Palm for Mrs. Pollifax (7 page)

“There is always more. I want from you an alert, a query, transmitted to all your agents around the world,
barring none. It troubles me deeply that we hear no hints of this in the marketplaces of the world. In Beirut, Marseilles, and New York we hear not a whisper. This is most exceptional, a group this organized turning to this type of crime and no informants, no leaks, no tips.”

“Queries everywhere?”

“Everywhere, if you please. The plutonium has to find a market eventually, does it not? And we
must
know who is buying it. Otherwise, my friend,” he said flatly, “the balance of power will tip, slide, and perhaps send us all into oblivion.”

“You still believe it’s one of the international crime syndicates, forsaking drugs for plu—” The telephone interrupted Carstairs and he reached over to pick it up and bark his name into it. “What? Yes, he’s here,” he said, and handed the telephone to Schoenbeck. “You keep your office well-informed,” he commented dryly.

Schoenbeck, smiling, took the phone. He listened, replied in rapid French, listened again and seemed to visibly sag in his chair.
“Qui,”
he added, and hung up. “Well, my friend, I must go,” he said, standing up. An ironic smile played over his lined and weary face. “That was Geneva calling. There has been a third theft of plutonium.”

“What?” thundered Carstairs.

“Yes, a third. In France this time. Two how-you-call-it metal buttons of plutonium, each weighing a kilogram.” He leaned over and picked up a pencil. “A kilogram in pounds is 2.2046 for your edification, my friend. Six kilograms are now missing.” He was figuring with the pencil and paper, and at last he held it out to Carstairs.

Carstairs reached for it and whistled. “Thirteen pounds and two ounces altogether,” he said.

Schoenbeck nodded. “They now have their atom bomb,” he said. “I leave you, my friend, but I think you will find me in France, not Geneva. In the meantime—
c’est la guerre
. Literally.”

He went out, leaving Carstairs thoughtful and depressed.

Earlier, during dinner, Mrs. Pollifax
had mentally compiled a list of what to avoid: the elevator, of course, which purred almost silently but still sent out vibrations of movement and whispering cables; the night concierge or whoever manned the counter and telephones at night; and she supposed that someone—somewhere—must be available for patients who were restless. She would have to discover for herself where the pockets of activity lay at night.

She changed into pajamas and robe and checked the jewelry box, leaving the tray inside but removing the jewels and tucking them into her pocket. “Fortune favors the bold,” she reminded herself as she looked out on the dimly lighted, deserted hall. For one overwhelming moment she longed to retreat and go to bed and then she remembered Fraser. She walked down the hall to the elevator and took the broad, carpeted stairs beside it to the Reception floor. The switchboard was unmanned and the concierge’s counter empty. She stood a moment listening and heard a low murmur from the television room; the night porter had forsaken his post for a program. Quietly she followed the stairs down and around to the ground floor. This was the unknown, a rabbit warren of therapy and equipment rooms, offices, baths and pools and the kitchen. It was also, she felt, the most likely place in which to hide anything illicit, especially if it had been labeled M
EDICAL
S
UPPLIES
.

Down here the lights had not been dimmed and the brightly lighted hall alarmed her; before doing anything else she looked for a hiding place. An unmarked door concealed a utility room that was mercifully dark, and she slipped inside. Her flashlight moved across tubs, pails, brooms, mops, and a wall filled with fuse boxes and circuit breakers. From this vantage point she opened the door a few inches and waited, listening.

To her right, far down the hall, someone had begun to whistle monotonously through his teeth. The sound came from the kitchen but the frosted-glass doors remained closed; a pastry chef, she decided, baking for the next day. Turning on the Geiger counter she slipped back into the hall and tiptoed to the wide swinging doors at the far end labeled H
YDROTHERAPIES
.

H
YDROTHERAPIES
was a large room dark and almost gymnasium-size, and occupied by two round tile pools filled with water that gleamed under her flashlight. Whirlpool baths, she guessed as she moved slowly around the sides. A glance at the luminous dial of the counter showed the needle quiet. She opened a door in the wall and walked into an office; here she spent several minutes investigating the closets. A second office stood next to it, followed by a room marked U
NTERWASSER
M
ASSAGE
. With some curiosity she entered the latter and found a large, rectangular green tub standing in the center of the room, raised on a platform. Pipes and formidable-looking tubes surrounded it, and over the faucets a series of dials added to the impression that she had stumbled into a medieval torture chamber. Here, too, water stood in the tub, very still and filled with moving light. It was strange how alive and sinister water could look at night, she thought, and with relief opened the door to the hall.

She had now completed the east wing of the ground floor, which was separated from the opposite wing by the lobby containing the staircase, elevator, and entrance doors to the garden. As she peered into the lobby from the
Unterwasser Massage door she drew back hastily, surprised at discovering that she was not the only prowler in the night. Barely six feet away from her someone was trying to get into the building from the garden. She could hear the click and rustle of tools at work; the intruder was picking the lock. Mrs. Pollifax turned off her scintillator counter and waited.

There was a last muffled click and the door swung open. Marcel slipped inside.

“Marcel!” she gasped in relief.

He jumped and crossed himself before he saw her standing in the shadows of the Unterwasser Massage room. “You scare the devil from me, madame!”

“Sorry—you frightened me, too. Whatever are you doing picking the lock?”

His face turned wry. “Waiters are not allowed keys, madame—and I am a waiter. It makes for much difficulty, especially when I am off duty.” He moved away from the glass door to the garden and joined her in the darkness. “I have spent the last hour seated in the garden, in the darkness, watching. Have you been down here long? Have you seen or heard anyone?”

“Only the person in the kitchen working. Why?”

“I swear to you I saw someone on the roofs of the building a few minutes ago.” He frowned. “It is very dark out there, with no moon, but still—” He shook his head. “I do not like it.”

“And you want to look around,” she said approvingly. “But first—really it’s providential, meeting you, Marcel. I can borrow you for a minute?”

He grinned. “For eternity, madame! I may be of service?”

“Yes. You know Hafez?”

He sighed. “
Mon Dieu
, who does not?” He lifted his eyes heavenward.

“He seems very upset, even frightened. I tried to pay a call on his grandmother less than an hour ago, to speak to
her about it.” She shivered. “I was carried bodily out of the room by two men.”

He whistled faintly. “That is surprising and not very hospitable. Let me think. The Zabyan party,” he said thoughtfully. “They occupy rooms 150, 152, 154. Their meals are served to them in their rooms with the exception of the boy and the maid. I have myself delivered some of the meals, but only to room 154, where a man in white jacket accepts the trays.” He closed his eyes. “Their names are—yes, I have it—Madame Parviz and grandson Hafez, Serafina Fahmy, Fouad Murad, and Munir Hassan.” He opened his eyes. “Other than this, I know nothing. They were not investigated further because, you see, they were not guests here when Fraser was killed.”

It was Mrs. Pollifax’s turn to frown. “You’re quite sure of that?”

“Quite, madame. They arrived that same day, shortly after, but they were not here at that time. I will, of course, make inquiries further.”

“Oh please do,” she told him. “And there’s one other thing: When can I get into the kitchen?”

His glance fell to the jewelry case and he smiled. “Ah, yes I see. But tonight no. Saturday—tomorrow—yes, there will be no one here then.” He glanced toward the stairs. “I must go,” he said. “Give me five minutes to get past the night porter. Technically I have been off duty four hours, and should be in my room in the village.”

He moved to the stairs, listened a moment, and then with a wave of his hand to her vanished.

She reflected that she had at least learned the name of Hafez’s grandmother, and that Marcel was vigilantly on guard outside the Clinic. She turned on her scintillator counter and crossed the hall to the door marked L
ABORATORIES
. Inside this door lay a long narrow hall with small rooms opening from it. Of particular interest was the large storage room at the end of the hall. Her flashlight roamed past crates of peaches, spices, chocolate, and coffee. Another
row contained crates of sterile cotton and cardboard cartons from various drug laboratories of Europe, none of them causing any change on her counter. At the far corner she found an aluminum chute standing against the wall, and above it a window of an exact size to fit both the chute and the crates. She realized this was where supplies were unloaded. The window would be opened, the chute locked in place, the crates taken from a truck and sent sliding into the basement. She stood on a box and peered out of the window; her flashlight picked out cement and a latticework trellis. Tomorrow she would look for the window from the outside.

She had given Marcel his allotted five minutes. Denied the kitchen she began to have pleasant thoughts of bed, and returning to the lobby ascended the stairs to the Reception floor. This time, however, she was not so fortunate. The night concierge stood at his post by the switchboard leafing through a magazine. Shocked, he gasped, “Madame!” and rattled off a string of words in French, all of them alarmed.

She said firmly, “I’ve been looking for someone to take care of my emeralds.” She removed the pendant from her pocket and placed it on the counter between them. “I saw a sign while I was brushing my teeth—in the bathroom, you understand—that said all valuables should be placed in your safe. How could I possibly sleep after reading that?”

He understood English; he nodded but he had trouble removing his eyes from the play of light across the emeralds. “But, madame,” he countered, “I have no key. Only the head concierge can open the safe. I am sadly sorry. At seven he is on duty.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh well.” She put away the pendant with regret. “
Bon soir
, then.”

“Yes, madame—and try to sleep a little? At seven he comes.”

She nodded and continued up the stairs to her own
floor. As she opened the door to room 113 she glanced down the hall and saw Hafez standing silently outside his room watching her. He was too far away for her to see his face clearly; he simply stood there, still dressed in white shorts and shirt, and then he turned abruptly and disappeared.

It was 12:05. The Clinic, thought Mrs. Pollifax, seemed to have a hidden but vivid night life of its own.

Locking her door she climbed into bed, reflected that she had at least made a beginning, and on that note fell asleep, entering a dream where she wandered through a labyrinth of dark rooms, each of them colder by degrees until she reached a hall thick with white frost. In her sleep Mrs. Pollifax stirred restlessly, and shivered.

She opened her eyes to find that a cold wind had sprung up and was blowing through the door to the balcony, presenting her with the choice of getting up and closing the door or getting up to look for a blanket. Neither prospect appealed, she wanted only to sleep. As she lay and rebelliously considered these alternatives a curious thought occurred to her: she had not left the balcony door open, she had closed and locked it.

A moment later she realized that not only was the door open but that someone else was in her room with her.

Her awareness was a combination of
sixth sense and of those nearly imperceptible but speaking sounds comprised of motion, faint rustlings, and haste. She remembered the lamp sitting only a few feet away from her on the night table and tried to slowly disengage her right hand from its tangle of sheets. If she could reach the lamp before her unknown guest heard the rustling of the covers—

Over by the desk a thin beam of light appeared down near the floor, a light scarcely broader than a hairline. Caution vanished. Mrs. Pollifax freed her hands, swept back the sheets, switched on the light and stared in astonishment. “You!” she cried.

Robin Burke-Jones slowly rose to his feet from the floor. “Damn it, yes,” he said, looking shaken.

“And through my balcony door—”

“Sorry about that. I suppose you want my hands up and all that?”

“If you’ll feel more comfortable that way,” she told him, groping for her slippers and wondering exactly where and how he fitted into this. Marcel had warned her, of course, but still she admitted a deep sense of disappointment because she had liked this young man. “At the moment I’d prefer to know just what you’re doing in my room at”—she glanced at the clock—“at half-past one in the morning.”

Defiantly he said, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell you.”

“And you’ll be damned if you don’t,” she reminded him.

“A typical double-bind situation, I believe, but you don’t have to rub it in.” His voice was reproachful. “Look here, I don’t suppose if I promised to leave the Clinic first thing in the morning, ever so discreetly—”

She ignored him; she had just seen that her jewelry case stood open on the desk. “Have you a gun?”

He looked actually offended. “Of course not.”

“I think I’d rather see for myself if you’re telling the truth. Do you mind keeping your hands up?”

“Of course I mind,” he said snappishly. “Have I any choice?”