Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (10 page)

This challenge Mrs. Pollifax met by standing in front of the woman at the desk, wrenching open imaginary faucets and lifting her hands in dismay. The woman smiled and went to the telephone. A moment later she
handed the receiver across the counter, gesturing to her to speak. “Hello?” Mrs. Pollifax said doubtfully.

“Yes,” answered a voice at the other end of the wire. “You the English speak?”

“I certainly do,” cried Mrs. Pollifax. “To whom am I speaking?”

“To Herr Vogel at Balkantourist hotel the street down. I visit here, some English I speak. The problem is what,
bitte?
”

“The problem is no water. Can you explain this to them here?”

“Ah …” The sigh was long and heavy. “But water there is nowhere at this hour, Fraulein. Between six and eight at night flows the water, you understand? Six and eight. In the morning flows the water seven to ten.”

“Let me write that down,” said Mrs. Pollifax despairingly. “But why the water flows—I mean, why?”

“A mountain town is Tarnovo, very high. Scarce is the water here. Did you see the jugs in the bathroom?”

“Jugs—yes.”

“You the water fill with them,
bitte?
Six o’clock.”

Mrs. Pollifax profusely thanked him, congratulated the clerk on her resourcefulness and went back to explain the situation to Debby, who was incredulous.

“It’s ten minutes before six now,” Mrs. Pollifax said. “I suggest we wait.”

Precisely at six there issued from the bathroom an assortment of hollow noises, belches, rumbles and at last a trickling of water. Ten minutes later the toilet could be flushed. By that time Debby was at the sink washing a shirt and Mrs. Pollifax filling jugs of water, after which they took turns showering. They dined downstairs, below street level on an open balcony overlooking the gorge, and after this strolled briefly through the streets of the old town.

Shortly after nine o’clock Debby went to bed pleading exhaustion, and after reading a little while in the lobby
Mrs. Pollifax left the hotel to enter Tsaravets Gate.

Debby awoke reluctantly from her sleep and for a moment had no idea where she was. Oh yes, Bulgaria, she remembered, and then, Tarnovo, and then she remembered Mrs. Pollifax. What had awakened her was the sound of men talking under her window, and since the window was wide open, and the entrance to the hotel directly below her, the voices rang out loud and clear. She thought what a queer, primitive place it was: no air conditioning, no screens and water only a few hours a day. It was like entering another world through a time capsule.

She had not been asleep for long because it was still not dark–twilight, actually. Debby crawled out of bed and went to the window and stood there, wishing she dared lean out, perhaps even to ask the men below to tell their local jokes somewhere else. But she didn’t feel particularly venturesome. She was tired and her thumb ached and it was pleasant to stand there looking out and feel a faint breeze enter the stifling room. There was a streetlamp across the cobblestoned pavement and under it a flower stand that was closing for the night. The old woman placed the flowers carefully in baskets–there were not many–and simply walked away. She thought it must be peaceful to live in a place like this and know who you were, know your roots and feel them grow deep. It was almost ten o’clock by Debby’s travel clock and she wondered where Mrs. Pollifax had gone.

About Mrs. Pollifax Debby felt wary and a little threatened; wary because she didn’t understand her and threatened because she was in danger of liking her very much. Such a thought appalled her. Debby had long ago stopped trusting adults and it followed that they had long since given up trusting her. Nor was she trustworthy in the least-Debby was the first to concede this–except with those of her own age, and her trust here was ardent,
inviolate and usually misplaced, as Dr. Kidd made a point of reminding her.

But then Dr. Kidd was adult, too, and just a shade phony, his hair worn too self-consciously long, his clothes carefully mod.

Her problem with Mrs. Pollifax was that she couldn’t find anything phony about her yet. She said exactly what she thought. She didn’t make the slightest pretense at entertaining Debby or deferring to her.
We have to accept the situation and lay down some ground rules
, she’d said, and that was that. There seemed to be something infinitely
reliable
about her; it was incredible in anyone so Establishment. There was also the matter of the motorcycle, ridden without any trauma at all, and after the burglary Mrs. Pollifax had actually broken the mirror in the bathroom, which implied a cooler head than one might expect from a woman who wore a bird’s nest on her head.

Now she was out walking somewhere instead of fussing over Debby and her broken thumb. It upset all of Debby’s conclusions that adults lived dreary lives pleasing everyone except themselves and never having any fun.

The men under her window suddenly broke into loud laughter and departed. Twilight was slipping level by level into darkness and the solitary streetlamp brightened as the natural light retreated. A large open farm truck drove down the street, its brakes squealing. It was filled with women seated motionless all around the open sides, black silhouettes in shawls, patient stoic figures being taken off to work in the fields. There was something sinister about their stillness.

Hearing footsteps outside in the hall, Debby jumped back into bed and closed her eyes, not wanting Mrs. Pollifax to know she’d been missed. Her haste proved unnecessary, however, because Mrs. Pollifax seemed to be having a great deal of trouble with the lock and the key.

The door opened. Debby closed her eyes again and feigned sleep. This was a mistake because just as it dawned upon her that Mrs. Pollifax didn’t wear heavy boots or smell of onions a pair of rough hands had stuffed a gag into her mouth. There wasn’t even time to roll over and kick, or jump up and flail with her fists, because she found herself being rolled into a coarse, smelly rug–over and over–and then she was lifted up and–it was incredible but there was no other explanation–lifted to the open window and dropped into another pair of hands waiting below in the street.

It had grown abruptly dark as Mrs. Pollifax began her walk toward the fortress and she hugged her coat against the dampness and the mountain breeze. Crossing the bridge, she left behind the pleasant, companionable sounds of the town and entered a strange world of country silence. There were no lights along the narrow road. Ahead of her the moon rose over Tsaravets Hill outlining the lonely towers of the old fortress and for just a moment time turned itself upside down so that Mrs. Pollifax could imagine this same scene eight centuries ago: the wind blowing through the river gorge and up across the hills; the night watch on Baldwin Tower ready to challenge her approach; lanterns like fireflies moving through the distant fortress; the sound of horses’ hoofs on cobbles, the sentry singing out the hour in whatever language they spoke in Byzantine days, and over it all the same timeless moon dusting the same dark feudal hills where tsars and patriarchs and boyars sharpened their swords and prayed to their saints for protection.

Ahead an owl hooted, and Mrs. Pollifax jumped. From among the shrubs and bushes on the hill came a girl’s coquettish laugh followed by a small delighted scream. She was not entirely alone, realized Mrs. Pollifax, but still she turned and uneasily looked behind her.

A car was inching its way through Tsaravets Gate. In
the darkness it looked like a dark, moving slug with dim eyes. Its presence surprised her because she’d assumed the ancient gate was closed to traffic, and certainly not many cars existed that were small enough to drive through it. On the other hand she supposed that the officials involved in restoring the fortress had to have some means of entering. She stood back against the retaining wall that hugged the hill, and waited for the car to pass.

The car did not pass. It slowed as it neared her and then stopped. A door was opened, pinning her against the stone wall, and a voice said, “Get in, Mrs. Pollifax.”

The voice astonished Mrs. Pollifax. “Mr.—
Bemish?
” she gasped, peering into the dark car. Surely Mr. Bemish couldn’t be Tsanko! “Is that your voice, Mr. Bemish?” she asked uncertainly.

From the rear seat came sounds of movement, a stifled groan and then a shout: “Mrs. Pollifax! Run!”

“Debby?” gasped Mrs. Pollifax.

Before she could make sense of this–of Debby being in the car when less than an hour ago she had been sound asleep in the hotel, and of Mr. Bemish being here when he ought to be in Sofia–an arm reached out from the back seat and roughly pulled Mrs. Pollifax inside. The motor was gunned and the car jerked forward.

“How dare you!” cried Mrs. Pollifax, pummeling the driver’s shoulders with her fists.

“Get her off me! Gag the girl!” shouted Bemish, and spoke sharply in Bulgarian to his companion, who caught Mrs. Pollifax’s arms and pressed a revolver to the back of her neck. At the same time what had seemed to be a rolled-up rug on the floor of the car began to move, clumsily kicking Mrs. Pollifax. She lifted her feet.

“How did you get Debby?” she demanded of Bemish.

He chuckled. “Very simple, really. Yugov picked the lock of your room, rolled her into a rug and dropped her out of the window into my arms. These things are very casually done in the Balkans.”

“But what on earth do you want of us?”

“You have made so much trouble, the two of you,” he said simply. “It has to stop.”

“What trouble?” she demanded. “You’re kidnaping us and we don’t even know why. I don’t understand.” Apparently no one cared to explain further and when she spoke again it was in a different voice. “May I ask where we’re going?”

“To the fortress,” said Bemish. “There are a number of excavations and pits honey–combing the area.”

Excavations, pits–she did not like the sound of such words; they had a lonely, hollow ring to them. Nor did Debby apparently, either, for she made a renewed effort to roll herself out of the rug. “Does Debby
have
to be tied up like an animal?” she asked quietly.

“Yes–like an animal,” Bemish said. The hatred in his voice was almost a physical assault.

The car’s headlights picked out an end to the retaining wall and a widening of the road into a cleared section. Above them the horizon was occupied by the outline of the fortress’s tower and she realized they were almost under it. The car’s lights were switched off and Mr. Bemish climbed out and turned. He held a gun in his hand; this much the moon illuminated. “Out,” he said, waving the gun.

“I don’t want to get out,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

“Out, or I’ll shoot the girl here and now.”

Mrs. Pollifax climbed out.

“This way,” Bemish said, prodding her. His companion followed, carrying Debby wrapped in the rug over his shoulder. After walking a few paces Bemish drew apart a clump of bushes and descended rock steps into a hole that was half cellar, half excavation. The man behind Mrs. Pollifax trod on her heel and then shoved her down as well. She entered what appeared to be the corner of an ancient, half-buried room.

Bemish was lighting a candle. “Over there,” he said
curtly, his face washed clean of friendliness. He brought a smaller gun from his jacket and began attaching a silencer to it, taking his time.

Mrs. Pollifax thought, There must be something I can do or say. She felt curiously mesmerized, completely unable to come to grips with their seizure. It had all happened so quickly. She had faced death before on her other assignments, but her protestations of innocence had never been so genuine as they were now. The moment seemed totally unreal—insane—because of its senselessness. “Why?” she said aloud to Bemish, and then as his companion unrolled Debby from the rug and propped her up beside Mrs. Pollifax, she said furiously, “You’ve made a terrible mistake! It’s unspeakable, your murdering an innocent girl like this!”

“Orders,” Bemish said, tight-lipped.

“From whom? And why?”

He looked at her closely. “You make nothing but trouble, Mrs. Pollifax, and now you make questions. You think I risk your speaking just once more with Mr. Eastlake?”

“Eastlake!” she gasped. “But that was about Philip!”

His lips trembled; drops of sweat shone on his forehead. “Bulgaria is my home now—my home, do you know what that means?” he shouted at her. “There’s nowhere left for me to go, and you stick your silly American noses into my business. There’s big money at stake, months of arrangements—months, do you hear?—and you come along and blunder into my business.”

“
What
arrangements?” cried Mrs. Pollifax. “
What
money?
What
business?”

“Nikki understood,” he shouted furiously. “Nikki saw right away that it’s not fair. I’ve nothing, and Stella’s brother has everything. If Petrov hadn’t emigrated to America he’d have to share all his money, wouldn’t he? He’d be forced to–this is a socialist country!”

He was plainly on the verge of hysteria. She felt pity for the violence in him that was driving him toward madness.
Very quietly, for she had to understand, Mrs. Pollifax said, “Who is Stella, Mr. Bemish?”

“Stella? My wife, of course. And he sends her only hand-outs–his own sister!–when he has millions. Think of it, millions, and all in American dollars. Nikki understood, he saw immediately how unjust it is.” Desperately he cried, “You think I want to kill you in cold blood like this? Don’t you understand I have to, that it’s orders? I must!”

His eyes widened in sudden astonishment. He said “orders” in a dazed voice, and then “must.” His lips formed a silent O from which a trickle of blood emerged. Slowly, gently, he sank to the earth, his eyes fixed upon Mrs. Pollifax uncomprehendingly. His companion gasped and jumped for Bemish’s fallen gun. As he reached it Mrs. Pollifax heard a soft
plop
and he, too, sank to the earth.

She stared in astonishment. They were both dead. Incredulous, she turned toward the entrance–to the gaping hole in the stone wall–and saw movement. Two men slid feet first into the cellar carrying rifles. One was young, dark and swarthy, wearing heavy corduroys and a gray sweater. The other man was Mrs. Pollifax’s age, broad and bulky-shouldered with curling ironic brows. He said sharply to her, “You are Mrs. Pollifax?”