Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (23 page)

“About Philip’s death, you mean?”

Carstairs brushed this aside impatiently. “Of course about Trenda’s death–we can
all
smell the convenience of it, but I doubt that murder can ever be proven. No, I mean there’s something horribly wrong about
everything
Mrs. Pollifax is hell knows where with the secret police tailing her. Radev’s silent. And Mr. Trenda says ‘no autopsy.’ Why? What does he know that we don’t? What do they know in Bulgaria that we don’t?”

“The telephone, sir.”

Carstairs whirled and glared at him, saw the orange light flashing at his desk and swore. “Damn, I came in early to escape telephone calls. All right, acknowledge the blasted thing. Bishop.”

Bishop leaned over and flicked off the light. “Carstairs’ office, Bishop speaking … “ He was silent and then he shouted,
“What?’
He swiveled in his chair and signaled Carstairs. “Yes, we certainly
will
accept a collect call from Mrs. Emily Pollifax in Zurich, Switzerland.”

Carstairs’ jaw dropped. “She’s safe? She’s calling?” He crossed the room in two strides. “Hello?” he barked into the telephone. “Hello? Connection’s not through yet,” he growled to Bishop. “Get this on tape, will you? And what the hell’s she doing in Switzerland?”

Bishop switched on the tape recorder and took the liberty of plugging in the headset jack and adjusting the headset to his ears. At the other end of the line he heard a familiar voice say, “Mr. Carstairs? Is that you, Mr. Carstairs?”

Bishop grinned. It was extraordinary how lighthearted he suddenly felt.

“Go ahead, please,” the overseas operator said.

“Thank God!” cried Carstairs. “You’re all right, Mrs. Pollifax?”

“I’m just fine,” said Mrs. Pollifax happily. “I hope you are, too? Mr. Carstairs, I realize this is ruinously expensive for the taxpayers, my calling you from Europe–”

“They’ve borne worse,” said Carstairs savagely. “Mrs. Pollifax, we heard the secret police were trailing you. Were you able to meet Tsanko?”

“Oh yes–a marvelous man,” she told him warmly. “But I’m not calling about that, I’m calling about a passport. There’s a young American student with me who’s had his passport confiscated–”

“You say you
did
meet Tsanko,” said Carstairs with relief.

“Yes, he has the hat and its contents, Mrs. Carstairs. But you didn’t tell me about the coat. Or Assen Radev.” Her voice was mildly reproachful.

“Radev?” echoed Carstairs. “You know his name? You met him? That was expressly forbidden, Mrs. Pollifax, I’ll have his head for that.”

“If you can find him,” replied Mrs. Pollifax pleasantly. “He flew out with us yesterday and I hope you’ll be kind to him, he was so
very
helpful.”

“What do you mean, ‘flew out’?” Carstairs said ominously. “He belongs in Bulgaria. He’s paid to
stay
in Bulgaria.”

“Oh well, he couldn’t possibly stay after the trouble began, you know. I think you’ll find them on the French Riviera, he said something about a vacation. But Mr. Carstairs, I’m calling about this young American–”

“What trouble?” he demanded. “Mrs. Pollifax, did Radev catch up with your coat and exchange it or didn’t he?”

“You mean the counterfeit rubles,” said Mrs. Pollifax pleasantly. “No, I don’t believe he ever saw them, but in any case it scarcely matters because General Ignatov has them now, and he–”

Carstairs said slowly, “Mrs. Pollifax, I thought I heard you say General Ignatov, but the connection’s poor.
Who
has the rubles?”

Mrs. Pollifax sighed. “General Ignatov, but he’s gone to prison so that scarcely matters either. Mr. Carstairs
I’m
not
telephoning about Assen Radev or General Ignatov, I’m calling about this young American whose passport was confiscated. It’s very important, he wants to return tomorrow and I know that a word from you will restore his passport.”

“My dear Mrs. Pollifax,” he said irritably, “I can’t possibly interfere in such matters, that’s strictly State Department business. It’s naïve of you even to ask, because you can’t be certain at all that he’s American.”

“But of course he is,” said Mrs. Pollifax indignantly. “I entered Bulgaria with him and he was American when he was arrested. Perhaps you’ve read about him in the newspapers, his name is Philip Trenda.”

There was a baffled silence. “Philip Trenda?” repeated Carstairs.

“Yes, you’ve read about him?”

“Read about him! He’s been the major headline for a week. But he’s dead, Mrs. Pollifax. He died in Belgrade on Friday.”

Mrs. Pollifax sighed. “No, he didn’t die, Mrs. Carstairs, that’s what I’m trying to explain. He’s here in Zurich with me, in fact we’re all here at the Grand Hotel, his father too. It was someone else they sent to Belgrade, and that’s why his passport is gone, you see, but we were able to get him out.”

“Out?”

“Yes, out of Panchevsky Institute.”

“Nonsense,” Carstairs said flatly. “Nobody gets out of Panchevsky Institute.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disillusion you. We got him out of Panchevsky Institute and then out of Bulgaria.”

“And who the hell’s we?” demanded Carstairs.

“The Underground. But Philip’s traveling under the name of Anton Schoenstein, you see, and since it’s one of your forged passports I’m not at all sure that he’ll be allowed into the United States, and–”

Carstairs interrupted in a dazed voice. “Miss Pollifax, are you trying to tell me that Philip Trenda’s
alive?
”

“Of course,” she said cheerfully. “It’s why I called, but I do think I must hang up now because they’re waiting for me on the balcony. We’re having a champagne breakfast, you see, because we’re all safe and because the ransom wasn’t paid, so if you’ll excuse me–”

“Ransom!”
shouted Carstairs. “What ransom? Mrs. Pollifax!”

“Yes?”

“I’m taking the next plane over! Don’t move from that hotel and don’t let Philip Trenda or his father speak to a soul, do you hear? Good God, this sounds like State Department business at the highest level.”

He hung up. In a hollow voice he said, “Did you get that on tape, Bishop? Every word?”

“I certainly did, sir. And eavesdropped as well.”

“I sent her to Bulgaria to deliver eight passports,” Carstairs said, looking stunned. “How in the hell did she end up putting General Ignatov in prison, corrupting our last agent in Sofia and resurrecting a dead American?”

“Definitely a meddler,” Bishop said, grinning. “Now shall I call the State Department first or the air lines, sir?”

At the other end of the line, in Zurich, Mrs. Pollifax hung up the telephone, crossed the room and opened the glass doors to the balcony. On the threshold she paused a minute to admire the scene in front of her, the long table heaped with flowers, waiters hovering, the Trendas and Debby seated and waiting for her. A motley group, she thought with a smile. There was Peter Trenda, nee Petrov Trendafilov, a delightful little man with a shock of hair as white as his linen suit. To his right sat Philip, his eyes a shade less haunted today, although his face was still pale and tired. Mrs. Bemish sat on his left, looking already younger and straighter as she beamed at her
brother. And there was Debby, her hair swept high on her head today and her eyes like stars.

Survivors of a strange week, thought Mrs. Pollifax.

“Champagne for breakfast!” Debby was saying in an awed voice as the waiter leaned over and filled her glass. “Not to mention breakfast at noon. It’s so rococo, like one of those late late movies starring Carole Lombard.”

“Well, after all, Dad’s sitting here with a million bucks in that attaché case. Hey,” Phil said, looking up and seeing Mrs. Pollifax, “come and join us, the party’s ready to begin and there’s so much to tell Dad. Did your phone call go through?”

Nodding, she crossed the balcony to the table. “Yes, but it was
such
a difficult conversation–Mr. Carstairs didn’t seem to have the slightest idea what I was talking about.”

Debby laughed. “That’s because he hasn’t been with you for the past week!”

“He’s taking the next plane over,” Mrs. Pollifax told Mr. Trenda. “You and Philip aren’t to speak to anyone until he arrives. Something about the State Department.”

Peter Trenda nodded. “I quite approve. They will not want to embarrass Bulgaria about this. We are both incognito anyway,” he added with a smile, “since I am registered here as Petrov Trendafilov, and my son is still Anton Schoenstein. My son,” he repeated, smiling at Philip. “My son who is risen from the dead. Mrs. Pollifax … Debby …” His voice broke. “How can I ever express what I feel this morning when I approach the bank and find you all waiting for me? You have returned to me my son and my sister.”

Mrs. Pollifax smiled. Lightly, to cover the emotion of the moment, she said, “I think some toasts are in order, don’t you? So much champagne!”

Trenda nodded. “You are very wise-the joy and the tears are very near to us just now. Well, Philip? To you I give the first toast because you are truly the host today.”

Philip looked about him at their faces. He said soberly, “All right. I think I’ll go back to the beginning of all this and propose a toast to a chance meeting in the Belgrade air terminal. That’s where it all began isn’t it?”

“But is anything chance, I wonder?” mused Mrs. Pollifax.

Peter Trenda smiled. “You feel that, too?” he asked. Lifting his glass, he said, “Then let us drink next-very seriously–to the arrivals and departures of life, that they may never be careless.”

Debby suddenly shivered.

“What is it, Deb?” asked Phil. “Cold?”

“No.” There were tears in her eyes. “I don’t know, I really don’t. Except–for a whole week I’ve been tired and frightened, I nearly got murdered three times and my thumb was broken and–I’ve never felt so good. Will you let me make the next toast? If anyone will lend me a handkerchief, that is.”

“Handkerchief!” exclaimed Mr. Trenda, laughing. “Please–I would give you my life, young lady, a handkerchief is nothing.”

“Thanks,” Debby said, and wiped her eyes. Lifting her glass, she stared at it for so long and so thoughtfully that Mrs. Pollifax wondered what she was seeing in its golden contents.

We have each returned a little bemused and enchanted
, she thought.

Debby said soberly, “This toast can only be to one person, a very brave man named Tsanko.”

Mrs. Pollifax became suddenly still and alert.

“We don’t know who he was,” she went on with a scowl. “I don’t suppose anyone will ever know. But he saved our lives in Tarnovo and we wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for him. But also this toast is to him because …” She blushed and darted a quick, apologetic glance at Mrs. Pollifax. “Because someday I hope a man will look at me the way he looked at Mrs. Pollifax.”

“Hear, hear,” said Phil softly.

“I like this girl,” Mr. Trenda said, smiling at Mrs. Pollifax. “Shall we drink our next toast to this man, then?”

“To Tsanko,” Debby said, nodding. “Whoever he is.”

“To Tsanko,” echoed Mrs. Pollifax, smiling, and for just a moment–but there would be many such moments–her thoughts traveled back to a moonlit fortress in Tarnovo, to a bench outside a country hut, and from there at last to a procession of passing limousines.
And may no one ever learn who he is
, she added silently, like a prayer.