Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha Read Free Page B

she had been briefed by Bishop on the long drive to the airport, as well as given a number of colorful anecdotes that might startle him. “Actually I’ve told you all the facts I know, and anyway it’s too beautiful a day for facts. But I was here last year, just overnight—”
    “I’ve never been out of the United States before,” blurted out Mr. Hitchens.
    His confession touched her as well as surprised her; she could remember only too well how disconcerting her own first trip had been, how dazzled and yet oddly insecureshe’d felt for the first few days, and she was suddenly very glad that she was breakfasting with him.
    Their taxi swept up to the entrance of the Hong Kong Hilton, they were helped out and their luggage removed at once by porters. They made their way through the first level and then up to the huge lobby where Mr. Hitchens, registering, was given room 601 and Mrs. Pollifax, taking her turn, was given the key to room 614.
    “Same floor,” murmured Mr. Hitchens.
    “Practically neighbors,” she agreed. “And—where breakfast?” she inquired of the room clerk.
    “The Golden Lotus Room,” he told her, leaning forward and pointing.
    “I’d dearly love a shave first,” said Mr. Hitchens. “Can we meet there in thirty minutes?”
    “Fine—and I think, remembering my first visit here, it’s buffet, with wonderful papaya and melons.”
    “I can hardly wait,” said Mr. Hitchens.
    Mrs. Pollifax found room 614 enormous and filled with light, for which she mentally blessed Bishop. She peered into the small, well-stocked refrigerator in the corner, removed her hat and then sat down on the bed to study the street map of Hong Kong that Bishop had given her, along with rather a lot of Hong Kong money. Feng Imports, he’d told her, was in the city’s West Point district, not far from the Man Mo Temple—Buddhist—and tucked away at number 31 Dragon Alley. Its location had been lightly penciled on the map and now Mrs. Pollifax lined it up with the hotel. Obviously a taxi, she realized, as she measured distances, her eye meeting exotic names like Ice House Street, Cotton Tree Drive, Jardine’s Bazaar and Yee Wo Street. Definitely not New Jersey, she thought, smiling, and decided that she mustreach Dragon Alley before the shop opened so that she could try first to intercept Sheng Ti on the street, before he began work.
    Some minutes later Mrs. Pollifax was seated in the same Golden Lotus that she’d enjoyed in June, except that this was very late May of another year. A gracious white jacketed waiter poured coffee for her and she sipped it while she waited for Mr. Hitchens, admiring the oriental faces around her, the businessmen gesticulating to companions over fact-sheets, the young couples, the obvious tourists with their cameras. When Mr. Hitchens slid into the chair beside her he had changed into slacks and a jacket and looked older, less eccentric and a shade less interesting, but something new had been added: his sober face was animated by excitement.
    “You won’t believe who I just passed in the lobby,” he told her boyishly, “the third-richest man in the world! Western world, that is, and right here in this hotel.”
    “Now
you’re
the well-informed one,” she told him. “Who on earth is the third-richest man in the world?”
    “His name is—” He frowned. “Oh yes, Lars … Lars Petterson.” He grinned. “I turned on my TV as soon as I got into my room and he was being interviewed on Hong Kong television.”
    “I suppose I have a TV too,” she said doubtfully.
    He laughed. “I’m addicted to it, very partial to reruns, especially the “I Love Lucy” and “Mary Tyler Moore” shows. Also green bananas,” he added, and positively enlivened now he said, “I’ve been married three times and I think each wife thought a psychic lives an exciting life.”
    “They didn’t expect TV reruns and green bananas?” said Mrs. Pollifax, amused.
    “No … oh, thank you,” he