Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha by Dorothy Gilman

“I don’t believe in this,” he said at last. “A torn fragment addressed to no one at all, the sentence unfinished, no signature and the gun placed in his hand … This has been set up to look like a suicide and I don’t believe in it for a minute.”
    “Murder,” said Mrs. Pollifax, naming it, and thought how bizarre the word sounded in this silent, primitive hut built into such a serene landscape.
    Mr. Hitchens said, “But the gun, and if that’s his handwriting—?”
    “Could have been torn from a letter or a diary,” pointed out Robin.
    Mrs. Pollifax, looking curiously around her, said, “I wonder if he was killed here at all, Robin. There’s no breeze this morning. If he was shot only a few hours ago in such close quarters shouldn’t there be a lingering smell of gunpowder? And look at the floor.”
    Robin whistled. “The only footprints are ours—you’re right.”
    The three of them knelt and examined the earthen floor in the light of Robin’s pocket flash. “They really made a mistake here,” Robin said. “Someone either didn’t think ahead, or they panicked, because these tiny swirls and ridges in the dust are the marks of a broom, aren’t they? He has to have been killed somewhere else and brought here.”
    Mr. Hitchens shivered. “I don’t like this.”
    Mrs. Pollifax said tartly, “One has to wonder how on earth they managed to carry him so far, and over that bridge, but in the dark of night I daresay anything’s possible.” She turned and looked at Inspector Hao’s body. “The police can’t possibly overlook there being no footprints, can they? I mean, Inspector Hao didn’t simply drop through the roof, how can they possibly buy the suicide theory?”
    Robin shrugged. “It depends on just who among the police Damien Hao didn’t trust, and I’d say it depends, too, on just who
wants
it to be a suicide.”
    Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Then it’s up to me, Robin, since you’re Interpol, and I don’t like the way this has been arranged either.” She crossed the floor, knelt beside the body and pried loose the gun from Hao’s stiffening fingers. “Beretta nine-millimeter Luger,” she announced, and dropped it into her purse. Removing the suicide note from Robin’s hand with equal dispatch she dropped it, too, into her purse. “I think,” she said in a clear firm voice, “that in a situation like this it’s kinder to remove all doubt about its being anything but coldblooded murder.”
    “Good girl,” said Robin with feeling.
    Mr. Hitchens looked at her with admiration. “You dared—just like that! But you’re right, you know, I feel it. I feared—felt ill—as soon as I saw the hut. But where Alec can be—” His voice trailed away anxiously.
    Robin said soberly, “What I don’t like is feeling that someone’s way ahead of us in knowing what comes next. I think someone
knew
you’d come back here this morning, Mr. Hitchens, giving them an excellent opportunity to arrange Inspector Hao’s body here for you to discover and report.”
    “Then what do you suggest?” asked Hitchens alertly.
    “That you very obediently discover and report the body.” Robin nodded. “Yes, I think this is where you go public, Mr. Hitchens: U.S. PSYCHIC IN HONG KONG TO FIND MISSING POLICE INSPECTOR—that sort of thing. Just leave us out of it, Mrs. Pollifax and me? You woke up this morning in your own hotel room—after being hit over the head yesterday—and you returned this morning to this hut to look for Alec. You don’t even
know
me.”
    Mr. Hitchens nodded, looking boyish and excited again. “I can do that, yes.”
    Mrs. Pollifax, watching Robin, said, “You have something in mind for us, I’m thinking?”
    He grinned. “You bet. I’ll wipe away our footprints now—dragging my jacket across them should do it, although I shudder at the cleaning bill—and after Mr. Hitchens has established his footprints on the floor we’ll go back to the car, all of us, and take Mr.