Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station

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.