Palm for Mrs. Pollifax (17 page)

Carstairs sighed. “I don’t know why I resisted thinking of it but of course it’s just the sort of thing she’d do.”

“Is Mrs. Pollifax into something, sir?”

Carstairs said testily, “For heaven’s sake, Bishop, she’s been there only two days.”

“Three days now, sir,” pointed out Bishop with maddening precision, “It’s already Sunday evening in Europe. Do you want me at the office?”

“No, but you might stay available while I contact Schoenbeck in Geneva. I’ll call you back.”

He hung up, consulted his file and asked that a call be put through to Schoenbeck’s office. While he waited he used another phone to order a pot of coffee and then drew out file Z1020. He was studying it with concentration when his call to Geneva came through. “Schoenbeck?” he snapped.

But Schoenbeck was out. A cool, formal voice explained that this was his assistant speaking and that Schoenbeck had left Geneva several hours ago. Could his assistant be of help?

“The biggest help you can give me is to tell me how I can reach him immediately. This is Carstairs in Washington, about the Montbrison business.”

“Ah yes, of course,” said the assistant in well-modulated tones. “It is the Montbrison case, monsieur, that has taken him from Geneva today. He left in midafternoon to confer with M. Gervard. Unfortunately he is not returned yet.”

“What time is it over there?”

“Nine o’clock, sir, in the evening.”

“And he’s not back yet?”

“No, monsieur.”

Carstairs said abruptly, “Something’s happened then? Look here, we’ve an agent at Montbrison, too, and I’ve had a most peculiar telephone call—”

The voice was soothing. “No, no, monsieur, it had nothing to do with your agent Mrs. Pollifax. It is our agent
who has disappeared for the moment. We are making inquiries.”

“Disappeared!” exclaimed Carstairs. “Marcel?”

“It will be cleared up, I am sure,” the voice went on with the blandness of a doctor reassurring a terminal patient. “It is M. Schoenbeck’s urgent hope that cover need not be broken and so he consented to help with inquiries, very discreetly.”

“When did you last hear from Marcel?” demanded Carstairs. “And what was on his mind?”

“His last report was yesterday—Saturday—at the usual hour of five o’clock, monsieur. As to what was on his mind—” The voice hesitated and then turned silky. “He mainly expressed some doubts about your agent, sir.”

Carstairs’s voice became even silkier. “May I ask why?”

“But of course, monsieur. He had requested her to make the acquaintance of a man named Burke-Jones, about whom serious suspicions have been aroused, and she did this. But she became quickly distracted by a small child staying at the Clinic. Marcel had begun to feel the maternal instincts had blunted her—uh—shall we say perceptions?”

Carstairs said curtly, “You may tell Schoenbeck that Mrs. Pollifax is distracted by everything that comes her way but never to the detriment of the job. Her distractions are notorious but never without point. When was Marcel’s next contact to be made?”

“He should have telephoned this morning, monsieur, before going to work at the Clinic.”

“But that’s nearly fifteen hours ago!”

“Yes, monsieur. Naturally we have made discreet inquiries. He did not return to his room in the village last night.”

“Has my agent been told about this?”

The voice was polite “A call was attempted, sir. I put it through myself, after working out the code for it and asking her to make inquiries about Cousin Matthew. Unfortunately
your agent had just left for a little drive with friends.”

“What friends?”

The voice was disapproving. “I’m sure I cannot tell you, sir, but Monsieur Schoenbeck will contact you upon his return.”

“Do that,” said Carstairs. “I’ll wait for his call.” He hung up and swore steadily. He was still swearing when Bishop telephoned, and when he had finished, Bishop said mildly, “You’re upset.”

“You’re damned right I’m upset. I’ve been talking with a Pollyanna in Schoenbeck’s office who informs me that Marcel hasn’t reported in for fourteen and a half hours but everything’s all right.”

“It doesn’t sound all right to me,” said Bishop.

“Bless you for that,” breathed Carstairs. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for the moment except wait for Schoenbeck’s call. You can return to your day of rest and gladness, Bishop.”

“Thank you, sir. Are you worried?”

“I don’t know,” fretted Carstairs. “It’s maddening not to be in charge myself, and still more maddening to think how easily they could blow this. Schoenbeck is so damned cautious, so damned discreet. It inhibits him.”

“Well, sir, my blonde is gorgeous but not quite so diverting as Mrs. Pollifax. Give me a ring if something comes up.”

“Yes,” said Carstairs and hung up with a sigh, knowing that if one of his agents had been out of contact for nearly fifteen hours in a closed situation like this he certainly wouldn’t be driving off to a rendezvous to discuss it, he’d be tearing the Clinic apart and to hell with everybody’s cover stories. “Too damned polite,” he growled and began to consider a few things he could do from this end that, hopefully, wouldn’t irk Schoenbeck. He could, for one thing, telephone Mrs. Pollifax and make certain that she was all right, and he could discover just why she had sent
a cablegram in his name. Schoenbeck wouldn’t care for his meddling but Mrs. Pollifax was
his
agent, after all.

He put through a call to the Hotel-Clinic Montbrison and it was placed before he had finished his cup of coffee. Whoever was on night duty over there spoke a disjointed English, and guessing the man’s accent Carstairs switched to Italian. Even in Italian, however, he couldn’t reach Mrs. Pollifax because there was no answer to the telephone in her room. This was worrisome because if it was nearly ten o’clock in the evening over there she ought to be getting ready to signal from her balcony. He asked a few questions about schedules at the concierge’s desk and the porter replied, adding a few complaints as well.

“Who was on duty this afternoon?” Carstairs asked. He nodded and wrote down the name and home telephone number of the head concierge, thanked the porter and hung up.

Consulting the code given Mrs. Pollifax he picked up the telephone and asked that a cable be sent to her at Montbrison. “Take this down,” he said and dictated: “
URGENTLY REQUEST EXPLANATION CABLE SENT IN MY NAME SUNDAY STOP UNCLE BILL ON THE LOOSE AGAIN IN FRANCE STOP WHERE IS COUSIN MATTHEW STOP ARE YOU RUNNING A TEMPERATURE STOP LOVE ADELAIDE
. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get me Switzerland again.” He frowned over the name of the head concierge. “A Monsieur Piers Grundig, in St. Gingolph.” He began to feel the satisfaction of working through some of his frustrations and was just congratulating himself about it when Bishop walked in. “What on earth!” he said in surprise.

“Couldn’t help it, sir,” said Bishop cheerfully. “Something’s up, isn’t it? It was beginning to interfere with both the rest and the gladness. What do you
think
is up?”

Carstairs shrugged helplessly. “I wish I knew. Marcel disappeared from view sometime between five o’clock Saturday and seven o’clock this morning their time, and in
midafternoon today Mrs. Pollifax went for a drive—with friends, I’m told—and she doesn’t seem to have returned yet. Marcel’s missing and I’m beginning to think Mrs. Pollifax is missing, too. And I had that damned mysterious call from Parviz. Hello?” he barked into the phone. “Is this Piers Grundig, head concierge at the Hotel-Clinic Montbrison?” He waved Bishop to sit down.

His questions to the man were concise and organized. He had seen Madame Pollifax leave? She had gone for a drive with people from the Clinic? She had left at what hour? And the names of the friends, he inquired as he reached for pencil and paper.

“Monsieur Sabry, yes,” he said, writing busily. “Two gentlemen not familiar to you, and the boy Hafez. Hafez what?” He looked astonished. “Parviz,” he echoed in a hollow voice. “Yes, I see. Thank you very much, Monsieur Grundig, I’m obliged to you.”

He hung up, and seeing his face Bishop said, “Trouble.”

“Trouble or a very remarkable coincidence,” growled Carstairs. “I don’t like it.”

“Your intuition’s usually right, And no Schoenbeck yet?”

“No Schoenbeck yet.” Carstairs looked grim. “I gave Mrs. Pollifax to Interpol like a gift and they give every evidence of having discarded her like a boring Christmas tie.”

Bishop said soberly, “Well, you know she doesn’t look like a gift at first glance, sir. She confuses people by looking the nice cozy grandmother type.”

“This time she seems to have confused the wrong people,” Carstairs said harshly. “She’s confused Interpol but I’m beginning to have the acute feeling that
someone
has seen through the façade and discovered she’s dangerous. And Interpol is the last to guess this.” He lifted his glance to Bishop. “There’s a damned busy week ahead, Bishop,
but it’s time someone translates Mrs. Pollifax to Interpol. Is your passport available?”

Bishop brightened. “In my desk, sir.”

Carstairs nodded. “I’ll call a taxi for you. I want you to take along the tape recording of Parviz’s call, and I want you to give it to Schoenbeck, but first—I repeat
first
—you’re to find out where the hell Mrs. Pollifax is.” He glanced at his watch “It’s half-past four, Bishop, you’ve just time to catch the six o’clock plane to Geneva. It will get you to Geneva—given the time differences—by seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

“On my way, sir,” said Bishop, snatching up the tape and his jacket.

“Oh and Bishop—”

He turned at the door. “Yes, sir?”

“For God’s sake keep me posted.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and the door slammed behind him.

It was nearing midnight and it seemed
to Mrs. Pollifax that it had been dark forever. In fact it had grown dark inside the castle long before the last rays of sun fled the lake and the sky outside. Around eight o’clock they had divided Hafez’s small hoard of Wiener Schnitzel but that, too, felt a long time ago. After a sojourn in each of the rooms they had settled in the Hall of the Count, where Mrs. Pollifax sat on the floor, her back against the wooden chest. Odd little noises punctuated the silence: the scurrying of mice, the explosive creak of wood as the temperature dropped, the sound of waves from a far-off boat lapping against the outer walls. From time to time she lighted a match from the package that Bishop had given her in New York and when she did this, to glance at her watch, the flare of light would pick out the suitcase beside her and the small arsenal in her lap: Hafez’s jackknife, Fouad’s gun and a segment of the rope that wound up to the pile she had placed on the chest. At the moment Mrs. Pollifax would gladly have traded them all for a warm coat and some food. “What are you doing now?” she called softly to Hafez.

“I am at the window, madame, looking at the stars. I can see the head of Ursa Major, the Great Bear, and also the Chair of Cassiopeia. Oh, I wish you could see the stars in the Rub’ al Khali, madame, they shine so clear, so bright.” He came back to sit down again beside her.

“The Rub’ al Khali?”

“It’s called also the Empty Quarter—except it is not empty, you know. Sometimes—sometimes my father has taken me there, and we camp out at night under the stars and they come near enough to touch. There are desert gazelles there, too. I shall be an astronomer when I grow up,” he said firmly.

“Then we must make certain that you grow up,” she said lightly. “Go on with your story, Hafez, I want to know everything.”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh, “but it is all so unpleasant and the stars so beautiful. Where was I? Oh yes, after finding me in the bazaar Munir drove me to the Zabyan airport but my father was not there at all, as you can guess. Fouad kept saying, ‘He is inside the plane, they’re giving him oxygen until the doctor comes.’ So I ran across the runway to the plane and up the steps but my father was not there at all. Instead Grandmama lay stretched out on three seats, quite unconscious.”

“Drugged,” nodded Mrs. Pollifax.

“Yes. And as I went to her they closed the door to the plane and that’s when I understood they had tricked me and nothing at all had happened to my father. The plane took off two minutes later.”

“How many of them were there?”

“There were two pilots but I did not see them again. There was Serafina, who seems to be a nurse. There was Fouad and Munir, and a man I think was a steward and belonged to the plane because he wore a uniform and served food to me. We had one meal and I think it was drugged because I fell asleep afterward. When we landed I could scarcely believe we had flown all the way to Switzerland. That was when Mr. Sabry came on board to—to—” He sighed. “To explain.”

“That you were hostages,” said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding.

“Yes, madame. He said we were going to a very nice place, a Clinic, and I would be free to walk around and enjoy myself but my grandmother would be kept prisoner
in her room. If I breathed a word of it, if I begged help or confided in anyone my grandmother would be given an injection that would kill her at once. He said Fouad and Munir would always be with her and that whether she lived or died would be up to me.”

“ ‘An intolerable tension,’ ” remembered Mrs. Pollifax aloud, and her shiver was not from the cold. She could believe their threat; they really would dispose of Madame Parviz—and still could—with a quick and ruthless indifference. “And so your grandmother has been kept drugged ever since you came.”

“Yes, madame.”

Mrs. Pollifax smiled faintly. “Until you stole thirteen aspirin from me, Hafez?”

“You saw that, madame?” He turned and looked up at her, his face a pale oval in the darkness.

“I saw. I guessed that after the initial injections they must be giving your grandmother pills that looked just like aspirin. You planned a little sleight of hand.”

“It was all I could think to do,” he said, his voice trembling a little. “There were thirteen pills in the bottle next to Grandmama’s bed. I replaced them with thirteen aspirin. I thought if Grandmama could once wake up we could talk of what to do. And she did wake up,” he added proudly, “She said we must be very brave and cable my father that we are safe—even if we are not safe—and then place our lives in the hands of Allah. But, madame—” She saw the flash of his smile. “She did not know that you would help, too. Do you think Allah sent you?”