Elusive Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  “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?”

  He looked surprised. “But you have given me the hat, which you tell me contains passports. Your job is complete, you can be out of Bulgaria by tomorrow noon.”

  She shook her head. “That’s impossible, absolutely impossible.”

  “Why?”

  She thought what a lived man he looked, square and shaggy, his lined face burned dark by sun and wind. “I don’t like people trying to kill me,” she said quietly. “I liked Philip Trenda and he’s Debby’s friend. He’s very young, and I don’t believe anyone else in Bulgaria–including, perhaps, the American Embassy–really cares.”

  “But you do?”

  “Someone must,” she said fiercely.

  “Then we will meet again,” Tsanko told her, and he picked up the bird’s nest hat and returned it to her. It was a gesture that completely took Mrs. Pollifax aback. He was handing her the passports–the lives of his friends–as a promise. “We will meet in the morning, I hope. If possible, Encho will come to the hotel for you. Encho lives here in Tarnovo, he drives a government taxi for tourists. He also speaks a little English.

  “But now it is past midnight,” he said, rising. “Balkantourist will be upset enough with your being in Tarnovo instead of Borovets, and two men have been killed tonight, wiped off the face of the earth. This is dangerous in any country. It will be a busy night for us.”

  Mrs. Pollifax held out the hat to him. “You’ve just given me back what I was assigned to deliver to you. Surely it’s not professional for me to accept this?”

  He smiled faintly and there was the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. “I am not sure either of us is professional, is this not possible?”

  She looked at him in astonishment, and something like recognition arose between them.

  “It is a long walk back,” he said, escorting her to the cave’s entrance. “When you have seen the Bulgarian mountains in moonlight you see my country at its best. Sleep well, Amerikanski,” he added.

  She nodded, and she and Debby followed Kosta from the cave.

  14

  At CIA headquarters in Langley Field, Virginia, it had been a trying Thursday. An ambassador had been abducted in South America the night before, and this morning an agent was missing in Hong Kong. There was also the continuing puzzle of young Philip Trenda, whose arrest was filling the front pages of the newspapers. Yesterday the State Department had asked Carstairs to see what he could discover about the situation through less conventional channels. It was a nuisance being called in on the job. Carstairs had already been summoned Upstairs twice for conferences and his routine work was piling up on the desk.

  Having been involved in this crisis for only twenty-four hours Carstairs admitted to almost no progress and no new leads at all. He glanced now over a routine report on the affair from a B. Eastlake at the United States Embassy in Sofia. It was an abbreviated memo, a digest of the hour-by-hour reports coming from Sofia. Halfway down the first page Carstairs noticed a reference by Eastlake to two American tourists who had come to the Embassy on Tuesday. They had managed to suggest that Philip had been lured into Bulgaria by a young Yugoslavian traveling under a German passport.

  There were always people to suggest this sort of thing and Carstairs noted that quite rightly Eastlake placed small faith in the story. He had given it only three lines in the report.

  But Eastlake’s job was judicial and diplomatic; Carstairs, on the other hand, lived and worked in a world of improbabilities, fantasies and the completely irrational. He pressed the buzzer for Bishop and handed him the report.

  “Get me detailed information about these two tourists Eastlake talked to in Sofia. Exactly what was said, and why, and what sort of people they are. I want to know today.”

  “Right, sir,” said Bishop, and went out.

  Carstairs sighed. Nothing about Trenda’s arrest made the slightest sense so far. The State Department couldn’t figure out what the Bulgarians were up to, or what they planned to do. The Embassy in Sofia had still not been allowed to contact young Trenda. There were no details at all about the espionage charges, and none of this boded well for Philip. So far as Carstairs had been able to discover, the boy had no connection with political or subversive groups. He’d gone to public schools and then to the University of Illinois. He was the only child of a rich man. He wrote poetry, and the nearest he’d come to revolt against any system at all was a short article in his school paper on the current injustices of the draft. If he’d been engaged in suspicious activities they surely must have begun after he reached Europe in June. At this moment his being accused of espionage seemed utterly far-fetched, but of course it had to be checked out, and thoroughly.

  Carstairs realized he felt desperately sorry for the boy. In only one area of his arrest had he been lucky: someone had caught the story at once, and it had captured the attention of newspapers all over Europe. This was an enormous help to him, although Carstairs knew how fickle such publicity could be, too. If Trenda wasn’t freed soon–by the sheer weight of that publicity–a fresh crisis would move him off the front pages and the story would gradually die. He’d seen it happen. That would leave the State Department in charge, and sometimes the diplomatic exchanges went on ad infinitum. Three or four years from now Trenda might emerge from prison in Bulgaria and rate a small story on page two. Readers would say with a frown, “Familiar name, Trenda … good God, has he been in prison all these years?”

  Bishop knocked and walked in, his usually cheerful face clouded. “Something new from Sofia?” asked Carstairs.

  “From Sofia, yes,” said Bishop stiffly. “Nothing to do with the Trenda affair, however. It’s the weekly pâté de foie gras report from Assen Radev. It’s just been decoded.”

  Carstairs’ glance sharpened. “Is Mrs. Pollifax all right? Did he switch the coats?”

  Bishop only looked disapproving as he handed over the report.

  He read: WHO IS THIS 10573 YOU SENT STOP ANY EXCHANGE OF COATS IMPOSSIBLE STOP REPEAT IMPOSSIBLE STOP EVEN BURGLARY FAILED STOP NEVER STAYS IN ONE PLACE STOP NOW GONE TO BOROVETS BUT ISN’T THERE STOP AM RETURNING TO WORK STOP WHY ARE SECRET POLICE TRAILING 10573 STOP.

  When he had finished reading it Carstairs began to slowly, softly swear. When he ran out of expletives he added in an exhausted voice, “Those damn fools Upstairs. And Radev certainly has a neat way of planting bomb-shells, hasn’t he? Why are the secret police trailing Mrs. Pollifax indeed!”

  Bishop’s face softened. “It could be Tsanko’s men trailing her, couldn’t it? Radev may have misunderstood the situation.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked Carstairs bitterly.

  Bishop shook his head.

  When he’d gone Carstairs lit a cigarette and considered this new complication. It wasn’t only the reference to secret police that troubled him, he didn’t like the sound of Mrs. Pollifax going off to Borovets and not arriving there. Had she been arrested? And why Borovets? She had a car, it was true, but nothing had been said about her leaving Sofia. The tailor shop was in Sofia, and Tsanko was in Sofia. He didn’t like it. Damn it, he thought, he’d told her to make a fast exit if anything looked suspicious. Why the hell hadn’t she bolted?

  He thought furiously, She trusts too many people.

  He’d told Bishop this wasn’t Sears Roebuck and it wasn’t Gimbels they worked for, but he knew that he’d meant it
for himself. He loathed worrying like this about one of his people. He considered putting through a transatlantic call to the Hotel Rila to check on her, and then he discarded the idea as idiotic. His call would be monitored. Even if he reached Mrs. Pollifax he couldn’t possibly say, “Get rid of the coat you’re wearing–burn it, hide it, cut it up, give it to somebody.” She wouldn’t have the slightest idea what he meant–it was the hat she’d been assigned to protect, not her coat–and the people monitoring his call would have only too clear an idea of what he meant.

  Damn, he thought, and as Bishop walked in again he snapped, “Well?”

  There was a twinkle in Bishop’s eye. What was more alarming, he’d brought Carstairs a cup of steaming hot coffee. Bishop never volunteered coffee unless it was for purposes of fortification during a difficult moment.

  Almost cheerfully Bishop said, “The State Department has been in touch with Eastlake at the U. S. Embassy in Sofia, sir. You remember you asked for details on the two tourists who suggested Trenda might have been deliberately brought into Bulgaria?”

  “Of course,” Carstairs said.

  “Here’s the report. You might like to take a look at the names of those tourists first–they’re at the bottom of the page. Names and passport numbers.”

  Carstairs grasped the paper and allowed his glance to drop to the bottom. He read: Mrs. Virgil Pollifax, Apt. 4-B, Hemlock Arms, New Brunswick, N.J., U.S.A.

  He exploded. “What the hell! Bishop,” he demanded furiously, “can you tell me what the devil Mrs. Pollifax is doing mixing into something that’s none of her business? Doesn’t she realize she has eight passports in her hat, not to mention that blasted coat Radev’s been incapable of switching?”

  “She doesn’t know about the coat, sir,” Bishop reminded him silkily.

  “But doesn’t she realize she’s not in New Brunswick, New Jersey? Doesn’t she understand she’s not supposed to meddle? Bishop, what the hell are you grinning about?”