Palm for Mrs. Pollifax (3 page)

Next it was important to explain her departure to Miss Hartshorne, and this required tact. “She’s feeling lonely,” Mrs. Pollifax told her neighbor over a cup of tea. “Period of adjustment, you know.” By this time Adelaide had taken on shape and substance and she was finding it difficult to remember that Adelaide did not exist. “She and her husband were very close,” she added.

Miss Hartshorne’s mouth tightened. “I think I’ve been your friend long enough to say what I think of this, Emily, and I don’t think much of it at all. You leave New Brunswick only when a sick daughter-in-law or a friend sends out an S.O.S. and I must say these calls for help have been increasing lately. You let people take advantage of you.”

“Grace, I’m quite happy to—”

“I’ve tried for years to persuade you to do some traveling with me but no, you simply won’t travel at all. What you lead, Emily, is an unhealthily dull life.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax meekly.

“You know that ever since my retirement I’ve taken one Cook’s tour a year—religiously—and if I may say so, Emily, it’s what keeps me young. You never go anywhere interesting, you never meet new people, now do you?”

“Well,” began Mrs. Pollifax, taking a deep breath, but Miss Hartshorne was not waiting for a reply.

“It’s no vacation at all, cheering up an old friend, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how tired you are when you return from these little trips. Your essential problem, Emily, is that you have no sense of adventure.”

“None at all,” said Mrs. Pollifax, beaming at her friend, “but won’t you have another cup of tea, anyway, Grace?”

“Your attention, please … your attention
, please …”

Mrs. Pollifax glanced up from her thoughts, which had been occupied by the people hurrying past her intent on carrying babies, cameras, back-packs, luggage, attaché cases, odd packages, and nameless hopes. She had been thinking that her own plans were small and tentative: she hoped to find several pounds of plutonium.

“… will Mrs. Virgil Johnson go to the Information Desk … Mrs. Virgil Johnson …”

Obligingly Mrs. Pollifax picked up her suitcase and carried it across the aisle to the Information Desk. Almost at once a man detached himself from the crowd and hurried toward her carrying a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. She peered at him in astonishment.
“Bishop?”

He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “In the flesh, isn’t it amazing?” He thrust the flowers into her
hand. “Beware the Greeks bearing gifts. How are you? I’m delighted to see you.”

“And I you,” she said, beaming at him. “It never occurred to me they’d send—that is—”

“Ssh, Mrs. Johnson,” he said conspiratorially, and picked up her suitcase. “Follow me.” He led her around the corner to a door marked P
RIVATE
. P
ERSONNEL
O
NLY
. Opening the door he ushered her in and locked the door behind them. “We’re being loaned this office for ten minutes. Displaced Personnel is—are?—having a coffee break.”

“Are, surely?” she suggested, frowning.

He shook his head. “Is, I think. Oh, grammar be damned, they’re gone anyway.” He placed his suitcase on the desk. “You realize you’re giving me a disastrous time of it by taking on this job, don’t you? Carstairs can’t make up his mind whether he’s sending you up a blind alley or into a lion’s den. Today it’s a lion’s den and he’s in a dither.”

“Oh, but he appeared
quite
calm about it all when I saw him,” she told him. “Really, everything sounds very simple.”

“It does?” Bishop looked startled.

“Yes, and it will be such a pleasant change for me, staying in one place.”

“I see.” He sounded amused. “Well, then, let’s get on with it, shall we?” He opened his suitcase. “My bag of tricks,” he explained. “I have here for you one flashlight of unparalleled quality.” He handed it to her. “Plus a supply of spare batteries in case the quality is not unparalleled—we can’t risk a communications breakdown.”

“Flashlight and batteries,” repeated Mrs. Pollifax, opening her own suitcase and tucking both inside.

“One code in a sealed envelope that also contains rather a lot of money in Swiss francs. The code you will kindly memorize en route and then very thoroughly destroy. One pack of matches with which to destroy said code—”

“You think of everything,” she told him admiringly.

“Of course,” he said blithely. “And—oh, you are going to have a fun time!—one Geiger counter.”

“Geiger counter!” She was startled. “Carstairs didn’t mention a Geiger counter.”

“Actually a scintillator counter,” he amended, pulling out a handsome leather box. “He left it for me to mention because when he saw you we were still working out how to conceal it. You simply can’t go poking about for radioactive stuff without some help, can you? Take a look at this.” He opened the box.

“Jewels!” she gasped. “Are they real?” She was staring at a flannel-lined tray in which nested an emerald pendant, an enormous diamond pin and two necklaces glittering with rubies.

“I’m sorry to tell you they’re absolutely fake,” he said. “But damn expensive fakes, and aren’t they gorgeous? They’re just in case no one recognizes this as a jewelry case—”

“I didn’t,” admitted Mrs. Pollifax.

“—and they say to themselves, ‘let’s see if this is a geiger counter,’ and they open it to find—presto, jewelry.” He bent over the box. “See this tiny gold button on the hinge? Give it a good push and you’ll have released the lock and can pull out the tray.” He removed it and displayed a machine inside, a dial and two knobs set into a smooth metallic surface. He turned one of the knobs and they listened to a faint humming sound. “That’s normal,” he said. “Proves it’s working and all that, and you’re ready to pan for gold. The needle on the dial zooms, of course, when it sniffs out anything interesting. Check it out while I find your tickets, will you?”

Mrs. Pollifax closed, opened and closed the interior of the case. “It works,” she said.

“Good—now I’ll take it away from you.”

“Take it away!”

“It’ll be delivered to you on the plane when they hand
out the duty-free cigarettes and perfume that people have ordered. There’s a rigorous search of every passenger boarding the plane and we’d rather not risk the wrong chap hauling you away for explanations.”

“I see.”

“I’m glad you do. And here are your tickets.” He tapped a list with one finger as he studied it. “Tickets, jewel case, flashlight, batteries—”

“And violets,” she reminded him. “Very handsome of you, too. I adore violets.”

He glanced in amusement at her hat, which looked like a bathing cap overgrown with violets and pansies. “So I see. Is that thing called a cloche?”

“Bishop, you surprise me!”

“It’s mutual. Oh yes—one more item here,” he said. “The waiter Marcel.” He brought a small photograph from his wallet and showed her a dark-haired, high cheek-boned, gloomy face. “About five feet five. Broad-shouldered. There’ll be a number of waiters and you’ll want to know which one is Marcel. But avoid him, let him be the one to find you.”

“Right,” said Mrs. Pollifax efficiently, took a last glance and nodded.

“And that’s about it,” he concluded sadly. “So I daresay you’d better leave before too long a line forms at the check-in counter.” He unlocked the door and opened it and then he closed the door again and said sternly, “You
will
take care? Not go around making citizens’ arrests and that sort of tiling? Just try to find the you-know-what and be well-behaved?”

“I shall feel I’ve behaved very well if I find the you-know-what,” she told him.

He sighed. “Yes but I want to point out very strongly to you that any international crook who takes on this sort of game is tough and mercenary. Not your common ordinary garden type. Strictly jungle.”

Mrs. Pollifax put down her suitcase and looked at him. “What’s wrong, Bishop?”

“It’s that obvious?” He scowled. “Hang it all, Carstairs didn’t want you shaken up but I frankly think you ought to know.”

“Know what?”

“The autopsy report on Fraser came in this noon, just before I left. The chap was dead before he fell down the mountainside.”

“Before he fell,” she repeated automatically.

“Yes. The actual blow that killed him couldn’t possibly have come from any of the rocks he—uh—his body hit on the way down.”

“I see,” she said quietly. “You mean he was very definitely murdered.”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Thank you for mentioning it, Bishop, I’ll keep it in mind. You’ll let me go now?”

“Reluctantly,” he said, opening the door. “Very, very reluctantly.”

The code, when Mrs. Pollifax opened
it in the plane’s lavatory, struck her as being really very funny. It read like Dick-and-Jane.

All is quiet—I AM GETTING RESTED.

I am worried—I HAVE A COUGH.

I feel I may be in danger—I BELIEVE I AM RUNNING A TEMPERATURE.

Below these simple sentences had been appended the following code names:

Marcel—COUSIN MATTHEW

Plutonium—UNCLE BILL

Police—PETER

Carstairs—ADELAIDE

After several trips to the lavatory she burned the code in an ashtray and returned to watch a Western film on the ingeniously placed moving picture screen. She had never before crossed the Atlantic and watched a film at the same time, and she was not sure that she approved of it. She enjoyed it but that, she felt, was not quite the same as approving of it. She wondered, for instance, how Columbus or Magellan would react if they could see them all sitting in comfortable chairs watching a movie in the sky as they crossed the ocean insulated from wind, tides, storm and distance, and without any decent sense of awe. One ought, she felt, to suffer just a little. Not much but a little.

As to Bishop’s parting words she preferred not to think about them for the moment. He and Carstairs had each of them been right: it was kinder for her to know the worst, yet the news did have its jarring effect. Obviously Fraser’s death meant there was something worth murdering for at Montbrison.

Long before the film ended the sky beyond her window had turned silver and she watched horizon-long bands of orange and pink dissolve into sunshine. It was only midnight in New York but they had crossed a time zone to meet Europe’s dawn. Mrs. Pollifax made a last trip to the lavatory and then sat quietly attempting to enter her new role.

“I’m a mother-in-law recovering from the flu,” she repeated to herself, and tried out an appropriate small cough … but a cough, codewise, meant that she was worried and was not to be confused with a flu cough. Her son-in-law was named Carstairs and he lived in Baltimore. There would be a limousine waiting for her, a delightful thought
and she would be whisked off to the Clinic—about an eighty-minute drive, Carstairs had said—and there she must look suitably tired.

Mrs. Pollifax coughed again, very delicately, and practised looking tired.

The driver of the limousine spoke almost no English. He drove silently and skillfully, and Mrs. Pollifax’s attempts to compliment him on the weather lapsed. She stared out of the window at the countryside instead, at gentler mountains than she remembered seeing in the north, at red-tiled roofs and brief glimpses of a pale and shining Lake Geneva. They passed terraces of vineyards, villages just waking up—it was, after all, barely eight o’clock in the morning—and after an hour of driving they began to climb.

Mrs. Pollifax leaned forward eagerly. They were negotiating breathtakingly abrupt turns on a road that zigzagged high above the town and the lake; looking down she could see only the roofs of chalets, cottages and villas, and the tops of trees. Slowing somewhat they entered a village laid out at a 70-degree angle on the slopes of the mountain. Shops edged the slanting street, among them a cafe with umbrellas blossoming over rows of bright tables. The car turned down a narrow paved road, they passed a stone church clinging to the mountainside, a chalet, a few gardens and then entered a green-shaded wood with a ravine far below them on the right. Ahead Mrs. Pollifax saw a discreet sign: P
RIVATE
, it read. H
OTEL
-C
LINIC
M
ONTBRISON
.

The driver cleared his throat and pointed. Mrs. Pollifax saw the rear of a large, rambling building almost suffocated by trees and shrubbery. They entered between two laurel bushes, drove down a steep narrow drive past a greenhouse, and arrived at the main door of the Clinic.

The sun had not yet reached the back of the building and the shadows were deep. At the entrance a stocky
young man in a green apron was sweeping the steps with a broom while a small boy of ten or eleven sat on the top stair and watched him. Both looked up curiously at the limousine.

Mrs. Pollifax stepped out of the car. While the driver opened up the trunk to remove her suitcase she stood on the asphalt and glanced through the open door into the reception hall—it looked singularly gloomy with its dark paneling and rugs—and then the boy jumped up and called out shrilly,
“Bon jour, madame!”
This was followed by a torrent of words in French.

Mrs. Pollifax smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I speak only English.”

“But madame, I speak English, too,” he told her, jumping up and down. “Why have you come? Are you to be a patient here? Are you English? Have you arrived by air? Why are you in that limousine? Will you stay long? Have you brought a nurse?”

A man in a black uniform appeared on the step, said something quieting to the boy in French and smiled at Mrs. Pollifax. “I am the head concierge, madame. Welcome to the Clinic. You are Madame Pollifax?”

She nodded.

“This way.” He gave brisk orders to the man in the green apron, who dropped his broom and picked up Mrs. Pollifax’s suitcase. “Please, you will come in and register, the secretary has not yet arrived in the office. It is very early, you see. Emil will show you to your room. You will wish breakfast, of course, it will be sent up to you at once.”