A Palm for Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  "Four postcards," Robin said gravely, he positively glowed with chivalry as he led her across the lawn, and Mrs. Pollifax, who had no need at all of postcards, saw them go with a sense of satisfaction, she began to look around the garden for Hafez but he had not appeared yet, and her roving glance caught the eye of the general sitting across the path from her and leaning on his cane, he bowed courteously.

  "Good morning," she called.

  His reply was too low for her to hear, and she left her chair for the empty one beside him. "Mrs. Pollifax," she told him, extending her hand.

  "General d'Estaing, madame." His hand was dry and warm.

  "A beautiful morning. You are feeling well today?"

  He had surprising eyes in his strong pale face, they had remained alive and now they twinkled shrewdly in his lined face. "That is not a logical question to ask a very old man, madame. I have survived another day, that is all, neither triumphant nor particularly moved by the fact. I am, after all, eighty-nine."

  "Eighty-nine!" exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax.

  "The particular problem of being eighty-nine," he continued, "is that one has time to reflect upon a well-lived life but no friends with which to share the sweep of perspective. Have you ever come near to death, madame?"

  "Yes," she said, nodding. "Near enough."

  "Then you know that its terrors are exaggerated," he said simply.

  "I think I should mind the waiting," she told him thoughtfully. "It must be rather like the last months of pregnancy, with no possible way to back out or change one's mind."

  "You mean the irrevocability," he said, smiling. "Birth and death—no, we've no choice there." His gaze looked out upon the garden reflectively. "These young people, I find it ironic that they are learning how to live while I am learning how to die."

  "Do you wish you could tell them how to live?"

  He chuckled. "One cannot tell the young anything, ma-dame."

  She laughed. "Very true. General, in your work—I hear that you were head of the Sûreté—you learned a great deal about human nature?"

  "Too much," he said dryly.

  She hesitated. "You have met, perhaps, with real evil?"

  "Evil," he mused, and she saw his eyes flash beneath the heavy brows. "You ask a Frenchman that, madame? I had the interesting experience once of meeting Hitler—"

  "Ah," she breathed.

  He nodded. "He impressed me, madame—this man who sent millions of Jews to their death and changed the course of history—with his ordinariness. Success encouraged his madness, of course, but that was the thing, you see: he was so ordinary. This is what astonished and alarmed me, that evil can be so commonplace. It is not in the face or in the words but in the heart, in the intentions. In my experience I have found only one form of evil to leave its visible mark."

  "And what is that?"

  "In general the act of murder leaves no mark on a man but I have found this is not true of the professional killer who murders more than once, and in cold blood. It is a curious fact that it shows in the eyes, madame, which I believe the poets call the windows of the soul. I have found the eyes of the habitual murderer to be completely empty, an interesting revenge by Nature, is it not?"

  "Indeed yes," she murmured.

  "The soul can be annihilated, you see—one must not trifle with it." He glanced at the nurse who had entered the garden bearing a tray of medicines and when she headed toward them he sighed. "Just as I thought, the medicine is for me, they must try to keep me alive a little longer, ma-dame."

  The nurse addressed him in French and they exchanged a few jokes before her eyes fell on Mrs. Pollifax. "Oh, but madame," she cried, "you are the one they search for, it is time for the tests. You go, eh?"

  Mrs. Pollifax bid the general a good morning, and went.

  After lunch Mrs. Pollifax stationed herself in the garden

  to wait for Marcel, she chose the gazebo, because it was secluded and discouraged company, and she fortified herself with a paperback novel and a discarded International Herald Tribune that she had found in the library, the sun grew hotter and the shadows longer. Two of the younger waiters appeared and moved among the guests, taking orders, but it was a long time before Marcel appeared. When she saw him she stood up and waved. "Oh, garçon!" she called, summoning her newest French word.

  Marcel made his way cautiously toward her, his eyes wary. "Oui, madame?"

  With a smile pinned on her lips, and speaking through clenched teeth she said, "Are you a good actor, Marcel? I have to talk to you."

  He grinned. "All Frenchmen are actors, madame." He unfurled an order pad and held a pencil poised above it. "Now madame. I shall smile, you shall smile, and we can speak."

  "It's Madame Parviz again, Marcel. Have you any information yet?"

  "It was requested last night by phone, when I returned to the village, but the information will have to come from Zabya, there should be something by tomorrow morning."

  She nodded. "But there's more, Marcel. Did you know that none of the doctors have visited or examined her?"

  He looked surprised. "This I did not know."

  "Dr. Lichtenstein told me. I asked, he said it was cleared by the Board of Directors, and he explained it by saying that Madame Parviz—or so he was told—is very old and wants no foreign doctors examining her. But she isn't that old, Marcel, I saw her."

  He looked doubtful. "Madame, I do not wish to be tactless but are you forgetting what we are here for? An invalid woman and a child, it seems most unlikely that they are involved—"

  "Of course they're not," she said impatiently, "but there is something very peculiar there. Can you get me a list of the Board of Directors?"

  He shrugged. "I have this already in my files, of course."

  "I'm also curious, Marcel, about the man in the room across the hall from Madame Parviz. I should have asked you about him last night, he's in a wheelchair, I see him in the garden and in the dining room. I'm wondering if he isn't a member of their party, too."

  Marcel sighed. "I can assure you that he is not, ma-dame, because he did not arrive with them, he has been here for some time. Nor is he Zabyan." He frowned. "Room number 153 .. ." He shook his head. "I do not remember his name without referring to my list but I can find out his name in half an hour."

  "I'd appreciate it if you could find out a great deal more."

  He looked at her and smiled. Perhaps he found her amusing. "Very well, madame, I will do very thorough detective work on this man and by tonight I will have information for you, okay? But I would prefer better to hear something of Robin Burke-Jones, of whom I am most suspicious."

  "And rightly so," she said, smiling back at him. "Actually I can tell you a great deal about him, almost all of it, I think, reassuring, he's—" She paused. Over Marcel's shoulder she saw Robin making his way across the lawn to her. "So if you'll make it crumpets with tea," she said in a normal voice.

  He leaned toward. "I go off duty at midnight, madame. Can you meet me on the ground floor at that hour, by the elevator?"

  "I'll be there, and lemon with the tea," she added, lifting her voice.

  "And you can bring me a Scotch and soda," said Robin, collapsing into the chair beside hers. "Do you know that walking is strictly for the birds?"

  "They fly," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax. "Are you just getting back from the village?"

  He nodded. "We lunched there. I have returned but not Court. Oh no, she's still playing the organ in that old Anglican church by the café." He shuddered. "The organ, for heaven's sake."

  "But how charming," said Mrs. Pollifax, smiling at him. "What a gifted person she must be. What in particular bothers you about that?"

  "What bothers me is that she doesn't even know I left." In his indignation he was virtually gargling his words. "We stopped in the church on the way back, and the rector, or whoever he was, made conversation with us about the age of the church and its flying buttresses and then about music, and Court said she played and he begged her to tr
y their new organ, she forgot about me," he concluded in a strangled voice.

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "Yes, I thought you might find that a problem but I hoped not, she strikes me as being quite self-sufficient, you know." In the silence that followed she added tranquilly, "I've heard it makes for the very best marriages, actually."

  "What does?" he asked suspiciously. "Organ music?"

  "Self-sufficiency. So many marriages are parasitic, don't you think? The one party living through the other. Such a tragic waste of potential."

  He regarded her with exasperation. "Look, I'm not planning to marry her or anyone. In my profession can you even imagine the complication of a wife? All I ask is a decent show of interest. I've got money, I'm not bad looking, I've been around—"

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "Ego."

  To her surprise he said humbly, "You really think it's that?"

  "Yes, I do. You're quite accustomed to having your own way, I imagine. Especially with women, isn't that true?"

  "I suppose so," he admitted forlornly.

  "What draws you to Court, if I may be so presumptuous?"

  "I've never met anyone more presumptuous." He hesitated as Marcel brought them drinks on a tray, removed them to the table and withdrew. "She's different," Robin said scowling. "She's little. Small, I mean, and cool but warm underneath, she needs caring for, you can see that at once."

  "Oh at once," agreed Mrs. Pollifax gravely.

  "But she doesn't realize that, there's a vulnerability about her—" He caught himself up, frowned and said briskly, "Of course she's impossible. Do you realize that for the first eight days of her stay here she left her bed at, five-thirty in the morning to walk’} The girl's obsessed, it's unnatural."

  Mrs. Pollifax considered him with sympathy. "There are people like that, you know. My neighbor at home, Miss Hartshorne, is one." She said thoughtfully, "I think it arouses guilt feelings in the rest of us. Certainly Miss Hartshorne's not very popular but," she added loyally, "she's ever so healthy."

  "Exactly," said Robin. "And you called her Miss Hartshorne, she never married?"

  Mrs. Pollifax shook her head.

  "Well then, you see?" He was triumphant. "That's just what will happen to Court, she's beautiful—breathtakingly lovely—and she'll never marry."

  Mrs. Pollifax beamed at him happily. "Then you needn't worry about falling in love with her, need you? She's no threat at all."

  Robin glared at her. "You're expecting me to be rational."

  "Surely consistent?"

  "Consistent, rational, stable and well-adjusted?" He threw up his hands. "I give up." His glance turned accusing. "You're watching something, you're not paying the slightest attention suddenly. Damn it, this certainly doesn't seem to be my day for capturing anybody's attention."

  "I'm watching Hafez," she told him. "He's up on the third-floor balcony outside his room, he hasn't been outside at all today and I've been wondering why."

  "He really continues to trouble you?" asked Robin.

  "Yes." She hesitated and then—it scarcely betrayed any secrets—she added, "I tried to pay a call on his grandmother last evening to look over the situation."

  "Breathing fire, I suppose, and looking very stern, and she told you it was none of your business?"

  Mrs. Pollifax put down her cup of tea and shook her head. "I caught only a glimpse of her in bed and then I was literally carried out of the room by two men of the party."

  "Strong-arm stuff, eh?"

  She realized that this was exactly how it had struck her at the time; it was the sickroom atmosphere that clouded her perceptions and created doubt. "Yes, and I intend to find out why."

  He grinned. "I'll bet you will, too."

  "Hello!" called Court, approaching them and looking radiant. "I've been playing the organ all this time, it's been delightful."

  "Yes," said Robin, "I know."

  Mrs. Pollifax arose. "And now I'm going to excuse myself before I become welded to this chair. I think a small nap is in order before dinner."

  "Oh, but I was looking forward to talking to you!" Court protested. "I have your postcards, too, you know."

  They exchanged postcards and centimes but Mrs. Pollifax could not be dissuaded. "I'll see you later," she said, and left.

  As she entered the lobby she passed Marcel carrying a tray. "Madame, you dropped this," he told her, extending a hand with a slip of paper in it before he walked through the door.

  On the slip of paper he had written: In room 153, Ibrahim Sabry. Egyptian passport, age 5’. Owner small munitions factory. Religion, Islamic. Destroy. More later.

  Nine

  There was a film after dinner that evening, at nine, and Mrs. Pollifax was reassured to see that Hafez was going to be allowed to attend it. "Oh, ma-dame," he cried in a raptured voice, meeting her in the hall. "Madame, a film!"

  His eyes shone, he tucked his hand into hers and led her into the dining room where a screen had been erected and the chairs rearranged in a half circle. "It is all in French but I shall explain everything to you—every word," he told her passionately.

  "Where have you been all day?" she asked. "I looked for you in the garden, and I looked for you at dinner. Hafez, I'm terribly sorry if I upset things last night by trying to pay a call on your grandmother."

  He turned and looked at her with huge eyes. "But, ma-dame, I know now that you are a true friend. I think it was very kind of you."

  "But you were in your room all day?"

  "Oh, that is nothing now. Look, madame, the picture is going to begin. I will translate."

  He did indeed translate; he read aloud to her even the credits on the screen, and then as the story began he faithfully recorded every word. It did not make him popular with the handful of other people present, among them Ibrahim Sabry and the Palisburys. Mrs. Pollifax leaned over and suggested he lower his voice. "Oh, oui, madame," he said, and for two minutes he did. Mrs. Pollifax decided the only way to restore tranquility to the group was to withdraw. It was nearing her Flashlight Hour, anyway.

  "You can tell me the plot tomorrow, I'm going to leave now," she whispered to him.

  His disappointment was huge, but glancing back from the door she noted that it was fleeting, he was once again immersed in the show, eyes round, lips parted, she smiled at his enthrallment. It was good to see him a child again. Court and Robin were sitting in the library talking, their heads close together; she waved at them and went upstairs.

  At ten o'clock, and feeling rather like Paul Revere, she went again to her balcony to signal that she had survived a second day at Montbrison, again the car lights flicked on in reply and again she watched her unknown friend disappear down the hill. Still she lingered; it was warm this evening, with a feel of rain in the air, the lights along the shore of Lake Geneva were gauzy, like smudged yellow fingerprints on a dark canvas, she realized that she still had not seen the mountains that rimmed the lake.

  At “:55, after practising her Yoga for half an hour, she checked the scintillator counter and tested her flashlight and prepared to learn what Marcel might have discovered. Closing her door behind her she moved softly down the stairs, again the concierge's station was abandoned; the elevator idled there, brightly lighted and empty, she descended to the ground floor. Marcel had not arrived yet but it still lacked a minute to the hour.

  It was awkward waiting here by the elevator in the brightly lighted hall, the doors to the garden stood across the lobby opposite her, two rectangles of opaque black glass shining like eyes, she felt extremely conspicuous, the ground floor was quiet except for the sound of water running in the Unterwasser Massage room next to the garden doors, there was no whistling tonight from the kitchen, which she would explore once she left Marcel, she moved away from the staircase toward the shadows behind it, and the movement was reflected in the glass doors, a pale wraith mocking her with perfect synchronization.

  She checked her watch; it was precisely midnight, the running water was annoying because someone wou
ld be coming back soon to turn it off and she could not imagine how she would explain her presence, the sound was insidious, like two gossips murmuring and whispering in another room. Otherwise the Clinic was silent and there was in this, too, an odd quality of restiveness, there was no sign of Marcel.

  In the Unterwasser Massage room something dropped to the floor and Mrs. Pollifax stopped pacing and became still, an object had fallen but objects did not drop by themselves, she placed the jewel case in the shadow of the stairway and moved across the lobby to the door of the Unterwasser Massage room, there she hesitated, listening, and then turned the knob, the room was in darkness; she switched on her flashlight as she entered, across from her the door that had led to Hydrothérapies was just closing. Its latch clicked softly and she saw the knob released from the other side by an unseen hand, she opened her mouth to call out but as she stepped forward the beam of her flashlight dropped and she gasped in horror.

  Marcel lay in the pale green tub, his eyes turned vacantly to the ceiling. Blood spattered the sides of the tub and ran in zigzag lines across his white jacket. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

  "Oh dear God," she whispered, like a prayer, and sagged against the wall. Turning off her flashlight she groped for a chair and sat down and gulped in deep breaths of air, he could not have been dead for long, perhaps only seconds before she had descended the stairs. While she had been hurrying down to meet him here there had been stealthy movements in the dark, small animal sounds and sudden death, there had not even been time for him to call out.

  The water still gurgled obscenely into the tub, after a moment—driven by a stern sense of duty—she switched on the flashlight again and crept back to Marcel. One trembling hand moved to his bloody jacket and waited but there was no flutter of a heartbeat, no possibility of survival, she rinsed the blood from her hand under the faucet and then found the spigot and angrily stilled the water.

  At once she knew that she had made a dangerous mistake.

  Her mind was clearing. Marcel was dead—murdered— and someone had left this room as she entered it.