A Death in China Read Online Free PDF

museum down there, but I can’t persuade them to part with any of their artifacts.”
    “This is our first trip to China,” the old woman interjected.
    “Mine, too,” Stratton said, glancing at the door to the consular office. Surely it would not be much longer.
    “Where’s your hotel?” the art dealer pressed. “Maybe we can get together for a duck dinner.” He laughed a Rotary Club laugh. “Look, I’ve done a lot of work in Western Europe, the Mideast, even Russia. But this is new territory, and I don’t know whose back needs scratching. Maybe we could help each other out.”
    “I don’t see how,” Stratton said.
    The man held out his hand. “My name’s Harold Broom.”
    Stratton guessed that Broom was the sort of man who carried business cards in his top shirt pocket, and he was right.
    “I’m always looking for experts. Especially freelancers,” Broom said. “The more I know, the more I can take home.” The smile was as thin and hollow as the voice. “And the more I take home, the more I spread around.”
    “No thanks,” Stratton said. “I’m here on pleasure, not business.
    “Too bad.”
    “I have a passport problem,” said the old woman with blue-rinse hair. “I can’t find my passport. I may have left it at the opera. My husband said there should be no problem, but I told him this isn’t Europe. A passport is probably more important here. This is a Communist country.”
    “Yes,” Stratton said. He was miserable.
    The door opened and an American secretary beckoned. Steve Powell sat at a small desk in a tall room with one narrow window.
    A gray file cabinet stood in one corner. On a table, in front of a cracked leather sofa, was a stack of American magazines.
    “I’m sorry for making you wait,” Powell said. “I’ve spent the last two hours wrestling with the Chinese bureaucracy. It is intractable on the most routine matters. You can imagine the problems we face with something like this.”
    “Can’t be much worse than ours,” Stratton said.
    “Oh, but it is,” Powell said cheerily. “Infinitely worse. I could tell you some incredible stories … “
    “What happened to David?” Stratton asked. “When I went to his hotel all the manager would say is, ‘Mr. Wang not here.’”
    Powell nodded. “When you ask a question of a Chinese, expect a very literal answer. The man was telling you as much of the truth as you requested. Professor Wang became ill Tuesday night and was taken from the hotel.”
    “But David told me he wouldn’t even be back in Peking until Wednesday evening.”
    Powell shrugged. He slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and opened a file. Stratton noticed that it was the only item on the desk. Powell was a neat young man.
    “Tell me what happened to David,” Stratton said impatiently.
    “Death by duck.”
    Stratton’s face twisted.
    “Sounds funny, I know,” Powell went on, “but that’s what we call it. It’s a new China syndrome: Aging, out-of-shape American tourist comes to Peking, hikes and strolls through the Forbidden City and climbs the Great Wall until he’s blue in the face. Then he gorges himself on—what else?—rich Peking duck, gulps liters of Lao Shan mineral water and promptly drops dead of a myocardial infarction.”
    “A heart attack, that’s all,” Stratton said.
    “Sure,” Powell said. “Death by duck. We’re had dozens of cases. It has nothing to do with the duck, I assure you. Just too much food, too much exertion. Might as well be Coney Island franks.”
    “Just like that.” Stratton’s voice was tired and low.
    “After dinner, Dr. Wang apparently felt sick to his stomach. Several guests apparently saw him go up to his room. Two hours later one of the cleaning boys went in and found him there in bed, unconscious but still alive. Two medical students came and took him to a clinic nearby. The doctors apparently worked very hard but it was too late.”
    “It’s all apparently this and apparently that.