Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief

by Dorothy Gilman

  "Just—leave him?"

  "He's still breathing, he'll be all right. A bit cold, but—" He stopped as the man at their feet stirred. "Definitely let's go, Duchess," he said, grasping her arm, "and incidentally did you see anyone suspicious on your tour of the house?"

  "Only a man polishing silverware, and a woman—a cook, I imagine—asleep in the kitchen. What about you?"

  "Nothing and nobody, but I saw some rare and handsome paintings," he added grimly. "I'd kill for several of them."

  Mrs. Pollifax, having just rendered a man unconscious—and not without twinges of guilt—said sharply, "Don't say that."

  "Only an expression. Would you prefer that I 'lusted' after them? Ah, here comes the car and Rossiter," he said.

  "Kate," she reminded him.

  "Look, I've progressed from whatshername to Rossiter, give me a break."

  Exasperated, she said, "I've never seen you so hostile toward any woman so attractive."

  The sweep of headlights as Kate stopped the car for them showed her the mockery in Farrell's glance. "Ah, but you see,

  Duchess," he said, "there are forces in men that no woman can understand. Yes, I am hostile." With this he held the car door open for her, then jumped into the rear and Kate drove them quickly away toward the lights of the city.

  "And so much for that," announced Farrell. "Tomorrow night Raphael's house, and another try for Julius Caesar, may he rest in peace, and definitely we go armed to the teeth."

  Mrs. Pollifax gave him a sympathetic glance but said nothing, and they headed in silence for the Villa Franca.

  Peppino opened the gates to them. "The house is asleep," he told Kate, putting a finger to his lips. "Be silent, you are okay?' '

  "We're okay, Peppi," she told him, and drove the car up the curving drive to the rear, while behind them Peppino closed the gates and barred them. Once out of the car they tiptoed into the kitchen, where a solitary candle illuminated three flashlights waiting for them, and three cookies on a plate. It was past midnight; they did not speak but headed for their rooms, where Mrs. Pollifax, much too stimulated for sleep, changed into her pajamas and brought out the book of Sicily's history, certain that it would guarantee sleep within fifteen minutes.

  With a pillow propped behind her she trained her flashlight on the print and read, Under Agathodes, the Sicilian power carried war into Punic Africa, though without ultimate success, and . . .

  Abruptly the door was flung open and Farrell stood there, his eyes blazing. "It's gone," he said in an outraged voice.

  Startled, she said, "What's gone?"

  He stepped inside to close the door behind him. "The Correggio," he said furiously. "I wanted to see it again but it's gone, absolutely gone. We did see it there, didn't we? I didn't imagine it? I mean, I keep seeing things here that nobody believes I've seen."

  Poor Farrell, she thought, and nodded. "Definitely I saw it with you. We both saw it, Farrell, you didn't imagine it."

  He nodded and went out, angrily slamming the door behind him.

  Wednesday

  THE SOUND OF A TRUCK CHANGING GEARS WOKE Mrs. Pollifax in the night and she sat up in her bed in alarm. It must be two or three in the morning, she thought, and pushing back her covers she went to the window to peer out. Since their arrival back from Ambrose Vica's house a moon had emerged from the clouds and in its silvery light she saw three men in overalls walk past the house and down the hill toward the village. They were followed a minute later by Peppino, carrying keys and a rifle, but he didn't head for the village, he turned in toward the ell of the house, and to Franca's studio, where a light was shining. He knocked, the door opened and Franca stood outlined against the light; they exchanged a few words, Franca nodded and Peppino retraced his steps, passing very near to Mrs. Pollifax's window. She stood back and when he was gone the dark country silence closed in around her again, silent except for a faint hum somewhere in the house. She looked at her watch: it was ten minutes past three in the morning.

  Does nobody sleep? she wondered crossly, and then, What were they all doing at this hour when Peppino warned us on our return that everyone was asleep? There had been a truck, she was certain of it, and what a pity it was that her room didn't look out on the front drive and the gates so that she could have seen it, as well as heard it. A rifle and keys . . . Peppino must have opened the gates for someone. And a light in Franca's studio—an electric light? The vague humming sound that she heard must be the generator that Farrell had spoken of hearing the night before, but at three o'clock in the morning?

  Climbing back into bed she thought drowsily, /'// look Jot a truck tomorrow, I'll ask Farrell if he heard a truck too, I'll ask why nobody sleeps, in the morning I'll . . , but on this note she fell asleep.

  She woke at six, her appestat still set on New York time, and despairing of any more sleep she dressed. There had been a truck in the night, hadn't there? Remembering what she'd seen and heard she vowed to ask what crisis had occurred, except that of course Franca would still be sleeping after working so late in her studio.

  When she entered the kitchen, however—which seemed to be the heart of this rambling old farmhouse—she found a lively Franca established at the long wooden table drinking coffee with Peppino. Astonished, Mrs. Pollifax thought, / couldn't have dreamed it, but how can she look so fresh and awake when only three hours ago I saw her in her studio? Her hair, she noticed—and Mrs. Pollifax tried not to stare—was a radiant blue this morning and her blouse and earrings matched.

  "Good morning," said Franca cheerfully. "Peppino is a very good manager, we are going over the bills and he thinks we can save fifteen thousand lire on the fertilizer. Not much, but"— she poured a cup of coffee for Mrs. Pollifax and handed it to her—"every lire counts. He tells me you returned late but without harm, which I am happy to hear."

  "Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax.

  "And slept well, too, I trust," added Franca.

  Igeia swept into the kitchen, muttering words under her breath, and snatched a pan from the wall.

  "Actually," said Mrs. Pollifax, "I was waked up in the night by the sound of a truck, and I heard people. I hope there was no emergency? It happened around three—" She stopped, seeing Franca look at Peppino in surprise.

  "There was certainly no emergency. Did you and your wife have guests, Peppi?" she asked.

  "Me?" he said gravely. "No, no, Franca, I sleep. Guests? No, Franca."

  Taken aback by their utter sincerity Mrs. Pollifax looked at Peppino, searching his very Italian—no, Sicilian—face, brown and sun-weathered, clean-shaven, with a rather large nose and soft intelligent eyes set off by a head of thick curly black hair. Meeting her glance he smiled benevolently. "No trucks at Villa Franca. Tractor, n, no truck."

  Franca laughed. "I only wish we had one!"

  Mrs. Pollifax gave her a polite and sympathetic smile and said nothing, but her thoughts were less forgiving. They're both lying through their teeth, she thought, and how very foolish of them because now I am very interested in why they must tell such a lie. She found it necessary to remind herself that Franca had accepted their in-

  trusión without question, and was providing hospitality as well as sanctuary for them, but her curiosity had been aroused. Considering Franca's remarkable simplicity—except for the blue hair—it was rather like discovering fungus, thought Mrs. Pollifax, in one of her healthiest geranium plants.

  Breakfast, said Igeia, wàsfrittata, which turned out to be an omelette flavored with herbs, and tonight, Franca said, they could have baths because the generator would be turned on to heat the water in the tank.

  Farrell, joining them in time to overhear the last, said, "Now there's motivation for an early return tonight."

  "You find it safe to go out again?" asked Franca doubtfully.

  He was gazing spellbound at her blue hair; lowering his glance he said, "Oh yes, so long as I occupy the floor of the car. Your witch performed miracles, you know. Actually I feel we should leave well before
dark. You wouldn't happen to have a pair of binoculars, would you, Franca?"

  She rose and headed down the hall. "Con permesso," murmured Peppino with a polite nod, and gathering up his papers he made his exit by the kitchen door. When Franca returned she was followed by Kate, who greeted them cheerfully while Franca said, "It's very old but it's Swiss and in excellent condition." She handed the binoculars to Farrell.

  "Thanks," he said, "because I feel that we must have daylight to find the blasted place again. I remember a hill behind the house, we can watch who comes and goes and plan our approach. This time it's / who plan to be the Second Thief, damn it."

  "The what?" said Mrs. Pollifax.

  He grinned. "It's what heist men call the gunman who sits back and waits while the robbers carry out their plans—while they crack open the safe or the vault—after which he moves in

  on them and at gunpoint takes the loot. No risk, no police alarm after him, he's free and rich. I'm exaggerating, of course, but in a small way I figure that's what those two hoodlums had in mind: to let me open Raphael's safe, then make their move, and—but who knows? It's what we have to find out. Are you both game for this excursion?"

  "Of course," said Kate.

  Franca said, "It's best I not know your plans, please."

  "Definitely a sneakers night again," said Mrs. Pollifax wisely.

  Farrell turned to Franca. "Now I'd like to use your telephone, if I may. I've decided it's time to call my host and reassure him that I'm still alive and still hoping and planning to conclude our—uh—transaction. If he's amenable, the Duchess and I will leave you tomorrow."

  "Oh, must you go?" said Franca.

  "I have to mend my political fences," he told her with a smile, "I've been absent too long."

  "He pays well?"

  "Oh, very."

  Franca nodded. "Then you must go, yes."

  "So if you'll tell me where your phone is—"

  Franca looked at him blankly. "Phone? But we have no phone."

  This, thought Mrs. Pollifax, was really going too far. "You must have one," she said. "If you have no phone than how was Kate notified about my arrival at the airport?"

  Kate intervened, laughing. "Oh, that. I had left behind a fax number for reaching me through the post office down in Cefalù. A letter was faxed to the post office—it was night in Virginia but morning here—telling the postmaster that I would pay the cost of delivering the message to the Villa Franca. After it arrived I went down to the post office and put through a call to Virginia."

  "The boy charged a ridiculous amount to bring it here," Franca said indignantly.

  "Yes, but he was prompt, you know, and he had to push his motorcycle all the way up our hill, and it's a long hill."

  "Dispattista," muttered Franca.

  "But it's ridiculous, no phone," sputtered Farrell.

  Franca shrugged. "If we could have a phone we could also have electricity. Like many Sicilians we are too deep in the countryside, they tell us the phone lines can go no further than the highway below us but what good would a phone do us at the bottom of the hill? Who would hear it ring? And the cost?" She shook her head. "Now I must go to work so you will excuse me, please."

  Farrell shrugged as she left the room. "I'd better make my call on the way to Raphael's this afternoon."

  Kate nodded. "Once you're sure that we're not being followed, please!"

  Turning his gaze on her Farrell said, "I wouldn't mind a guided tour of your aunt's village sometime before I leave."

  And here, thought Mrs. Pollifax, was her chance at last. She said cheerfully, "Farrell was very impressed. Franca's grandfather, " she dared to ask, "was surely a man of wealth and left her a large inheritance?"

  Kate laughed. "Francisco di Assaba? Him? Good heavens, no, he left only books . . . old books, ragged books . . ."

  "Books!"

  "Yes, he was a scholar, you see. Well, not always," she amended. "When he was young he was a lawyer but he soon gave that up." She sighed. "I suppose he thought his books of great value but when he died it turned out the books he'd collected and loved were old, yes, but not at all what anybody else collected or wanted."

  Mrs. Pollifax said incredulously, "You mean he left only the property?"

  Kate nodded. "And books, the house was crammed full of them. When Franca sold die lot they did pay the death duties and the next year's taxes but that was all."

  Mrs. Pollifax exchanged a puzzled glance with Farrell, who said lightly, "No antiques at all? No paintings, no artifacts?"

  "Nothing, and wasn't she brave?" said Kate. "Now what time shall we leave? I could pack a picnic lunch, or would you prefer that I beat you at poker again? "

  "No—I'll beat you this time," he announced firmly. "Get out the cards and stop looking like the cat who swallowed the canary."

  "A very large canary," she teased. "Six feet tall?"

  Mrs. Pollifax left them to their feuding, which appeared to be growing more amiable now that Farrell's temperature had subsided and his ankle was healing. She would brush her teeth, she decided, while the bathroom was clear, and wait until Farrell was alone before bringing up Franca's blatant untruths or the grandfather's lack of fortune. Farrell might not be interested, now that he was ambulatory and determined to be— what had he called it, the Second Thief?—and of course Aristotle was of far greater importance, whereas she . . , how did she feel, she wondered, and admitted that although she could accept Farrell's certainty that he had seen Aristotle, she had to work very hard to do this. It went against all logic, she felt, a man so dangerous to society and banished to a secure prison in France, except that as soon as reason told her this she had to admit that she had far more faith in Farrell's veracity than in any distant prison, and that someone minded very much Farrell's being alive.

  At this point she could only remind herself again that logic was not always relevant in the scheme of things, and was even less relevant in the unorthodox circles in which she was moving.

  Really, she thought, this kind of circular thinking is extremely tiring.

  As she walked down the hall toward her room she noticed a pale line of light striping the brick floor at the very end of the corridor and opposite the office that Farrell had entered with skeleton keys. A door had been left ajar, and—curious—she tiptoed down to look. Confronting it she gently nudged it open and was surprised to discover that she had found an entrance to Franca's studio inside the house: from where she stood she could identify the door into the garden that Franca kept locked, but except for a huge empty easel in one corner the room did not resemble a studio at all.

  Bui this is a laboratory, she thought in astonishment as her gaze circled the room. A long counter of gleaming white Formica ran along one wall, and even from a distance it was possible to identify two of the objects on this counter: a microscope and a Bunsen burner. A line of shelves over the counter held books and small glass jars; in the middle of the room stood a mysterious machine over which a sheet had been carelessly tossed, and the far end of the room held a large white screen.

  A very well-equipped lab, thought Mrs. Pollifax, completely baffled by what she saw, and one that must have cost a great deal of money as well.

  Guiltily she backed away and withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her, to stand bemused for a moment as she tried to make sense of what she'd glimpsed.

  So far as she could see, Franca was not a painter at all.

  Then what, she wondered, is she doing in there?

  The question kept repeating itself in her head: yes it's none of my business but what is she doing in there? Small glass jars with powder in them, a Bunsen burner . . . Could she possibly be involved in drugs? What was Franca producing in her studio?

  She had just reached the door to her bedroom when Franca emerged in a hurry from a room down the hall. Seeing Mrs. Pollifax she looked startled. "Oh—I thought you were outside!" Her glance slid past Mrs. Pollifax to the door at the end of the hall. She hesitated, frowned, t
hen walked quickly past her and Mrs. Pollifax heard the door to the studio firmly close and the lock snap.

  AT HALF-PAST ONE THEY WERE READY TO LEAVE when Nito stopped in the doorway. "Maria told me there's a car parked down on the highway. She went looking for wild fennel, the car was there when she went down the hill and still there when she came back."

  Mrs. Pollifax said quickly, "What color?"

  "Black, with funny windows. No way to see inside."

  "Oh damn," said Kate, "that could be the black car from two nights ago, we haven't seen a black one since, have we? Thanks, Nito."

  "Sure—be careful," he said, and left.

  "I don't like the sound of that," Farrell said soberly. "Two nights ago is when you brought us here, and you said we weren't followed."

  Kate said indignantly, "No, I said there was a car far behind us and I took a chance . . . All right," she added, "it was late, I was tired, and I didn't want to drive another five miles into Cefalù to lose it and then drive back, and the car was far behind us."

  "Quite reasonable," said Mrs. Pollifax to forestall any tart rejoinder from Farrell. "We were all tired, in fact two of us were asleep and of no help to you at all. Anyway, we can't be sure anyone parked there is watching for us, it could be a tourist needing a rest stop."

  Farrell said grimly, "Only one way to find out. Let's go!"

  Kate dropped a last orange into a string bag and slung it over her shoulder; Mrs. Pollifax picked up her purse and followed to the car, where Farrell took his place on the floor. Nito was at the gate and opened it for them. They drove through it and down the hill, and this time there was no doubt that one of their surveillants had traced them to the Villa Franca: the black car was still there, and as they turned left on the highway to Palermo it started up and swung in behind them to follow at a discreet distance.

  "So—they've found us," said Kate.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding, "and I can't help but wonder, Kate, where we'd be now without you and your aunt and the gates and guards of Villa Franca."