Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief

by Dorothy Gilman

  Kate shook her head. "The two apaches, as you call them, are behind us. So is a gray car. Don't look."

  Startled, she said, "Who's in the gray one?"

  "Can't see. A man, I think. Hang on, both of you," she called cheerfully, taking a curve at something that felt like seventy miles an hour.

  Mrs. Pollifax braced herself for the next curve and as they approached it she glanced back once at the road behind them and was dismayed to see the green car keeping pace with them, and close behind. "Still there," she murmured to Kate.

  "Yes, and so is the gray car."

  Mrs. Pollifax realized that she was experiencing an acute sense of shock, not only at the speed with which they were descending the mountain but at the speed with which events were overtaking her. A night without sleep, a time-change and the race across Sicily to Erice had not prepared her for so sudden a plunge into Farrell's precarious affairs. Wake up, Emily, she told herself, you can adapt, adjust and catch your breath later. In the meantime she was experiencing precisely how Farrell must have felt two nights earlier when he had been pursued with just such alacrity; it was not a comfortable feeling and on such a narrow road she could foresee no happy ending to this. Obviously Farrell had been waited for, and when he'd emerged from his hiding place he'd been seen.

  "What do you think?" she asked Kate quietly.

  She said with equal quietness, "Nothing will happen immediately, not until we're closer to Trapani—that's the city below us. The road widens there."

  "But the gray car, too?"

  "It's still behind us, and nobody goes this fast unless—" She did not finish, they were rounding still another curve with a squeal of tires, and from a contorted Farrell in the rear came a yelp of anguish.

  "We're being followed," Mrs. Pollifax explained to him in a kind voice.

  He shouted back, "I would never have guessed it, Duchess."

  "They're slowing down now!" cried Kate with a glance into her rearview mirror. Swerving around another sharp turn she leaned with the curve and spoke into Mrs. Pollifax's ear. "Whether you've noticed it or not, they've now missed two places where they could have closed in on us and pushed us off the road."

  "Maybe the gray car inhibits them; it may be full of tourists, not apaches."

  "Careening seventy miles an hour down this mountain? Not on your life!"

  Mrs. Pollifax considered this. "They may want Farrell by himself—alone.

  "You mean no witnesses."

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "They may just—well, allow us to keep going, to learn where we're taking Farrell."

  "Where are we taking Mr. Farrell? Ask him! We'll soon meet Route 187 and I have to know where to head, to the east or into Trapani."

  "Where?"

  "I told you . . . Trapani, the city below us."

  Leaning back Mrs. Pollifax called to him, "Where do we go, Farrell? Where do you suggest we go?"

  "Anywhere but Ambrose Vica's," he shouted back above the squeal of tires on another curve. "I want a large, impersonal and brightly lighted hotel while I sort things out. You need a hotel too, don't you, Duchess? You and Whatshername?"

  "We'll head for Palermo then," said Kate. "Lots of hotels there to confuse them, whoever they are. And my name is Kate."

  "Look—I see a highway through the trees," cried Mrs. Pollifax. "And cars—we're nearly down the mountain!"

  Meeting Route 187 they slowed down to enter traffic, and as Kate accelerated again a black car parked at the intersection swung in behind them, cutting off the green Fiat, and—yes, the gray one, too, still following. This was very hopeful, thought Mrs. Pollifax, because the black car inserting itself between them and the others gave them a small chance of losing the apaches.

  Kate, glancing into her rearview mirror, said, "Now that we've left the mountain I think it's time to—I think we've got to find out who and which—hang on!" Abruptly she veered off to the right and down an unpaved secondary road toward a cluster of buildings and parked cars. "A tavola calda," she said. "Loosely translated, a hot-table place—restaurant of sorts."

  "Food?" called Farrell eagerly.

  "Sorry," she called back to him, "I just want to see which car is following—"

  She did not finish the sentence. Both she and Mrs. Pollifax stared in astonishment as the black car followed them down the drive, the green Fiat behind it, and last of all the gray car. "My God, three?" gasped Kate.

  "Get out of here—fast!" cried Mrs. Pollifax.

  "Yes," gasped Kate, and gunning the car's engine she made a reckless U-turn, knocked off the taillight of a parked truck and sideswiped the gray car as they shot back onto the highway, nearly hitting a car traveling east. When Mrs. Pollifax looked back, the green car and the black car had again fallen into line behind them.

  "We've lost the gray car," she announced.

  "Only because I hit it," said Kate.

  To Farrell, Mrs. Pollifax said crossly, "You might as well stop crouching and sit up now, they seem to know you're here, in fact a surprising number of people know you're here. Why?"

  "Never mind that, my ankle's bleeding again, damn it," he told her. "How far are we to a hotel?"

  Kate said calmly, "We'll try for the Excelsior Palace Hotel, and I don't think you should sit up and be seen, Mr. Farrell, you'd be a very tempting target."

  Farrell said nastily, "I don't think I caught your name . . ." But he stayed where he was.

  Castellammare . . . Trappeto . . . Partinico . . . Monreale . . . The sky was darkening and talk subsided; they rode in silence, oppressed and depressed by the two cars relentlessly following. Mrs. Pollifax offered to take a turn at driving but after one quick observant glance Kate said no, that she was obviously the only one of them sustained by eight hours of sleep the previous night. A second banana was given to Farrell, who could occasionally be heard singing bawdy songs to cheer his spirit, or possibly to annoy Kate, toward whom he seemed excessively hostile.

  "We're not far now from Palermo," Kate said at last, and with a wave of her hand, "This is the Corso Calatafimi heading straight into the city, then we turn up the Via Maqueda, which turns into the Via della Liberta, and—voilà!—the hotel. We ought to be able to lose them in Palermo. There'll be a lot of cars and not many traffic lights."

  Unfortunately the apaches in the green Fiat had apparently thought of this, too. Dusk having arrived, and the traffic having thinned the Fiat suddenly accelerated, veered out of line and pulled ahead to drive beside them. It did not pass them but stayed abreast of them until—

  "Damn," said Kate as the Fiat nudged the side of their car gently, and then with a hard thrust pushed them relentlessly off the road. They had no choice but to stop; the Fiat pulled in ahead of them while the black car drew up at a distance behind them: they were neatly contained between the two.

  I do not like this, thought Mrs. Pollifax grimly, but she noticed with approval that Kate turned off neither the motor nor the lights.

  Farrell, lifting his head, said, "What on earth—"

  "Down!" snapped Mrs. Pollifax. She wondered why she bothered to caution him when obviously they were now completely at the mercy of their pursuers. She moved slightly to accommodate Kate, who was leaning across her; with one hand Kate opened the glove compartment and drew out a gun. "Hold this a minute, will you?" she said. "Be careful, it's loaded."

  "A 9 mm Smith & Wesson," murmured Mrs. Pollifax. "I can't think of anything I'd rather hold for a minute! However did you smuggle it into Sicily?"

  "Didn't," Kate said briefly, and rolled down the window at her side. From her pocket she produced a leather glove, inserted her right hand into it and casually reached for the gun, which Mrs. Pollifax handed over with pleasure.

  The door of the green Fiat opened and one of the young men in black climbed out, brightly illuminated by the beam of their headlights. Mrs. Pollifax waited, scarcely daring to breathe.

  He approached them smiling pleasantly, but she saw that he had a gun, too; it was in his pocket, his right h
and resting on its butt just like a gunfighter in a Western film, thought Mrs. Pollifax. The scene froze like a nightmare, their car lights spotlighting the man's hard tight face and the black leather jacket he wore now. Mrs. Pollifax thought, He wants to kill Farrell, he really intends to kill him—or take him away and kill him, drag him out of the car to murder him, and he looks—oh God, as if he's done this many times before.

  Beside her Kate sat waiting, too, the window rolled down, a pleasant smile on her lips as if she expected to exchange courtesies with the man, or to be asked directions. As he neared them he brought the gun out of his pocket and the scene unfroze as Kate quickly leaned out of the window, targeted him and fired her Smith & Wesson. Hearing three shots Mrs. Pollifax closed her eyes and thought wildly, Remember, he wanted to kill Farrell . . . Opening her eyes she was greatly relieved to see that only the man's right hand been hit; it no longer held his gun and he was staring dazedly at the blood dripping from his wrist. The other two bullets had efficiently punctured the rear tires of the Fiat, which were slowly—with almost comical slowness—deflating.

  Immediately Kate backed up the car, ramming the one behind them, accelerated and pulled out into the Corso Calatafimi. She said flatly, "That does it. I'm sorry but Palermo's too dangerous, we keep going. No hotel would be safe, the only place for you now is my aunt's house."

  MRS. POLLIFAX HAD FALLEN ASLEEP WHEN SHE heard Kate say in an amused voice, "Wake up, you two, we're here."

  With a start she opened her eyes to see that it was night and there were stars in the sky. The headlights of the car were trained on a massive wrought-iron gate with an ancient crusted bell hanging beside it on a chain. Her gaze broadened to encompass a high wall that ran to the left and right of the gate before disappearing into the darkness. She said confusedly, "Your aunt lives here? We're here where your aunt lives?"

  Kate's glance was sympathetic. "Yes, and I'm going to ring the bell, which is a very loud bell. I didn't want to startle you."

  Behind her Farrell sat up and rubbed his eyes; she saw that he had at last taken over the rear seat and had lain down to sleep. She glanced behind him, half expecting to see a car, other houses or traffic but saw only an unpaved and rutted road slanting downward; apparently Kate's aunt lived on a hill. At a distance she could see the tiny scattered lights of a village or town, and beyond this an empty expanse that might be water. Perhaps the nightmare of being pursued was over and they were safe, she thought, but only time and whoever lived behind this gate would stifle her uneasiness. She wondered what Kate's aunt would think of her niece bringing her two battle-worn guests in the night.

  "Where are we?" she asked.

  "Not far from Cefalù," Kate told her. She climbed out of the car to ring the bell, which proved just as loud and startling as she had predicted.

  When the echo was fading Mrs. Pollifax turned to Farrell. Before she had so ignobly fallen asleep she remembered the serious thinking that she'd done and she said now, quietly, "Farrell, there's more to this than Caesar's signature, there has to be. I mean, there's the funeral, and the photographs you asked to be taken, and those dreadful men after you; there has to be more."

  "Oh yes," he said sleepily, and yawned. "Damn it yes, there's more."

  "I thought so." She eyed him sympathetically. "Did you sleep at all in that root cellar?"

  "Not much. There were spiders .., it was cold, too. Food would be a treat," he said wistfully. "I feel quite cross. I suppose I've been rather hard on that frighteningly efficient young woman who carries a gun and actually shoots it?"

  "Yes, and if she hadn't," she reminded him, "you would have been carried off by that man, or—even worse—shot on the spot."

  He groaned. "God, I hate being grateful to such a superior and wholesome wench scarcely out of her teens."

  "On the contrary," said Mrs. Pollifax tartly, "she's twenty-six, she's CIA and well trained, is obviously resourceful, not to mention attractive, and what you're really saying is that she isn't impressed at all by you."

  He had the grace to grin at this, his teeth very white in the dim light. "Right as usual, Duchess. Amazing how the ego requires nourishment once a man reaches forty."

  The gate had opened a few feet and Kate was speaking to a swarthy middle-aged man in a white shirt; they both laughed and as she returned to the car he swung both gates open and gestured them inside. Kate drove through and stopped. "This is Peppino, we'll give him a lift." They waited while he closed and barred the gates and climbed into the rear, smiling at Farrell, who made room for him with a suspicious glance.

  Looking ahead Mrs. Pollifax saw a long rectangular shape blacker than the dark sky: a sprawling country farmhouse from the look of it. As the car swept up the drive the beam of its headlights picked out a grove of olive trees on the left; continuing past both grove and house they turned into a drive at the rear and passed a magnificent garden of flowers that immediately pleased Mrs. Pollifax. Whoever lived here, she decided, had heart. The car came to a stop and a door in the rear of the house opened to cut a sharp rectangle of golden light out of the darkness.

  Kate, picking up her backpack, said, "Welcome to Villa Franca."

  Stepping out of the car Mrs. Pollifax saw that a most startling woman had arrived in the doorway and she thought, Her hair simply can't be orange, it has to be a trick of light, it has to be, but as she approached the doorway the hair remained orange and grew steadily brighter. The woman was neither short nor tall, certainly not young, and it was impossible to find her figure because it was draped in a number of shawls over a long skirt. Her feet were bare. As she stepped back into the light Mrs. Pollifax looked into her face and was even more startled: bright mascara had been dabbed on each eyelid with careless abandon and her eyes were outlined in kohl. She can't be a day younger than fifty, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and was thoroughly awed by such an extravagant appearance.

  "Franca, we're in trouble," Kate said very simply to the woman in the doorway. "I've brought you guests."

  With an interested glance at Mrs. Pollifax and at Farrell the woman nodded. "Of course, dear," she said, and to Peppino, "You'd better carry a gun tonight, Peppi, and be sure the gates are double-barred."

  Farrell stared at her in astonishment. "Guns? Gates?" he muttered. "She's used to this sort of thing?"

  Kate turned to them with a smile. "I haven't introduced you . . , sorry! This is my aunt Franca Osborne, and, Franca, this is Mrs. Pollifax and Mr. Farrell."

  "I can't think why we're crowded around the door like this," said her aunt in her rich throaty voice. "Do come in, you'd like some food, of course, everyone does. Igeia?" she called. "Anonin! People! Guests!"

  She ushered them into a huge old country kitchen, its ceiling striped with beams from which hung stalks of herbs and ropes of peppers. There was a fireplace and two iron wood stoves but the room was dominated by the long wooden trestle table that occupied the center of the room and was well lighted by hanging lamps. The two visitors huddled by the door, but this time just inside it, while Franca looked them over. "No pajamas, no toothbrushes, I suppose . . . Igeia! Food, pajamas, toothbrushes, two beds . . . anonin!"

  A thin little woman in black came bustling through the arched doorway to the kitchen. "I'm here, I'm here, Franca. The pasta con le sarde?"

  "There should be enough, and some wine—the Etna Rosso —while I give rooms to them."

  Mrs. Pollifax, seeing one of the lamps flicker, said in surprise, "But those are kerosene lamps!"

  "Oh yes, we've no electricity here," Franca said briskly. "We have a generator but we run it only once a day. Come!"

  Carrying candles and flashlights she led them down an endless brick-floored dark hallway past a line of closed doors, and Mrs. Pollifax thought, We've walked into another world here—or another century. She felt quite disoriented after their race down the mountain and their brush with a gunman, and what a rambling and mysterious house this was, she decided, and certainly much larger than it had looked from outside. Opening a
door at last, Franca pointed at Mrs. Pollifax. "You," she said, handing her candle and flashlight, and opening the next door summoned Farrell. "You," she told him.

  "And perhaps a bathroom?" inquired Farrell with hope. "There's plumbing?"

  A door to a bathroom was opened down the hall. "Bring them back quickly to eat," she told Kate. "Igeia needs her sleep." To Farrell she added, "Your ankle is bleeding."

  "Yes."

  She nodded. "Peppino will see to the ankle after you've eaten."

  Ten minutes later they were seated in the kitchen hungrily eating a casserole of pasta, sardines and pimentos flavored richly with herbs. After serving them Igeia had disappeared, and Kate's aunt had tactfully withdrawn, too. Farrell said in astonishment, "Your aunt doesn't ask any questions about us?"

  Kate looked amused. "We've interrupted her work, she's a painter. An artist."

  "She has orange hair," Farrell told her accusingly.

  "Oh that . . , it's a wig," Kate said. "It amuses her, she buys platinum wigs and colors them. If she decides tomorrow is a purple day for her, she'll have purple hair tomorrow."

  "How—how extraordinary," said Farrell weakly, and resumed eating.

  "No electricity is extraordinary, too," said Mrs. Pollifax, staring fascinated at the hand pump at the sink and the pair of huge wood stoves. Reluctantly she thrust aside the mood this house had induced in her and groped for efficiency. "There's a great deal to talk about," she told Farrell sternly. "Are you going to telephone Ambrose Vica about your abandoning his car in Erice, not to mention being shot at, or—what are you going to do?"

  Farrell made a face. "It's much pleasanter to think of food and a real bed to sleep in tonight, and Peppino with a gun outside, although why Franca felt at once that he should carry a gun is very puzzling."

  Kate said vaguely, "Oh. Well. Yes, I suppose so."

  "Yes, but it's time we talk," Mrs. Pollifax told him firmly. "You've admitted there's more to this than you originally mentioned. You said so while Kate was opening the gates, and after all—three cars chasing us! I'll trade you the photos taken at the funeral in Virginia if you show us what you stole—"