Amazing Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  “Istanbul!” exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax, and in an astonished voice added, “Do you know, I was reading a news story from Istanbul only a few minutes before you telephoned!” She looked at him doubtfully. “Are you—that is, does this have anything to do with the Ferenci-Sabo woman, the Communist spy who tried to defect?”

  “A great deal to do with it,” Carstairs said. He unzipped the attaché case to expose an interior bulging with papers. Glancing up at her he said, “Except that rather a lot has happened since that news story you read.”

  “She’s been found?” said Mrs. Pollifax eagerly.

  “No.” He shook his head. “If you take a second look at the dateline on your news story you’ll discover the story was held up for twenty-four hours—Ferenci-Sabo reached the consulate Friday night, God knows how, and was taken in. No, she’s not been found. This is Sunday afternoon—already late evening in Istanbul because of the time difference—and during these hours Istanbul has turned into a hotbed of intrigue, with agents pouring into the city from every point of the globe, all with one hope: either to find Ferenci-Sabo and offer her sanctuary in their country, or find Ferenci-Sabo and silence her, depending upon their political stance.”

  “She really was abducted then,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “I thought—because of her importance—she might have been hidden away somewhere by the British.”

  “She was abducted all right,” Carstairs said grimly. “Very cleverly, too, and it’s believed she was abducted by Communists. The curious point is that she was abducted and not murdered. If it was silence her captors wanted, they need only have killed her in her bed at the consulate—the devils seemed to have had no problem entering the building! It leaves the implication that Ferenci-Sabo still has more value alive than dead—a conclusion,” he added dryly, “that many other intelligence agencies have also reached. Ferenci-Sabo has now become fair game for everybody—and a great number of ruthless people have entered the game. A woman of Ferenci-Sabo’s background was bound to be coveted but since she’s been abducted, and is presumably still in Istanbul, there are high hopes that what one country has accomplished can be neatly done by another.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Pollifax, and waited patiently for the explanation that might make some sense of her being here. At the moment she could see no light at all.

  As if reading her thoughts he said gravely, “I’ve called upon you, Mrs. Pollifax—with Miles to keep an eye on you—because in a city teeming with professionals you lack the slightest aura of corruption or professionalism yet at the same time”—his mouth curved wryly—“at the same time you give every evidence of being a resourceful courier.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Pollifax, “but a courier for what? I don’t understand.”

  He said quietly. “We have heard from Ferenci-Sabo.”

  “You?” she said in astonishment. “The CIA? But how? When? Why?”

  He held up his hand. “Please, we know almost nothing except that in a situation where we’re technically only innocent bystanders we suddenly find ourselves in the position of being like the recipient of a ransom note in a kidnap case. No, that’s misleading: she’s apparently eluded her kidnappers and is alive and in hiding in Istanbul.”

  “How incredible,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

  He nodded. “The message, received late this morning, said only that Ferenci-Sabo would go each evening at eight o’clock to the lobby of the Hotel Itep—a small Turkish hotel in the old section—and look for someone carrying a copy of Gone with the Wind.”

  “Gone with the Wind!” echoed Mrs. Pollifax, suppressing a laugh.

  “In Istanbul it’s now almost Sunday midnight,” went on Carstairs. “We had time to immediately notify our agent in Istanbul, who presented himself at eight o’clock at the Hotel Itep.” Carstairs’ mouth tightened. “Word of his death reached us thirty minutes before I telephoned you, Mrs. Pollifax. I cannot regard it as an accident.”

  Mrs. Pollifax expelled her breath slowly. “Oh,” she said soberly. “Oh dear!”

  “Yes. At eight-fifteen he walked out of the hotel with a woman companion—and a car suddenly went berserk in the street, pinning him to the wall and killing him instantly. The woman seen with him vanished into the crowd.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Mrs. Pollifax said. “You think he met Ferenci-Sabo there?”

  Carstairs shrugged. “It’s quite possible, in which case she must be even more desperate after seeing her contact killed before her very eyes. You are in effect replacing a dead man, Mrs. Pollifax—but with one difference.”

  “Yes?”

  “There may be a leak somewhere—or with so damn many agents in Istanbul they may be keeping one another under surveillance—but no one could possibly recognize you, or suspect you of being an agent. I intend that no one outside of this building know of your departure. In the world of espionage there are only two living people who have ever met you—John Sebastian Farrell, currently in South America, and General Perdido, now recovering from a heart attack in Peking. And this is the way I plan to keep it. Henry Miles knows nothing except that you are to be kept under surveillance—I’m sure that not even in his wildest dreams would he guess that a novice is being sent into such a maelstrom, even if he should know the situation—which he doesn’t. In turn you are to send no cables nor contact me at all. You are to trust no one and above all,” he concluded grimly, “you’re to watch for reckless drivers when crossing streets in Istanbul. Now I think you will be happy to learn that this time you travel with a passport—a bona fide one accomplished for you in an hour’s time.”

  “How nice,” said Mrs. Pollifax, as he handed it to her. “Even my photograph!”

  “Yes, we took one for our files, you may remember.”

  “Very efficient.”

  “Also money,” he said, drawing a manila envelope from the attaché case and handing it to her. “Rather a lot of money because of the unpredictability of the—er—situation. And in this second envelope is money for Ferenci-Sabo, as well as a passport for her in another name. It lacks a photograph, of course, and this she will have to supply but it has all the necessary stampings proving that she entered Turkey legally a week ago, and as an American citizen. Here are your plane tickets,” he added, “as well as an especially gaudy edition of Gone with the Wind. A reservation has been made for you at the Hotel Itep—there wasn’t time to be devious—and Henry Miles will have a room there too, but you are to avoid Henry, you understand? I don’t want you linked with a professional under any circumstances—we’ve already lost one. And on Saturday morning you are to fly back whether you have made contact or not.”

  “All the way to Asia and back in six days?” said Mrs. Pollifax. “My dear Mr. Carstairs I shall almost be back in time for the Art Association tea on Sunday.”

  “As a matter of fact by American time you will be,” he said. “You will experience the uncanny sensation of arriving here long after the tea should have ended, only to discover that they’re putting up the folding tables in New Brunswick. Ah here it is!” he exclaimed, and drew out another slip of paper. “I can’t foresee what will be needed, Mrs. Pollifax. All this has happened too quickly to consider possibilities, but I’m giving you the name of a man in Istanbul who can be trusted in case of emergency. He’s lived in Istanbul for a number of years, and you can rely on him to advise and help—but only if you have absolutely no other recourse. He’s very highly placed so for God’s sake be discreet if you go to him.”

  “An agent?” inquired Mrs. Pollifax cheerfully.

  Carstairs looked pained. “My dear Mrs. Pollifax, I do wish you’d not leap to such dramatic conclusions. He’s a noted criminologist, retired now, who writes and teaches. His name is Dr. Guillaume Belleaux. You will find the name of the university with which he is connected on this slip of paper, as well as his home address. There’s no need to destroy or hide this address, Dr. Belleaux is highly respected by the Turkish government as well as ours, and any tourist might legitimately
carry his name. Now.” He smiled. “Got it all?”

  Mrs. Pollifax was stuffing the envelopes into her fat purse. The book she placed under her arm. “I’m to register at the Hotel Itep,” she said, “and to present myself in the lobby at eight each evening until—hopefully—Ferenci-Sabo appears; I’m to give her passport and money, remember the name of Dr. Belleaux, and help Ferenci-Sabo in whatever way is needed.”

  “Right—and then vanish.” Carstairs glanced quickly at his watch. “Now before we wrap this up are there questions?”

  “Yes.” She said slowly, “You say there may be a leak somewhere, Mr. Carstairs. You’ve also—somehow and very mysteriously—set up a meeting with a woman who is a notorious Communist agent.” She hesitated. “Yet nobody has seen her, and your Istanbul agent was killed trying to meet her.” She looked at him. “Don’t you suspect a trap? Do you really trust this woman?”

  Carstairs smiled faintly. “Quite true, Mrs. Pollifax, and this is why I insisted on briefing you personally.” He removed a slip of yellow paper from the attaché case and handed it to her. “This is how we were advised about the rendezvous at the Hotel Itep.”

  Mrs. Pollifax took the proffered paper and read:

  ISTANBUL: ARRIVED AT SIX STOP HAVE ENJOYED EIGHT HOURS ITEP OTELI STOP WISH YOU COULD JOIN ME STOP WHY NOT SEND RED QUEEN OR BLACK JACK BEFORE FRIDAY STOP LOVE ALICE DEXTER WHITE.

  Mrs. Pollifax frowned. “Should I know what this means?”

  Carstairs laughed. “On the contrary it took the coding department a number of trips to the archives to identify it and I don’t believe they would have decoded it yet if the names of Red Queen and Black Jack hadn’t been included. This was a code—a very simple one invented for rendezvous purposes—used by a small group of agents working in Occupied Paris during World War Two.”

  “World War Two,” echoed Mrs. Pollifax, utterly lost. “But this has the flavor of a period piece!”

  “Exactly. Code 6—this one, if you note the time of arrival—automatically stood for rendezvousing in a hotel lobby, with a copy of Gone with the Wind if identification was necessary. Code 5 stood for a metro station—I believe a Bible was used there—and seven, if I remember correctly, meant a church, and always the seventh pew on the left. And so on—there were eight in all. Red Queen was an agent named Agatha Simms, unfortunately killed several years ago in Hong Kong, and Black Jack was the code name of another agent in that group.”

  “And Alice Dexter White?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  Carstairs looked at her and then he looked down at the unlighted cigarette he held. “A very dear friend of mine which is how I come into this,” he said quietly. “A very remarkable woman to whom I twice owe my life, and with whom I worked during those war years.” He lifted his glance and regarded her with level eyes. “You are now about to join a very small and exclusive club, Mrs. Pollifax—only four living people know what I am about to tell you.” He tapped the yellow cable with a finger. “This woman is one of our most valued agents but Alice Dexter White is only her code name. Her real name is Magda Ferenci-Sabo.”

  Mrs. Pollifax caught her breath sharply. “Good heavens,” she gasped, “but this turns everything upside down!”

  CHAPTER 3

  During the first hour of her transatlantic flight Mrs. Pollifax had time to consider the events of the afternoon, but she was not at all certain that this was to her advantage. Her head still spun from her briefing with Carstairs, and it was difficult to find some graspable point of view with which to organize all that he had told her. “You remain, principally, a courier,” he had said, “because I’m working on the assumption that once she has passport and money Ferenci-Sabo will know what to do. You may be called upon to help with a disguise, but she should be able to manage the rest herself. If by any chance it proves too hot for her to leave the country legally, this is when I recommend your approaching Dr. Belleaux.”

  “Why did she use such an ancient code?” Mrs. Pollifax had asked, understanding better now the choice of Gone with the Wind.

  “Probably it’s the only one she could recall from memory,” he’d said. “Codes were simpler, more primitive, then. In those days she was Frau Wetzelmann,” he added reminiscently.

  “And you were Black Jack,” guessed Mrs. Pollifax.

  “Yes,” he said quietly, and then, “Mrs. Pollifax, we don’t know why Ferenci-Sabo came to Istanbul, or how, but this is one ‘notorious Communist agent,’ who must be allowed to defect. Must,” he emphasized fiercely. “Not only for her sake—and what we owe her—but for ours as well, because if ever she were forced to talk—” He shuddered.

  Mrs. Pollifax shivered a little too now, and opened up the copy of House Beautiful on her lap. Up and down the aisle passengers were studiously reading about the woman that Mrs. Pollifax was en route to meet. What was even more unnerving she now knew a great deal more about Ferenci-Sabo than the New York Times, and this in itself awed Mrs. Pollifax. But on the whole, as material for reflection, it was all too overwhelming and after a while Mrs. Pollifax sensibly decided to stop thinking about it. Since by European time she would not arrive in Istanbul until late tomorrow afternoon she closed her eyes and presently slept.

  Monday’s dawn had arrived when they reached London, and as Mrs. Pollifax disembarked from the plane she set her watch ahead, noting that at home she would be listening to the eleven o’clock news before retiring for the night—how very odd traveling was! After purchasing a small travel guide to Turkey she made her way into the waiting room to await the departure of her plane to Istanbul. She noticed that Henry Miles wandered about for a little while and then found a seat nearby, sat down and lighted a cigarette. They exchanged impersonal glances and then Miles endeared himself to Mrs. Pollifax by slowly, wickedly closing one eyelid and winking at her. Until that wink he had appeared curiously invisible, totally lacking in personality and content, as if he drew himself in flat chalk and then erased all but the outline. Now Mrs. Pollifax realized that a second Henry Miles walked, sat, stood and breathed inside that first Henry Miles, although a few seconds later, her glance returning, it was impossible to believe in that other personage, he looked so buttoned-up again.

  The flight to Istanbul was announced, and Mrs. Pollifax boarded the plane and took her seat near the wing, with Miles several rows in front of her. This time she acquired a seat companion, and one who arrived breathlessly, with every male including Henry turning his head to stare at her. Mrs. Pollifax stared, too—she had never seen anyone quite like her before, which made the encounter educational as well. The girl was very young; she was dressed in an incredible outfit of dramatic greens and purples crowned with a brilliant green stovepipe hat which she removed almost at once, displaying a flawless profile. Her eyelids and her lips had been painted white, her long eyelashes were ink black, and she wore her straight red-gold hair to the waist. Once she had settled her bag and her magazines she turned to look at Mrs. Pollifax with equal interest, gazed frankly at the wisps of hair escaping Mrs. Pollifax’s flowered hat, met her admiring and startled glance and smiled.

  “Hello,” she said, adding with a burst of candor. “Do I frighten you? I do some of my mother’s friends—not that Mother has many pious friends but she does have tons of pious acquaintances, Daddy being an M.P.”

  “Parliament!” said Mrs. Pollifax rapturously.

  “You’re American!” exclaimed the girl. “What fun! Yes, Daddy’s in Parliament, and I’ve just become a model, isn’t it wonderful? It’s terribly exciting. I hope to be an actress, but I think modeling’s a marv way to begin. I’m on my way to Athens for a job. Tony and the cameras are already there—they’re doing me in autumn clothes against the Acropolis and all that.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, beaming, and then, “I’d forgotten we stop at Athens. I’m going all the way through to Istanbul.”

  The girl’s face lit up. “I say, that’s wonderful! My brother’s there. If I’ve time after the assignment I’m hoping to fly over and see hi
m.” A faint shadow dimmed her preposterously radiant face. “At least I hope he’s still there,” she added darkly. “He has such an awful time with just—well, just the mechanics of living. It’s unbelievable.” She sighed and tucked her young chin in the palm of her hand.

  “What does he do in Istanbul?” asked Mrs. Pollifax, intrigued by her concern.

  “Well, he’s been given a job with Uncle Hubert,” she explained. “But of course you wouldn’t know what that means unless you knew my family. It means, translated, that everybody’s simply given up on Colin—my brother—and nobody knows what else to do with him.” She frowned. “I suppose every large family has one.”

  “One what?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  The girl hesitated, and then said angrily, “Somebody who just doesn’t fit, you know? And that person knows it and grows up—well, grows up feeling invisible. And it turns into a vicious circle because it’s so desperately easy not to notice someone invisible, but nobody understands this.”

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled faintly. She decided she liked this girl. “You’re fond of him then. But being fond is a form of understanding.”

  “Oh I understand what’s wrong,” the girl said earnestly. “But not how to help. Colin has no confidence, just no confidence at all, and because of this he absolutely bristles with hostility. He’s gotten battered, you know? He’s very precise by nature but he can’t find anything to be precise about, if you know what I mean, and this is infuriating for him and he loathes himself. But although I understand all this I’m very bad for him because he brings out the maternal in me. I’m a Moon Child, you see—born under the sign of Cancer, and simply seething with motherly instincts. He hates that. Quite rightly, too—he’s terribly intelligent, of course. Oh I do hope I’ll have time to stop and see him, but I despair,” she explained dramatically. “There’s never enough time. It’ll rain, and the filming get held up for days—things always happen like that in this business.”