room.
“Old man,” she said. “Don’t you want to prepare or something?”
“Prepare what?”
“Yourself. For death.”
Siri laughed.
“Well, Bpoo. Let’s see. If the Buddhists are right, I’m just on my way to the next incarnation. Unless there’s a manual for how to behave correctly as a gnat I’m not sure how I’d prepare for that. If the Catholics are right, nothing short of an asbestos suit and a glass of iced water will help where I’m going. And if the communists are right, you do your best and when you’re gone they put up a statue in your honor and the locals dry their laundry on it. So, if I’m going, you’re the heir to today’s legacy. So come here and translate for me.”
Half an hour later Siri and Bpoo walked into the dining room. Fellini was apparently directing a crowd scene there. Like survivors of a natural disaster, the hotel guests had all congregated at a central spot. The tea urn was the focal point. Dr. Yamaguchi was standing on the table dipping his mug into the dregs. Siri recalled Civilai’s description of the bodies found in the rice whiskey jars. The pathologist seemed to have no fear for his own life as his bottom wagged from side to side in the air. The senator was standing on a chair orating. His audience was a crowd of Hmong and Civilai who was pretending to translate but was instead making terrible fun of the statesman. Vogal, buoyed on by the cheers and laughter, was in danger of falling off his chair as he waved his arms around and yelled to the heavens. In a corner, Daeng was engaged in a
Siri was just in time to witness Judge Haeng reach in the direction of Peach’s breast. She leaned back in time, clenched her fist, and landed an impressive haymaker on the judge’s nose. After a few frozen seconds the sound of a crack circuited the room and blood spurted out of the law enforcer’s nostrils. He used his right hand to squeeze his nose then made a second attempt, this time at the other breast, with his left. It was Peach’s knee this time that floored the judge and, very likely, ended any hope of future generations of Haengs. Journalist Rhyme was in grave danger of making himself blind because he’d become fascinated with the awesome power of his camera’s flash unit and uttered an impressed “wow” every time he flashed himself.
This left only Cousin Vinai who had fashioned a sort of noose out of kitchen napkins and was on a ladder attempting, without the benefit of coordination, to suspend it from one of the rafters.
“This is exactly why I didn’t let you drink the tea,” Siri told Bpoo.
Bpoo turned back for the room but Siri caught her by the arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
“We’ve got two full mugs of this stuff back in the room.”
“You aren’t going back.”
“But look at these people.”
“We need to be alert.”
“I can be alert and stoned. I”m adaptable.”
“Bpoo!”
“Please.”
“You’re my only hope to stay alive today.”
“Oh, great. Play the ‘You’re my only hope to stay alive’ card right now, why don’t you? All right. But I’m drinking it when all this is over. Both mugs.”
“No problem. Now, we don’t exactly know who killed Potter but there are two, perhaps three people we can cross off the list of suspects. That leaves a very small select few to choose from. So I propose we take advantage of their temporary insanity. We’ll never have them in a more vulnerable state. We should focus on the weak and wounded.”
“Well, there she is,” said Bpoo, nodding in the direction of Ethel Chin. Even Geung had abandoned her. She sat alone now with tears streaming down her ruddy blistered cheeks.
“You’re right. A stray has wandered from the herd,” Siri agreed. “Sharpen your talons.”
They sat on either side of the personal assistant. When she looked up to see who had joined her, the crying intensified.
“I’m supposed to be getting married in October,” she snorted. “Now look at me. I’m so ugly he’ll never talk to me again.”
Siri nodded.
“Oh, look at you, deary,” said Bpoo. “You were hardly Miss Hong Kong even before your face erupted. Your fiance’s obviously a very charitable chap. Fully sighted, is he?”
Chin howled her misery.
“I suppose he knows you’ve been rolling in the hay with your boss while you were on these missions. Or did you forget to mention it?”
It was as if the woman were so full of tears she couldn’t get them out in time. It was a job well done on Bpoo’s part. Intimate thuggery. At such close quarters, Siri was able to get a good look at Chin’s face. The makeup was doing a poor job of hiding her sores. In fact, it was probably exacerbating the infection. And then, in a sudden flash of obviousness, it came to him.
“Of course,” he said, and slapped the scar tissue on his forehead.
“What’s that?” Bpoo asked, still waiting for a pause in the sobs so she could continue her assault.
“Once again, it’s taken me several days to see what Inspector Maigret of the Paris Surete would have noticed instantly.”
“Who?”
“I’m a disgrace to the detective brotherhood.”
Bpoo raised her crayoned-on eyebrows.
“Desist from your random scratching and biting,” he told her. “We can now go directly for the jugular.”
“All right, old man. I’ll translate as meanly as I can.”
“Good. Then we’ll begin with a story. It’s the story of the Jesuits.” (Bpoo stared. He ignored her.) “Apart from importing their peculiar religion and cheese and braziers to our barbaric land, the Jesuits also introduced firearms. Installing religion was apparently not enough for them. They were expecting us to fight to the death to defend it. The weapon of choice, popular in Europe at the time, was the musket. The locals were a resourceful lot and they learned to reproduce these guns using local materials. As there was no quality control supervisor in attendance, our version of the musket carried the odd idiosyncrasy.”
Ethel Chin had dried up. Her red, bloated eyes were now staring angrily at Bpoo, who stared confidently back at them.
“It is incredible,” Siri continued, “given the availability of cheap weapons over the past thirty years of warfare, that the country folk still favor their old muskets. But one thing they’ve all learned is to hold the weapon well away from the face when they fire it. Forgetting to do so is likely to lead to a very nasty powder burn. Someone unfamiliar with this rule, someone who learned their gunmanship from television cowboy shows, for example, would very likely rest their cheek against the barrel.”
Chin turned to Siri.
“It’s a rash,” she spat.
“No. It’s not,” Siri told her. “And I can prove it’s not because microscopic gunpowder deposits remain embedded in the skin for months after. Luckily we have an electron microscope at our lab.”
Auntie Bpoo was taking great delight in the translation … and the lie.
“And why would I be shooting a musket?” Chin asked with a different type of tears welling up in her eyes.
“To remove suspicion from your employer. The assassination attempt on the senator was orchestrated to remove him from the list of potential suspects in the murder of Major Potter. In this way he was a victim. I doubt he was delighted that you actually made contact. I imagine the plan was to run off into the bushes where you’d secreted your musket and fire a shot perhaps two meters to his right. But, as I say, those muskets can be devils. Lucky you didn’t actually kill the blighter.”
