astonishment: one talked with people on planes; one might even share a casual breakfast with them, but following this one did not expect to see them again, and certainly not late at night bleeding on the floor at one’s feet. Accepting reality, however—for definitely Mr. Hitchens was
here—
she pushed the door closed and knelt beside him, one hand reaching out to gingerly explore what lay beneath his bloodmatted hair.
Wincing at what she found she sped into the bathroom for towels, returned with a wet one and a dry one, pressed the dry towel to the bloody gash in his scalp and applied the wet one to the lines of scarlet lacing his right cheek like deranged embroidery.
His eyes were closed but his lips had begun to move. “Something …”
She leaned closer to hear him.
“… terribly wrong,” he whispered. “How …
how …
”
“Don’t try to talk,” she told him, “I’ll call a doctor.”
“No,” he gasped, rousing at this and suddenly opening those strange silver eyes. “Not safe. After me. How—must find how …”
His eyes closed and he lapsed again into unconsciousness while Mrs. Pollifax stared at him and considered his words, weighing the gash in his head against his panic. She did not believe that he would die from the blow but on the other hand he might very well die from infection if unattended. His panic, however, she implicitly believed in; his very presence here proved that he was terrified, for this was, after all, the Hong Kong Hilton where every amenity was available, yet he’d chosen to come to her room. For that matter he could scarcely have come far, she realized, for no one could possibly have wandered through the hotel’s lobby in such a state without causing pandemonium.
It must have happened in his room, she thought, and—
not safe
, he’d said. Did he mean that he might have been followed?
She had closed the door but not locked it; now she jumped up to snap the lock but as it slammed into place with a
ping!
she became aware of movement outside in the hall. Her eyes fell to the door knob and to her horror she saw it turn slowly, silently, to the left and then to the right, accompanied by a subtle sound of metal probing metal.
Mrs. Pollifax forced down a scream.
Except I want to scream
, she cried silently, watching the knob twist back and forth,
“I wantoscream I wantoscream I wantoscream …”
The door opened and Robin Burke-Jones stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said cheerfully, “I saw you cross the lobby a few minutes ago and—” His glance fell to the man lying at her feet. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “Been at your karate again? Who on earth—!”
Thoroughly shaken Mrs. Pollifax stammered, “N-not karate, it’s Mr. H-H-Hitchens, he just sort of f-fell into my room terrified of being f-f-followed, and then you—then you—”
Robin whistled. “And you thought—I say, I’m frightfully sorry. The thing is, I’m being followed, too, and I simply couldn’t afford to knock on your door and stand around waiting for it to open.” Regarding Mr. Hitchens with considerable fascination he said, “Chap needs a doctor, doesn’t he?”
She’d forgotten the crisp British accent Robin had worked so hard to acquire. “He begged me not to call one.”
“You know him, of course.”
“Scarcely this well,” she told him. “That is, we flew in on the same plane, where we had a very interesting talk about psychic phenomena—he’s a psychic, you see, he’s come here to find a missing person—and then we had breakfast together this morning, I think it was this morning although it seems forever ago, but I certainly didn’t expect to see him again.”
“And now he’s here.”
“Yes, now he’s here.”
Robin knelt beside Mr. Hitchens. “Nasty bash, this … someone did a damn good job on him, but if he could still utter words and all that, it’s promising. If hewas
here—
she pushed the door closed and knelt beside him, one hand reaching out to gingerly explore what lay beneath his bloodmatted hair.
Wincing at what she found she sped into the bathroom for towels, returned with a wet one and a dry one, pressed the dry towel to the bloody gash in his scalp and applied the wet one to the lines of scarlet lacing his right cheek like deranged embroidery.
His eyes were closed but his lips had begun to move. “Something …”
She leaned closer to hear him.
“… terribly wrong,” he whispered. “How …
how …
”
“Don’t try to talk,” she told him, “I’ll call a doctor.”
“No,” he gasped, rousing at this and suddenly opening those strange silver eyes. “Not safe. After me. How—must find how …”
His eyes closed and he lapsed again into unconsciousness while Mrs. Pollifax stared at him and considered his words, weighing the gash in his head against his panic. She did not believe that he would die from the blow but on the other hand he might very well die from infection if unattended. His panic, however, she implicitly believed in; his very presence here proved that he was terrified, for this was, after all, the Hong Kong Hilton where every amenity was available, yet he’d chosen to come to her room. For that matter he could scarcely have come far, she realized, for no one could possibly have wandered through the hotel’s lobby in such a state without causing pandemonium.
It must have happened in his room, she thought, and—
not safe
, he’d said. Did he mean that he might have been followed?
She had closed the door but not locked it; now she jumped up to snap the lock but as it slammed into place with a
ping!
she became aware of movement outside in the hall. Her eyes fell to the door knob and to her horror she saw it turn slowly, silently, to the left and then to the right, accompanied by a subtle sound of metal probing metal.
Mrs. Pollifax forced down a scream.
Except I want to scream
, she cried silently, watching the knob twist back and forth,
“I wantoscream I wantoscream I wantoscream …”
The door opened and Robin Burke-Jones stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said cheerfully, “I saw you cross the lobby a few minutes ago and—” His glance fell to the man lying at her feet. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “Been at your karate again? Who on earth—!”
Thoroughly shaken Mrs. Pollifax stammered, “N-not karate, it’s Mr. H-H-Hitchens, he just sort of f-fell into my room terrified of being f-f-followed, and then you—then you—”
Robin whistled. “And you thought—I say, I’m frightfully sorry. The thing is, I’m being followed, too, and I simply couldn’t afford to knock on your door and stand around waiting for it to open.” Regarding Mr. Hitchens with considerable fascination he said, “Chap needs a doctor, doesn’t he?”
She’d forgotten the crisp British accent Robin had worked so hard to acquire. “He begged me not to call one.”
“You know him, of course.”
“Scarcely this well,” she told him. “That is, we flew in on the same plane, where we had a very interesting talk about psychic phenomena—he’s a psychic, you see, he’s come here to find a missing person—and then we had breakfast together this morning, I think it was this morning although it seems forever ago, but I certainly didn’t expect to see him again.”
“And now he’s here.”
“Yes, now he’s here.”
Robin knelt beside Mr. Hitchens. “Nasty bash, this … someone did a damn good job on him, but if he could still utter words and all that, it’s promising. If hewas
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