A Palm for Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  He had been safe at that hour yesterday, she was sure of it.

  She thought, Whatever Marcel did after I saw him in the afternoon must have taken him closer to something, turned him in a new and different direction, toward territory someone had marked off as forbidden, the question was, what had Marcel done between half-past three in the afternoon and midnight, when he was killed? Whatever Marcel had discovered she must discover, too.

  "I hate to disturb your thinking processes," said Robin, strolling up behind her, "but I've been looking for Court and I can't find her anywhere. Has she passed this way?"

  "My thinking processes are behaving very poorly at the moment," she said, "and no, I've not seen her. Would you care for a cup of coffee?"

  "I'd love one if you have a spare." He pulled up a chair and sat down. "Look here, shouldn't there be an air of repressed alarm here today, a few damp eyes, a policeman or two? I can't help noticing that business is very much as usual."

  "I've noticed it, too," she said, nodding. "It bothers me."

  "Yes, I thought it might. Of course things are very different for the rich, you know, they've got to be protected and they pay liberally for that when they come here, they're not supposed to be exposed to anything viler than an enema. It makes life in such a place a complete conspiracy." He grinned cheerfully. "At the casinos they handle it very tidily, you know, a chap blows out his brains after losing his last shilling and three minutes later you can't even find traces of the blood. I should resent that very much if it were I, and come back at once to haunt them."

  "You're being abominably flippant and you're not cheering me up at all," she told him.

  "Well, then, I wish you'd—oops!" he said in a startled voice and ducked his head under the table.

  Mrs. Pollifax looked behind her to see what had surprised him and saw walking across the lawn one of the handsomest men she had ever seen, which startled her, too, if for different reasons. Gilbert Roland, she thought, and then chided herself for such sentimental nonsense. Ibrahim Sabry was looking up from his newspaper and smiling—yes, the stranger was heading for Sabry—but everyone in the garden was watching as well, the man was wearing a dark pin-striped business suit but this scarcely succeeded in scaling him down to life size, he was a figure out of an epic, tall, lean, proud, a beak of a nose set in a swarthy face, his eyes gleaming under straight quizzical brows, his smile a flash of white in his dark face. "Who," said Mrs. Pollifax with feeling, "is that!"

  Robin slid back into his chair looking sheepish but she noticed that he moved his chair so that he could sit with his back to the newcomer, she, on the other hand, moved her chair so that she could watch the stranger shake hands with Sabry.

  "Reflex action—sorry about that," confessed Robin. "I forget that people I've lifted a few jewels from really have no idea I'm the culprit, that's Yazdan Kashan. Good Lord, I'd forgotten it's Sunday—this is Visiting Day."

  "And you robbed that man?" said Mrs. Pollifax incredulously. "He looks extremely difficult to take anything from. Should I know who he is?"

  "Well, I don't want you fainting, my dear Mrs. P., but he's a sheik, a bona fide sheik."

  "Ah," she said with pleasure, "they really do exist then! But no longer, I take it, on the desert?"

  Robin grinned. "Not when they belong to one of the world's richest families, although I think he still spends a good bit of the year with his people. But not in a tent. Kashan's at least a generation away from all that, it was his grandfather who rode camels with the wind. Kashan's father discovered he was encamped on some of the world's richest oil fields in the Middle East, and Yazdan's the new breed, went to Oxford, as a matter of fact, and then became a playboy and left jewels lying around carelessly—at least he was damned careless in Paris when I ran into him in '65."

  "And now?"

  "Now he's nearly forty and I hear he's a nut on religion and doesn't leave jewelry around, he reads the Koran instead."

  "He's not reading it now," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax. "He's come to Montbrison to visit Mr. Sabry. What country is Mr. Kashan from?"

  Robin gave her a quick glance. "Frankly I haven't the foggiest, I'm afraid all those deserts are one big blur to me." He sighed. "I suppose I should feel sentimental about the chap—he was my first really big job and it went off like peaches and cream and gave me no end of confidence."

  "Which deserted you rather abruptly a minute ago," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax.

  "Well, I told you it was my first major job; I had to remind myself for months afterward that he could afford the loss." He added indignantly, "I hope you don't think I became a criminal easily."

  "Not at all," she murmured, "but there must be some way to make an honest man of you."

  Hafez walked slowly across the lawn toward them and when he reached them twined one arm around Mrs. Pollifax's chair and hung on it. "There's going to be Wiener Schnitzel for lunch," he confided, he addressed this information to Mrs. Pollifax but his gaze rested on the two men under the pink lawn umbrella.

  "Do you know Mr. Sabry, the man in the wheelchair, Hafez?" she asked, watching his face.

  "Yes, madame, he has the room across the hall from me."

  "But did you know him before you came to the Clinic?"

  He shook his head. "No, madame."

  She hesitated and then she added, "And Mr. Kashan, the man visiting him, do you know him?"

  Hafez's eyes blazed before he dropped his gaze to the ground. "I know him," he said tonelessly.

  "Is he from Zabya then?"

  "Yes, madame." He lifted expressionless eyes and added, "I will go to lunch now, I think. Bon jour."

  Robin watched him leave and then lifted an eyebrow at her. "I must say that was a strange bit of dialogue. You sounded rather like the Inquisition."

  "And Hafez like a robot," she said thoughtfully, "which means, I think, that we just had a fairly important conversation."

  Twelve

  The sheik lunched with Ibrahim Sabry in the dining room, their heads remained close together at the table as they engaged in energetic conversation, frequently with gestures, but all of it too muted for Mrs. Pollifax to overhear. Court arrived a few minutes after Mrs. Pollifax, calling breathlessly across the tables, "I've been playing the organ again. Will you be in the garden this afternoon?"

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded; she had no intention of being anywhere else. For the genuine convalescent there was the gift of shapeless time: naps, sunbath, small walks, massages, but she could scarcely call herself convalescent and time was working against her.

  It was, therefore, in the garden that Court found her after lunch. "I want to talk to you," she said, striding toward her across the lawn. "I have to talk to you. Do you mind awfully?"

  Mrs. Pollifax had been watching Sheik Kashan wheel Sabry into the gazebo; the wheelchair was barely narrow enough to fit through the door so that for a moment the structure shuddered threateningly. It was not the sturdiest of gazebos, anyway, being fashioned entirely of bamboo. Now Sabry was safely within, and the Sheik had seated himself at the round table inside and was pulling papers from an attaché case.

  She turned her attention to Court just as the girl slipped into a chair beside her. "I'm available," she told her, smiling.

  Court looked close to tears. "I came back from the village this morning," she said, her voice trembling, "and I packed my suitcase and then after lunch I went up and unpacked it again."

  "For myself I'm not that fond of packing," put in Mrs. Pollifax mildly, "but I daresay it's a form of exercise."

  Court grudgingly laughed. "I'm sounding the idiot, of course." She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. "I thought perhaps if I talked to you—I simply don't know what to do, I ought to leave, I know it, but—"

  Mrs. Pollifax said gently, "Perhaps if you'd tell me just what seems to be the matter—"

  "Oh," said the girl angrily, "I don't want to fall in love again, that's what's the matter, and of all people with him."

  "A
h," said Mrs. Pollifax, enlightened at last. "We're talking about Robin, are you about to fall in love with Robin?"

  "Love," said the girl scornfully. "And he's so much like Eric." She shivered. "I can't bear that."

  Mrs. Pollifax understood that there was going to be nothing rational about this conversation and adjusted herself to the fact. "Eric," she said pointedly.

  Court's chin went up. "I could say that Eric abandoned me in every capital in Europe, as a matter of fact I will say it because it's what he did. I've been so careful," she explained, "I've gone to such lengths to avoid entanglements. I've dated only simpletons, frauds and ridiculous creatures I couldn't possibly care about, and then I come here and—" She turned to Mrs. Pollifax angrily. "Last summer there wasn't anyone here under forty. Not a soul, and this summer—I'm disintegrating," she wailed. "I'm usually so poised, so calm, so—so—"

  "Controlled?" suggested Mrs. Pollifax, handing her a fresh handkerchief. "You haven't told me who Eric is, by the way."

  "My husband," said Court, blowing her nose again. "Or was," she added, wiping her eyes. "I married him when I was eighteen and we were divorced when I was twenty and that's eight years ago. Mrs. Pollifax, I do want you to know I had no intention of crying."

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "One seldom does. So you were married very young, and it wasn't a happy marriage, and now Robin reminds you of Eric?"

  She shivered. "The pattern's terrifyingly similar. Robin's so attractive, and there's all that charm and he doesn't work for a living, which means no character at all. What he does have is too much money and too much experience —he's been everywhere, done everything, and known everybody—and that's just how it was with Eric, they're both playboys. I hate love," she announced, and after a second's pause added ruefully, "It hurts."

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled. "I daresay you've gotten the worst of it out of your system now and we can talk. But really love has nothing to do with hurt, you know, it's we who supply the wounds. Which—if I may risk offending you— seems to be just what you're doing now."

  "Given the circumstances, how?" demanded Court.

  Mrs. Pollifax said dreamily, "I've often thought the Buddhists are quite right, you know, when they say the root of all suffering is desire, we're so full of greed, wanting this or that—to love or to escape love, to be this or be that, to possess this or that. What do you think you'll accomplish by packing your suitcase and bolting?"

  "I won't be hurt."

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled. "I wonder if you can be sure of that. Of course you know very little about Robin but I wonder if you can be absolutely certain he's just like Eric. When you find out more about him there may be a few— well, surprises," she said, honestly enough. "For that matter you may not fall in love with him at all. Whatever makes you sure the future will be exactly like the past?"

  "I don't know." Court shivered. "I don't know. But he —well, you see, he kissed me last evening in the library, while the film was being shown—"

  "Ah," said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding.

  "And—" She lifted her chin angrily. "And I thought-all right, I'll say it—I thought how wonderful it would be to marry and—and even have children. Which I can assure you was the furthest thing from my mind when I came here."

  "Of course if you run away," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax, "you can't possibly have a baby."

  "No," said Court miserably.

  Mrs. Pollifax patted her affectionately on the arm. "What you need, I think, is a little bit of Zen."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "Zen—tremendously refreshing, there's a great deal to be said for letting life just happen."

  "Without control?"

  "That's it, you see—without control."

  "But—but that's frightening!" cried Court.

  Mrs. Pollifax laughed. "On the contrary, it's much less painful than fighting every step of the way, and so much more delightful than trying to arrange life like a table setting, which one can never do, anyway. Really it's quite exciting to see what will happen along next," she added.

  "At your age," said Court cautiously, "there are still surprises?"

  Mrs. Pollifax beamed at her forgivingly. "Frequently, I can assure you, some pleasant and a few not at all pleasant, but of course one can't have the one without the other. It's impossible."

  "Oh," said Court.

  From the path behind them Robin called, "So there you are! I thought my two favorite ladies had vanished into thin air." He pulled up a chair and smiled at Court "Where have you been all day?"

  Mrs. Pollifax let Court reply while she glanced casually across the garden to the gazebo, the sheik had returned his papers to the attaché case and was standing as he talked to Sabry, delivering what looked to be an impassioned speech. Certainly Sabry was receiving it without his customary passiveness; his eyes gleamed and he looked almost exalted, yet even exaltation could not quite obscure the insensitivity of his face. How empty his eyes were, she thought idly; if he were not in a wheelchair, if he were not welded to it and helpless .., if he were not confined . . , and suddenly the general's words yesterday slipped into her mind: 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, 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?

  Sabry's eyes were empty, like stones.

  Mrs. Pollifax suddenly sat upright in amazement, excited and a little breathless as she considered that wheelchair and the illusion it gave of immobility. If Sabry were not in that wheelchair . ., she thought in astonishment, "It's possible, it's terribly possible, he was even here when Fraser was here, Marcel said so. But how shocking that it's only just occurred to me." Doubt assailed her and she shook her head. "No, no, impossible—purest imagination," she told herself, but what a diabolically clever disguise it could be, she thought, and realized that even now she found it difficult, almost inhuman, to doubt a wheelchair.

  Court and Robin were staring at her in surprise. "What on earth are you thinking?" demanded Robin. "You look as if you've just seen a ghost."

  "Perhaps I have," she said, remembering the darkened hall last night, the sound of steps, and of heavy breathing in the stillness. "I was wondering what keeps Mr. Sabry in a wheelchair. What his particular illness might be."

  Court looked taken aback but Robin's glance was thoughtful. "I see," he said softly. "Like Frankenstein you think he may—walk at night?"

  "This is a day for wondering," she said.

  "I heard it was multiple sclerosis," volunteered Court. "He came soon after I did, over two weeks ago, he takes whirlpool baths."

  "Polio and strokes and broken limbs leave marks for doctors to see," mused Mrs. Pollifax, "but multiple sclerosis is a very slow disease, isn't it?" It made a good cover story, she was remembering Marcel's last words: I will investigate thoroughly, I promise you, and a picture came to her mind of Marcel entering Sabry's room, perhaps without knocking . . , her eyes returned to the gazebo which was once again threatening to collapse as the sheik pushed Sabry's wheelchair through the arch, they moved to the shade of the poplar and a formal exchange of gestures took place, rather like two Frenchmen kissing and embracing, as he walked away the sheik turned and called over his shoulder, "I'll be back at six o'clock. Until then, bkhatirrkoom." Smiling with the air of a man with many things to do, he walked quickly through the glass doors and vanished, leaving Sabry idle with a sheaf of papers in his lap, he began to sort and then to read them.

  "What do you think?" asked Robin, watching her face.

  "I think it's time I found out." She stood up. "Court, may I borrow Robin for a few minutes?"

  "Of course," Court said, looking baffled.

  Robin followed her across the grass to the ground-floor entrance. Inside the door she turned to face him. "I want to get into Ibrahim Sabry's room and search it, Robin. Can you unlock
his door for me?"

  He glanced quickly out into the garden at Sabry. "That's a damned fool idea."

  She tapped her foot impatiently. "There may not be another chance, Robin, it's a warm afternoon, it's nearing tea time and he looks settled under the tree. I want to find out if he's really an invalid, there has to be something, some hint—a pair of shoes with worn heels, a snapshot, even blood on his clothes if he was downstairs last night. Robin, do hurry!"

  "All right," he said with a sigh. "Take the elevator, I'll meet you." He ran up the stairs two at a time and Mrs. Pollifax entered the elevator, at her floor she stepped out to wait, and after several minutes had ticked past Robin rejoined her. "I'm protesting this," he said angrily, "and I insist upon going in with you."

  She said flatly, "Absolutely not. If anything happens— if he has hairy monsters waiting in his room to detour people—then you're the only one who knows what I've been up to."

  His mouth tightened. "The balcony then. Ill stand on his balcony and not even breathe until you've left. For God's sake, woman, I can't chat amiably in the garden when I know you're in here. You're an amateur at this!"

  She looked at him with exasperation but it was his skill that would unlock the door for her, after all. "All right," she said, "the balcony then," and led the way down the hall. Robin bent over the lock of number 153, the door opened and they entered Sabry's room.

  "Now please—out of sight," she urged.

  He moved across the room, stopping only to unlock the two doors of the huge wardrobe, which was fortuitous because they had not occurred to her at all. Blowing a kiss he slipped through the balcony door and was gone.

  There was silence, and Mrs. Pollifax looked around her.

  This room was darker than hers because it faced the mountain that hung over the Clinic but otherwise it was identical to her own, she hoped very much that it would yield something to support her suspicions. Going first to the desk she unearthed a number of papers, all of them written in Arabic, there were no snapshots, she turned to the right-hand side of the wardrobe that Robin had so thoughtfully unlocked for her and went through the five suits hanging there but she found no traces of blood on his clothes, nor were there any shoes in this side of the wardrobe, there was a suitcase, however, and Mrs. Pollifax removed it and carried it to the bed. It was a relatively small suitcase, 30" in size and weighing roughly twenty pounds, she judged, an identification tag dangled from its handle and picking it up she saw to her surprise that it was not Sabry's suitcase. It belonged to the sheik, who must have brought it with him today, the tag read Yazdan ibn Ka-shan, and, underneath, a temporary address had been scribbled in pencil: Suite I-A, Hotel Montreux-Palace, Montreux, Suisse, that was where he was spending the night, then, and at six o'clock he would come back and pick up the suitcase, she leaned over the lock but it had been made doubly secure by the addition of two small brass padlocks, which she found curious, she half-turned toward the balcony and then reminded herself of Sabry, the suitcase could wait. Leaving it on the bed she returned to the closet to open and search the left side, she turned the knob, tugged and drew the door open.