A Palm for Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  Marcel's body, the upper half wrapped in glistening transparent plastic, occupied the entire half of the wardrobe, his spine curled into the foetal position, his head turned to one side, his vacant dead eyes staring straight into hers.

  Mrs. Pollifax screamed.

  She could not remember screaming before in her life. It was involuntary, an outraged protest, a reply to those staring, sightless eyes and to the shocked realization that his body had never been discovered at all. In the charged silence that followed her scream she heard the handle to the balcony door turn and then she heard the sound of running feet out in the hall and the door to the hall was thrown open. Sabry stood gaping at her, there was no sign of his wheelchair.

  His glance moved from the suitcase on the bed to the opened door of the closet and his pale face turned scarlet, with three long strides he crossed the room, lifted his hand and struck her across the cheek. "Fool!" he gasped. "Idiot! Imbecile! Who are you?"

  Mrs. Pollifax wordlessly shook her head.

  He drew a gun from his pocket and tested its weight in one hand, his eyes malevolent, and then without another word he stalked out of the room across the hall and knocked with the gun at room 154. One of Madame Parviz's white-jacketed attendants answered the knock and Sabry gestured mutely at Mrs. Pollifax standing in his room, the man's eyes widened and he sucked in his breath with a hiss. Behind him Hafez appeared, and then the second attendant, both trying to look past Sabry.

  Mrs. Pollifax had begun edging toward the hall when Hafez saw her. His mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Madame!" he cried in a shocked voice. "Oh, madame !" Darting under Sabry's arm he ran across the hall and flung his arms around her protectively.

  "You know her!" accused Sabry, following.

  "She is my friend Madame Pollifax," cried Hafez. "Don't you dare touch her, don't you dare!"

  Sabry viciously slapped him. "You told her!"

  The mark of the blow was livid on Hafez's cheek. "I did not," he gasped. "I did not. Monsieur, I beg of you. You think I risk Grandmama's Ufe?"

  Mrs. Pollifax stood listening and watching in fascinated horror, she made no move to speak or to act; a knot had just been untied and an unraveling had begun.

  Sabry moved to the wardrobe and carefully locked both doors again. "She has seen what is inside," he told them. "We must get her out of here."

  "Injection?"

  "No, no, too dangerous at this hour." He realized he was speaking in English and began to issue orders in Arabic. One attendant hurried down the hall and returned pushing Sabry's wheelchair, which he must have abandoned down the hall at the sound of her scream. To the second man, reverting to English, he said, "Get the car, Munir." To Munir's question in Arabic he said with a shake of his head, "No, no, we do nothing until we speak with Yazdan."

  ‘ "What does he mean, the car?" whispered Mrs. Pollifax to Hafez.

  His hand tightened convulsively in hers. "They are going to take you to the sheik, who left by car for Montreux fifteen minutes ago, they will ask him what to do about you. Madame, you are in great trouble."

  "Yes," she agreed, nodding, but on the other hand she knew it was the price she had to pay for watching the pieces of the puzzle rearrange themselves.

  Munir had vanished to get the car, she saw the second attendant emerge from Hafez's room wearing a sports jacket and slipping a gun into his pocket. Sabry sat down in the wheelchair and pointed to the suitcase lying on the bed. "Bring it to me, Fouad—place it on my lap with a blanket to cover it. Quickly! It's not to be left here again." To Mrs. Pollifax he said grimly, "You will be leaving the Clinic now for a pleasant little Sunday drive, the boy will go, too. You will walk quietly beside my wheelchair, looking as if you are pleased. If you make a move, if you call out, speak or try to signal anyone the boy will pay with his life, do you understand?" His eyes raked her face with a hatred that had all the impact of a blow.

  "I understand," she said quietly, there was no need to speculate any longer about evil, she had just met with it, felt it, and it shook her.

  "And you, Hafez," he continued softly, "you will recall your own situation and see that you behave. Serafina will remain with your grandmother. It needs only a telephone call—"

  "I know," Hafez said in a strangled voice.

  "Show them your gun, Fouad." He nodded as Fouad brought it from his pocket, displayed it and returned it to his pocket. "Good, we will go." His voice was contemptuous.

  And so they began their exodus down the long, carpeted hall, a small, tightly knit group, a man in a wheelchair with a woman on one side, a boy on the other and an attendant behind; a kind of obscene Family Portrait for Visitors' Day, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and began to wonder what could be done. Nothing for the moment, she realized sadly, there was Robin, she was certain that he was safe but she had no idea how much he could have overheard from the balcony. Certainly he had heard her scream for she recalled the balcony door opening but it had quickly closed, which—under the circumstances—had saved him. Had he heard the footsteps running in the hall? If he had heard that much then he could have heard anything, and that was hopeful.

  The elevator reached the Reception floor and the doors slid open, Sabry nodded to the head concierge behind the counter, they moved to the huge main door and Fouad neatly maneuvered the wheelchair down the steps. Just out of sight beyond the entrance Munir sat at the wheel of a long black limousine with the motor running. I ought to scream, thought Mrs. Pollifax, but she was paralyzed by the knowledge of how casually Sabry killed; he would think so little of a child's life or hers. Sabry issued more orders in Arabic and after a swift glance around him he climbed out of the wheelchair to take Munir's place at the wheel while Fouad folded up the chair and placed it in the trunk, the other attendant pushed Mrs. Pollifax and Hafez into the rear, where Fouad joined them on a jump seat, his gun out of his pocket now and leveled at Hafez.

  Slowly the car moved up the entrance drive past the greenhouse, entered the main road through the woods and headed toward the village. Mrs. Pollifax exchanged a glance with Hafez and tried to give him a reassuring smile that failed, she was wondering what Robin could do, she was realizing that the most obvious course, calling the police, would take an incredible amount of time and include complications and explanations beyond belief, and neither she nor Hafez had time, she began instead to think of what she could do, which was nothing for the moment, but when they reached Montreux, and the Hotel Montreux-Palace, she thought there might be possibilities if she kept her wits about her, she could not imagine another Family Scene moving through another lobby. Someone would be sent up to Suite I-A—Munir or Fouad, she presumed—to summon the sheik downstairs, that would reduce their captors by two, and no one in the group realized that she knew karate. If she and Hafez acted together they might overpower the remaining two men and escape. But not without the suitcase, thought Mrs. Pollifax; she was growing very interested in a suitcase with two extra locks that could not be left behind.

  "Two quick karate chops to disable them," she said to herself. "Hafez open the car doors and I snatch the suitcase—" She fastened her gaze on the back of Sabry's neck and plotted the precise route of her karate strike while she tried not to think what would happen if she failed.

  They reached Villeneuve and turned to the right along the waterfront, heading for Montreux. On their left Lake Geneva looked placid and washed of color in the late afternoon sun. Returning her glance to the back of Sabry's neck she inadvertently caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and hastily looked away, her glance falling to the mirror attached to the side of the car. In it, to her astonishment, she saw the reflection of a dark blue Mercedes convertible following behind them.

  A dark blue Mercedes convertible...

  Her heart began to beat faster, there was suddenly nowhere for her eyes to safely rest and she began to study the floor of the car and then the gun in Fouad's lap, snatching quick furtive glances into the mirror before dropping her eyes. It was impossible to see the driver of t
he Mercedes, or to read its license plate, she told herself there must be thousands of dark blue Mercedes cars in Switzerland, and dozens of them on this shore of the lake. On the other hand, this car was definitely dark blue and it was allowing other cars to pass while it remained at exactly the same distance behind them.

  It was a wide road, with increasing traffic. Glancing past Sabry she saw a castle up ahead on the other side of the road, and for a moment her attention was pleasantly distracted by the sight of turrets, ancient stone walls and pointed clay tile roofs, she was staring at it when Fouad suddenly cried, "Ha-sib! Ookuff!"

  Mrs. Pollifax turned her head and saw a flash of dark blue passing on their left, she caught a quick glimpse of a familiar profile—it was Robin—and saw his car surge ahead of the limousine. What followed happened all at once: the dark blue Mercedes cleared their car and slowed, Sabry leaned on his horn and cursed, the Mercedes braked and jerked to a stop and Sabry's car rammed it from behind with a crash and a grinding of metal.

  Robin had just sacrificed the rear of his Mercedes convertible. For him, she thought, there could be no greater sacrifice.

  Furiously Sabry tried to start up the limousine again but there were only ugly rattling noises. "Out!" he shouted. "Ukhruj!"

  Doors opened and Mrs. Pollifax and Hafez were hustled outside to stand under the rock wall that rose almost perpendicular to that side of the road. Fouad's gun prodded her in the back. Mrs. Pollifax saw that the accident occupied most the westbound lane to Montreux and that cars were coming to a standstill behind them. On the eastbound side the traffic moving toward Villeneuve was slowing to watch, the castle stood across the highway and an exodus had begun from the gates; several more hardy souls had already hurried to the center of the highway. Framed behind them stood a modest sign identifying the castle as the Castle de Chillón, open for tourists from 9 to 5.

  Sabry cursed viciously. Turning to Fouad he snarled, "Get them out of here. Take them into the Castle—quickly, before a crowd gathers. Take this, too," he said, thrusting the suitcase at Fouad. "Come back in forty-five minutes. Hurry!"

  For just a moment Mrs. Pollifax weighed the possibilities of running, but although Fouad's gun had been pocketed he held Hafez tightly by the arm, she and Hafez were thrust around the back of the car and out into the road where Robin and Sabry were confronting each other in fury. "You're damned right I cut you off!" she heard Robin shout. "How could I do anything else when you swerved out and accelerated at the same time? Somebody call the police!" he called across the road. "Gendarmes! Polizei!"

  Good thinking, she thought.

  Fouad hurried them across the highway, up the graveled walk and over a wooden bridge to the ticket booth where he shoved coins across the counter and held up three fingers. Just as the sound of a police siren rent the air they walked through the huge ancient gate and into an open, cobbled courtyard.

  Thirteen

  The rock on which Chillon stands," said the guide, "was occupied by men of the Bronze Age and later by the Romans, the ancient road from Italy over Great St. Bernard was widened at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Chillón was built to guard the narrow defile between the lake and the mountains and to collect taxes on all merchandise that passed."

  "I hope there are dungeons," said Hafez.

  They stood in the courtyard at the edge of a tour group, and at Hafez's words Mrs. Pollifax turned to look at Fouad, her impression was that he was angry and bored at the necessity of guarding a boy and an old woman, he gripped the suitcase with one hand while his right hand remained in his pocket curled around the butt of the gun but he looked cross and shifted frequently from one foot to the other.

  "Are there dungeons?" Hafez asked Fouad.

  With a martyred air Fouad handed each of them the printed map and leaflet that had been distributed at the gate without cost, she could sympathize with his predicament; he had hoped they might enter and sit somewhere for forty-five minutes, but it was Sunday, and the few benches in the courtyard were filled with people, there could be no entrusting Hafez to so intimate and lively a scene. It was necessary to keep them separated from the tourists and he had shrewdly guessed that the only way to accomplish this was to join the tourists, they were to remain just behind the tour group and speak to no one, he had told Hafez, and Hafez had obligingly translated his words to Mrs. Pollifax.

  "There are dungeons," said Hafez, consulting the diagram, "but not yet. Not until we finish with the underground vaults." He lifted innocent eyes to Mrs. Pollifax. "Isn't it tremendous that there are dungeons?"

  "Tremendous," she said gravely and wondered if he was receiving signals from her as clearly as she was receiving them from him. Yes but wait, she tried to tell with her eyes.

  They passed under the windows of the caretaker's apartments and into the basement chamber of the castle, into a dim and medieval world of vaulted ceilings, ancient pillars and a floor of earth worn smooth by centuries. It was cool and dark in here; an arsenal, Hafez read aloud from his leaflet, the outside walls were striped with loopholes and through them Mrs. Pollifax could look out, almost at water level, and see Lake Geneva stretching flat and pale to the horizon, its waters gently lapping against the walls. "The dungeons are next," Hafez said, ignoring Fouad and speaking directly to her.

  "Bonivard's Prison," said the guide in English after completing his first recitation in French.

  "Dungeons," added Hafez triumphantly.

  "This room dates from before the thirteenth century, when it was transformed and vaulted. It is here, in the fourteenth century, that Bonivard, Prior of St. Victor's in Geneva, remained chained to this fifth pillar for four years."

  "Four years!" A murmur of incredulity swept through the group but Fouad took this moment to yawn, the pocket of his thin sports jacket sagged with the weight of the gun but his hand remained welded to it, the yawn was deceptive, she thought, stealing a quick glance at his face, he was stolid and gave every evidence of stupidity but he would be intelligent about his job, which was all that interested him. His dark eyes were alert and aware of every movement in the room, he knew she was watching him now and he turned and gave her a level, expressionless stare, she smiled vaguely and leaned nearer to hear the guide.

  ". ., because he was favorable to the Reformation, you see, which he wished to introduce to Geneva, he was freed in 1536 by the Bernese, and was immortalized by the English poet Byron, who has scrawled his name on this third pillar."

  The group swerved toward the third pillar and Hafez started to go with them but Fouad reached out and pulled him back. "La!" he said flatly.

  Certainly this was a grim place to spend four years, thought Mrs. Pollifax: a cold earthen floor, a low ceiling —he couldn't even have seen the water from the pillar to which he'd been chained. Recalling the equally grim circumstances that might await her and Hafez she glanced at her watch: it was 4:25 and they had been in the castle for twelve minutes. Fouad would return them to the highway at five o'clock—but that was the closing hour, she remembered soberly, she glanced at Hafez, who said quickly, "Next we go through the second courtyard and then into the Grand Hall of the High Bailiff."

  He was offering her possibilities, she realized, but all of them were limited while they dogged the steps of the tour group, she knew what Hafez had not yet learned, that groups were unwieldy, slow to react to sudden jolts and frequently composed of people who did not appreciate having their peace disturbed. Fouad already knew this, there was no appeal that either of them could make to a group, as to separating themselves from it Hafez could outrun Fouad but Mrs. Pollifax could not. Fouad, for the moment, held all the cards: a gun and a crowd of tourists.

  Hafez was looking disappointed in her, she, on the other hand, had begun to feel hopeful, a small miracle had occurred, their trip to a distasteful unknown had been

  interrupted and she saw no reason to be led back to Sabry like a lamb to the slaughter. No rational alternative presented itself but waiting did not bother her: it would give
Fouad more time in which to grow bored, and so, having a gift for enjoying the moment, she gave herself over to medieval history and the enchantment of the castle, and it really was enchanting .., they moved up a narrow wooden staircase to the next level and into the Grand Hall of the High Bailiff.

  "Savoy period," Hafez read aloud. "In 1536 the Bernese divided the hall into three, their 'Grand Kirchen' being to the north, the separating walls were removed in 1836."

  Again Fouad yawned.

  They moved on, through the Coat-of-Arms Hall, the Duke's Chamber, several apartments and then a chapel, where they lingered before they filed through a passageway up into the Grand Hall of the Count. "Now called the Hall of Justice," recited Hafez, consulting the leaflet. "In the Middle Ages used for receptions and banquets, the tapestry hangings are all thirteenth century, the fireplace and ceiling are fifteenth century."