floor, scrubbing nonexistent dirt with a kullei, a thick hand towel. She was a husky woman, with black hair tied back by a white bandanna. People spent their lives in places like this. Scrubbing floors, changing bedding, suffering obnoxious customers. This woman looked as if she had. Rising easily, she gazed calmly at Herman and me.
"Bang pillyo heiyo?" she asked. Do you need a room?
I answered in Korean. "We don't need a room. We're looking for a woman who is staying with you. A tall woman. Young. Maybe twenty-two. From the south. She calls herself Lady Ahn."
The woman broke into a broad grin, as if satisfied about something. "Ah," she said. "The good lady."
'is she here now?"
Her brow wrinkled. "Who are you?"
I showed her my badge. "Mipalkun honbyong." Eighth Army Military Police.
She gazed at the badge for a moment, then looked up. "What has she done?"
"Maybe nothing. We just want to talk to her."
"Not possible now. She left over an hour ago."
Herman's shoulders sagged.
"Did she say where she was going?" I asked.
"No."
"Show us her room."
It was upstairs on the third floor and just as fastidiously clean as the other rooms. It told me nothing.
"Show me the guest register."
Back at the counter, the woman pointed a finger at Lady Ann's signature. Ahn Myong-lan, it said. Ahn, one of the venerable family names in Korea, and Myong-lan, meaning Bright Orchid. Her Korean National Identification card number was there, too. I copied it down. Every place of lodging is required to record them. Place of residence: Taejon, a major city halfway down the peninsula. But no other address.
I looked at the innkeeper. "She must've said something about where she was going next."
"No. She kept to herself. She was out a lot."
"Doing what?"
"I don't know. But she never brought a man back with her."
"You called her 'the good lady.' Why?"
"Because she treated me, and everyone, as if we were servants."
"And she has a southern accent?"
"Yes. Cholla Namdo, I would think." South Cholla Province, two hundred miles away.
"But according to this she lives in Taejon, farther north than that."
'Yes. She received a couple of phone calls from there." The woman pointed to the heavy black telephone, which rested on a knitted pad.
"Who called her?"
"A woman."
"Did you get the name? Her address? A phone number?"
"No."
"But you must remember something."
"Yes. When the good lady talked to that Taejon woman she did not seem so arrogant. In fact, she called her 'onni.' And she even laughed."
Onni means older sister. But Korean women who are friends often refer to the older woman in the relationship as onni. It doesn't necessarily mean that they are actually related.
"What else did they talk about?"
"About old things. Buying. Selling."
"Antiques?"
"Yes. And the place where this Taejon woman was calling from sounded like a business. I heard a bell tinkling in the background, people talking. It didn't sound like a home."
So Lady Ahn was getting calls from an older woman who owns an antique shop in Taejon. It was something.
"When this Lady Ahn checked out, how did she act?"
"In a hurry. She came in and I heard her packing, getting ready to go. She called me from my cleaning to settle the bill."
"Did she say anything to you?"
"Not to me. But she caught a cab right across the street. He asked her where she was going."
"What did she answer?"
"Seoul yok." The Seoul train station.
Herman looked confused. Even though he'd lived in Seoul for years and knew a lot of words and phrases, his Korean was still not able to keep up with complicated sentences. Of course, neither was his English. I thanked the woman and we started down the flight of steps toward the front gate.
The owner stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded.
"There's one more thing," she said.
I turned. "What's that?"
"The entire time she was a guest here, there were men waiting across the street. After she left, they left."
"They were watching her?"
"No. I don't
"Bang pillyo heiyo?" she asked. Do you need a room?
I answered in Korean. "We don't need a room. We're looking for a woman who is staying with you. A tall woman. Young. Maybe twenty-two. From the south. She calls herself Lady Ahn."
The woman broke into a broad grin, as if satisfied about something. "Ah," she said. "The good lady."
'is she here now?"
Her brow wrinkled. "Who are you?"
I showed her my badge. "Mipalkun honbyong." Eighth Army Military Police.
She gazed at the badge for a moment, then looked up. "What has she done?"
"Maybe nothing. We just want to talk to her."
"Not possible now. She left over an hour ago."
Herman's shoulders sagged.
"Did she say where she was going?" I asked.
"No."
"Show us her room."
It was upstairs on the third floor and just as fastidiously clean as the other rooms. It told me nothing.
"Show me the guest register."
Back at the counter, the woman pointed a finger at Lady Ann's signature. Ahn Myong-lan, it said. Ahn, one of the venerable family names in Korea, and Myong-lan, meaning Bright Orchid. Her Korean National Identification card number was there, too. I copied it down. Every place of lodging is required to record them. Place of residence: Taejon, a major city halfway down the peninsula. But no other address.
I looked at the innkeeper. "She must've said something about where she was going next."
"No. She kept to herself. She was out a lot."
"Doing what?"
"I don't know. But she never brought a man back with her."
"You called her 'the good lady.' Why?"
"Because she treated me, and everyone, as if we were servants."
"And she has a southern accent?"
"Yes. Cholla Namdo, I would think." South Cholla Province, two hundred miles away.
"But according to this she lives in Taejon, farther north than that."
'Yes. She received a couple of phone calls from there." The woman pointed to the heavy black telephone, which rested on a knitted pad.
"Who called her?"
"A woman."
"Did you get the name? Her address? A phone number?"
"No."
"But you must remember something."
"Yes. When the good lady talked to that Taejon woman she did not seem so arrogant. In fact, she called her 'onni.' And she even laughed."
Onni means older sister. But Korean women who are friends often refer to the older woman in the relationship as onni. It doesn't necessarily mean that they are actually related.
"What else did they talk about?"
"About old things. Buying. Selling."
"Antiques?"
"Yes. And the place where this Taejon woman was calling from sounded like a business. I heard a bell tinkling in the background, people talking. It didn't sound like a home."
So Lady Ahn was getting calls from an older woman who owns an antique shop in Taejon. It was something.
"When this Lady Ahn checked out, how did she act?"
"In a hurry. She came in and I heard her packing, getting ready to go. She called me from my cleaning to settle the bill."
"Did she say anything to you?"
"Not to me. But she caught a cab right across the street. He asked her where she was going."
"What did she answer?"
"Seoul yok." The Seoul train station.
Herman looked confused. Even though he'd lived in Seoul for years and knew a lot of words and phrases, his Korean was still not able to keep up with complicated sentences. Of course, neither was his English. I thanked the woman and we started down the flight of steps toward the front gate.
The owner stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded.
"There's one more thing," she said.
I turned. "What's that?"
"The entire time she was a guest here, there were men waiting across the street. After she left, they left."
"They were watching her?"
"No. I don't
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