Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief

by Dorothy Gilman

  "Actually it no longer hurts," he admitted. "I hear you went off at dawn and paid a call on Ambrose Vica?"

  "Yes," she said, and described her visit in detail.

  "Sounds as if he put on a good act for you. Did Whatsher-name go with you?"

  "Her name is Kate Rossiter," she reminded him gently, "and no, she waited for me in the car."

  He nodded. "Actually I'm not sorry you met him. If he knows that I've not abandoned him, and what I ran into, this buys me time."

  "For what?" she asked.

  "To look for Mr. and Mrs. Davidson—or Aristotle—who was not a hallucination or a trick of fever, I can assure you. Duchess, we've got to talk," he said, leaning closer. "This Julius Caesar business is nothing compared with finding Aristotle before he kills any more people, not to mention me. I want to find him, I insist on finding him."

  "Yes," she agreed, considering this thoughtfully. "I'm sure that if he's in Sicily he has every intention of not being found, so it will be rather like looking for a needle in a haystack, won't it? And yet—" She frowned. "I've decided against all logic to believe it was Aristotle you met. I don't understand how he can be here in Sicily and not safely tucked away in a French prison, but you knew him, too, and if you saw him then he must be here—at least until proven otherwise," she added. "Do you think he'd been staying with Ambrose Vica?"

  Farrell scowled. "When we met he was just leaving, but of course he was about to drive his wife to the airport, so frankly I don't know. But he'd certainly lunched with Vica so they know each other. Vica could be hiding him somewhere—possibly in his house—because although I spent two nights there it's a big house."

  "You still have a temperature," she reminded him, "and there's danger waiting out there, Farrell."

  He nodded. "I know . . . I'm willing to invest some of this day in convalescing because I'm bloody tired of limping and I'll need all my wits about me, but I'll languish only until tonight, Duchess. Definitely I can't waste a night, the only reasonably safe season of the day for reconnoitering. You'll help?"

  "Of course," she told him. "What do you plan to do?"

  "I want two things," he said firmly. "I want to find that house again where I was shot, and take another crack at getting the Julius Caesar document—if it exists . . . I've been thinking about that, and about those two men waiting for me, not to mention their chasing me all the way to Erice. I frankly find it very mysterious. Like this house," he said. "Did you know the generator was humming all night here? I woke up once and heard it. Somewhere below us, probably in the cellar."

  She shook her head. "I slept too soundly, at least until some men talking outside woke me at six, but I don't see anything mysterious about a generator."

  "No? Well, it didn't run for us, we had to make do with candles."

  "Yes, but why do you want to go back to the house where you were shot? It's reckless."

  He grinned. "Because it's occurred to me at some point during my profound contemplations this morning that if I return to Ambrose Vica empty-handed I've no reason to stay in Sicily."

  "He'd dismiss you?"

  "He'd have every right to. However, if I can have a second try at that safe, and search Raphael's house and find the Caesar document—"

  "Steal it, you mean?"

  "—find the Caesar document," he repeated, ignoring her remark, "I could then establish myself at Ambrose Vica's estate for weeks while I do all the proper tests to learn if it's authentic: the inks, the paper—probably papyrus, not parchment—and so on. I'll insist that you come with me—you can be my aunt— and what better headquarters for mounting an efficient hunt for the so-called Davidsons?"

  She smiled. "The idea has appeal, but the house you burglarized may not be empty this time."

  "It wasn't empty last time," he pointed out, "but on this visit I'll jolly well have a gun with me—and incidentally, have you noticed what a fortress this Villa Franca is, and how many guns there are in the place? That's mysterious, too."

  "Bandits," put in Mrs. Pollifax, and repeated what Kate had told her. "I assume you'll need one or two accomplices in this burglary, such as myself and whatshername?" There was a twinkle in her eye.

  He said grudgingly, "Well, she does know how to shoot straight; I daresay she could come along, it's her car after all."

  "And the second item on your list in this plan?"

  "Oh, that's simplest of all. Top priority, we can do that tonight," he told her. "I want to do some prowling around Vica's house in the dark and see if the Davidsons are hiding there. Or his wife. I know the layout, and Ambrose isn't into drawing curtains at night—or conserving electricity either."

  "How nice that he has it. I brought sneakers," she said, nodding. "Anything more?"

  He said sheepishly, "Well, my suitcase at Vica's is in a bedroom just off the balcony on the second floor, and I'm damned tired of this artist's smock. It's boring. It's also filthy. I thought I might bring back some clean clothes while we do the Peeping Tom bit."

  "Tonight, then?" Seeing Franca emerge from the door of the kitchen she said in a low voice, "Here comes Franca, can you face her yet?"

  "After being told I'm imagining things? Not without considerable hostility, no."

  "I've been admiring your garden," Mrs. Pollifax called to her. "It's lovely and so fragrant."

  Franca acknowledged the compliment by stopping. "Of course water's quite limited here," she said, "which is why we lean on wildflowers and herbs, as you can see. Except for the gladioli and the tomatoes."

  "Of course . . , chamomile . . , calendula . . , borage . . , wild daisies . . ." Mrs. Pollifax smiled at her, feeling quite adjusted now to the green hair. "I'd like so much to see your other work—your paintings, you know—if it's not intrusive. I'm sure Farrell would, too."

  Franca said in a startled voice, "Oh . . . Well, you see . . , that is .., it's so precarious just now, and—" Her voice trailed away in a cloud of vagueness. "Would you like another chair? Someone seems to have removed one."

  Mrs. Pollifax gravely assured her that sitting on a three-legged stool was comfortable.

  Franca nodded. "I must get back to work."

  "To your art," Farrell said. "Yes of course. Was that your line of work back in the States, too, before you came here?"

  Franca looked amused. "I was in advertising, responsible for the Toasty-Cozy ads. Lunch at twelve," she called over her shoulder. With a smile for her guests she cut across the garden to the skylighted addition that was apparently her studio, and Mrs. Pollifax saw that the door to her studio had been locked because Franca drew a key from her pocket to unlock it. A moment later she was gone.

  Mrs. Pollifax, feeling rather snubbed, said, "She seems very sensitive about her painting."

  "Probably because it's bad. Bucolic scenes of Sicily, no doubt. Peasants working the soil, or paintings of those jolly little Sicilian carts they drive tourists around in Palermo."

  "Don't be cynical," she told him. "Unless that grandfather left her a fortune Franca supports a whole village with her work, in which case it must be remarkably good. You should have insisted. After all, you own a gallery and sell paintings."

  "Supports an entire village!" echoed Farrell. "You have to be kidding."

  "That's what Kate said. It's at the bottom of the hill, just out of sight."

  "Let's take a look," said Farrell. "I'm supposed to stay off my feet today but we can see it from up here, surely?"

  They rose and walked to the road that swept around to the rear of the house, and strolling a few feet beyond it looked at what lay below. The hill was steep but its slope was gradual and to her surprise the houses began at its base. "It's so near!" she exclaimed. "But it's so—so shabby."

  Farrell laughed. "You expected something American? Model homes, newly built with garages and paved driveways?"

  A track led down the hill to the village, which looked more like a hamlet in size, and as if its buildings had existed here for centuries. It was composed of two long
rows of attached stucco buildings, stained with age; the two rows faced each other across an unpaved lane where she could see a few small children playing, a large number of chickens pecking in the dirt and a dog asleep in the shade. Behind the houses lay fields greening in the May sun, but the grove of olive trees that ran down the hill to their left cut off the view on that side, except for a huge pond of water in the distance and a number of outbuildings behind the houses that looked too small to be barns. The only new construction in sight was a square, barracklike building between them and the village, with an iron bell hanging at its door, but whether this was a school, a church or a warehouse its purpose was not identifiable. Beyond the line of houses a high wall of stucco defined the boundaries of the land, with a closed wooden gate facing the village street.

  "She doesn't support it very well," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Look at those houses! You'd think she could supply a few cans of paint."

  Farrell glanced at her in surprise. "But this is a real working farm, Duchess, and a prosperous one. Franca is one smart manager."

  It was Mrs. Pollifax's turn to look at him in surprise. "I'd forgotten, you farmed in Zambia when you were working with the freedom fighters."

  "And you, dear Duchess, have never known any farms at all. Franca's spent her money where it counís," he said. "See that pond of water? That's a reservoir for storing rainwater for the dry season, and if you look closely there are cisterns behind every house, and water pipes running up to them. That outside wall's been repaired, too; I don't know how much acreage is involved but a wall like that must have cost a small fortune. Look at those roofs, too, they're not old .., no leaks there." He pointed. "And those trees to the right of us, blocking our view, are lemon trees, and what's more there must be a tractor somewhere because I can see the marks of it where the wheat or sorghum's been planted."

  "I apologize," Mrs. Pollifax said meekly.

  "I'm very impressed—you should be, too. Chickens, wheat, olives, lemons—most of all that reservoir—and now I'm intrigued by the fortune Franca must have been left by her grandfather. Which reminds me," he said with a glance at his watch, "I want a shave before we leave, which means borrowing someone's razor."

  "Which could take hours finding," said Mrs. Pollifax cheerfully as they strolled back to the house.

  In the kitchen they found Igeia preparing lunch and Kate setting the table. "How's the ankle, Farrell?" she asked politely.

  He looked at her with suspicion. "You're wearing a skirt this morning."

  "Yes."

  "We're going to reconnoiter Vica's house once it's dark and his lights are on, and see if Aristotle is there. And I need a razor to shave."

  "After lunch," Kate told him. "Obviously you're feeling better, Norina's herbs always heal, she's wonderful."

  "I'll feel better when night comes," growled Farrell. "The thought of sitting around and doing nothing all afternoon is enough to bring back a temperature."

  "I don't suppose you play poker?" inquired Kate.

  He said indignantly, "You don't suppose what? Try me. If, that is, you know how to play it."

  Kate grinned. "I play it and I'm good at it, too."

  "Show me."

  "I'll do that," she said and walked over to one of the chests and drew from a drawer a pack of playing cards. "After lunch? After you've shaved?"

  "The shave can wait," he told her. "Immediately after lunch."

  Fortified by Igeia's homemade soup and bread, and realizing that war was again being declared between Farrell and Kate, Mrs. Pollifax escaped the kitchen to look for a book to read. Wandering into the living room she thought how much this overstuffed room would amuse Cyrus, and she wondered how-he and Jimmy were progressing in Chicago, but Chicago seemed light-years away to her at this moment. From a bookcase she picked out a ragged book entitled The History of Sicily, which looked fat enough to cover all the foreigners who had occupied the island. If it looked rather dull she decided that it would prove a needed antidote for an excess of stimulation, and carried it off to her own room.

  She was propped up on her bed and sorting out the line of kings who had once ruled Sicily when the door opened and Farrell stood there. He looked dazed.

  "What is it?" she asked sharply. "I thought you were playing poker."

  "I was." He said in a strangled voice, "I've been exploring this house and I've just learned how rich Franca's grandfather was. No wonder she can support a village! But this time I want a witness so nobody can say I've been hallucinating. Come!"

  She rose, happy to leave King Roger for the moment, and followed him out of the room. "Sssh," he whispered, putting a finger to his lips. "This way."

  Peering up and down the long hallway to be sure they weren't seen, he led her to a room at the very end of the hall, and on the right. "If people want to hide things they should use better locks," he said.

  "Farrell, you broke open the door?"

  He grinned. "No, I still have the skeleton keys I used at Raphael's." Carefully he slid the door open and uneasily she followed him inside. Closing the door behind them he pointed. "Look at that."

  The room was obviously an office, furnished with a desk and filing cabinets, but what dominated it was a painting that had been casually propped up on the desk. It was magnificent, with rich deep colors—singing colors, she thought in awe. It was a portrayal of Mary and the Christ Child, beautifully tender, the two figures posed against a blue sky in which exquisitely charming angels hovered over them.

  Farrell said, "I think it's a Correggio—it has to be!"

  "It's lovely," she breathed.

  "It must also be worth a fortune," he said grimly. "If it's an authentic Correggio, millions."

  "You think it really is?"

  He was staring at it in awe. "One can't be certain without X-raying it, of course. I shipped my equipment here but of course it's back at Vica's house. It's Correggio's style, though, it has his touch and his colors—just look at that color red—and it's certainly old. You notice the tiny cracks in the paint and the water stain in the corner? Touch of mold, too, at the base. Just see those fingers—what craftsmanship! Beautiful. And the folds of Mary's robe? Exquisite!"

  "I don't know Correggio's work," she admitted.

  Farrell narrowed his eyes. "I'd certainly like to know more about Francas grandfather. I wonder . . . If he fought in the Second World War, for instance—with the Italian Army, of course—it could have been something like that. A hell of a lot of masterpieces disappeared during World War II, the Nazis sent hundreds of freight cars full of treasures back to Germany. Many have never been found. If some of them reached Italy, and he was in the Army—"

  "You're excited," she said, watching him.

  "You're damn right I'm excited. A Correggio here of all places!"

  "But, Farrell," she said uneasily, "we certainly shouldn't be here. We're only guests, you know, and I really think we should get out of here now."

  He wasn't hearing her, he remained transfixed.

  "You're not forgetting Aristotle, are you?" she added.

  He tore his glance from the painting and stared at her. "Aristotle? Aristotle?" With an effort he returned to the moment. "Sorry! But you did see this, I didn't imagine it, right? This is important.

  "I've seen it," she told him gravely.

  He nodded. "And, Duchess, between the two of us we absolutely must learn more from Kate about Franca's grandfather."

  "I promise," said Mrs. Pollifax, and grasping his arm she pulled him away from the painting and out of the room, carefully locking the door behind them.

  IN LANGLEY, VIRGINIA, CARSTAIRS HAD BEEN OCCU-pied with innumerable conferences Upstairs that had proven vital during a sudden hysteria of crises abroad, all of them happening at once. He was completely unprepared for Bishop's entering his office on Tuesday to say that Henry Guise was on line three and Carstairs had jolly well better listen to what he had to say.

  Carstairs, baffled, said, "And who on earth is Henry Guise?"

&n
bsp; "Henry," said Bishop patiently, "is the chap who reported at gate thirty-three Kennedy airport on Sunday with orders to keep Mrs. Pollifax under surveillance at all times in Sicily."

  "Oh God yes," Carstairs said wearily. "You're not trying to tell me—"

  "The circumstances sound rather bizarre," Bishop said. "I thought you'd better hear them for yourself."

  Carstairs punched line three and picked up his phone. "Car-stairs here, what's been happening, Guise?"

  At the other end of the line a disgruntled voice said, "What happened was competition, nothing having been mentioned of this Pollifax lady being so popular."

  "Popular?" echoed Carstairs.

  "Yes, sir, that's it exactly. She met the Rossiter woman all right, after which I followed them to a place called Erice up on a mountain. They met a man there with a limp, shabby clothes, large hat covering most of his face. After half an hour they took off in a red Fiat to leave Erice with—surprise—another car following them."

  "How do you know it was following them?" asked Carstairs.

  "At seventy miles an hour on hairpin curves I draw conclusions. We get to the bottom of the mountain and damned if another car doesn't fall in behind them to follow."

  Carstairs said patiently, ' 'And how do you know this second car was interested in following them?"

  "Because," said Guise, "the girl driving—this Rossiter girl —was smart enough to turn off the highway to lose 'em or to see who was who. Both cars turned off, all set to trap her. I followed. The girl saw the situation, did a U-turn to get back on the highway, and bashed the side of my car as she passed. Hit my left fender so hard it tore open the tire. Everybody else left, I was stuck."

  "So you've lost them." Carstairs' voice shed its weariness and turned crisp. "All right, who were these interested parties, could you see their faces, can you describe them?"

  "Only in the first car, the green one. Two guys in black shirts, tough-looking hoodlums, youngish. Reckless. Didn't like the look of either."