A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [14]
“He was tired, but he seemed in good health. We asked him to join us for dinner because we wanted to hear all about the reunion with his brother, but he declined. He promised to join us for breakfast on Wednesday morning.”
The clerk excused himself. Stratton closed the door and motioned Weinstock to sit on the bed.
“Was David still alive when you got here?”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Stratton. Let me tell you what happened, because it’s been bothering me a great deal. After I heard the room boy shouting, I ran up the stairs. As you can see, I’m not a young man. But still, it couldn’t have been more than two minutes.
“Yet already there were two men in the room. They identified themselves as medics—at least that’s what they told the hotel manager. I told them I was an American doctor, and I showed them my medical bag. But it was no use, Mr. Stratton, because they wouldn’t let me in. One of the men stood there, at the door, blocking the way. The other was here at the bed, leaning over Dr. Wang. Now I saw some movement in the professor’s leg, and I’m almost positive I heard him say something in Chinese.”
Stratton asked, “Was he in pain?”
“Yes, it sounded that way. I begged to go in and help, but the hotel manager insisted that I go back to my room. The medics said everything was under control. After a few minutes, they came out with Dr. Wang on a stretcher. A blanket was pulled up to his neck. His eyeglasses were sort of propped on his forehead, and his eyes were closed. I think he was still breathing, but I couldn’t be sure. His color was very poor. His face was gray. I followed the medics downstairs to the car,” Weinstock said.
“They had a car?” Stratton was surprised. Three-wheeled bicycles customarily served as delivery wagons and ambulances in the city.
“Not just a car,” Weinstock added, “a limousine. They put the litter in the back and roared off. And that was something else that bothered me. There’s a clinic just three blocks down the street, near the Dong Dan market. It’s a very modern facility by Chinese standards; it was included on our tour. I saw the cardiac unit myself—not great, but adequate for a heart attack. Yet the medics drove right past it, never even slowed down.”
“Maybe it was closed for the evening.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Stratton.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” Stratton mused. “Do you know who David had dinner with?”
“It was a small banquet in a corner of the dining room; all the people were Chinese.”
Together they walked down the stairs. The whole hotel smelled of turpentine and cheap new paint. On the second floor, Weinstock paused on the stairwell, as if making up his mind. “Mr. Stratton,” he said. “I’ve got something in my room that you should see.”
Gerda Weinstock was caking her cheeks with makeup when the two men walked in; she let out a tiny shriek and fled into the bathroom.
“She hates for anybody to see her until she gets her face on,” Weinstock whispered. With bony knees rubbing on the wooden floor, he hunted under the bed. When Weinstock got to his feet, he was holding a black medical bag.
“Once a doctor, always a doctor,” Stratton said.
Weinstock shook his head soberly. “No, this isn’t mine. This is what the medics left behind in Dr. Wang’s room. This is what I wanted to show you. I found it on the floor, near the bed. I opened it because I was curious. Professional curiosity.”
Inside, lying in a shining heap, were dozens of identical gadgets: a small tool, perhaps three inches long, with a small arm that swung out on a tiny hinge and flipped over to form a lever for the thumb. Pressing the lever made the sharp U-shaped jaws of the tool open and close silently.
“Do you know what these are?” Weinstock asked incredulously.
“Fingernail clippers,” Stratton muttered.
“Fifty-four sets,” the American doctor reported. “Made in China.”
“I’ll be damned,” Stratton said.
“Some medics,” said Saul Weinstock. “Some goddamned medics, huh?”
Stratton asked to keep the medical bag.
“Sure, just don’t tell them where you got it. Please,” Weinstock implored. “My wife and I don’t want to get