diminutive man in a nearly threadbare suit. He gave Mrs. Pollifax one quick, curious glance before he opened up his medical kit, and then he knelt beside Mr. Hitchens, who stirred, groaned, opened his eyes and began to gag.
“Basin,” called Dr. Chiang imperatively, and Mrs. Pollifax, lacking a basin, flew to the wastebasket and extracted a plastic bag.
Presently, after Mr. Hitchens had been thoroughly sick, he was carried to the chaise longue where Dr. Chiang began to deal expertly with his wound: cleaning, sterilizing, applying a local anesthetic and then eight stitches. “He’ll be all right,” Dr. Chiang said at last, stepping back to observe his patient. “No concussion … He’s lucky because he was hit hard but fortunately not in a really vulnerable area, although he’s going to have one hell of a headache. I’ve given him a tetanus shot, an antibiotic and something to relax him. If he’sstill restless in an hour try him on a little brandy but nothing else until morning.”
“Thanks, Chiang,” said Robin.
The doctor gave Mrs. Pollifax a second interested and curious glance. “Husband?”
She shook her head. “Oh no.”
Dr. Chiang looked amused. “I see, yes … well-good luck and call me if you need me.”
“Nice,” said Mrs. Pollifax when he’d gone. “It’s just that he doesn’t
look
like a doctor somehow.”
Robin laughed. “In about four years’ time he just may find a free hour to shop for a new suit, or then again he may not. A good man, Chiang—does a great deal of work with the boat people over in Aberdeen. Harvard Medical School, actually. By the way he
did
mention brandy, didn’t he? Because frankly I could use some fortifying myself, it’s beginning to feel like a
very
long day.”
Mrs. Pollifax hurried to the small refrigerator and inspected its contents. “Did you find your refrigerator crammed full of food and drink when you arrived, too?”
“Ah yes,” said Robin, “but I must warn you, they keep a very efficient eye on what’s removed.”
“How deflating,” she said. “But I see a sample bottle of champagne, of white wine, and—ah yes, brandy.” She brought it to Robin with a glass, after which they sat and looked expectantly at Mr. Hitchens, who was staring at them with considerable bewilderment.
“I’m Mrs. Pollifax,” she reminded him, leaning forward and speaking in a clear firm voice. “We met on the plane and flew into Hong Kong together and shared breakfast, remember? And this is—uh—Mr. Petterson, who happened to be—er—passing by, and who happens to be looking for a man named Mr. Hao.”
Mr. Hitchens turned his silver eyes on Robin and examined him; if he recognized him as Third Richest Man in the World he gave no sign. He said, “Damien Hao?”
Mrs. Pollifax heard Robin’s quick intake of breath but his voice when he spoke was calm. “Damien Hao, yes. I believe you’ve been looking for him too?”
Mr. Hitchens made the mistake of nodding, promptly groaned and clutched his head. “Got hit—in my room,” he explained and then his voice turned urgent. “Alec, where’s Alec?”
Robin said quietly, “That would be Inspector Hao’s son, Alec?”
“Yes
—yes!
Asked me to find his father. With me all day.”
Mrs. Pollifax, weaving certain threads together, said eagerly, “He told me one of his former students at Boston University begged him to come here to find a missing relative. Robin, who is Damien Hao?”
“He
was
the head of Hong Kong’s specially formed police unit to investigate drugs, crime and corruption,” said Robin grimly. “I say ‘was’ because he suddenly resigned three weeks ago in the midst of rumors that he’d been found in some sort of compromising situation. He resigned, he said, to clear his name and—as he phrased it—to continue his own private investigations. It was headline news because he’s known for his rocklike integrity, and the Governor, whom I interviewed, feels personally that
“Basin,” called Dr. Chiang imperatively, and Mrs. Pollifax, lacking a basin, flew to the wastebasket and extracted a plastic bag.
Presently, after Mr. Hitchens had been thoroughly sick, he was carried to the chaise longue where Dr. Chiang began to deal expertly with his wound: cleaning, sterilizing, applying a local anesthetic and then eight stitches. “He’ll be all right,” Dr. Chiang said at last, stepping back to observe his patient. “No concussion … He’s lucky because he was hit hard but fortunately not in a really vulnerable area, although he’s going to have one hell of a headache. I’ve given him a tetanus shot, an antibiotic and something to relax him. If he’sstill restless in an hour try him on a little brandy but nothing else until morning.”
“Thanks, Chiang,” said Robin.
The doctor gave Mrs. Pollifax a second interested and curious glance. “Husband?”
She shook her head. “Oh no.”
Dr. Chiang looked amused. “I see, yes … well-good luck and call me if you need me.”
“Nice,” said Mrs. Pollifax when he’d gone. “It’s just that he doesn’t
look
like a doctor somehow.”
Robin laughed. “In about four years’ time he just may find a free hour to shop for a new suit, or then again he may not. A good man, Chiang—does a great deal of work with the boat people over in Aberdeen. Harvard Medical School, actually. By the way he
did
mention brandy, didn’t he? Because frankly I could use some fortifying myself, it’s beginning to feel like a
very
long day.”
Mrs. Pollifax hurried to the small refrigerator and inspected its contents. “Did you find your refrigerator crammed full of food and drink when you arrived, too?”
“Ah yes,” said Robin, “but I must warn you, they keep a very efficient eye on what’s removed.”
“How deflating,” she said. “But I see a sample bottle of champagne, of white wine, and—ah yes, brandy.” She brought it to Robin with a glass, after which they sat and looked expectantly at Mr. Hitchens, who was staring at them with considerable bewilderment.
“I’m Mrs. Pollifax,” she reminded him, leaning forward and speaking in a clear firm voice. “We met on the plane and flew into Hong Kong together and shared breakfast, remember? And this is—uh—Mr. Petterson, who happened to be—er—passing by, and who happens to be looking for a man named Mr. Hao.”
Mr. Hitchens turned his silver eyes on Robin and examined him; if he recognized him as Third Richest Man in the World he gave no sign. He said, “Damien Hao?”
Mrs. Pollifax heard Robin’s quick intake of breath but his voice when he spoke was calm. “Damien Hao, yes. I believe you’ve been looking for him too?”
Mr. Hitchens made the mistake of nodding, promptly groaned and clutched his head. “Got hit—in my room,” he explained and then his voice turned urgent. “Alec, where’s Alec?”
Robin said quietly, “That would be Inspector Hao’s son, Alec?”
“Yes
—yes!
Asked me to find his father. With me all day.”
Mrs. Pollifax, weaving certain threads together, said eagerly, “He told me one of his former students at Boston University begged him to come here to find a missing relative. Robin, who is Damien Hao?”
“He
was
the head of Hong Kong’s specially formed police unit to investigate drugs, crime and corruption,” said Robin grimly. “I say ‘was’ because he suddenly resigned three weeks ago in the midst of rumors that he’d been found in some sort of compromising situation. He resigned, he said, to clear his name and—as he phrased it—to continue his own private investigations. It was headline news because he’s known for his rocklike integrity, and the Governor, whom I interviewed, feels personally that
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