“The group is in the library,” said the clerk stiffly.
“Group?”
“Mr. Trenda is meeting with foreign reporters.”
“Then he’s really here?” cried Debby excitedly.
“But of course,” said the clerk, looking at them in surprise.
A feeling of deep relief filled Mrs. Pollifax: miracles did happen, and Tsanko had been wrong.
“Wonderful,” Debby cried. “Oh, Mrs. Pollifax, isn’t this a beautiful, beautiful day? He’s here, he’s free, he’s out. Where’s the library?”
The clerk patiently ushered them down the hall and into the library. It was a large sunny room, half filled with people and cameras. Unfortunately the twenty or thirty men present–as well as cameras–were all in one corner of the room, forming a tight, almost inviolate circle around two people who stood against the wall.
“We really are late,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax, standing on tiptoe.
“Oh blast, I can’t see him,” Debby said, jumping up and down.
Mrs. Pollifax looked about for a chair, found one and stood on it. “I can see his head,” she told Debby, peering between and over the newsmen. “He’s grown a small beard. Try a chair, Debby. There, do you see him?”
“I can’t–yes! There he is.”
Phil stood next to Eastlake, his shoulders slouched; he was wearing dark glasses against the popping of the flashbulbs. He looked thinner, weary, lacking in animation. I wonder if he was drugged while in prison, thought Mrs. Pollifax.
“Please, gentlemen,” Eastlake was saying, “he has a plane to catch, and we’ve very little time. But as you can see, he’s been released and that’s the important thing. Keep your questions very brief, please.”
“Were you treated well?” called someone from the rear row.
Philip replied in a low husky voice.
“We can’t hear him back here,” called out a man with a British accent.
“He said he was treated well and is looking forward to getting home now,” Eastlake said. “He has a slight cold, touch of laryngitis.”
“Is he aware that his arrest made sensational headlines all over the world?”
Eastlake answered for him, smiling. “I don’t think he realizes anything, he’s been completely out of touch and we’ve had little time to talk.”
“Does he hold it against the Bulgarian government that he was arrested like this?”
Eastlake looked pained. “Gentlemen, please, I refer you to the written statement which has been distributed among you all. He says he holds no personal animosity toward the Bulgarian government, he’s only glad to be free and going home. And now I think we really must leave for the airport. If you will excuse us, gentlemen …”
There was a fresh storm of flashbulbs and then a path was made for Eastlake and Philip. They passed very near to Mrs. Pollifax, who stood back. Debby, on the other hand, moved forward. “Phil?” she said as he passed by.
His head turned slightly–Mrs. Pollifax could no longer see his face–and then he followed Eastlake out of the room and down the hall. The newsmen pressed forward, separating Mrs. Pollifax from Debby.
In a matter of seconds the room had emptied and Mrs. Pollifax turned to see Debby leaning against the nearest wall, her eyes closed and both of her hands pressed to her stomach. She looked as if she were about to be very ill.
“Debby?” faltered Mrs. Pollifax.
Through clenched teeth Debby said, “It wasn’t Phil. Do you understand–that wasn’t Phil.”
Mrs. Pollifax stared at her. “Wasn’t Phil,” she echoed, and suddenly sat down because she realized at once that Debby was right: there had been no sense of recognition, of familiarity when she’d glimpsed him. The height and build and general characteristics were the same, but it was someone else–an imposter–with laryngitis to disguise the voice, a stubble of beard to confuse the jawline and dark glasses to conceal the eyes.
Tsanko had said that there would be a last-minute cancellation, some kind of delay–but this was worse, this was far more ominous because in the eyes of the world it had been Philip Trenda who had just walked out with Eastlake, and that meant …
“Oh God,” Debby said, covering her face with her hands. “Phil’s still in prison–and nobody knows?”
Mrs. Pollifax nodded.
Debby uncovered her face and looked at Mrs. Pollifax. “I’m scared,” she said. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“It’s better to be angry,” said Mrs. Pollifax thoughtfully. “This is why they tried to kill us last night–they knew.”
“But how can they get away with it? There’ll be Phil’s parents …”
Mrs. Pollifax said sadly, “I don’t think we have to speculate–I’m sure they’ll have thought of everything.” But what that everything might be was too chilling for her to name yet. “I wish you’d screamed in front of everyone as soon as you saw it wasn’t Philip,” she added forlornly.
“I couldn’t,” Debby said. “I’m inhibited. I am. I really am. All those people, and then I wasn’t absolutely sure until they were walking out.” She shivered.
“Well, we’ve certainly got to tell Mr. Eastlake as soon as he returns from the airport.”
Debby shook her head. “You can, but not me. He’d only insist that I leave the country again.”
“But you just said you were frightened.”
“For Phil, not for myself. Actually I’m terrified for him if you want the truth.”
Mrs. Pollifax believed her. How oddly quixotic the child was! Filled with prickly hostilities and impulsive bursts of warmth, deeply troubled and only half formed but unquestioningly generous. “I’ll see Mr. Eastlake alone,” she said, and then reconsidered. She could hear herself explaining all that she knew to Eastlake and she could hear his protestations. “My dear Mrs. Pollifax, what an outrageous story you tell! Can you substantiate just one of these wild accusations?”
And she couldn’t. She couldn’t produce Tsanko, and she couldn’t reveal her own role in this or even prove what lay behind the series of accidents. Was there anything she could prove? Yes, there was.
“Dry your eyes, Debby,” she said, and stood up. “I’ve an idea–let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“To see Mrs. Bemish before she learns she’s a widow.”
Debby’s reaction was forthright: “Ech,” she said distastefully.
The smell of cooked cabbage competed today with the odor of a very strong antiseptic. Mrs. Pollifax reached the third landing of the apartment house with Debby close behind her, and knocked on the door of 301. She wondered if she was drawn here by guilt, because if she had not interfered with Bemish’s greedy plans he would still be alive. Even more pertinent, however, she felt a need to share this crisis with someone who might care about Philip. Carstairs would be appalled at her coming here, and Tsanko might be shocked, but it was time to prove beyond doubt that a relationship existed between the Bemishes in Sofia and the Trendas in America.
The door opened a few inches to frame a stoic, browned face. “Mrs. Bemish?”
“Da.” The door opened wider and Mrs. Pollifax recognized the drab little woman she had glimpsed on her earlier visit. This was a peasant’s face, shuttered, proud, seamed and crisscrossed with lines. On the left cheekbone a bruise was turning purple; Bemish’s legacy, no doubt. What an odious man!
She said, “Do you speak English? May we come in and talk to you?”
The door opened wider and Mrs. Pollifax and Debby entered the dreary, cluttered apartment. “I speak small English,” the woman admitted. “But–my husband not here. He left with business and is not back yet.”
“I know he’s not here,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “We came to see you.”
“Yes?” The woman had sat down opposite them in a chair, her hands slack in her lap. Now she looked startled and uneasy.
“We came to ask about your brother in America.”
“Petrov! Oh yes, yes,” she said eagerly, nodding he
r head.
“You do have a brother in America, then,” said Mrs. Pollifax, exchanging a quick glance with Debby.
“Da,” the woman cried excitedly, and jumped to her feet and hurried into the next room. When she returned she carried pictures with her. “Petrov,” she said proudly. “Very good man. He is called Peter now.”
“Peter Trenda?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.
“Here’s Phil!” cried Debby, leaning over the pictures. “See?”
“You know Philip?” said Mrs. Bemish in an astonished voice. “You know Petrov’s son?”
“We’re friends,” Debby told her, nodding.
“You and Philip!” The woman’s eyes fed hungrily on Debby’s face. “This is much honor,” she whispered.
Leaning forward, Mrs. Pollifax said, “And do you know that Petrov’s son–your nephew–is here in Sofia?”
The woman drew in her breath harshly. “Here? Bora, how is this?”
“He’s in Sofia in jail. In prison.”
Mrs. Bemish looked bewildered. “Why should Petrov’s son be in prison?”
“Dzhagarov and your husband arranged this.”
“Dzhagarov and—” She bit off her words abruptly, looking frightened and angry. “I do not believe this.”
“Do you know the word ‘ransom’? They want a great deal of money from your brother Petrov. You must know your nephew was visiting Yugoslavia?”
“Da,” the woman said. “His first trip to Europe. Yugoslavia.”
“Nikki was there, too, and persuaded him to come here to Bulgaria.”
The woman looked from one face to another, studying each of them. “Philip never come to Bulgaria,” she said, shaking her head. “Never. Not good.”
“But he did come,” Debby told her. “I think Nikki drugged him to get him here. And he was arrested at once here in Sofia–I was with him when it happened. He was charged with espionage.”
“What is this word ‘espionage’?”
“Spying,” said Mrs. Pollifax.
Mrs. Bemish said sharply, “I cannot believe. There are no Americans at Panchevsky Institute. You lie.”
“Where?”
“Panchevsky Institute. I work there,” said Mrs. Bemish. “I know. Every night I work there, eight o’clock to six in morning. I work there in kitchens. No Americans.” She shook her head fiercely.
“You mean the prison here is called that,” Mrs. Pollifax said, remembering Tsanko’s words. “But working in the kitchens, would you know?” She leaned forward. “They say it’s in newspapers all over Europe that Philip Trenda has been arrested on charges of espionage. Your husband sent out the early news stories, but it’s not in the papers here because–” She stopped.
Something she said had triggered a response. Mrs. Bemish looked suddenly chilled and old. “When?” she whispered.
“Monday,” Debby told her.
They waited while the woman wrestled with some fact or piece of gossip overheard or guessed; it must have been this because her refusal to believe had been replaced by doubt. She was silent a long time and then her eyes narrowed and she stood up and walked over to the window, pulling back the curtains and stood there staring out. “So,” she said at last and turned, her eyes hard. “So.”
Mrs. Pollifax saw that she was trembling, and then, as she watched, Mrs. Bemish threw back her head and with her lips shut tight in a grimace there came from her throat a harsh animal cry of pain. It was terrible. In her cry was expressed all the anguish and the humiliation of years, suffered stoically and in private. It was indecent to watch, and Mrs. Pollifax looked away.
After several minutes, regaining control, Mrs. Bemish said in a lifeless voice, “At Panchevsky Institute–high up–there is special room for . Spies,” she explained. “On Monday they say young boy–very young–is brought in. He is foreigner. The guards say how young he is, with much black hair, very Bulgarian but speaking no Bulgarian.” She looked pleadingly at Mrs. Pollifax. “If this is Philip …”
“Can you find out? Could you at least find out what language he does speak? Or what he’s done?”
The woman looked frightened. “I try,” she said, and then, “My husband kill me if he find out.”
Debby started to speak, but Mrs. Pollifax shook her head. “You may have to choose,” she said. “You may have to choose between your husband and your nephew.” It did not feel the right moment to tell her that her husband was dead.
“For Petrov I do this,” said Mrs. Bemish simply. “He is good brother, always. He write letters. Every month he send two hundred leva to help us.” She lifted her eyes to Mrs. Pollifax and said fiercely, “For Petrov I would die.”
Somewhat taken aback by her passion, Mrs. Pollifax nodded; she believed her. Rising she said, “We’d better leave now, but we’ll see you again, Mrs. Bemish. Tomorrow, I think. Friday.”
Mrs. Bemish only nodded.
They tiptoed out of the apartment, quietly closing the door behind them. “That poor woman,” Debby said in a hushed voice.
But a startling idea had just occurred to Mrs. Pollifax and she was turning it over speculatively in her mind. Its simplicity dazzled her. As they reached the ground floor she asked of herself, “Why not?”
“Why not what?” said Debby. “Mrs. Pollifax, you’re looking spooky again.”
“It’s so tempting,” confided Mrs. Pollifax thoughtfully. “We have an Underground, and a woman who would die for her brother …” Caution intruded and she shook her head. “No, no, impossible.” But caution held no appeal. “Let’s make another call,” she suggested, and felt suddenly rejuvenated.
16
Number nine Vasil Levski had already locked its doors, but a solitary woman remained working under a strong light behind the counter. Mrs. Pollifax knocked and then rattled the door. “Is the man who speaks English here?” she asked when the woman opened the door.
“Englis?” The woman shrugged and went to the rear and shouted.
Presently Mrs. Pollifax’s friend peered out from the rear, lifted his brows in surprise at seeing her and walked grudgingly toward her. “Yes?” he asked curtly.
“The vest,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “I ordered a brown sheep skin vest.” She fumbled in her purse for paper.
“I know, I know,” he said flatly. “I remember.”
But Mrs. Pollifax nevertheless handed him the sales slip. “This one,” she explained, moving to his side and pointing to the order. “I find I must have it sooner than I expected.”
On it she had printed in pencil: MUST SEE TSANKO AT ONCE. URGENT.
The man looked at her sharply.
“Something has come up,” she said clearly. “Can you rush the order?”
He handed the slip of paper back to her. “I see what can be done. You are lady at the hotel?”
“The Rila, yes.”
“How soon do you leave?”
“As soon as I have the vest.”
He nodded. “I will let you know,” he said, and she left.
This time Debby submitted her passport at the hotel and registered legally, receiving a room of her own down the hall, which she left as quickly as possible to rejoin Mrs. Pollifax. It was she who opened the door to the tailor a few hours later. He carried a handsome vest on a hangar, unwrapped so that Mrs. Pollifax could see that it was brown. He handed her the bill, bowed and quickly walked away down the hall.
But it was not a bill, it was a note. BE AT SIDE ENTRANCE 7:15, WATCH FOR BLUE CAR. To this had been added in script, Why does a man who raises geese carry in a valise a coat identical to yours?
“Well, that’s a punch line,” Debby said when Mrs. Pollifax passed the message to her. “What does it mean? And–good heavens, what’s the matter?”
Mrs. Pollifax had abruptly sat down on the edge of the bed. “An exact duplicate,” she said in a startled voice. She was remembering her first night in Sofia, and the burglar who had arrived in the middle of her nightmare. She had discovered him with her quilted brown coat in his arms, yet
at the same time her coat had been locked away securely in the closet. Supernatural powers indeed! There were two coats, and the burglar had brought the second coat into the room with him.
But why?
At that moment–with dizzying clarity–Mrs. Pollifax found her thoughts going back to Miss Hartshorne and a jammed door lock. Of course he was heading for your apartment, Emily, he was carrying your brown quilted coat with him. I could see it plainly through the cellophane wrapping.
Very softly Mrs. Pollifax said, “I have a distinct feeling that Mr. Carstairs wasn’t frank with me this time. Debby–hand me those scissors on the bureau, will you?” Reaching for her coat, she looked it over, turned it inside out and stared at the lining.
“What are you going to do?” Debby asked in an alarmed voice, handing her the scissors.
“Operate,” said Mrs. Pollifax and, grasping the lining of the coat, she began snipping the threads of one of the plump quilted squares.
“Are you out of your skull?” gasped Debby.
“I’m solving a mystery. You like mysteries, don’t you?”
“I used to until I came to Bulgaria.”
“Well, here’s a new one for you.” From her coat she drew a folded piece of paper and held it up.
“Money?” said Debby in a shocked voice.
“Some kind of foreign money.” She turned over the note, frowning. “Not Bulgarian. Russian, do you suppose?”
Debby brought out a Bulgarian lev and compared them. “Not Bulgarian. Mrs. Pollifax, you didn’t know about this? Do you suppose every single quilted square in your coat has a bill like this?”
“I think we can count on it,” she said, and was silent, considering the situation.
“But why? And what are you going to do with the money now that you’ve found it?”
A faint smile tugged at Mrs. Pollifax’s lips. “Since Mr. Carstairs didn’t enlighten me, I see no need to do anything at all. I think I shall regard it as ‘found money.’ Finders keepers, you know.”
Elusive Mrs. Pollifax Page 11