Free Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha by Dorothy Gilman

with breakfast trays, and Mr. Hitchens had attempted an egg. “He’s much better,” she told Robin. “He’s been telling me that his being psychic is of no help at all in his own life, which seems a great pity, or—quite naturally—he would never have come to Hong Kong.”
    “Ah, but we’re terribly glad you did,” Robin said warmly. “Do you feel up to showing Mrs. Pollifax and me that water wheel and hut where you lost Alec Hao yesterday?”
    Mr. Hitchens had obviously recovered from his forlorn state because he said dryly, “I won’t ask how you came through that door without knocking or using a key, or why Lars Petterson should want to—”
    Robin cheerfully interrupted him. “Actually I’m an ex-cat burglar working now for Interpol, and I’m not Lars Petterson at all.”
    Mr. Hitchens nodded matter-of-factly. “It scarcely matters because I can see that this entire trip is meant to be a Learning Experience for me. Absolutely nothing has made sense so far, and probably nothing will, and now Alec is missing as well as his father and yes, I’m ready to show you where the hut is.”
    Mrs. Pollifax gave him a warm and congratulatory smile.
    “Good chap,” said Robin. “Let’s go then, shall we? I’ve got Marko in uniform and a rented limousine waiting at the front entrance for us. We, however, will makeour exit by the freight elevator and drive away in a small and inconspicuous Renault. Following that, we’ll need directions and instructions from you.”
    Mr. Hitchens pointed to his jacket. “You’ll find a map in the inside pocket, the same one I used for Alec, with the general area circled in pencil.”
    “You mean you simply looked at a map and said
‘there’?
”
    Mr. Hitchens smiled. “It’s a little like dowsing, if you’re familiar with the word.”
    Robin, bringing out the map, nodded. “Yes, indeed, our neighbor in France had a man come in—a water dowser—to locate a missing well on his property.”
    “Well, there you are,” said Mr. Hitchens and climbed gingerly to his feet, stood a moment steadying himself and smiled. “Amazing! I’m better. Shall we go?”
    Mrs. Pollifax decided with some amusement that Mr. Hitchens had reserves and dimensions that were surprising even himself. Certainly the pedantic quality that he’d worn like a coat on the plane was taking second place now to a different Albert Hitchens whose eyes shone with delight as they crept down the hall, descended to the basement in the freight elevator and found their way out into the street to the inconspicuous Renault. “What a remarkable experience,” he said. “I feel just like a spy.”
    Robin gave Mrs. Pollifax an amused glance, brought out a visored cap and dark glasses, took the driver’s seat and handed Mrs. Pollifax a map. “I suggest you crouch down out of sight in the back, Mr. Hitchens,” he told him, “Mrs. Pollifax being the only one of us who’s of no possible interest to surveillants, which is why she can wear brilliant red and pink roses on her hat.”
    “On the contrary,” said Mrs. Pollifax, hastily removing the hat and placing it in her lap, “I was followed all yesterday afternoon after my visit to a curio shop called Feng Imports.”
    Robin gave her a sharp glance. “When we have a moment I think I’d like to hear—”
    “Good God, you too?” gasped Mr. Hitchens from the back seat. “My three wives—if they could only
know!
”
    “Three?” echoed Robin, giving Mrs. Pollifax an astonished glance.
    “Who all assumed that psychics lived exciting lives and were
deeply
disappointed,” she explained.
    “Except for Ruthie,” called Mr. Hitchens from the floor behind them. “
She
didn’t mind my being a dull chap.”
    “Ruthie we must hear more about,” Robin called back to him, “but Hong Kong traffic is fiendish, save it for later.”
    Mrs. Pollifax decided that she, too, wanted to hear more about Ruthie, but she occupied herself now with tracing their route on the