A Palm for Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  She had expected—admit it—a querulous old woman, spoiled, vain, and doting on a grandson she needed but could neither entertain nor supervise. Instead she had found a still white face lying on a white pillow, and two angry attendants, she must ask Marcel; perhaps he could explain this.

  She glanced at her watch and walked out to her balcony into a velvety stillness. Far below the lighted garden the lake was black and silent except for a lone steamer making its way to port; it trailed behind it ribbons of gold. It was peaceful here, it steadied her, the curving shores on either side twinkled with the lights of casinos and villas. On her left the adjacent hillside was no more than a brooding silhouette, she held her wrist to the light and checked the time.

  At precisely ten o'clock she switched on her flashlight, counted to three, turned it off, then on, then off, and was startled and pleased to see that a pair of headlights sprang into life on the hillside, they illuminated the road like twin beams from a lighthouse so that she could see bushes, the trunk of a tree, the texture of the rough dirt road, and above all the angle at which the road dropped, and which the car now proceeded to follow down, dipping lower and lower until it vanished behind a stand of trees.

  Whoever you are, she thought, it is nice to know you're there.

  In the garden below, one of the gardeners was turning off the spotlights hidden among the flower beds. One by one they died, and darkness joined with the stillness, the Clinic was being put to bed.

  It was time for her to get to work, she realized, and time to forget her impulsive and abortive call on Hafez.

  Five

  In Langley, Virginia, it was half-past four in the afternoon and Carstairs was only finishing his morning's work, he had begun the day with a tightly organized schedule but in midmorning the State Department had urgently requested a report on one of the smaller oil countries in the Middle East. It seemed the King of Zabya was celebrating his fortieth birthday on Tuesday, and a good many heads of state were attending the daylong festivities. Was the country stable enough for America to send the Vice-President, or should an expendable diplomat be dispatched in his place? Carstairs's comments on this during the afternoon had become increasingly unprintable but the report had been completed and delivered: the Vice-President could be sent but he would have to expect boiled sheeps' eyes on the menu.

  Bishop wandered into the office smothering a yawn. "Schoenbeck's outside," he said.

  "I thought you'd left."

  "I'm leaving now. Schoenbeck's flying back to Geneva in two hours, he wants to wrap things up before he goes."

  "Right. I don't suppose there's coffee?"

  Bishop brightened. "As a matter of fact it's the only thing that's kept me intelligent, charming, and alive these past hours. Shall I bring in Schoenbeck?"

  "And the coffee," added Carstairs.

  Schoenbeck was Interpol, a rather pedantic little man with a lined face, he came in now, murmuring a thousand apologies for the intrusion and when courtesies had been dispensed with Carstairs offered him coffee and sat down.

  "Gervard's going to be in charge at the Lake Geneva end," began Schoenbeck. "He's the man to contact if anything comes up. I won't be seeing you again, I'll be in Geneva."

  "Anything changed?"

  "My friend, everything changes," said Schoenbeck. "It is the law of life. I have just learned that it is useless for me to go to England for any new interrogations, the Dun-lap man committed suicide this morning."

  Carstairs swore gently. "How the hell could he commit suicide in a prison cell, wasn't he being watched?"

  Schoenbeck shrugged. "The cessation of life, my friend, does not take long, he hung himself swiftly with a bed-sheet, a frightened man, obviously. Suddenly more frightened of ufe than of death."

  They were both silent, contemplating this. "No," said Carstairs, shaking his head, "more frightened of them than of us. Two ordinary working men, one in England, one in America, and nothing in common except they happened to work in a nuclear reactor plant—and succumbed to stealing two buttons each of plutonium."

  "There is another thing they had in common, my friend," said the man from Interpol. "Both wanted very much to live—at least greed always disposes me to think thus—and both have killed themselves before we could discover any other links to this chain."

  Carstairs nodded gloomily. "And their widows are richer, anything yet on the money?"

  Schoenbeck shook his head. "Not a thing, except that— voilà!—each has a bank account that is magically bulging. It must have been dealt over in cash, a dead end."

  Carstairs sighed. "Well organized."

  "Indeed yes." Schoenbeck, looking stern, put down his coffee cup. "It pains me, my friend, that we know so little, that all of it is based on scraps, we know that in each casa the plutonium was tossed over the wall during working hours by a workman, we learn that in England a green sedan was seen by a farmer parked beside that wall about the right time, and the same green sedan was seen twenty minutes after the theft parked in front of the village post office—"

  "But Stokely-on-the-Merden is a small village," pointed out Carstairs.

  "Oh yes, small enough so that the postal clerk recalls a stranger mailing a crate to Switzerland that day to a clinic near St. Gingolph named Mont-something. But everything we have is based on the word of a farmer plowing his fields, two housewives gossiping in front of a post office and the vulnerable memory of a postal clerk."

  Carstairs smiled forgivingly at his friend. "You're feeling discouraged, Monsieur Schoenbeck. How often do you have more solid leads? What do we ever work with but scraps and pieces? Yet the world lurches on."

  "It is my concern over its continuing to lurch that troubles me," remarked Schoenbeck. "This is a dangerous time to have plutonium drifting about loose in the world, there is too much hate. Your agent is now joining ours at Montbrison?"

  Carstairs glanced at his watch. "Yes, as a matter of fact she would have been there for some hours now."

  Schoenbeck nodded. "Good, we have discovered, by the way, a clinic called Montrose some forty miles to the south, and we are putting an agent in there as well, whom Gervard will supervise, we will, of course, continue to follow every small possibility concerning the two men who stole the plutonium, the dead can no longer speak but their friends have not lost that power. What I want from you, my friend—"

  Carstairs lifted his brows. "More?" he asked with comic despair.

  "There is always more. I want from you an alert, a query, transmitted to all your agents around the world, barring none. It troubles me deeply that we hear no hints of this in the marketplaces of the world. In Beirut, Marseilles, and New York we hear not a whisper. This is most exceptional, a group this organized turning to this type of crime and no informants, no leaks, no tips."

  "Queries everywhere?"

  "Everywhere, if you please, the plutonium has to find a market eventually, does it not? And we must know who is buying it. Otherwise, my friend," he said flatly, "the balance of power will tip, slide, and perhaps send us all into oblivion."

  "You still believe it's one of the international crime syndicates, forsaking drugs for plu—" The telephone interrupted Carstairs and he reached over to pick it up and bark his name into it. "What? Yes, he's here," he said, and handed the telephone to Schoenbeck. "You keep your office well-informed," he commented dryly.

  Schoenbeck, smiling, took the phone, he listened, replied in rapid French, listened again and seemed to visibly sag in his chair. "Qui," he added, and hung up. "Well, my friend, I must go," he said, standing up, an ironic smile played over his lined and weary face. "That was Geneva calling, there has been a third theft of plutonium."

  "What?" thundered Carstairs.

  "Yes, a third. In France this time. Two how-you-call-it metal buttons of plutonium, each weighing a kilogram." He leaned over and picked up a pencil. "A kilogram in pounds is 2.2046 for your edification, my friend. Six kilograms are now missing." He was figuring with the pencil and paper, and at
last he held it out to Carstairs.

  Carstairs reached for it and whistled. "Thirteen pounds and two ounces altogether," he said.

  Schoenbeck nodded. "They now have their atom bomb," he said. "I leave you, my friend, but I think you will find me in France, not Geneva. In the meantime— c'est la guerre. Literally."

  He went out, leaving Carstairs thoughtful and depressed.

  Six

  Earlier, during, dinner, Mrs. Pollifax had mentally compiled a list of what to avoid: the elevator, of course, which purred almost silently but still sent out vibrations of movement and whispering cables; the night concierge or whoever manned the counter and telephones at night; and she supposed that someone—somewhere—must be available for patients who were restless, she would have to discover for herself where the pockets of activity lay at night.

  She changed into pajamas and robe and checked the jewelry box, leaving the tray inside but removing the jewels and tucking them into her pocket. "Fortune favors the bold," she reminded herself as she looked out on the dimly lighted, deserted hall. For one overwhelming moment she longed to retreat and go to bed and then she remembered Fraser, she walked down the hall to the elevator and took the broad, carpeted stairs beside it to the Reception floor, the switchboard was unmanned and the concierge's counter empty, she stood a moment listening and heard a low murmur from the television room; the night porter had forsaken his post for a program. Quietly she followed the stairs down and around to the ground floor. This was the unknown, a rabbit warren of therapy and equipment rooms, offices, baths and pools and the kitchen. It was also, she felt, the most likely place in which to hide anything illicit, especially if it had been labeled Medical Supplies.

  Down here the lights had not been dimmed and the brightly lighted hall alarmed her; before doing anything else she looked for a hiding place, an unmarked door concealed a utility room that was mercifully dark, and she slipped inside, her flashlight moved across tubs, pails, brooms, mops, and a wall filled with fuse boxes and circuit breakers. From this vantage point she opened the door a few inches and waited, listening.

  To her right, far down the hall, someone had begun to whistle monotonously through his teeth, the sound came from the kitchen but the frosted-glass doors remained closed; a pastry chef, she decided, baking for the next day. Turning on the Geiger counter she slipped back into the hall and tiptoed to the wide swinging doors at the far end labeled Hydrothérapies.

  Hydrothérapies was a large room dark and almost gymnasium-size, and occupied by two round tile pools filled with water that gleamed under her flashlight. Whirlpool baths, she guessed as she moved slowly around the sides, a glance at the luminous dial of the counter showed the needle quiet, she opened a door in the wall and walked into an office; here she spent several minutes investigating the closets, a second office stood next to it, followed by a room marked Unterwasser Massage, with some curiosity she entered the latter and found a large, rectangular green tub standing in the center of the room, raised on a platform. Pipes and formidable-looking tubes surrounded it, and over the faucets a series of dials added to the impression that she had stumbled into a medieval torture chamber, here, too, water stood in the tub, very still and filled with moving light. It was strange how alive and sinister water could look at night, she thought, and with relief opened the door to the hall.

  She had now completed the east wing of the ground floor, which was separated from the opposite wing by the lobby containing the staircase, elevator, and entrance doors to the garden, as she peered into the lobby from the Unterwasser Massage door she drew back hastily, surprised at discovering that she was not the only prowler in the night. Barely six feet away from her someone was trying to get into the building from the garden, she could hear the click and rustle of tools at work; the intruder was picking the lock. Mrs. Pollifax turned off her scintillator counter and waited.

  There was a last muffled click and the door swung open. Marcel slipped inside.

  "Marcel!" she gasped in relief.

  He jumped and crossed himself before he saw her standing in the shadows of the Unterwasser Massage room. "You scare the devil from me, madame!"

  "Sorry—you frightened me, too. Whatever are you doing picking the lock?"

  His face turned wry. "Waiters are not allowed keys, madame—and I am a waiter. It makes for much difficulty, especially when I am off duty." He moved away from the glass door to the garden and joined her in the darkness. "I have spent the last hour seated in the garden, in the darkness, watching. Have you been down here long? Have you seen or heard anyone?"

  "Only the person in the kitchen working. Why?"

  "I swear to you I saw someone on the roofs of the building a few minutes ago." He frowned. "It is very dark out there, with no moon, but still—" He shook his head. "I do not like it."

  "And you want to look around," she said approvingly. "But first—really it's providential, meeting you, Marcel. I can borrow you for a minute?"

  He grinned. "For eternity, madame! I may be of service?"

  "Yes. You know Hafez?"

  He sighed. "Mon Dieu, who does not?" He lifted his eyes heavenward.

  "He seems very upset, even frightened. I tried to pay a call on his grandmother less than an hour ago, to speak to her about it." She shivered. "I was carried bodily out of the room by two men."

  He whistled faintly. "That is surprising and not very hospitable. Let me think, the Zabyan party," he said thoughtfully. "They occupy rooms 150, 152, 154, their meals are served to them in their rooms with the exception of the boy and the maid. I have myself delivered some of the meals, but only to room 154, where a man in white jacket accepts the trays." He closed his eyes. "Their names are—yes, I have it—Madame Parviz and grandson Hafez, Serafina Fahmy, Fouad Murad, and Munir Hassan." He opened his eyes. "Other than this, I know nothing, they were not investigated further because, you see, they were not guests here when Fraser was killed."

  It was Mrs. Pollifax's turn to frown. "You're quite sure of that?"

  "Quite, madame, they arrived that same day, shortly after, but they were not here at that time. I will, of course, make inquiries further."

  "Oh please do," she told him. "And there's one other thing: When can I get into the kitchen?"

  His glance fell to the jewelry case and he smiled. "Ah, yes I see. But tonight no. Saturday—tomorrow—yes, there will be no one here then." He glanced toward the stairs. "I must go," he said. "Give me five minutes to get past the night porter. Technically I have been off duty four hours, and should be in my room in the village."

  He moved to the stairs, listened a moment, and then with a wave of his hand to her vanished.

  She reflected that she had at least learned the name of Hafez's grandmother, and that Marcel was vigilantly on guard outside the Clinic, she turned on her scintillator counter and crossed the hall to the door marked Laboratories. Inside this door lay a long narrow hall with small rooms opening from it. Of particular interest was the large storage room at the end of the hall, her flashlight roamed past crates of peaches, spices, chocolate, and coffee, another row contained crates of sterile cotton and cardboard cartons from various drug laboratories of Europe, none of them causing any change on her counter, at the far corner she found an aluminum chute standing against the wall, and above it a window of an exact size to fit both the chute and the crates, she realized this was where supplies were unloaded, the window would be opened, the chute locked in place, the crates taken from a truck and sent sliding into the basement, she stood on a box and peered out of the window; her flashlight picked out cement and a latticework trellis. Tomorrow she would look for the window from the outside.

  She had given Marcel his allotted five minutes. Denied the kitchen she began to have pleasant thoughts of bed, and returning to the lobby ascended the stairs to the Reception floor. This time, however, she was not so fortunate, the night concierge stood at his post by the switchboard leafing through a magazine. Shocked, he gasped, "Madame!" and rattled off a string
of words in French, all of them alarmed.

  She said firmly, "I've been looking for someone to take care of my emeralds." She removed the pendant from her pocket and placed it on the counter between them. "I saw a sign while I was brushing my teeth—in the bathroom, you understand—that said all valuables should be placed in your safe. How could I possibly sleep after reading that?"

  He understood English; he nodded but he had trouble removing his eyes from the play of light across the emeralds. "But, madame," he countered, "I have no key. Only the head concierge can open the safe. I am sadly sorry, at seven he is on duty."

  "Oh," she said. "Oh well." She put away the pendant with regret. "Bon soir, then."

  "Yes, madame—and try to sleep a little? At seven he comes."

  She nodded and continued up the stairs to her own

  floor, as she opened the door to room “3 she glanced down the hall and saw Hafez standing silently outside his room watching her, he was too far away for her to see his face clearly; he simply stood there, still dressed in white shorts and shirt, and then he turned abruptly and disappeared.

  It was 12:05, the Clinic, thought Mrs. Pollifax, seemed to have a hidden but vivid night life of its own.

  Locking her door she climbed into bed, reflected that she had at least made a beginning, and on that note fell asleep, entering a dream where she wandered through a labyrinth of dark rooms, each of them colder by degrees until she reached a hall thick with white frost. In her sleep Mrs. Pollifax stirred restlessly, and shivered.

  She opened her eyes to find that a cold wind had sprung up and was blowing through the door to the balcony, presenting her with the choice of getting up and closing the door or getting up to look for a blanket. Neither prospect appealed, she wanted only to sleep, as she lay and rebelliously considered these alternatives a curious thought occurred to her: she had not left the balcony door open, she had closed and locked it.