Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station

kneeling beside Forbes, and abruptly she stiffened.
”What’s worse—oh dear—I believe he’s dead, Peter.”
    ”Worse
    She said unsteadily, ”I’ve only once killed a man—in self-defense, in a
cornfield in Albania .
I hoped —so hoped—” Her voice trembled; she pulled herself together and
looked around them. ”You’ll have to do the rest, Peter, I can’t.”
    ”Can’t what? Do what?”
    Think, she told herself, think, be strong for a
little longer. She said in a steady voice, ”He made one mistake, Peter, he
should have simply followed you when you disappeared, without declaring
himself, and killed you when you led him to Wang. And now he’s dead and you’re
not, thank heaven, but we have to think and act quickly.” She stood up, drawing
new strength from being erect. ”We have to change how things look—everything,”
she told him. ”They have to find Forbes’ body here, you see that, don’t you?
The two of you disappearing is too much. There has to have been a fight between
you both. A fight here.” She nodded. ”It may even be better this way,
Peter, but you’ve got to do it.”
    ”Do what?” he asked blankly. ”Am I in shock? I can’t think!”
    She nodded. ”My horse ran away with me—they all saw that. The horse is
dead in the canyon. I have a broken wrist. You rescued me. Forbes followed and
there was a fight and he killed you.”
    ”But a fight about what?” he cried.
    ”Something—anything,” she said impatiently, ”it doesn’t matter. What you
have to do now is this.” She pulled the long souvenir knife she’d bought in
Urumchi out of her pocket and drew it from its sheath. ”We need blood,
Peter—lots of blood. Carry him to the edge of the water, and I think—yes, quickly,
I’ll smooth away the tracks from your dragging him... He should have your Mao
jacket clutched in one hand, or the bloodied sleeve of your jacket. Something of yours. And his face should dangle down, as if he struggled to reach you as
you went over the side into the rapids. But there has to be blood.”
    ”God,” said Peter so devoutly that she felt it was said in religious
awe.
    Peter removed his Mao jacket.
    ”Tear it a little,” she told him as he dragged Forbes’ body toward the
gap in the earth. ”And—I’m sorry—but please knife him in the heart now, while
he’ll still bleed. There has to be blood,” she repeated passionately,
stubbornly.
    He gave her one quick incredulous glance as he grasped the knife and
leaned over the body. ”Better not watch,” he said, and she was glad to turn
away.
    When she looked again there was a great deal of blood both on the ground
and on the jacket. ”Knifed him in the aorta, I think,” Peter said curtly,
pressed the sleeve of the bloodied jacket into Forbes’ hand and then shrugged
himself into the remainder of his jacket.
    ”Toss the knife into the river,” she told him. ”It has your fingerprints
on it.”
    ”What else?” asked Peter, deferring to her.
    Mrs. Pollifax looked around, her adrenalin glands racing, her mind
operating with a cunning she’d forgotten that she possessed. Forbes lay at the
edge of the canyon, his head and one arm dangling over its side, the bloodied
rag of a jacket clutched in the hand that lay at his side. Below him—quite
horribly—lay the horse, sprawled across a rock just above the racing stream,
and quite dead. ”Fingerprints where they should be,” she said with a nod,
ticking off the details. ”Your jacket but his blood. I think the picture’s
complete—now go, Peter—go fast.”
    Peter stared at her. ”But—what will you tell them? Mrs. Pollifax, what
will you tell them? Why did Forbes and I kill each other?”
    ”I’ll say... I don’t know what I’ll say,” she told him. ”Leave it to me,
Peter—just go. Hurry. Your job’s only just beginning.”
    ”But so is yours,” he pointed out. ”And you’re stuck with—”
    She said fiercely, ”Peter, you’re an agent, sufficiently christened and
bloodied now, with Wang and Sheng out there waiting for you. Don’t bleed for me, you’ve got work to do.”
    ”Yes,” he said, staring at her, ”except—oh damn it, I want to say—to
tell you—” He reached out his hand and gently touched her broken one.
    ”But you don’t have to say or tell me anything,” she told him, the tears
rising to her eyes, and with her good hand she met his extended fingers and
grasped them. She said shakily, ”Oh Peter, I’m always saying