Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha (7 page)

“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 rocklike 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 … place
he’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.”

Mrs. Pollifax studied his face and then she said slowly, “You’re thinking it’s the kind of silence that only eight million dollars’ worth of stolen diamonds can buy?”

He gave her an appreciative glance. “You see that … Yes, it would take something like that to accomplish this kind of secrecy. Bribes here, bribes there … But what keeps me awake nights, frankly, is the feeling that this whole damn thing, whatever it may be, is far more advanced than my superiors believe. Which is why I want very much to locate Inspector Hao, who just may have stumbled across whatever’s being planned, and know what’s going on.” He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “And now it’s nearly one o’clock and I think we’d better continue this tomorrow, when I’m hoping your Mr. Hitchens will feel well enough for a trip to the New Territories. What interests me right now”—he stopped and grinned, looking suddenly boyish—“is what your plans are tomorrow. Is there the slightest chance—?” He paused hopefully.

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Mrs. Pollifax, beaming at him. “Actually I’ve nothing pending until ten o’clock tomorrow night.”

“Bless you for that,” he said, and leaned over and kissed her. “I don’t know what it is about you but I seem to recall a certain élan that entered the picture once we joined forces in Switzerland. Interpol can be so deadly serious!”

She laughed. “You surely don’t miss being a cat burglar, Robin?”

He grinned. “Occasionally, but then I find entering rooms as I did yours tonight a palliative. Breaking and entering were only mild addictions, you know. Shall we leave our respective bathroom perches?”