Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief

by Dorothy Gilman

  Meekly Bishop had said, "It's very easily explained, you know. Agents do occasionally take vacations and this one happened to be already in Sicily. Visiting an expatriate aunt, I believe."

  So Rossi ter had an aunt, she mused, and decided this was very promising, because if it was his vacation that was being interrupted he just might be happy to return to it once she'd connected with Farrell. And I'll make sure he does, she thought darkly, remembering Morocco, and the only other agent with whom she'd shared an assignment in which, because of him, she had very nearly lost her life. Definitely this Rossiter must be encouraged to return to his aunt, she decided; after all, two was company and three a crowd.

  Putting aside these increasingly indignant thoughts she asked for a pillow and blanket from the stewardess, which she knew to be optimistic of her. It had always been a source of astonishment to Mrs. Pollifax that Cyrus could sleep so soundly on their travels by air. Considering the fact that no plane had ever been designed to accommodate a man of his size she thought his sleeping a small miracle, whereas she could only nap, wake up blurred and dull, nap again, and eventually resign herself to wakefulness. It was no different for her on this night: after being served dinner and reading a newspaper she briefly napped and was awake by midnight. Ignoring the film shown on the screen overhead she brought out the map of Sicily that Bishop had tucked into her purse, finding this of far more interest than the movie, which seemed full of dark alleys and murky figures being stabbed or shot. With the aid of a pocket flashlight she began a search for Palermo and Erice: Palermo was easy, being a major city and clearly defined on the coast but it took half an hour to find Erice, a small town in small print on the map, and a half an hour longer to translate kilometers into miles and discover that Erice was a drive of only a few hours from the Palermo airport. But in looking over the names of other towns on the map she could at last admit to a sense of relief at being met at the airport by someone more knowledgeable of the island than she, for how was it possible, she wondered, to distinguish between Petralia Sottana and Petralia Soprana, or Casteldaccia, Califimo, Castroreale, and Castellammare?

  The film ended, breakfast was served—it was two in the morning by her watch and she set it ahead to eight o'clock. They landed in Milan, where she changed planes, and now at last she could look down on a marvelously blue sea. Not the Mediterranean she remembered from her map, but the Gulf of Palermo, and presently they were circling over land and beginning their descent into Sicily. Or Sicilia, she amended. Once landed, her anticipation overcame any drowsiness; she retrieved her luggage, made her way through Customs—it was all surprisingly casual—and walked out of the terminal building into brilliant sunshine.

  She stood a moment, feasting on the brightness of sky and sun. Off to her right a fantastically surreal stone mountain rose out of the earth, beige in the morning light and veined with purple shadows. The parking lot across the road held a garden of small red, green, black and white cars. Standing next to a white car a man in a black suit, hands in his pockets, watched her. A young woman in faded jeans with a backpack and long braided hair leaned against a bright red car. A man and a boy stood waiting by the terminal's entrance, their eyes glued to the interior. The girl with the backpack left her car to stroll toward the building, but after a glance Mrs. Pollifax's gaze swerved to the man in the black suit who was also moving toward her.

  "Mrs. Pollifax?"

  Startled, she turned to find the young woman at her side. Automatically she said, "Yes?" and then, "Good heavens, you can't be—" She stared at the girl in astonishment, thinking her surely no more than college age: her blond braid was tied with a shoestring, her face sunburned and lightly freckled and her eyes a clear blue. "—can't be," she faltered, "the Rossiter I'm to meet?"

  The girl responded politely but there was an edge to her voice. "You're shocked to find Rossiter a female? They didn't tell you?"

  Mrs. Pollifax vigorously shook her head. "It's not that—it's your age. You don't look a day over eighteen and they said— they told me—"

  "Yes?" she asked coolly.

  "Told me I'd be met by someone very experienced."

  "Oh, that." She sounded amused. Picking up Mrs. Pollifax's suitcase she said, "The red car is ours and I'm not eighteen, I'm twenty-six."

  It was the freckles that did it, Mrs. Pollifax had to admit. As a child she had longed to have freckles, for what obscure reason she could no longer remember, and although Mrs. Pollifax might be startled to find that Rossiter was a young woman— and she was still very doubtful about her credentials as an experienced agent—nevertheless this Rossiter was a distinct improvement over the Rossiter she had envisioned; she was not about to be ungracious.

  The girl unlocked the trunk of the car and deposited Mrs. Pollifax's suitcase in it. Opening the passenger door for her she said, "We ought to reach Erice by early afternoon."

  "Not midday?"

  "Midday is very flexible in this country," the girl said.

  "You know Sicily well, then?"

  Her voice was curt. "Yes."

  "I think," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax gently, "that you can talk to me without betraying any secrets. After all, we're employed by the same people. I only asked if you know Sicily well."

  She was given an appraising glance as the engine roared into life. "Am I being rude? I think it's that red-feathered hat you're wearing. Heaven only knows I'm accustomed to eccentrics— my aunt is certainly one—but you look as if you've just come from a Garden Club party."

  Mrs. Pollifax said blandly, "Actually the Garden Club party took place two weeks ago and I wore a blue hat."

  Pulling out of the parking area the girl gave her a quick glance. "I think you're trying to tell me something."

  "Yes," agreed Mrs. Pollifax amiably. "And you're going to hit that dog up ahead if you're not careful."

  The girl laughed. "All right, I'm called Kate, although really my name's Caterina, and you're Mrs. Pollifax?"

  "Yes. Or Emily."

  "I can't manage Emily yet," she told her frankly. "You look too formidable and proper. They told me you were experienced, too, but you don't look it."

  "Exactly," said Mrs. Pollifax with a twinkle. "And you don't look twenty-six or—"

  "Touché," said Kate ruefully. "You win. Now tell me about this man in Erice we're to meet, or rescue—"

  "At midday," put in Mrs. Pollifax.

  "I'm a fast driver. Tell me, will you recognize him? What's he doing here? Who is he?"

  "His name is John Sebastian Farrell," said Mrs. Pollifax, "and he's obviously in trouble, or in hiding, and yes I'll recognize him, but I've no idea what he's doing in Erice. I know only that he sent an SOS asking for me and my husband—who couldn't come—and when we find him you can decide for yourself who he is. Aren't we driving very fast?"

  "I told you, I'm a fast driver. It'll be slower going once we leave the autostrada."

  "I see," said Mrs. Pollifax and thought it best to remove her gaze from the road and spare her nerves. They were close to the sea now, the autostrada lined with flowering acacia under a cloudless blue sky, and here and there she caught tantalizing glimpses of red and yellow flowers. To her left, in the distance, rose violent and volcanic shapes of rock; in the foreground she saw a calm mountain range, sharp stony peaks and closer wooded hills and rocky protuberances. The Sicilian coast appeared to be the only flat area on the island.

  "Lovely flowers here," she murmured.

  "In spring, yes," contributed Kate. "By August it's mostly brown, which is why I come in spring."

  "To visit your aunt."

  She nodded. "A bit of luck for the Department, I suppose, my already being here."

  They flashed through a dark tunnel and out onto a flat and sunny plain, and Kate pointed. "You can see Erice from here. Or Monte San Giuliano, as the mountain's called."

  "Good heavens," gasped Mrs. Pollifax, staring. "A road goes up there? The mountain looks practically vertical!"

  "You'll see," promised Ka
te.

  As the miles diminished and they left the sea behind them a cluster of roofs became visible on the mountain's peak, reassuring Mrs. Pollifax that people really lived there. Presently, veering north, they arrived at its base to begin their ascent. It was a narrow road full of hairpin turns, with deep forests of pine on either side; around and around they drove until, nearing the summit, Mrs. Pollifax wondered how on earth Farrell had ever come to this of all places; she felt a stirring of very real pleasure at seeing him again and at learning why. They drove past a low stone wall lined with brilliant yellow flowers and arrived at a paved parking area suspended over the valley below; it was occupied by a tour bus and by four cars: green, black, brown and gray.

  "We stop here," said Kate. "No public traffic allowed, the streets are too narrow."

  Mrs. Pollifax, stepping out of the car, found herself staring several thousand feet down into what must surely be half of Sicily. It was breathtaking. Lifting her gaze she looked out on serried rows of mountains diminishing into the far distance, while below her the village and country houses clutched the mountainsides and overflowed into each valley. Beyond lay the sea, dotted with islands, while at her feet the shape of a city seemed oddly out of place. With an effort she returned to Kate, who was opening the trunk to retrieve her backpack. Glancing at her wristwatch Mrs. Pollifax saw that if the day was only beginning in New York it was half-past one in the afternoon in Sicily. "We made good time."

  "Two and a half hours," Kate said triumphantly. "Now for the public square. I know the way."

  They walked quickly down narrow cobblestoned streets lined with narrow gray stone houses; sometimes a door stood open and Mrs. Pollifax could see a courtyard with tubs of bright flowers and steps leading to inner doors and courtyards; they passed a line of shops selling Pinocchio puppets, souvenirs and pastries—"almost there," said Kate—and abruptly they arrived on a broad and cobbled square. It was a pleasing sight, full of space, and most pleasing of all there was an espresso café with chairs and tables set outside in the sun.

  Kate slung her backpack over a chair and said, "What will you have? Espresso, cappuccino, a pastry?"

  "Surprise me," Mrs. Pollifax told her.

  Two young men occupied a table nearby, each of them affecting the style of French apaches in their black trousers and black T-shirts with bright scarves twisted around their throats. After one quick glance, as they gestured and argued in another language, Mrs. Pollifax turned to enjoying the pure luxury of sunshine. The air was clear and fragrant, and slowly she felt herself relaxing, touched by the peacefulness of her surroundings. The tall stone houses lining the square had an austerity that pleased her, their gray stone facades matching the ancient rough stones under her feet, the color happily relieved by bright flowers in pots on doorsteps. She watched a very erect man in a black suit emerge from the narrow street by which they'd entered the square: his chin boasted a wiry salt-and-pepper beard and he vigorously swung a cane that he dropped across a table not far from her, after which he unfurled a newspaper and disappeared behind it. Across the square a young couple wandered out of one of the lanes, both armed with cameras, and strolled over to take possession of another table.

  Thinking it resembled a stage setting she turned her head with interest as another figure entered the square, this time off to her right, a solitary man limping badly. An artist, she decided, observing the paint-smeared trousers, the loose smock and huge-brimmed black felt hat shadowing his face, and then as he limped closer she began to smile. She would have preferred to leap out of her chair and hug him but just in time she remembered why she was here, and only drew out a chair for him.

  "Farrell," she said warmly, beaming at him. "We meet again —under what circumstances I'm here to find out."

  "Thank God you've come, Duchess," he said. "Where's Cyrus?"

  "In Chicago."

  "Oh God." He sank into a chair, pulled another one closer and propped his leg across it. "You have the photos? You have a car?

  "Yes to both. I not only have a car," she said gravely, "but Cyrus insisted I not come alone, so Carstairs found a companion who is capturing a cup of something for me. In there." She pointed, adding dryly, "We met only a few hours ago at the airport. That limp," she said casually, trying not to notice how exhausted he looked. "Have you been stabbed by a jealous lover, did you trip over the cobblestones or is it part of your disguise?"

  "Actually a bullet," he said with a shrug. "It only grazed my ankle but carried away a bit of flesh as it whizzed past and it hurts like the devil."

  She stared at him, really worried now. "It's come to that, Farrell? You really are in trouble!"

  He managed a weak grin. "It pains me to say so, Duchess, but yes. I've been trapped on this damn mountain for two days and two nights, with a car I dare not use because they're watching for it, and as soon as I've caught my breath we've got to get out of here. Fast. You don't happen to have—" He stopped and looked up as Kate arrived at their table carrying a tray with three cups on it and a dish of pastries.

  Kate said coolly, "I saw there were two of you so I brought a third coffee. You must be Farrell."

  He stared at her blankly and then his gaze fell on the pastries. "Food," he said, and a second later half of an éclair was in his mouth. "Give me a minute for the coffee, can we take the food with us?"

  "Farrell, what is it?" Mrs. Pollifax demanded.

  He shivered in the sun. "I've been hiding in a dark storage room for those two days. A root cellar actually, I suppose. Food's the one thing I couldn't steal. Trousers, hat and smock no problem but except for three apples, no food."

  Kate had perched on the edge of a chair to watch him. "In the car I've more nutritious food," she told him.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax, "and should you be seen here in public? He limps," she added to Kate. "A bullet nicked his ankle."

  "Bullet?" Kate said, frowning.

  "Bullet," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Let's wrap up the pastries and

  "Delighted." Farrell wiped crumbs from his mouth and then, accusingly, to Kate, "You're not Cyrus, who are you?"

  "Kate Rossiter. Can you walk to the piazza?"

  "Yes of course, but who—what—?"

  "Later. Who she is," said Mrs. Pollifax, rising, "is not as important as finding out how on earth the pursuit of Julius Caesar's signature brought you to Erice to hide in a root cellar. For that we need privacy; people are looking."

  "Yes," said Farrell, and unpropping his leg he stood up, promptly wincing. "Okay, let's go."

  Kate Rossiter looked amused. Certainly there was nothing swashbuckling about Farrell at the moment, thought Mrs. Pollifax; his usual tan had been replaced by pallor, he needed a shave, his condition was that of a man who had been living on the edge, and she wondered if his ankle could possibly have become infected to further deplete him.

  They walked slowly back through the cobbled lanes, with Farrell between them keeping his head down and trying not to limp. With infinite relief Mrs. Pollifax saw the parking area ahead and pointed it out to him. Kate hurried ahead to unlock the red Fiat; she held the door open and Farrell slumped into the rear seat, and then to the floor.

  "Not to alarm you," he said, "but the whole point is not to be seen. I got chased here, that little brown car parked down the line is what I came in, and they know it."

  "Who chased you here?" demanded Mrs. Pollifax.

  "That's my problem, I don't know," he said, gazing up at her from the floor. "It was night, I was opening a safe in a villa that Ambrose Vica had assured me was unoccupied . . , don't know whether they were in the house or followed me there, all I know was I snatched up what I could from the safe —hearing someone behind me in the dark—and I ran. That's when I got hit—they shot at me—and once in my car they followed me. I don't know who they are or what they look like, I don't even know whether they saw me clearly, or already knew me, but they're very familiar with my car, having taken potshots at me while following me all the way up this mountain.
And they were very serious with those guns."

  "But what is it they want?" faltered Mrs. Pollifax. "What is it you found in the safe, for instance?"

  He said miserably, "I don't know that either, damn it, and I had plenty of time to look everything over in my root cellar: a pile of papers and documents, but all in Italian. There was light enough in my hiding place to see that none of them related to Julius Caesar, though." He said darkly, "It would have to be— well, something else."

  Kate, starting the car, reached into the glove compartment and handed Mrs. Pollifax a banana to give Farrell. She said, "But to hide in Erice of all places?"

  "I know, I know," he complained from his crouch on the floor. "I've never been in Sicily before, it was night, I got lost,

  I took all the wrong turns, anything to lose them—except I couldn't—and ended up stranded and trapped on the top of this mountain, not daring to go near my car, which they've probably been watching."

  As Kate backed out and turned, Mrs. Pollifax said to her softly, "Have you noticed? Those two apache-looking young men in black are leaving, too . . . the green Fiat. "

  Kate nodded. "Sitting at the table near us, yes."

  Over her shoulder Mrs. Pollifax called to Farrell, "There's one thing you left out. If you could finally get to a telephone to send a cable to Car stair s during the night—"

  "Credit card," he muttered. "Found a public phone."

  "—then I'm curious as to why you didn't send out an SOS to Ambrose Vica when you're working for him, aren't you?"

  From the rear he said angrily, "Because, damn it, I don't know whether I stumbled into a setup or not. Obviously someone knew exactly where I'd be, and exactly when."

  "And Vica knew?"

  "Of course he knew. He personally drove me past the villa the day before. Showed me where, told me how and when, and that everyone inside would be out."

  "I get the message," Mrs. Pollifax said. "Eat your banana." Noticing the speed with which Kate was negotiating their exit she said, "Kate, take it easy."