Bishop peered at him through glazed eyes. “Sleeping. I had a date. Seemed a hell of a lot simpler to come here at four o’clock in the morning than go all the way back to my apartment.”
“You look like death itself,” Carstairs told him with a shudder. “Go and wash your face and get us some coffee.”
“Adrenalin would be better,” Bishop said bleakly and went out rubbing his eyes.
Carstairs returned to the pile of reports on his desk from South America, Iraq, Helsinki and Vienna. There was still nothing from Bulgaria and this began to be alarming. He’d sent an urgent message to Assen Radev through emergency channels demanding that Radev track down and recover both Mrs. Pollifax and her coat. That message had gone off four days ago, on Wednesday night, with instructions that its arrival be verified at once–and no verification had come through. He didn’t like it, he didn’t like any part of the summing up: nothing from Radev since the last routine message reporting the secret police tailing Mrs. Pollifax, and nothing from Mrs. Pollifax, who should have left Bulgaria yesterday, on Sunday.
What did it mean–betrayal?… God, it was hard not knowing.
Bishop reappeared carrying a pot of coffee and looking decently shaved and alert again. “Morning,” he said cheerfully. “The medical records on young Trenda have just come through from his family doctor.” He tossed them on the desk.
“I suppose there’s absolutely no history of rheumatic fever or heart deficiency?”
“None at all, sir.”
“Just as we thought,” said Carstairs gloomily, his eyes scanning the records. “I assume his father will agree to an autopsy as soon as he’s brought back the body?”
Bishop hesitated. “I understand not, sir.”
“What?” Bishop was shocked and incredulous. “Why the hell not?”
“He left for Europe Saturday night, you know, after refusing to speak to reporters at the airport. Earlier, in Chicago–just after the announcement of his son’s death–he said very flatly ‘no autopsy.’ ”
The desk was suddenly too confining for Carstairs and he sprang to his feet and began pacing. “There’s something horribly wrong here,” he said, “and I’m not seeing where yet.”
“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 th
e 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.
By Dorothy Gilman
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
CARAVAN
UNCERTAIN VOYAGE
A NUN IN THE CLOSET
THE CLAIRVOYANT COUNTESS
THE TIGHTROPE WALKER
INCIDENT AT BADAMY
THALE’S FOLLY
The Mrs. Pollifax Series
THE UNEXPECTED MRS. POLLIFAX
THE AMAZING MRS. POLLIFAX
THE ELUSIVE MRS. POLLIFAX
A PALM FOR MRS. POLLIFAX
MRS. POLLIFAX ON SAFARI
MRS. POLLIFAX ON THE CHINA STATION
MRS. POLLIFAX AND THE HONG KONG BUDDHA
MRS. POLLIFAX AND THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
MRS. POLLIFAX AND THE WHIRLING DERVISH
MRS. POLLIFAX AND THE SECOND THIEF
MRS. POLLIFAX PURSUED
MRS. POLLIFAX AND THE LION KILLER
MRS. POLLIFAX, INNOCENT TOURIST
MRS. POLLIFAX UNVEILED
For Young Adults
GIRL IN BUCKSKIN
THE MAZE IN THE HEART OF THE CASTLE
THE BELLS OF FREEDOM
Nonfiction
A NEW KIND OF COUNTRY
Elusive Mrs. Pollifax Page 18