Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station (24 page)

“I see. So you will presently,” he said smoothly, “tell me that you do not know what happened during the next few minutes.”

She met this with a lift of her chin and an edge to her voice. “I would like to point out that I had experienced a runaway horse, believed that my life was about to end, I’d thrown myself off and broken a bone, and although I daresay it affords you some amusement to hear that I fainted, faint I did.”

“Yes,” he said, with an appreciative smile. “And when you came out of this faint what did you see?”

“Exactly what I assume you saw if you have visited the
area,” she told him. “Peter was nowhere to be seen, and there was all this blood, and Joe Forbes was lying by the river. I limped over to him and saw that he was—quite dead.” She shivered. “After a while I realized it was part of a Mao jacket Mr. Forbes was clutching in one hand, and Peter—Peter had been wearing one. That’s when I had the horrible realization that Peter might be dead, too. Have you found him?”

“No,” he said shortly.

She decided that she believed him. “What,” she asked him, “do you want to find out? It’s such a terrible thing, we’re all very upset, and I don’t understand—”

He said, “We have never had such an event occur. Naturally a tourist becomes ill now and then, but this is a murder.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, and was acutely aware of the man standing by the window watching her; she willed herself not to look at him.

The young officer shuffled his papers. “Mr. Li has told us there was something between this young Peter Fox and Mrs. Damson that might have provoked the quarrel. Mr. Li said he found Peter Fox missing an entire night in Turfan, and the next morning Mrs. Damson explained that Mr. Fox had spent the night with her. This is true?”

Mrs. Pollifax winced. “I heard her
say
that, yes.”

“Why do you wince?”

“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I really know nothing about it. I just heard her say it.”

“But you did hear it said. Did they spend much time together, these two people?”

Mrs. Pollifax shrugged. “No more than with any of us. We were usually all of us together.”

“In this country such matters are frowned on. In your country it is different?”

She sighed wearily. Obviously it was different here—all
those unisex Mao jackets, for one thing—but she felt too jaded to explain her own country, to point out the variables, the multitude of codes, the generation gaps, the sexual revolution, the mores and traditions of courtship. She said, “Not necessarily. Why don’t you ask Iris—Mrs. Damson?”

He said coolly. “Already we have, I assure you.”

“Good,” she said in relief.

“She continues to weep,” he added with irony, “and to say as little as you do, Mrs. Pollifax.”

She said dryly, “I
feel
as if I’ve been talking forever.”

He drew out a sheet of paper and read from it. “I quote Mrs. Damson. ‘Yes Peter spent the night in my room. I don’t suppose you’ll believe me when I say it was perfectly innocent. He came in to talk, about nine o’clock I think it was. He said everyone else had gone to bed and did I have any books he could read. I didn’t. He stayed, talking—on the other bed, curled up—and then he suddenly fell asleep. So I just brushed my teeth—I was already in pajamas—and left him in the one bed while I went to sleep in the other.’ ”

Dear Iris
, thought Mrs. Pollifax,
magnificent Iris
. To the officer she said, “I can believe that, you know. Iris is a very casual person.”

He said irritably, “But if this Peter was not in love with her why should he argue, fight, and kill Mr. Forbes over her?”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Pollifax cautiously, “he felt a very warm friendship toward Iris, and Mr. Forbes said something insulting about her. But really I don’t know, it has all been—simply awful. I wonder,” she said truthfully enough, “if the explanation will ever be found.”

He said sharply, “It is very surprising to me that none of you has any explanation at
all
. A man is dead, Mrs. Pollifax, and another presumed dead for the moment. None of you appears to have noticed anything between Mrs.

Damson and this Peter, or between Mrs. Damson and Mr. Forbes. Only Mr. Westrum—”

Mrs. Pollifax looked up.

“Ah—a reaction, I see.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I think George Westrum is or was in love with Iris Damson.”

“Quite a
femme fatale
,” said the officer with a touch of sarcasm.

Mrs. Pollifax smiled faintly. “Yes. But if there was any triangle, as we call it in America, it seems far more realistic that George Westrum would have been furious at Peter.” She leaned forward and said with urgent sincerity, “Look, Mr.—Mr.—”

“Mr. Pi.”

“Thank you,” she said, and turned her gaze squarely on the man by the window. “And yours?” she asked coolly.

He bowed slightly, looking amused. “I am Mr. Chang.”

“I want to point out to you both that we’re all terribly tired, and I’m sure that none of us cares to go on with the tour now. When can we leave? As group leader I have to emphasize that several of us are ill, and all of us deeply upset …”
If anything happens get that tour group the hell out of the country
, she remembered, and looked challengingly at Mr. Pi.

He said quietly, “You will all remain here, of course, until Mr. Peter Fox’s body is found.”

She struggled not to show her dismay. “That will be soon, I hope?”

He said without expression. “But of course. You may go for now, Mrs. Pollifax, but naturally this will continue tomorrow.”

“Naturally,” she said, and as she arose she really did feel like fainting, caught her breath, steadied herself, and then thought,
“Oh why bother?”
and sank to the floor, welcoming the oblivion.

*  *  *

It was nearly dark when Mrs. Pollifax was driven back to the hotel in the curtained gray limousine with a silent Mr. Li beside her. Reaction was rapidly overtaking her: since last entering the hotel she had killed a man, seen Peter vanish into the hinterlands of China and into heaven only knew what perils; she’d suffered a runaway horse, a broken wrist, a hospital, and her first police interrogation in China. She supposed that it was not particularly odd of her to want to find a dark corner and cry. Actually, she decided, to cry was not enough: she would prefer a scream.

She would not, of course, be allowed a scream.

She said good night to Mr. Li and walked alone into the empty lobby, turned down the long hall past the souvenir counter, and entered her room. She turned on the lights and stood there, waiting for tears, even a sob, and when none came she sat down on her bed and stared blankly at her white plaster arm and thought of Peter. Hearing a soft knock on her door she lifted her head, considered not answering and then called out, “Just a moment,” and then, “Come in.”

It was Iris, awkwardly tiptoeing and carrying a tray. “I heard you come in,” she said. “I’m next door to you again. I brought you a pill.”

Mrs. Pollifax shook her head. “I don’t need a pill.”

“Ah, but it’s a codeine pill,” Iris told her. “I’ve got this doctor back home who gave me supplies for every possible emergency, bless him. Very sensible man, insisted I bring a few pain-killers along in case I broke a leg miles from nowhere. You’ll need it before long, you know, it’ll hurt tonight.”

“It hurts now,” admitted Mrs. Pollifax. “How are the others taking this?”

“Oh forget the others,” Iris said cheerfully. “It’s you I’ve been worried about ever since the Kazakhs brought
you back, you look as if you’re going to freak out if you’re not careful. I’ve got some brandy, too, and I think after the brandy you should wash down the codeine tablet with a cup of tea. Doctor Damson, that’s me. I don’t know how long you’ve been doing this sort of thing—”

Mrs. Pollifax stiffened. “What sort of thing?”

Iris handed her a glass. “Hold this while I get the tea steeping,” she said, and became very busy. She poured hot water into cups from the sterilized-water thermos, ran her hands under the table, disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes and returned with a second glass, became interested in examining the curtains before she pulled them closed, turned on the table lamp, peered inside and behind it, then glanced under both chair and bed, and finally poured them both brandy. “I don’t think it’ll hurt me to have some of this too,” she announced. “Everybody’s sick—
everyone
—Jenny with hysterics, Malcolm’s just come down with the same cramps Jenny had yesterday, and George with some kind of dysentery.”

She sat down on the edge of Mrs. Pollifax’s bed and gave her a radiant smile. “Let’s make it a toast, shall we?” and clicking her glass against Mrs. Pollifax’s she said lightly, “Shall we drink to Peter?”

Mrs. Pollifax stared at her. “To—Peter?” she said, wetting her lips.

“To Peter,” Iris said, and tipped her glass back and emptied it. Leaning over Mrs. Pollifax she pulled back the blankets, pounded both pillows, got up, and stirred the two cups of tea, tasted one, made a face and picked them up, leaving Mrs. Pollifax somwhat alarmed and very alert now.

“Peter is dead,” Mrs. Pollifax told her carefully. “So is Forbes. They hope to find Peter’s body tomorrow.”

“Oh?” said Iris briskly. “They say the currents in that river are very treacherous, though.”

“Yes.”

Iris was digging out Mrs. Pollifax’s pajamas from her suitcase. She said in the same brisk, conversational voice, “The thing is, you know, I once did some undercover work in Texas … I was dancing in this place where they were selling drugs and porno under the table, so to speak, except I didn’t know about that until I got approached by the law.”

“How very interesting,” said Mrs. Pollifax, watching her.

“Isn’t it?” Her voice was oddly soothing as it continued without expression, simply stating facts as casually as if she were describing the weather. “I worked for the law for about eight months and I wasn’t any heroine, believe me—and by the way, I’ve just checked your room here for bugs, so nobody else is hearing this—but it was all of it great training for somebody who’d breezed through life never noticing anything. I watched, snooped a bit where I wasn’t supposed to, eavesdropped, reported to the undercover guys, and the place got closed up. Besides earning me a citation it left me marked, though. It taught me to notice things. Little things.”

“Oh?” said Mrs. Pollifax cautiously.

“Yeah,” said Iris cheerfully. “Little things, like a certain young man in our tour group who doesn’t speak any Chinese but then one day he stands next to Mr. Li and Mr. Kan while they’re telling jokes—or telling
something
funny, obviously—and this young man has to turn his face away to hide his own laugh because obviously he understood every word they were saying.”

“How—amazing,” said Mrs. Pollifax weakly.

“I certainly thought so. And then his doing so much yawning and napping after we got here to Urumchi, as if he never got any sleep at night … not to mention the two of you going over the wall together after we got to Turfan.

I saw that, and saw somebody follow you, too, because you all passed my window, one by one. I was standing there in the dark doing my isometrics, and I think I can guess now who it was who followed you both.” She grinned at Mrs. Pollifax. “You’re a wonderful actress, no one would ever guess that you’re not—but never mind.”

Mrs. Pollifax looked at Iris thoughtfully. “You’re a remarkable actress yourself, Iris, and now I can thank you for what you did in Turfan. Above all I’m glad to understand why you did it because—”

Iris nodded and handed her the codeine tablet. “I know—it worried you. And believe me, I don’t want to know anything more and I’m not fishing, honest.” She held up her right hand to emphasize this, as if she were under oath. “Except I’ve got my own theories and I just want to make sure of one thing: we’ve been drinking a toast to Peter, right? To maybe long life and double happiness for him?”

Mrs. Pollifax smiled at her warmly. “Iris, I love you,” she said, “and I thank you because finally I think I’ll be able to cry now. To Peter,
yes
.” She emptied her glass of brandy, feeling it reach down to her toes, and then she leaned over and hugged Iris and allowed her to tuck her into bed.

T
he next morning, after a sleep filled with nightmares—all of them about Peter—Mrs. Pollifax discovered that she could neither tie her shoes nor comb her hair with her arm in a cast. Only she, Iris, and the two guides were well enough to appear at eight o’clock in the dining room, the others being still sick in their rooms, and after Mr. Li had tied her shoes for her—surely an act of contrition she thought, looking down at his sleek black head—and after Iris had brushed her hair for her she was borne off to visit security headquarters again, this time in the gray limousine with the cigarette hole in the upholstery.

Mr. Chang was there again with Mr. Pi, and now she was able to see how immaculately he was dressed, and how silky the fabric of his charcoal-gray Mao tunic. This
time he sat at the table beside Mr. Pi but his eyes were no less penetrating. There was a tape recorder present for today’s interview, and she was asked to repeat her story again from beginning to end. It was surprising how difficult she found this; yesterday she’d been keyed up, still in shock, her efforts focused with such intense concentration that she’d given a superhuman performance, even with Mr. Chang’s distracting gaze upon her. Today her hand ached with dreary persistence, she’d not slept well, the plaster cast on her arm felt hot and uncomfortable, and her fingers were swollen. Today she realized, too, how very much Mr. Chang frightened her: she felt that he missed nothing, not even the blink of an eye.