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He nodded. “A blue.” If anything, he appeared almost insulted. “No guest would tip me a single blue.”
She turned to Dirk and explained, “Hong Kong currency has different colors and sizes for easy identification. A blue note is twenty Hong Kong dollars—not even three dollars US.”
Dirk got it even without Mei-li’s conversion into US dollars. He’d been in Hong Kong long enough to understand the local currency, to be able to do the exchange rate in his head—roughly 7.8 to 1.0, which he usually rounded to eight. And the cheapest rooms at the Peninsula Hotel went for roughly four-hundred-fifty US dollars a night—only the most well-to-do could afford to stay here. A normal tip from a patron of the Peninsula for having the doorman obtain a cab would be forty Hong Kong dollars, or even fifty—roughly five to six dollars US.
“What did they look like?” Dirk asked quickly, hoping against hope this man would remember something—a distinguishing mark, maybe, or distinctive features.
“We were very busy yesterday,” Mr. Lin said almost in an apology. “Cabs and limousines arriving every few minutes. All I remember is the man who spoke to me—the man without the diaper bag—was an American with dark eyes and close-cropped dark hair. And he wore Western boots, like in American movies.”
“Cowboy boots?” Dirk conjectured.
“Yes. Exactly. And he was tall. Not like Mr. Johnson here,” he said, referring to Rafe, who was six-five. Mr. Lin held a hand over his head, indicating a height differential of five or six inches, which Dirk interpreted as meaning the kidnapper was approximately six feet tall. “The other man was a few inches shorter. Chinese. Dark hair, too, which he wore straight and a little on the long side. Dark eyes, of course. But he never spoke, so I can’t tell you if he is from Hong Kong.”
Mr. Lin’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember something more. Then he shook his head regretfully. “That is all I remember about them. Oh!” he added abruptly as a thought occurred to him. “The cabdriver tried to take their duffel bags, but they insisted on loading them into the trunk of the cab themselves—I remember that. Do you think...?”
Mei-li, Dirk and Rafe exchanged meaningful glances. If these men Mr. Lin was describing were the kidnappers, the contents of those duffel bags were two little girls who’d been chloroformed so they could be transported in silence.
“And as they were getting into the cab,” the doorman volunteered before anyone could say anything, “the taller man told the driver to take them to the airport. Both the driver and I tried to tell him no flights were taking off—everything was shut down because of the typhoon. But he insisted.” His expression clearly conveyed what he thought of a man who ignored sage advice.
“How old would you say they were?” Mei-li asked.
“The Chinese man—late twenties, thirty at the most. The American?” He scratched the side of his neck. “Hard to say. Somewhere between thirty and forty. I can’t be more specific than that.”
“No distinguishing marks? A scar? A birthmark?”
Mr. Lin’s eyes lit up. “No, but I had forgotten—the Chinese man had a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. I saw it when he placed the duffel bag in the trunk of the cab. I couldn’t see what it was, but...”
Mei-li cupped her chin in one hand for a few seconds, seemingly lost in thought. Then she rose and held out her hand with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Lin. You have been a tremendous help, and we appreciate you giving up your lunchtime for this. There’s just one more favor we need to ask of you.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
“I have a friend, a sketch artist. Would you sit with him and describe these two men to the best of your ability? You may be the only one who saw their faces, and that could be crucial.”
“But of course. I would be honored to be of assistance.”
“Time is also critical. If Mr. DeWinter cleared it with hotel management, would you be willing to do this right away?” The doorman nodded. “My friend could meet you here—that’s probably easiest for you.” She hesitated, then added delicately, “This information must not get out to the media—a famous man like Mr. DeWinter would be swarmed with reporters. And with a kidnapping,” she said, holding Mr. Lin’s gaze with her grave eyes, “secrecy is a must.”
“You have nothing to fear from me,” the doorman assured her in fervent tones.
