Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (11 page)

“Thank God,” she gasped, suddenly weak.

“I’m Tsanko.”

“Tsanko,” she repeated numbly. “I’d almost forgotten. It wasn’t a wild goose chase after all, then–you really are Tsanko!”

“Da.”
He was kneeling beside the two men, searching them, and as he opened the wallet of Bemish’s companion he whistled. “This one is a member of the secret police.” He looked at Mrs. Pollifax questioningly and then his glance fell on Debby. “Your friend is still with gag,” he said. “You wish this?”

Mutely, Mrs. Pollifax shook her head. She tugged at Debby’s gag and at once the girl burst into tears. “I want to go home,” she cried indignantly. “I don’t like this country.
Burglars, lousy brakes, Phil’s arrest, people rolling me into rugs and dropping me out of windows.” Her voice rose hysterically. “Are those two men
dead?
”

“Yes,” Tsanko said curtly, standing up, “and there is no time to bury them, we will have to use a little dynamite and bury the cellar instead. Kosta …” He turned and spoke to the young man in Bulgarian. Kosta nodded and climbed out of the cellar.

Debby said accusingly, “This man knows your name, I heard him!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax gently, “I came to Bulgaria to meet him. I do hope you’re not going to have hysterics, because we’re still in great danger.”

Debby stared at her and suddenly quieted. “No, I won’t have hysterics.
Why
did you come to Bulgaria to meet him, Mrs. Pollifax?”

“Later,” she told her.

They climbed together out of the crumbling cellar, bushes tearing at their faces, and after several minutes Tsanko followed and gestured them toward a hill some distance away. Here they waited in silence. Presently Kosta joined them, as well as a second young man, and as they walked over and down the hill Mrs. Pollifax heard the sound of a small, muffled explosion behind them, like very faint thunder.

Mr. Carleton Bemish had just been buried.
Requiescat in pace
, thought Mrs. Pollifax sadly.

“We are nearly there,” said Tsanko.

Ahead of them stood a wall silhouetted against the moonlit sky, a solitary, abandoned wall holding back a hill grown over with grass. “We go inside this hill,” he explained. “It hides a secret tunnel that once led to the fortress.”

Kosta leaned over, pulling aside bushes to reveal a gap in the huge stones along the base of the wall. One by one they crawled into a narrow earthen tunnel, made an abrupt turn and emerged into a cave. Mrs. Pollifax heard Tsanko striking matches and suddenly light flared from a lantern. They were in a large room laced with roots, its ceiling braced by ancient timbers.

“You have given us much trouble, Amerikanski,” Tsanko said, blowing out his match and turning up the wick of the lantern. Shaggy white brows completely shadowed his eyes. He looked tough, shrewd and weathered. Studying her face with equal frankness, he said, “Please–sit down, you are exhausted.” From a corner he brought her a three-legged stool. From his pocket he removed a
small vial, uncapped it and, leaning over the lantern, held it under her nose. “Smelling salts,” he explained. “No, please–you look very faint.”

“It’s been a long day,” confessed Mrs. Pollifax.

He carried the vial to Debby, the sharp smell of ammonia lingering behind him. He said dryly, “I believe this. I have observed you once in Sofia from a car. At that time the color of your face was surely five times brighter than at this minute.” He sat across from her and said bluntly, “On that occasion in Sofia I thought you a foolish American lady. Now I am not so sure. Do you know you have been followed by the secret police since the night you arrived in Sofia? We have had severe doubts about you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, nodding. “That’s why you wanted to get me out of Sofia–I understand that now.”

“Not for
your
safety,” he pointed out harshly. “For ours. We began to fear that Shipkov had betrayed us.”

“Oh no, Shipkov reached New York safely, thanks to you,” she said warmly. “Are you the man who warned him on the street?”

Tsanko shook his head. “That was Boris.”

“You have a marked talent for saving lives,” she said gratefully.

He was watching her intently; now he shook his head. “You still have no idea of the danger you have been in, Amerikanski–from us–especially after you came to Tarnovo with two men still following you. I can assure you it was only the utmost good luck–for you!–that I hear you speak with the two men on the road, and hear this young lady scream. Until then I am sure you are friends with these men, and arranging big trap for me.”

“But I thought I was the one walking into a trap,” she told him in surprise.

He lifted his shoulders in a large and eloquent shrug. “Touché. But we begin to see that you are in trouble,
Amerikanski, you have blundered into something we know nothing about. How is this?”

“Philip Trenda,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“It might,” he said evasively and turned to Kosta, who had dropped in a corner with both hands across his eyes. “What is it?” he asked sharply, and then broke into Bulgarian.

“Is he all right?”

“He has never killed a man before,” Tsanko explained. “He will feel better soon.”

“You didn’t answer my question about Philip Trenda, you know.”

He shrugged. “One does not like to confess one listens to Radio Skolje, it is forbidden in my country. Yes, his arrest has caused a great noise in the Western world. But does this explain your being followed in Sofia by”–he removed a piece of paper from his pocket and read from it–“by one Mincho Kolarov, also one Assen Radev–”

“Two?”
said Mrs. Pollifax blankly.

“And now these men.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, puzzled. “I noticed a short gray-haired man in a gray suit–”

“That was Mincho Kolarov of the secret police. The other party, Assen Radev, we know nothing about. Late last night he returned to a collective farm outside of Sofia. He appears to raise geese.”

“Geese!” echoed Mrs. Pollifax in astonishment.

“Yes. And now we have this Bemish, in company with a man never before seen by us.”

“He’s a man I’ve never seen before, either. Back in the cellar you said he was from the secret police. How could you know?”

“You saw me remove the wallet from his body. His papers carry the name of Titko Yugov, and this particular
kind of identity card is carried only by members of our secret police.”

He handed her the narrow card of plastic and she gave a start.
“It looks like a lottery ticket or a swimming pass,”
she heard herself say aloud, and she began to dig into her purse, dumping papers out all around her. “Here it is,” she said in amazement. “I’d completely forgotten. What does this say? You see, it’s exactly the same kind of card except it carries a different name. I’ve had it in my purse since Belgrade.”

Tsanko took it, glanced it over and looked at her questioningly. He said quietly, “This one identifies its bearer as one Nikolai F. Dzhagarov, serial number 3891F in the Secret Security Police of the People’s Republic of Bulgaria.”

Debby, who had been leaning wearily against the wall, suddenly straightened. “That’s
Nikki!
”

“Nikki,” repeated Mrs. Pollifax. “So there it is–the proof. Nikki’s not only Bulgarian, but he’s a member of your police.” The knowledge saddened her because it removed all hope that Philip’s arrest had been an accident. “I think I’d better tell you the whole story,” she said to Tsanko. “If I begin at the beginning, leaving out nothing, perhaps you can tell us what we’ve fallen into.”

“I beg that you explain,” Tsanko said with some relief.

Mrs. Pollifax began to talk, her glance occasionally falling upon Debby, whose face grew more and more incredulous. When she had finished it was Debby who broke the silence. “But you’re one of those nasty CIA spies!” she wailed. “And those brakes were fixed to
kill
us? And our coming to Bulgaria was all part of a
plot?
”

“It is no wonder you needed smelling salts,” Tsanko said, regarding Mrs. Pollifax with curiosity. “It becomes very simple upon hearing this. You know too much. In Bulgaria it is not wise to know too much, especially about something in which the secret police are involved.”

“But what do I know?” protested Mrs. Pollifax.

“Let us consider–perhaps you are too near to see it. Certainly the luxuries in Bemish’s apartment suggest a liberal reward for something, and Bemish himself has spoken of months of planning.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding vigorously.

“This paper the Trenda boy gave to you in the air terminal”–he tapped it with a finger–“it would explain the trouble Nikki had at the border. Without it he could no longer prove he was secret police and his special privileges are denied him at Customs.”

“All right,” agreed Mrs. Pollifax.

“Your visit to Mr. Eastlake would have been observed, too–the walls of an Embassy are all ears. Tell me again what Bemish spoke to you in those last minutes in the cellar. He was about to kill you, and he was opening up. He believed he was explaining everything, even if it made no sense.”

Mrs. Pollifax frowned, remembering. “He was very angry, very bitter,” she said. “It was something about Stella having a brother, Petrov, who emigrated to America and made millions, but if he’d stayed in Bulgaria he would have had to share his money.”

“Presumably with Bemish,” said Tsanko with a quick smile.

“Yes. I asked him who Stella was, and he explained she was his wife. They received only ‘hand-outs,’ as he put it …” She stopped because Tsanko looked so startled.

“But there begins something,” he said in surprise. “Bemish married a Bulgarian, you know. It is the habit here that when a woman marries a foreigner she is still identified–referred to–by her Bulgarian name. In Sofia, Mrs. Bemish is still known as Stella Trendafilov.”

“Trendafilov!” repeated Mrs. Pollifax. “But that name sounds very much like–”

“Exactly,” said Tsanko, nodding. “If a Trendafilov emigrated
to America is it not possible he might shorten the name?”

“Good heavens,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

Debby gasped, “But if you shorten Trendafilov it comes out Trenda! That would make Phil a relative–a nephew!”

“Well, well,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax.

“But why would Mr. Bemish want to see his nephew in jail for espionage? I don’t get it,” Debby said helplessly.

“It is not necessary we ‘get it,’ ” Tsanko told her firmly. “To draw conclusions so quickly would be very foolish. We must collect facts. To put them together must come later.”

Mrs. Pollifax said dryly, “It’s a little difficult not to put them together now. We’ve discovered that Philip is probably the son of a man named Peter Trenda, who’s president of Trenda-Arctic Oil Company. Presumably that makes him a man of some wealth. Bemish, over here, has a rich brother-in-law in America named Petrov Trendafilov, and Bemish appears to have been quite involved in Philip’s arrest. Perhaps it was even his idea.”

“Wow, yes,” said Debby eagerly.

“Do you think Mr. Bemish could have been a member of the secret police, like Nikki?”

Tsanko shook his head. “He would never be trusted. No, he is more likely an informer to the police—that is more his character and it would explain better his relationship with Nikki.” He sighed. “There have always been bad rumors about Bemish, that he picks up money in strange ways, that he is cruel to his wife. She was very beautiful once, I am told. A pity.”

Mrs. Pollifax said slowly, “Then it must begin with Bemish and Nikki–Philip’s arrest, I mean.
That’s
what Debby and I know that we shouldn’t.”

The lantern sputtered and the flame began streaming, its light unbelievably golden. Tsanko leaned over and adjusted the wick, dimming the light, and they became
hollow-eyed ghosts again. “But it has become something much bigger now,” he said with narrowed eyes. “Do not forget, Amerikanski, you have been under surveillance by genuine members of the secret police. How they became involved, and why …” Tsanko was thoughtful. “I smell something very rotten here, I experience deep curiosity. My inquiries must be very discreet, however, because of what happened tonight.”

“But they’re both dead, even buried,” pointed out Debby.

Mrs. Pollifax looked at her. “There’s Nikki still back in Sofia.”

“Oh God, yes,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “You
will
find out something?” she asked Tsanko.

“Yes, we’ll want to know,” Mrs. Pollifax told him soberly.

“I keep trying to remember back in Yugoslavia,” Debby said in an anguished voice. “Before all this happened. Phil never mentioned having relatives in Bulgaria, but he did act uptight about his reasons for not coming here with us. He just kept saying ‘I can’t go’–very firmly–but once he said his father would be furious if he went. Except he didn’t say why.”

Tsanko nodded. “His father was sensible. If he is Bulgarian and once fled the country there is always the fear of something. One never knows of what, but the Intelligence here is very excellent.” He sighed. “However, all of this is conjecture, which I dislike. We must next verify.”

Mrs. Pollifax was removing hatpins from her hat, which she now handed to him. “The passports are in the crown,” she explained. “I’m told there are eight of them for you inside.”

“Inside the
hat?
” he said in astonishment.

“Passports?” echoed Debby, wide-eyed. “So that’s why you’re meeting him!”

Tsanko turned the hat over with amusement. “We will be most interested to examine this construction. Ah,
American technology. We hear of it even here.” He looked up as a second young man entered; his voice warmed as he greeted him. “This is Encho,” he explained. “He has driven the black Renault back into Tarnovo and left it parked on the main street. If the car was seen coming in to Tsaravets then it has now been seen leaving as well. If you go back now”–he pulled out a heavy old-fashioned gold watch and glanced at it–“I think you must. Your absence will be noted.”

“But the inquiries?” insisted Mrs. Pollifax. “You said you’d make inquiries. When will we hear what you learn about Philip?”