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

whitewashed buildings. To her delight she began to see duck ponds, the ducks so brilliant a white in the sunshine theylooked as if they’d been freshly laundered before being dropped beside their dazzling blue ponds. It was difficult to remember that violence had been done to Mr. Hitchens and Alec in such a radiant and wholesome setting, she thought. Mr. Hitchens appeared to have forgotten it too as he marveled at two women he saw walking along the road, wearing black hats like huge lampshades with pleated ruffles hanging from them.
    “Haaka women,” said Robin. “Their being in Hong Kong goes
way
back in time.”
    “My camera, my camera,” mourned Mr. Hitchens, and then, abruptly, he cried, “There it is—over there, see it? The water wheel!”
    “Right,” said Robin, and braked to a stop.
    It lay at a distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile from the road, a very charming wheel set near the edge of a narrow stream of water, surrounded by fields and not far from a copse of green trees.
    “The hut’s behind the trees,” said Mr. Hitchens. “There’s no road in, we have to walk.”
    “So be it,” said Robin, and turned off the ignition.
    As they climbed out of the car Mrs. Pollifax gave Mr. Hitchens an inquiring glance. “Head hurting?” she asked, for she thought he looked decidedly paler than he’d looked when they left the hotel?
    “No,” he said. “No, I just feel—uneasy, that’s all.” His lips tightened. “I’m all right.”
    A slender path edged the fields and they entered on it, walking single file, the sun hot now that they’d left the harbor behind them. They didn’t speak; something of Mr. Hitchens’s uneasiness had transferred itself to both Mrs. Pollifax and Robin, and they walked quickly and in silence. Reaching the water wheel they found a rough board bridge tossed across the irrigation canal;Mrs. Pollifax took the lead and headed for the trees that sheltered the hut, its outlines discernible now.
    “Yes, that’s the place,” Mr. Hitchens said, looking increasingly unhappy.
    The hut was roughly twelve feet by fifteen, mysteriously added to this sea of fields and just as mysteriously abandoned. The primitive door creaked and groaned as Mrs. Pollifax pushed it open and she blinked at the sudden darkness inside. The hut was empty, or so she thought until her eyes, adjusting to the dimness, saw the shape of something huddled on the floor in the corner.
    And then, “Oh dear God,” she said in a strangled voice as she moved closer and saw that it was a man.
    Robin was just behind her. “Don’t look,” he said sharply, and bringing out a pocket flashlight he knelt beside the crumpled body.
    But of course she looked, thinking how strange death was and how it ought to be honored, not turned from in dismay just because it was a mystery, an Unknown that could never be solved by human beings bent on solving every Unknown. The light shone on the face of a middle-aged Chinese male, his eyes open in astonishment at something unseen beyond them; he wore a gray silk suit and a white shirt, both of them smudged with dirt. There was a neat small bullet hole over his left eyebrow, with gray powder marks radiating from it; his right hand gripped a gun.
    Robin said grimly, standing up, “It’s Inspector Hao, and he’s dead.”
    Behind her Mr. Hitchens said, “When?”
    Robin knelt again and touched face, wrists and ankles. “Not too long ago. He
was
alive yesterday, you were right about that.”
    Abruptly Mrs. Pollifax said, “Keep the light on,Robin, there’s something, a piece of paper—” She leaned over and removed a slip of white paper from Hao’s left hand. Holding it to the light she read aloud, “ ‘I despair. To be thought guilty—’ ” She lowered it thoughtfully. “Suicide note?” she suggested with skepticism. “After he’s been missing for two weeks?” She handed it to Robin.
    Robin studied the note with a frown while Mr. Hitchens peered at it over his shoulder.