much observing how Robin and Marko set up the surveillance point from which they’d watch Feng Imports, but she’d scarcely given a thought to either Detwiler or Sheng Ti, and they were both her immediate assignment.
She paused to glance idly over the jackets of magazines in one of the shops but they all seemed to have names like
Peek, Spy, Prowl
and
See
. She thought,
Ifthere’s a connection between Mr. Detwiler and Eric the Red—and Alec still mysteriously missing—isn’t it possible that Detwiler might be hiding Alec in his home, wherever it might be?
She wondered if Detwiler lived in an apartment or a house, and where she could find the nearest phone directory to see if he were listed. Leaving magazines behind, she headed for the escalator to the lobby.
She had just found Detwiler’s address and was copying it into her memo pad when she felt herself tapped on the shoulder and Mr. Hitchens said, “I’ve been looking for you!”
She turned to find herself face to face with a Mr. Hitchens whose face had almost vanished under a huge hat that looked like a cross between a panama and a Stetson. Repressing an urgent impulse to laugh she said in amusement, “Are you in disguise, Mr. Hitchens?”
He said reproachfully, “No, I’ve an ice pack on my head and it didn’t seem quite the thing to wear in the lobby while I waited for you so the manager very kindly loaned me his hat. Shall we sit down?”
“Yes, do let’s,” she said heartily, and they moved toward the nearest couch.
“I can’t tell you how wonderful they’ve been to me here,” he confided. “I’ve been given another room because apparently I put up quite a fight last night with that—that
thug
, and the maid found my room a shambles this morning. I’m in room 302 now, and”—he paused for breath, beaming at her happily—“and I’m going to be on the television news tonight, it’s already taped, and just look—” He held out his newspaper to her. “Fresh off the press!”
They established themselves on the couch, and Mrs. Pollifax unfurled the paper to gaze at a photograph oftwo policemen and Mr. Hitchens blinking in the sun. Lower on the page was a large close-up of Mr. Hitchens, his bandage at a slightly rakish angle, and a smaller-case headline that read NOTED AMERICAN PSYCHIC IN HONG KONG.
“I’m noted,” said Mr. Hitchens happily.
“What fun,” she said. “You occupy most of the front page, too, I’m delighted for you, but how are you feeling, Mr. Hitchens? Your wound, I mean.”
His hands groped toward his head. “The ice seems to have melted now. It was just fatigue, I’m sure, but my head had begun to throb.” He removed the hat and the ice bag dropped into his lap. Picking it up he said, “You wouldn’t have room for this in your purse, would you?”
“No,” she said calmly, “I’m already carrying a Beretta pistol and a suicide note and there’s no room for an ice bag.”
Nodding philosophically he tucked it into his pocket. “But you’ve not found Alec?”
“Unfortunately not yet,” she said, and they both fell silent as a gorgeously robed and bejeweled man entered the lobby, followed by a retinue of equally as exotic personages, moved across the lobby to the elevators and were whisked out of sight.
“Squantum was never like this,” said Mr. Hitchens with a shake of his head.
“Squantum?”
“Where I live, near Boston, but what about Alec?”
“We didn’t find him but we found a number of highly interesting clues,” said Mrs. Pollifax, “and Robin wants us both to have breakfast with him in his suite tomorrow at eight o’clock to talk about possibilities.”
Mr. Hitchens looked pleased.
“He also wants you to look at a photograph, and to—” She paused, seeing that Mr. Hitchens’s gaze was now on a tour group that had entered the lobby, a group of tired-looking Americans led by a young Chinese woman with an insignia on her jacket. What startled Mrs. Pollifax was that Mr.
She paused to glance idly over the jackets of magazines in one of the shops but they all seemed to have names like
Peek, Spy, Prowl
and
See
. She thought,
Ifthere’s a connection between Mr. Detwiler and Eric the Red—and Alec still mysteriously missing—isn’t it possible that Detwiler might be hiding Alec in his home, wherever it might be?
She wondered if Detwiler lived in an apartment or a house, and where she could find the nearest phone directory to see if he were listed. Leaving magazines behind, she headed for the escalator to the lobby.
She had just found Detwiler’s address and was copying it into her memo pad when she felt herself tapped on the shoulder and Mr. Hitchens said, “I’ve been looking for you!”
She turned to find herself face to face with a Mr. Hitchens whose face had almost vanished under a huge hat that looked like a cross between a panama and a Stetson. Repressing an urgent impulse to laugh she said in amusement, “Are you in disguise, Mr. Hitchens?”
He said reproachfully, “No, I’ve an ice pack on my head and it didn’t seem quite the thing to wear in the lobby while I waited for you so the manager very kindly loaned me his hat. Shall we sit down?”
“Yes, do let’s,” she said heartily, and they moved toward the nearest couch.
“I can’t tell you how wonderful they’ve been to me here,” he confided. “I’ve been given another room because apparently I put up quite a fight last night with that—that
thug
, and the maid found my room a shambles this morning. I’m in room 302 now, and”—he paused for breath, beaming at her happily—“and I’m going to be on the television news tonight, it’s already taped, and just look—” He held out his newspaper to her. “Fresh off the press!”
They established themselves on the couch, and Mrs. Pollifax unfurled the paper to gaze at a photograph oftwo policemen and Mr. Hitchens blinking in the sun. Lower on the page was a large close-up of Mr. Hitchens, his bandage at a slightly rakish angle, and a smaller-case headline that read NOTED AMERICAN PSYCHIC IN HONG KONG.
“I’m noted,” said Mr. Hitchens happily.
“What fun,” she said. “You occupy most of the front page, too, I’m delighted for you, but how are you feeling, Mr. Hitchens? Your wound, I mean.”
His hands groped toward his head. “The ice seems to have melted now. It was just fatigue, I’m sure, but my head had begun to throb.” He removed the hat and the ice bag dropped into his lap. Picking it up he said, “You wouldn’t have room for this in your purse, would you?”
“No,” she said calmly, “I’m already carrying a Beretta pistol and a suicide note and there’s no room for an ice bag.”
Nodding philosophically he tucked it into his pocket. “But you’ve not found Alec?”
“Unfortunately not yet,” she said, and they both fell silent as a gorgeously robed and bejeweled man entered the lobby, followed by a retinue of equally as exotic personages, moved across the lobby to the elevators and were whisked out of sight.
“Squantum was never like this,” said Mr. Hitchens with a shake of his head.
“Squantum?”
“Where I live, near Boston, but what about Alec?”
“We didn’t find him but we found a number of highly interesting clues,” said Mrs. Pollifax, “and Robin wants us both to have breakfast with him in his suite tomorrow at eight o’clock to talk about possibilities.”
Mr. Hitchens looked pleased.
“He also wants you to look at a photograph, and to—” She paused, seeing that Mr. Hitchens’s gaze was now on a tour group that had entered the lobby, a group of tired-looking Americans led by a young Chinese woman with an insignia on her jacket. What startled Mrs. Pollifax was that Mr.
Similar Books
