Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief

by Dorothy Gilman

  Norina, summoning the moon, guessed Mrs. Pollifax and continued up the hill.

  For dinner Igeia merely reheated the minestrone, removed her apron, picked up a gun and walked out. No one talked or ate much; it was possible that no one in the village had an appetite either; everyone waited in considerable suspense for the sun to drop below the horizon.

  As it grew dark Mrs. Pollifax, watching from the hill, saw flickers of light like fireflies descend on the lane below as flashlights moved out of houses, some to disappear behind the lemon grove, others to fan out across the fields. One small group climbed the hill to guard the gate and its wall, and Mrs. Pollifax wished them a good evening as they passed. They gravely nodded, giving her and the bicycle beside her furtive, interested glances before they vanished into the darkness behind her. She did not know whether to feel amused or in awe over these simple archaic arrangements that saw an entire village leaving their homes to fight invasion. There was something medieval about it and endearing, and she could only pray that if Raphael did try to invade the Villa Franca no one would be hurt. She hoped that Norina's incantations had included this plea; so far they had not produced a moon. It had risen on schedule, Mrs. Pollifax had seen it, but almost at once it had been obscured by mischievous clouds.

  The attack began at half-past eight, proving Aristotle's assassinlike cunning to be accurate. It began at the front gate, where the headlights of the tractor illuminated a man suddenly appearing on top of the wall. He was met with shouts, and the floodlight was at once turned on by Franca, the man retreated and the floodlight was extinguished. After this only the tractor's beams pierced the darkness but their glow didn't reach the farmhouse or the hill where Mrs. Pollifax stood beside her assigned bicycle, not far from Peppino holding his walkie-talkie. The walkie-talkie crackled and Mrs. Pollifax could hear unintelligible words. Peppino called to Franca in the doorway, "Tony reports eleven other men at the gate when the man climbed up. They have two ladders."

  "Oh-oh," said Franca.

  A tiresome and suspenseful silence followed, made more endurable by the moon finally appearing from behind the clouds; it shone on the village, silvering the tile roofs; a dog barked, and then a rattle of gunshots broke out, muffled by distance. In the moonlight Mrs. Pollifax saw young Giovanni pedal fast toward the lemon grove; he was gone in two blinks of an eye. This time Mrs. Pollifax recognized Kate's voice on Peppino's walkie-talkie, and he shouted to Franca, "Six men all at once along the wall in the west corner. Caterina says they hit one of the men in the arm, all six driven back."

  "But only six," responded Franca. "The other six?"

  "Will be heard from soon enough," said Peppino.

  Mrs. Pollifax gripped the handlebars of the bicycle out of sheer nervousness. Occasionally someone turned on a flashlight down by the pond to inspect a section of wall, but very seldom because the light of the moon was sufficient now. Suddenly she heard a series of shots from the opposite direction, in the west, followed by silence, more shots and again silence. This time it was Farrell's voice on the walkie-talkie and Peppino called out to Franca, '"They've tried the west side. Two men got over the wall, our people shot over their heads, the two were pulled back by their comrades. Nobody wounded. There were six, Farrell says. All clear now."

  Franca left the doorway to join him, looking worried. "So far they've only searched for a weak spot—six here, six there. One can guess what next."

  Peppino nodded and crossed himself.

  By the light of the moon little Giovanni was seen pedaling furiously back again on his bicycle; he passed the rear gate and continued along the path to the reservoir and out of sight. Our courier, thought Mrs. Pollifax with a smile. Ten minutes later the bicycle could be seen returning but not with Giovanni.

  "That's Farrell," called out Mrs. Pollifax in surprise.

  He jumped from the bicycle at the gate just as two dark figures hurried toward him from behind the lemon grove.

  "That's Kate and Blasi," Peppino said. "Something's happening."

  "I don't hear anything."

  "Too far away, but there must be trouble at the gate. It's only built of wood, Franca." He handed her the walkie-talkie. "I'm going down."

  "Yes," she said.

  Mrs. Pollifax watched him hurry down the hill and break into a run once he reached the village; something was obviously wrong because several men stationed in the fields were also running toward the gate.

  Franca's hand tightened on the walkie-talkie. "Calling Farrell, calling Kate, calling Blasi . . ."

  Kate's voice answered. "We're trying to be very quiet, Franca, they were overheard planning the back gate next, all of them, and they're working on it now, one can hear them. We thought of men going over the wall to fight, but—hang on, they're still deciding."

  "That gate," murmured Franca, and shook her head. "You can hear," she added, holding up the walkie-talkie for Mrs. Pollifax to listen. "They're hammering at the center. Mercifully they've not thought of a battering ram."

  From the walkie-talkie came Farrell's voice loud and clear. "Send Mrs. Pollifax down, Franca—-fast!"

  Franca gave her a quizzical glance. "Well?" she said.

  Mrs. Pollifax drew a deep breath. "Yes," she said, and mounting the bicycle braced herself and let go, propelled down the steep hill with the speed of a comet and hanging on for dear life as the bicycle met with pebbles, small stones and grassy mounds. Her ride carried her halfway through the village lane before her feet had to grope for the pedals again, and although the brakes were in need of repair she managed to hit no one, and arrived at the gate only a little out of breath.

  "Well done, Duchess," Farrell said with a grin. "You've heard? If not, you can hear them now, hammering and sawing away at the bolts. We need you. Hell to pay if they open the gate, come inside, we shoot and they shoot. We've a better plan."

  "Such as what?" asked Mrs. Pollifax with interest, leaning her bike against the wall.

  "Such as enough men lined up to keep the gate from opening more than a few feet so that only one of these hoodlums can enter at a time. One at a time . . , only one," he emphasized. "Blasi's calling in more men."

  Mrs. Pollifax understood at once. "And there'll be enough men and muscle to keep the gate from opening wider? They mustn't come through too fast!"

  "I promise—and we'll be the second line of defense just in

  case," he assured her. "The important thing is to prevent any shooting.

  "Yes," she said, already reviewing pressure points in her mind. "Then if you'll tell me exactly where you want me placed—?"

  They waited; the sound of saw and hammer was less muted, wood was splintering and the gate being wedged open. A dozen men of the village were lined up now to hold the gate; Mrs. Pollifax, positioned at the widening crack in the center, summoned energy, planted her feet firmly, and flattened her right hand for a karate chop. "Hi-ja," she whispered fiercely to herself. "Hi-YA!"

  Twelve men outside the wall pushed hard against the gate to thrust it open; twelve men inside the wall braced themselves against the pressure, and with toes dug into the earth they halted the gate's opening beyond Farrell's prescribed two feet. "Keep leaning," Farrell whispered. "Lean hard."

  A man in an orange shirt entered sideways through the narrow opening, arriving conveniently at Mrs. Pollifax's elbow. She was ready with a quick side-kick to his ankle and a karate chop to the side of his neck; he gasped and began a slow and silent descent earthward: Peppino neatly caught him, lifted him to one side and waited for the man who confidently and innocently followed.

  Really it was quite exhilarating, thought Mrs. Pollifax, dazzled by the rapidity with which they continued to arrive and by the rapidity with which they fell. It began to have the feel of a scene from an early Chaplin film, so unknowingly did they slip through the opening to be knocked over like tenpins. She was fully prepared to dispatch the twelfth and last intruder when a shout came from Franca up on the hill.

  "Peppino! Kate! Everyone! Sergea
nt Pirello is here—police!"

  The fallen men were beginning to stir and moan. With a laugh Kate seized Farrell's walkie-talkie and called, "Wonderful! Give him all the smelling salts you have in the house, Franca, and send him down to us."

  Friday

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT, AND QUIET HAD DESCENDED upon the Villa Franca and the village below. Mrs. Pollifax, Kate and Farrell sat at the long kitchen table sipping cups of cocoa; Peppino was out making sure that a guard remained at each gate, and Franca was still down in the village where Nito had brought out a few bottles of homemade wine to toast the success of the evening. No strangers remained in the village other than Aristotle, in temporary residence in the basement; Mrs. Pollifax had taken food down to him but had found him sound asleep, which she did not think surprising because in his hand he still clutched The History of Sicily, a perfect prescription, she felt, for any insomniac.

  The three of them were contemplating Farrell's succinct, "Now what?"

  And none of them had an answer to this.

  Except to wait for Aristotle to be removed from the Villa Franca.

  "Which doesn't solve who brought Aristotle to Sicily, and for what," Farrell said wearily.

  "We're tired," said Mrs. Pollifax. "It's been a long day and we need sleep."

  "Who could possibly sleep?" he said crossly.

  Mrs. Pollifax felt that she could sleep very well indeed, and would be grateful for the opportunity, but she did not want to be unsympathetic or rude. Under the table she massaged the hand that had karate-chopped eleven men—it ached—and tried to conceal a yawn. "It went off surprisingly well," she said, "but surely this can be continued tomorrow?"

  Farrell glanced at his watch and smiled. "Duchess, it already it tomorrow, it's 12:04."

  "I'm sleepy too," said Kate, "but let's wait for Peppino, I hear his voice outside."

  Peppino appeared in the doorway and nodded politely to the three of diem. "There is a man here to see Mr. Farrell," he said.

  "What man?" asked a startled Farrell.

  Peppino stepped aside to allow passage, and Mr. Ambrose Vica entered die kitchen, blinking owlishly at the sudden brightness.

  Farrell's mouth literally dropped open. "You?" he gasped. "But how—?"

  Kate said sharply, "Peppi, how did this man get in? There was to be a guard at both the gates, you know that."

  Peppino only smiled. "He is here, Caterina."

  "Interesting," murmured Mrs. Pollifax, and was no longer at all sleepy.

  Without preamble Ambrose Vica said, "Yes, I have come to see Mr. Farrell, who—ah, there you are, Farrell. Good evening —or should I say good morning?"

  Farrell rose politely from his chair and then sank back. He said curtly, "One may ask how you learned where I am? I was going to phone you last evening but circumstances intervened. I have to ask—it's extremely important—how did you learn that I'm here?"

  Vica said dryly, "The man who informed me of your whereabouts is outside in my car at this present moment, he declined to accompany me. Is there a Mrs. Pollifax here?"

  Mrs. Pollifax raised her hand. "Here."

  "You?" He frowned. "But I've seen you—ah yes, of course, you brought to me at breakfast a message about Farrell, a wild tale indeed. Is anyone going to invite me to sit down?"

  "No," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Who is this man who told you where we are?"

  He said testily, "No one is going to invite me to be seated?"

  "Tit for tat," said Mrs. Pollifax pleasantly.

  Vica's glance met hers and held it. He said sternly, "He tells me that you are the person, unbelievable as it may be, who rendered him unconscious on the grounds of my villa."

  Kate laughed.

  "That man?" asked Mrs. Pollifax in surprise. "But how would he know where I am?"

  "He has given me his confidence," Vica said stiffly. "After all, he has been occupying a bed in my villa since the accident, and it became necessary for him to use my telephone to make a call to the United States. It seems that he has been following you, having been instructed in New York to keep you under constant surveillance."

  "Impossible!" said Mrs. Pollifax indignantly.

  "I believe him," said Vica. "His instructions, he tells me, came from a man named Bishop."

  "Bishop?" faltered Mrs. Pollifax.

  "The name is perhaps familiar to you?"

  "But—but why on earth would I be placed under surveillance?" she stammered.

  Farrell chuckled. "Carstairs' blood pressure? Certain past experiences recalled? His name is Henry, isn't it?"

  "Henry Guise, yes. The poor man is afraid to leave my car outside until I have explained his presence, he's had a most difficult time of it. It seems that you incapacitated his car when he followed you out of Erice—"

  "The gray one!" cried Kate.

  "—and then, having lost you, he was instructed to watch for you at my villa, where of course you knocked him unconscious, and he now struggles to deliver a message to you from this— this Bishop. At the Villa Franca."

  Farrell nodded. "So you asked directions from the post office, and—"

  "On the contrary," Vica said, "I am quite familiar with the Villa Franca."

  "And how is that?" said Farrell suspiciously.

  "Never mind, what's the message?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  Vica nodded. "Guise will be more precise when you meet him but the message was that a man by the name of Aristotle is no longer in prison and that you are to contact this Bishop at once."

  "Oh, that," said Mrs. Pollifax, disappointed.

  "Yes, that." Turning to Farrell, Vica said, "But I have not yet learned what I particularly wish to know; I want to hear from you personally why—having engaged you to work for me —I have neither seen nor heard from you for— Ah, good evening, Franca."

  Kate said in astonishment, "You know each other?"

  Franca looked amused. "We've met, yes, but why have they kept you standing? Shame on you, Kate, offer Mr. Vica a chair and some coffee."

  "But Franca, you don't understand the situation," protested Kate.

  "Then let us learn what the situation is," she said firmly. "Over coffee. Unless the living room is preferred?"

  "You have a very depressing living room," said Mr. Vica, and sat down in the chair that Mrs. Pollifax pulled out for him. "I am in the process, Franca, of extracting from this apparent guest of yours, Mr. Farrell, why he has not returned to my house for many days."

  Farrell said indignantly, "1 wanted to make a second try for the Caesar document you hired me to find and authenticate, and I did make a second try."

  Vica said with sarcasm, "Very noble of you but it in no way answers the question. Did you get anything from the safe in either attempt?"

  Farrell nodded. "Yes, but nothing of consequence, you can see for yourself." He pushed back his chair and disappeared down the hall while Franca peered into the saucepan on the stove.

  "Not coffee, this is cocoa."

  "I will accept cocoa," said Mr. Vica with a faint smile.

  He did not look a man who smiled often and Mrs. Pollifax, studying his sallow face, conceded that his smile made him look less thuglike.

  Farrell returned and tossed on the table the contents of the safe that he'd been able to snatch on his first visit. Vica, leaning over them, suddenly smiled; it was his second smile. "Why didn't you tell me you'd secured these?"

  "Because," said Farrell patiently, "it's the signature of Julius Caesar you hoped I'd find and sent me there to find." With a glance at Vica's changed face he said suspiciously, "Or was it?"

  Vica picked up the small framed daguerreotype, turned it over and loosened the nails that held the photo in place. They watched in horror as he ripped out the photo. Holding up the sheet behind it he said, "Here is your signature of Julius Caesar. Authentic papyrus, Roman seal and signature."

  Mrs. Pollifax gasped. "You mean—but how did you know it was behind the photo of that child?"

  "Because I put it there."

&n
bsp; "What the devil!" exploded Farrell.

  "It's a forgery," Vica said. "Do you want to tell them, Franca, or shall I?"

  "I think they already know," Franca said, looking amused.

  "This is what I wanted," said Vica, picking out the sheet of names with its mysterious numbers. "Osepchuk, Champillion, Schweinfurth . . ."He nodded. "This is what I hoped you would find for me, Farrell. I trusted you to find it, I researched you thoroughly before hiring you: your years of experience with the Central Intelligence Agency, your capabilities, the fact that you're tough, resourceful, intelligent. But I still do not understand why you did not return to my house after opening Raphael's safe and finding these papers."

  Farrell said in horror, "You used me like that? You didn't hire me for my art expertise? You took me on to rifle safes, get shot at and steal this page of names? You're the Second Thief," he said bitterly. "You sat back and let everyone else make damn fools of themselves when all the time—who the hell are you?" "It scarcely matters," Vica said. "What matters is this list of names."

  "And not the Caesar signature?" Kate said incredulously. "Why?"

  Vica smiled. "Bait, my dear, bait. I had to protect myself, avoid the slightest suspicion. There had to be something to use as cover—Raphael is a dangerous man. He is also," he added, "an avid collector of ancient Greek and Roman artifacts."

  "And are you a dangerous man?" asked Mrs. Pollifax with interest.

  He said dryly, "Apparently—alas—I am only a 'Second Thief.' I see that you're looking at the document. It is a beautifully rendered forgery, masterfully done but with a deliberate and minute flaw that only X-rays could detect. Its existence was made known to Raphael through channels; he was quietly told of its discovery by a dealer in Rome with whom I placed it; he took the bait and bought it, whereupon rumors circulated that he had it, as they always do. It needed time, but I could wait, I knew that he would soon learn it was a forgery and would want to sell, and as a collector myself it was only natural that I approach him. He is not," he added pointedly, "an easy man to approach. When did you create this for me, Franca?"