Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief

by Dorothy Gilman

  Now, however, it was just past noon, and she was curious as to whether he had reconsidered his reckless escape from Raphael.

  For lunch Igeia served a spectacular minestrone soup that was accompanied by slabs of her freshly baked herb bread with a side dish of chick-pea fritters that Kate called pannelle. "I think," said Mrs. Pollifax, "that I would like to take Aristotle's lunch down to him, it's possible that Igeia's food may thaw him out enough so that he'll talk. Igeia is a wonderful cook."

  "She's Nito's grandmother," Kate said, "and cousin to Peppino's wife Sandrina, and when she knows you better she may even make for you pasta con lejave. If you're volunteering to go down, send Nito up for his lunch, will you?"

  Mrs. Pollifax agreed to this, and made her way carefully down the stairs to the basement, balancing Aristotle's lunch on a tray and relieved to see that a lantern had been left burning at the foot of the steps. Reaching it she noticed the curtain had been removed from the entrance to the excavations but there was no sign of either Nito or Aristotle.

  Alarmed, she stood next to the flickering light and said, "Mr. Bimms? Nito?"

  A muffled grunt came from the left corner of the basement and, much to her surprise, she saw that a new wall of bricks, roughly six feet high, had appeared there since their earlier visit. Picking up the lantern Mrs. Pollifax advanced toward the wall in search of the grunt that had apparently emanated from behind it. She found the wall solid and doorless but peering around its one exposed side she saw an opening and carried both tray and lantern to it.

  And there was Aristotle seated on a chair with a book in his lap, a small pocket flashlight trained on its pages. By the light of the lantern she was amused to see that it was the history of Sicily that she had been struggling through, but the wall startled her.

  "This wall, Mr. Bimms," she began.

  He glanced up, his eyes hostile. "Yes. A wall."

  "Lunch," she said, and put down the tray. "It wasn't here before—the wall," she repeated. No.

  Backing out, lantern in hand, she was just in time to see Nito emerge from the excavation with his own lantern. "This wall, Nito," she began again.

  Nito shrugged. "He insisted, Signora. He sees the bricks, he begins . . , one on top of one, two on top of two. Then he go in and sit. There was no refusal, you understand? So what the hell, he sits. I gave him the pocket flashlight, he ask for a book."

  "Strange," murmured Mrs. Pollifax.

  Nito nodded. "Beats me. There being no need to sit with the gun, I do a little work. But you understand I keep the ears open —and the key to the door in my pocket."

  "Very wise," she agreed, frowning.

  "Like my little cousin," he said with a smile. "She makes the house out of cardboard, she make a nest. And sits."

  "Yes," murmured Mrs. Pollifax. Or like a cell, she thought, puzzled. "Well, I was to tell you that your lunch is ready, and I'm to guard our prisoner while you're gone."

  He left her wondering what such a confining space could bring to Aristotle to be so valued. It could, she supposed, be called the equivalent of a womb except that it was obviously the walls that mattered: walls that kept out the world? in which case, perhaps, they enlarged the person inside of them, so that the very smallness of space could be the ultimate security, a completely governable and controllable environment. It might be like that, she thought. Tomblike, of course, but orderly and above all safe from people. And Aristotle had made it clear that he did not like people.

  He would have to tolerate her invading that space now, she decided, and carrying several bricks on which to sit, she placed them in the doorway and sat down. Ignoring his frigid glance she said, "The car you came in, and left at the back gate, has been moved and hidden but I'd like to ask what you expect Raphael or his men to do next. Will they have any idea that you might be here at the Villa Franca?"

  He said indifferently, "Oh yes."

  Startled, she said, "Why?"

  He plucked a chick-pea fritter from the plate with his fork and examined it with interest. "Because I was to shoot and kill Mr. Farrell this morning and get it over with. Kaput. Because they didn't like my shooting at you instead. Because hearing that you knew me they didn't like my not killing you. "

  "Out of practice?" she suggested dryly. "You missed me."

  "Out of practice?" he repeated angrily. "Try me! Give me a gun, take me outside and I'll show you who's out of practice." The chick-pea fritter went into his mouth and he chewed it appreciatively. "Anyway, I heard them talking about this so I walked out, found a car with keys in it and took off. They heard and followed. Lost them a mile or two back but—" He shrugged. "They wouldn't know, but they must suspect."

  There was silence while Mrs. Pollifax thought about this disconcerting news. "I would think they'd try the airports and the ferries first," she ventured.

  He said calmly, "No money, no passport. And I didn't kill you."

  "That's a basis for friendship?"

  He recoiled at the thought, giving her a look in which she read pure hatred. There would have to be a different approach, and remembering how meticulously Aristotle's plans for assassinations had always been made and carried out she decided to tap this grotesque skill. "Then tell me, Mr. Bimms," she said, "what would you plan next if you were Mr. Raphael?"

  "Raphael!" He spat out the word with contempt but she had reached him with this appeal; his eyes were no longer stony but turned inward, he was thinking about what she'd asked and the difference in his expression was palpable. Obviously Aristotle liked plans. After a moment he nodded. "If it were me—but they're not me," he said with satisfaction. "Knowing them and their ways—bah—they'll wait for dark and use force. Force," he repeated scornfully. "Those two gunmen—crude. No subtlety. Don't know the word preparation."

  On this subject Aristotle was no longer given to monosyllables. "And that," she said conversationally, "was how you planned your—er—assassinations? With subtlety and preparation?"

  His eyes lit up with pleasure. "For days, months .., to create perfection needed research and planning, it was everything."

  "The killing was nothing?" she said, considerably jarred.

  "Only completion," he said dismissively. "The planning— now there was the challenge. Creative. Intricate. So many calculations: trajectory, distance, the proper weapon, the disguise,

  the getaway. Timing had to be perfect, you understand, worked out mathematically like a geometry problem . . . Yes, like a geometry problem . . . Hours of calculations and numbers. Everything computerized. I liked that."

  "You didn't," she said, "feel any emotion about killing another human being?"

  He looked at her blankly. "Killing? I shot them, that's all, it's what I got paid to do."

  She shivered and realized that she didn't care to hear any more, but there was one more question to ask. "Were you in solitary confinement while in prison?"

  The wisp of a smile tugged at his lips. "I made sure of it."

  She nodded and stood up, taking the tray from him. Curtly she said, "The authorities have been notified, you won't have long to wait."

  Leaving, she was relieved to see Nito descending the stairs. "You okay?" he said in surprise, seeing her face.

  "I don't know," she told him. Murders like a geometry problem, people reduced to numbers without personality, warmth or heart . . , but of course, she thought, numbers—unlike people—were impersonal, reliable, predictable, stable and above all tidy.

  She felt a little sick. "I just need some fresh air," she told Nito, and went upstairs to tell the others of the most important information that she had gleaned from Aristotle: that quite possibly Raphael knew where he was and would make an attempt to recover him by force once it was dark.

  SHE FOUND FRANCA IN THE KITCHEN SLICING tomatoes. "To dry in the sun," she explained, and then, hearing of Aristotle's supposition she sighed. "Oh damn. Of course I hoped—but we'll call a meeting at once and begin plans in case he's right, and Peppino must go to the carabinieri—we ha
ve a friend there, an uncle of little Giovanni who rang the bell this morning. I hate guns," she said. "The last time a mob tried to get inside the walls Gino Trabia had to have a bullet dug out of his arm. Who is this Raphael?"

  "We don't know," Mrs. Pollifax told her. "Farrell was hired by Mr. Vica, Ambrose Vica, to—uh—retrieve a historical document from Mr. Raphael, and it was in doing this that Farrell was shot. It had nothing to do with Aristotle," she added, and remembering Franca's subtle reaction earlier to the name of Ambrose Vica she said casually, "You've met Mr. Vica?"

  Franca shrugged. "In the art world he is well known. Now if you'll excuse me I'll ring the emergency bell and call a meeting."

  As solace Mrs. Pollifax called after her, "The law's been notified, you know, and they may arrive long before Raphael tries anything, they may even be on their way now."

  "From where?" asked Franca skeptically. "The law in Sicily, for instance, is dependable only to a certain point. There are some good police, and some not so good. You had better warn Farrell and Kate, they're in the garden."

  Mrs. Pollifax glanced at her watch. Only four or five hours to darkness, she realized, and whether Aristotle was right or not about Mr. Raphael it was obvious that a sleepless night lay ahead of them. She walked out into the sunny garden and saw Farrell and Kate seated companionably in the shade, Farrell gesturing dramatically and Kate laughing.

  Seeing her, Kate said, "I'm envious, Mrs. Pollifax! He's just been describing how the two of you met, first in Mexico and then in Zambia—no wonder you're such firm friends! Do pull up a chair and join us."

  "I'd love to," she told them, "but there's no time for it— Franca's on her way down the hill to ring the emergency bell."

  "She's what?"

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "When I confronted Aristotle in his den at lunch—and he's made himself a very small den—he was quite sure that Raphael will guess where he is and come for him after dark." She added carefully, "Of course he may be wrong.

  Farrell said grimly, "Not if Raphael knows that he's here. What makes Aristotle think that?"

  She explained in detail what he'd told her. "It's because he didn't kill either of us, you see, which I have to say was quite astonishing to me at the time; inexplicable, actually. I can understand it better now: in that calculating mind of his he was already struggling to find a way to escape Raphael. They should have kept him hidden! Seeing me, he decided I might be useful if he didn't eliminate me."

  "How coolly you say the word eliminate," Kate said with a shiver.

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled. "It's an Aristotle word, isn't it, removing all emotion from the word kill. I must still be down in the cellar listening to him, but in any case it certainly aroused suspicions, my remaining alive."

  Kate said soberly, ' 'Just think of the fortune they must have invested in getting him out of prison, out of France and into Sicily—they won't just let him disappear."

  "Then what—" began Farrell, only to be interrupted and silenced by the ringing of the great bell. When its noise had subsided he said, "What happens next, Kate? Should we go down and join Franca?"

  "No, they'll be coming up here once they're in from the fields . . . Peppino, Vincenzo, Gino and Pasquale, and possibly Manfredi. The planning committee."

  "And how many men should we expect Raphael to round up for a visit to the Villa Franca after dark?" asked Farrell quietly.

  Kate considered this. "If he only leased his villa, then his connections with the natives would be poor, although of course money can buy almost anything. There are the two apaches, one of them shot in the hand."

  "Also that mysterious chap who was stalking the Duchess at Vica's. Guise was his name, wasn't it?"

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "Henry Guise. There was also a gardener glimpsed at Raphael's."

  Farrell added in a hard voice, "And possibly Ambrose Vica would contribute some men, depending on how close he and Raphael are ... He just could supply more men if they're in this together."

  "But in what together?" asked Mrs. Pollifax. "That remains the mystery. What assassinations have been planned, and why?" Since neither of them knew the answer she turned to Kate to ask how many people lived in the village below.

  Kate grinned. "I can rattle that off for you: population two hundred and seven; twenty-three families, a lot of children, and fifty-eight adult men and women, fifteen of them quite elderly."

  "And a hell of a lot of wall to defend," pointed out Farrell, looking somber. "And if it's dark?"

  "There should be a bright half-moon tonight, God willing," said Kate. Rising from her chair she said, "I think I'll go down and have a little talk with Norina."

  "The resident witch?" asked Mrs. Pollifax alertly.

  Farrell said, "Kate, you surely don't believe—"

  "We need a moon," she told him, smiling, and left them presently to vanish down the hill.

  Five men sat at the long table in the kitchen, dominated by a patriarchal elder with a worn and craggy face and a sweeping heroic mustache. "That's Manfredi," whispered Franca from the doorway where she and Mrs. Pollifax stood to watch.

  "He's clever and experienced, he has fought in real wars."

  Nito had been replaced in the basement; he arrived breathlessly, carrying a map that he at once unfurled and spread out on the table. The men leaned over it, each speaking with passion but in Sicilian.

  "It's the map of our property," said Franca. "With small x's showing guard posts established long ago. Come and help me collect the guns from the living room."

  They moved down the hall to the living room, and Franca stood on a stool to remove the guns over the mantel and hand them down to Mrs. Pollifax. "But surely these aren't the only guns available?" she asked.

  "Oh no, these are only di Assaba guns, the village guns and the ammunition are locked up in the schoolroom. That's what Kate and Farrell are helping distribute down the hill."

  "Yes, but what if there's no moon?" she asked. "You've no electric lights, how will you see anyone climb over a wall?"

  Franca smiled. "Ah, but there are booby traps along three of the walls—what time it needed to acquire so many tin cans! Nothing here gets thrown away. They hang there—with cut glass lining the tops of the most distant walls. For the long front wall we turn on the headlights of the tractor, and of my car. Every villager has a flashlight, too, a good one, and we own six walkie-talkies. If the generator is kind to us, and there remains enough fuel, we will have one big floodlight to turn on, but only if real trouble comes. This is placed up here at the top of the hill, and lights up the village and both rear and front gates."

  "I see," said Mrs. Pollifax, frowning.

  "And," said Franca with a twinkle, "we also have three very old bicycles on which messengers carry communications should a walkie-talkie fail."

  "Oh well then," Mrs. Pollifax said, beaming at her, "that makes everything all right."

  Franca laughed.

  "But what about the—well, the other times?" asked Mrs. Pollifax, curious.

  Franca shrugged. "The first time people came over the walls we were lucky, they got in, but they were poor and hungry people and we fed them, showed them what we were trying to do here, and they left peaceably. The second time—" She sighed. "We were better prepared, there had been rumors, but it was a vicious group of men. They didn't expect us to have guns and we sent them flying, but knowing who was behind it —I mention no names—we took our complaint to the carabinier i and—well, certain arrangements were made that we could live in peace, at least from them. Those were not good days! The other times—well, we learned how to protect ourselves. It's better now, people leave us alone, they know we put our money into the farm and are not rich, but I long for a day when there'll be no need for walls and guns anywhere."

  "1 think you're very rich," Mrs. Pollifax told her softly, and carried six of the guns out of the room before Franca could reply.

  An hour later, in the heat of the afternoon, the tractor roared up the hill and was carefully
distanced in front of the main gate. Franca's car disappeared to a position further down the wall. Mrs. Pollifax, wandering down the hill to the village, noticed several women loading guns and rifles, while little Giovanni-of-the-bell-ringing was happily ensconced on one of the ancient bicycles and riding furiously up and down the lane. Of Farrell there was no sign, but at the last house she found Nito and Kate seated on the doorstep checking the six walkie-talkies.

  Kate looked up with a smile. "It's a relief to find they all work; no one has come over the walls for two years."

  "Three," corrected Nito.

  "How can I help, what can I do?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  Kate grinned. "Franca has plans for you, did you doubt it? She has plans for everyone; she and Peppino know that you can shoot but don't like guns. Can you ride a bicycle?"

  Startled, Mrs. Pollifax said, "Up- or downhill?"

  Kate laughed. "Downhill. Franca's learned you know karate. If there really should be an attack she doesn't want anyone badly hurt, shot, or hit over the head with a gun, she'd rather they just be stunned."

  "Oh," said Mrs. Pollifax, blinking.

  "You're to be posted on the hill with Peppino and his walkie-talkie and one of our three bicycles. In case anyone gets in you'll be available and mobile. Farrell has been assigned the important post on the west corner of the property with four men, I'll be in the east corner over beyond the lemon grove with Maria, Nito, Gino and Blasi. There'll be others stationed at points in between but we've not enough people between the main gate and the back gate."

  Mrs. Pollifax looked at little Giovanni pedaling furiously up and down the lane and considered pointing out that she'd not ridden a bicycle in years but this seemed a tactless response, especially since the possibility looked infinitely remote that she'd be needed when some forty men and women would be manning the barricades. She thought it quite likely that this was Franca's somewhat devious method of keeping her out of the way, and so she nodded and said cordially that she was delighted to be of help and would do her best. With this stated she strolled back toward the road up the hill, pausing halfway down the lane when the sound of a steadily humming voice met her ears. Peering around the side of the house she saw a young woman crouched over a tub of water, stirring the water with her fingers, stopping to drop a handful of flowers into it and murmuring incantations over it with her eyes closed.