Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief

by Dorothy Gilman

  "Eight or nine months ago."

  He nodded. "Now I repeat: why didn't you return to me, Farrell, after opening Raphael's safe?"

  Farrell said angrily, "Because two gunmen were waiting for me at Raphael's. Because I dared not trust you. Because of the man and woman I met at your house nine days ago, a man named Davidson—especially because of him."

  "What, that boring chap?" said Vica in surprise. "They were luncheon guests, Raphael sent them."

  "Why? What for?" demanded Farrell.

  Vica's brows lifted. "My dear man, why such interest? I had intended to rent my villa for the summer months and go to Paris. They were prospective tenants. It was Raphael who told me that he knew of a couple—English I believe he said—who were looking for just such a place as mine for a few months. He offered to introduce them to me; I invited them and Raphael to lunch, Raphael was unable to come, so the Davidsons came alone. I showed them around, we had a most delicious lunch— my cook is superb—during which the Davidson's scarcely spoke a word. They had no conversation, which I found positively barbaric, I was forced to do all the talking. It turned out they—no, she—had a plane to catch later. When I learned of this—and the reason for it—I was able to extend my sympathies and the woman thawed somewhat, even weeping over this mother whom she'd not seen for years. It was all quite tedious, but of what possible interest can this drab couple be to you?"

  Mrs. Pollifax said with feeling, "Because your drab Mr. Davidson happens to be a criminal of some note, lately released from prison in France, and since both Farrell and I were involved in sending him to that prison there have been a number of people chasing us, trying to shoot us, and in general being very tiresome."

  Startled, Vica said, "I see . . . I didn't realize."

  "And if I may interrupt this interrogation of Farrell," she went on, "I would very much like to know about this connection of yours with Franca and how you learned—

  "Of her paintings?" he said smoothly, and gave Franca an amused glance. "It seems a fair question. It happened that we shared the same art dealer in Palermo. A bit of a rascal—it is wise to never never ask where or how he finds the very remarkable treasures that he presents. He announced one day—about ten years ago, wasn't it, Franca?—that he had discovered in someone's attic in Naples a portrait that he was sure was a Bellini."

  Farrell whistled through his teeth at this. "A Bellini!"

  Vica nodded. "I bought it, had it examined and tested, and learned that it was a very clever forgery. Franca," he added parenthetically, "had not as yet fully developed her technique. When I decided to keep it anyway, I used considerable—shall we say pressure?—to persuade the dealer to tell me who had painted it, after which it amused me to pay a call on the Villa Franca." He sighed. "Since then I have purchased two of her— shall I say copies?—a Matisse and a Braque, to keep her out of trouble." Turning to her he said, "I don't like to ask how many you've completed that I don't know about. You refuse to consider the dangers, Franca."

  "There was a Correggio," Farrell said musingly. "Absolutely gorgeous. It was in her office two days ago but has since disappeared."

  Vica shook his head sadly. "Franca, you're obsessed with being independent and supporting the village. You can't do it from prison, you know, and it's only a matter of time before you're exposed. I beg of you again to consider retiring from all this, and marrying."

  "Marrying?" said Kate. "Like who?"

  Vica said with dignity, "I have proposed marriage to Franca at least three times a year for the past five years. She makes it very difficult even to see her, in fact I have once or twice had to bribe Peppino to get through the gates. She tells me that she esteems me, even though I am—as she says—an idle man of wealth, and a hedonist, she is grateful for my interest but values her independence. She continues to refuse me."

  Three heads swiveled toward Franca, who said in an amused voice, "The alternative being prison?"

  "God knows I am not an attractive man," Vica said, "but I have more money than I know what to do with and it is surprising how meaningless wealth can be with no one to share it with; I am frankly a lonely man. Peppino could take over from you here—he's an excellent man, Franca, you know that. You also know you need a rest from such responsibility. Fifteen years! Admit that you're bored, you're so bored you've begun changing the color of your hair every day!"

  At this Franca gave him a sharp glance but said nothing.

  "However," he said firmly, "this is neither the time nor the place to propose marriage to a romantic woman—as you are, Franca, you are—so let us return to the business at hand. I would appreciate it if one of you would now be so kind as to conduct me to the cellar where I understand you have been hiding this Aristotle—who apparently I've already met as Davidson."

  He seemed surprised to find them all staring at him in horror. Kate stammered, "But—Aristotle here? Wh-what can you mean?"

  He said patiently, "What I mean is that you have found the man—just in time—and we have found this list of names just in time."

  "In time for what—and who is 'we'?" asked Farrell in a hard voice.

  Vica's brows lifted. "Interpol, of course."

  "You're Interpol?"

  "You're Interpol!" gasped Kate.

  He shrugged. "Let us say that I have a connection with them, that in my travels, and with my position, I have access to many people who are of great interest to Interpol, and learn many details that are of use. One likes to be useful," he said with a dry smile.

  Franca looked at him accusingly. "I didn't know this."

  He acknowledged this with an ironic bow. "One is not supposed to know, it pains me to mention it even now."

  "Why didn't you tell us this immediately?" asked Mrs. Pollifax. "Of course it's been delicious, learning that Franca has a suitor, but I have to point out that you've been the villain of this piece at least until last night."

  He raised his hand authoritatively. "Please—the suspicion has not been one-sided," he said, interrupting her. "It has been vital that I first learn Farrell's reasons for avoiding me. My dear Farrell, you have been under considerable suspicion for disappearing so abruptly as you did. Raphael has been known to corrupt some very respectable people, and for all I knew you had met Raphael when you went to—er—examine his safe, and he had bribed or persuaded you to work for him."

  Kate said, "How dare you suspect Farrell!"

  "Bless you, my dear," said Farrell, "I do appreciate your indignation." To Vica he said seriously, "I assume you can prove who you are?"

  Vica looked amused. "Only by calling in the police, who wait patiently outside in four cars to remove Aristotle from your cellar ... I am what you call the advance guard. There is another contingent in Palermo at the airport, prepared to transport him to France."

  "He won't like there being so many," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax. "He doesn't like people."

  "Sufficient punishment, then," said Vica.

  "But he mustn't be found in the cellar," Kate said, quickly rising out of her chair. "Peppino, we must bring him upstairs —must—at once! You still have your gun with you?"

  Vica, for the first time, looked puzzled. "Not found in the cellar?"

  Apparently there was one secret about the Villa Franca that Ambrose Vica didn't know, and to distract him as Kate and Peppino left the room Mrs. Pollifax said, "I think we have a right to know what's behind this list of names that you've worked for so many months to find."

  He said with distaste, "What lies behind these names is death. This Albert Raphael is a man who sells it, he deals in illegal arms transactions—riot guns, ammunition, Scuds, nuclear weapon materials, missiles of any type—whatever is forbidden export or import to whoever has money to buy: Africa, the Middle East, Balkans, Europe, terrorists anywhere." His lips tightened. "More dangerous even than this, however, was Interpol learning some eighteen months ago that Raphael had organized his various high-level contacts across the world into a tight group—a cartel of death, you might
call it—and it is no less than that. The men in this select group of Raphael's have been unknown to us until now—at this moment—when I hold in my hand the list of their names and addresses. When I look at it—" He shook his head. "I scarcely need the addresses, these names—"

  "You recognize them?" said Farrell quietly.

  Vica nodded. "Sadly, yes. All but one or two of them are known and trusted men—I told you of Raphael's persuasive talents. It is a matter of deep disillusionment to see that such men in responsible positions have been so corrupted, involving themselves in providing the means to make wars, revolutions, coups."

  "And Aristotle?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  He shrugged. "Obviously they demanded the best, and were willing to go to any extreme to get it. Recently Interpol learned from an informant that the group had completed plans to murder—assassinate—a list of people who have gotten in their way, in particular those in government and investigative branches who have become outraged at corruption that can no longer be tolerated, people who have proven very inconvenient to such power-driven men as these . . . thus Aristotle."

  "Whose reputation they knew, but not the man," said Mrs. Pollifax dryly.

  They watched in silence as Vica scanned the list. He said, "I would suspect Champillion of being the most heavily involved in Aristotle's pardon from prison, he has that kind of influence in France. Osepchuk—a tricky politician in the Balkans who promotes nationalistic ambitions that lead, of course, to the arming of two sides at once and a doubling of profits."

  Mrs. Pollifax shivered. "Certainly the world has never seemed more divided. Are you implying—"

  "I am more than implying," said Vica. "To provide arms to just one fanatic, or to insinuate just one of these men or their hirelings into a position where advantage can be taken of an explosive situation is to apply a match to the proverbial tinder-box. Brother fights brother, tribe fights tribe and men grow rich from it." He said with contempt, "And Raphael doubtless buys a bigger yacht and a man like Osepchuk takes another mistress. But Champillion—" He shook his head. "It terrifies me to see his name linked with this cartel of death, he is known to be a member of numerous organizations for peace, a collector of fine art, and of rare books, a man of sensitivity and—you must forgive me but I have been personally involved in this search for the men Raphael had enlisted for his purposes and I can scarcely believe what I see on this list. We have indeed been in great danger in this world."

  "You said Raphael was in oil?" Farrell reminded him.

  The lamp over Vica flickered, shadowing his face for a moment. "Mere camouflage," he said. "It was the BCCI bank scandal that brought his name to the surface. His was one of many names, and seemingly of little importance until rumors and facts from various intelligence agencies around the world were pieced together and it was realized that Raphael is the shadow-figure behind arms smuggling that Interpol has known existed but couldn't trace."

  "And now you've bagged him," said Farrell. "What will happen to Raphael and his merry group of murderers, if one may ask?"

  Vica nodded. "Due process will begin, slowly but irrevocably," he said. "Indictments, arraignments, batteries of lawyers . . . Soon you will read a little of it in your newspapers and perhaps later, if it has some drama, you may hear of it on your television news. It will not interest many, I fear."

  They were silent, hearing footsteps and voices in the hallway: Peppino and Kate were returning from the cellar with Aristotle. As they entered the kitchen Vica rose from his chair. "So this is Aristotle," he said, "or should I say Mr. Davidson?"

  Aristotle gave no evidence of recognizing him; his face remained expressionless, his eyes stony.

  "Shall we go?" suggested Farrell, taking Peppino's place as guard.

  Vica nodded and moved toward the door but Mrs. Pollifax had something to say. "Mr. Bimms—?"

  He turned to look at her.

  "For myself," she said, "I want to thank you for escaping Raphael and coming to us. If you hadn't—" She left the rest unsaid, and expecting no response she received none. He was a man who would have been happy to plan more killings if given a computer and a slide rule, he would have welcomed another opportunity to calculate trajectory, distance, the right weapon, the perfect disguise, the perfect shot and the getaway if Raphael had only understood his monomania. Ironically it was the sickest aspect of Aristotle's character that Mrs. Pollifax felt compelled to thank; it was this, after all, that had led to his rebellion.

  Vica and Farrell escorted him out of the room and Kate followed, leaving Peppino, Franca and Mrs. Pollifax at a table strewn with empty cocoa cups.

  "So," Peppino said with relief, "it is over?" "Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Exit Aristotle." "So many men outside!" confided Peppino. "They didn't understand a word of Italian, those were not Palermo police. What is this Interpol?"

  "The International Criminal Police Organization," explained Mrs. Pollifax.

  Franca was smothering a yawn. "I'm suddenly rather tired," she said. "It's been a strenuous day. I've harbored a ruthless assassin in the cellar since morning, sliced two pounds of tomatoes, helped fight off a small army of hoodlums this evening, and received a proposal of marriage. Isn't anyone going to go to bed tonight?"

  OVERNIGHT, CALM APPEARED TO HAVE SETTLED over the Villa Franca, and with it a slackening of its rituals: in the morning when Mrs. Pollifax arrived in the kitchen Igeia was nowhere to be seen, nor was the table set for breakfast. Someone had brewed coffee, however, and Mrs. Pollifax cut a slab of bread from the loaf on the counter, poured herself a cup of lukewarm coffee and retired to the garden to sort out the events of the past evening. There was much to think about: after all, her assignment to help Farrell had ended during the last night and this afternoon she would have to make arrangements to fly home.

  Plucking a leaf of tarragon from the herb bed she found its summer fragrance as enchanting as always, and she thought that in her memory the Villa Franca was going to hold a fragrance very much like tarragon; she was going to miss it. Leaving, she would return again to a world of instant communication, to hot water that flowed at the twist of a faucet, to lights that sprang on at the touch of a switch, telephones that rang, and a society that moved too quickly to offer the sense of community that existed here. The contrast would be startling.

  But she did hope that Franca would stop forging masterpieces before she was caught at it. Mr. Vica had been right about that. Mr. Vica, in fact, had been full of surprises.

  She thought now of his description of Raphael's group as a cartel of death, and although the morning sun was dissipating the night's coolness she shivered. How impatient, she thought, how disgusted with the greatest protection civilization possessed—the law—and how arrogant their determination to have their own way and kill to achieve it.

  Have their own way . . .

  She remembered an incident with her son Roger—had he been four years old or five?—when he had stood rooted and furious in the backyard after breaking the toy of a playmate. He'd shouted to her, "He got in my way—I could kill him!" If Roger had been too young to understand the words he'd shouted, his primitive fury at that moment had been real. He had wanted his own way.

  As these men did now.

  Except they were not five years old.

  And again she shivered, hoping the law would not move too slowly.

  Behind her in the kitchen she heard voices raised in argument and she smiled ruefully: Kate and Farrell, of course, and she frankly eavesdropped.

  "Of course I want my coffee black," snapped Kate. "Surely you've noticed that by now?"

  "Why so cross, for pete's sake?" asked Farrell. "All's well that ends well, Aristotle's on his way back to the prison cell he never wanted to leave, Ambrose Vica has his list—"

  "Yes, and Mr. Vica will stop in this afternoon to give you a fat check and talk to Franca, and then you'll fly off tomorrow and forget about you and me?"

  There was a silence, a very long silence, and Mrs. Pollifax thought, Oh de
ar, Farrell's panicked?

  When Farrell spoke again his voice was sober. "It won't work, you know, Kate."

  "Won't work! Do you mind telling me why?" demanded Kate.

  "Because I can't ask you to give up your work with the Department, and because I think you'd find life in an art gallery damnably dull, and because if you stayed with the Department I'd worry about you constantly. I've been there, you know, I've experienced it, I know the hazards. It can be dangerous."

  "Sarajevo was an exception," she told him. "I didn't expect it to turn into a killing ground."

  "One never does. Or someone to poke a gun in your ribs and say, I know who you are."

  She said accusingly, "Is that why you retired?"

  "There was an element of burnout, yes," he said, "but I'd also grown tired of concealing who I was after twenty years. You haven't reached that stage yet. Mostly, though, I wanted to find out what the real world was like, learn what else was possible, and live normally."

  "Normally!" she flung at him. "So you ended up in Zambia working with the freedom fighters! Come off it, Farrell."

  "You know that's not the way it was, I simply chose Zambia to raise cattle and to farm, and it just so happened—"

  "Yes, just happened, and you were called Mulika, shedder of light, and risked your neck every day. "

  "And Sarajevo found you living in a cellar with bombs exploding all around you, and—"

  "I think," interrupted Kate, "that we're getting off the subject, aren't we? It would be rather nice to give me some choice in this matter, I don't appreciate being told how I'll feel or react. It's incredible—you actually plan to just fly off to Mexico City tomorrow, leaving me here to finish my rest-leave and go on to my next assignment, and we simply exchange Christmas cards every year?"