maps: street maps of Hong Kong, of Kowloon, of New Territories and of Macao. Mr. Hitchens laid them out flat, side by side, on the long table and asked for silence.

“You’ve got it,” said Robin.

Mr. Hitchens closed his eyes and sat quietly for a long time, until the ticking of a nearby clock seemed to fill the room. At last he lifted one hand and began slowly moving it across the surface of the maps, sometimes in a circular motion, sometimes up and down, several times lingering briefly in one place. Five minutes passed and
then abruptly he dropped his hand to one of the maps and opened his eyes. “This area,” he said, and removing a pen from his pocket he drew a circle. “This brings very uncomfortable feelings, a sense of violence, and very disturbing vibrations.”

“Central Hong Kong,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax, leaning closer to look. “Downtown Hong Kong?”

“Your circle takes in a large area,” Robin said in a troubled voice, “and it doesn’t even include Feng Imports.”

Mr. Hitchens shrugged. “Perhaps to both, but there are guns somewhere inside this circle, and one that looks like this. Paper, someone?”

Mrs. Pollifax handed him a paper napkin and watched his nimble fingers block out lines. “Like this,” he said.

Robin, staring at his sketch, said in horror, “But you’ve just drawn the outline of a multiple rocket launcher!”

“Have I?” said Mr. Hitchens indifferently. “I don’t know what it is, I’ve only sketched what I saw.”

Robin sat back and frankly gaped—his mouth was actually open in shock—and Mrs. Pollifax wondered if he had really grasped Mr. Hitchens’s possibilities before this moment. She said softly, “Intelligence groups
are
using psychics, you know … I’ve read of it even in newspapers. The CIA … the Soviets …”

“But—but Mr. Hitchens has never
seen
a rocket launcher,” protested Robin. “And yet he’s drawn one. I mean, it’s uncanny.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Pollifax, amused, for having had her life saved in Turkey by just such means she was herself beyond astonishment.

“Then they have to have a radio,” Robin said, suddenly
closing his mouth and rallying. “The circle doesn’t include Feng Imports and if that circle is accurate, and if eleven members of the Liberation 80’s are hiding inside that circle, and Detwiler is the mastermind of this project, there would have to be communication and my guess would be a highpowered radio.” He nodded. “I think it’s time I visit the Governor, I think it’s time we risk some of Hong Kong’s police being brought into this because it’s time we have radio-detection vans cruising the streets checking for highpower transmissions. We’re going to need help, it’s too big a responsibility for a handful of people.” He reached for the napkin with a wry smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I take this along with me as evidence? I don’t know quite how His Excellency will react to—to—”

Mr. Hitchens smiled forgivingly. “By all means take it.”

Robin had just pocketed the napkin when the telephone rang; he moved swiftly to the desk and snatched it up on the first ring. “Yes?”

He listened, made a note on the pad in front of him and said, “Thanks enormously.” Hanging up he turned to Mrs. Pollifax. “That Donald Chang to whom Sheng Ti delivered a packet of diamonds … I phoned my superiors in Paris last night, thinking it wiser
they
call the Hong Kong police officially with an inquiry about the chap. That was Paris calling: Donald Chang works in the baggage room at Kai Tak airport.”