The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  He nodded morosely. 'To get up, to get down, it hurts."

  "You poor man," said Mrs. Pollifax, genuinely concerned. "I know exactly what that's like. How long has it been bothering you?" "Since they moved me here."

  Mrs. Pollifax frowned. "Have you tried any deep heat, have you tried massage?"

  He only stared at her, uncomprehending, and Mrs. Pollifax made an exasperated sound. 'Take off your shirt," she said firmly. "Yes, take it off, I won't hurt you, it's the only thing that really helps. Have you rubbing alcohol?"

  "Alcohol?" He reached into a drawer of the desk and dubiously held up a flask of brandy.

  "Yes, why not?" she said cheerfully. "Now the shirt, please, and if you would be so kind as to lie across your desk—"

  He retreated in alarm.

  "No, no, you don't understand, I will rub your back. Massage it. This has . . ." She was making no headway with him. She went to the door and opened it. "Mr. Lulash," she called, "could you please come and translate for me? I want to rub the major's back."

  "You want to what?" said Lulash, entering.

  "His heating pad will do very little for him, he needs a sound back rub. Please ask him to remove his shirt and lie across his desk."

  With a grin Lulash translated the words. Major Vassovic said, "Ah!" and then, "Oh?"

  "He did not understand you," said Lulash. "He thought you were insisting he lie down and drink the alcohol and his instructions are to never drink while on duty."

  "I see." The major was removing his shirt.

  "He says," translated Lulash, "that he did not bring long winter underwear here because it is summer. He did not expect a stone house."

  "Nor did any of us," murmured Mrs. Pollifax, her eyes running expertly over his back. Once the major had lowered himself to the desk she rolled up her sleeves, poured brandy into the palm of one hand, and approached him. She was a knowledgeable back-rubber; at one period in her life she had visited a Swedish masseur and had seen no reason why she should not apply the same principles to the backs of her family. Experience added a special fillip to her technique, and now she pummeled, pushed, kneaded and slapped the major's back with enthusiasm. His small shrieks of protest presently became sighs of joy.

  "He will need a blanket now," Mrs. Pollifax told Lulash. "He must lie still for several minutes before getting up." Lulash nodded and returned with a blanket. Mrs. Pollifax threw it over the major and collapsed into the desk chair. "Now that was good exercise," she said happily. "I haven't done it in years."

  "Was good, good," grunted the major from the desk.

  "You must be extremely careful in getting up," she told him sternly. "When the muscles are inflamed and swollen they push little bones out of place. This is what hurts you."

  Lulash went to the water cooler and brought back two paper cups. "Allow me," he said, and with a bow poured brandy into each cup.

  Mrs. Pollifax said doubtfully, "I suppose I could call it a late afternoon cocktail?" She accepted the drink with her right hand. Very casually she dangled her left hand in the vicinity of the ammunition drawer and felt for the protruding brass key.

  "Half-past three," said Lulash, and seated himself in the chair on the other side of the desk. He and Mrs. Pollifax exchanged friendly smiles across the lumpy, prostrate form of Major Vassovic. "Skoal!" called Lulash, lifting his cup.

  "Skoal," returned Mrs. Pollifax gaily, pulling open the drawer behind her. In the comfortable silence that followed she filled her hand with gun cartridges and pushed the drawer closed again.

  The lumpy figure stirred and sat up. "But that was delicious," gasped the major. "You do that for my back again sometime?"

  Mrs. Pollifax beamed at him. She now had four gun clips in her lap and was feeling congenial indeed. "Of course, Major. At least until they decide how to dispose of me."

  Lulash said in surprise, "Dispose? Dispose?"

  She said cheerfully, "Oh yes, I'm sure they'll eventually have to kill me. What else can they do with me?"

  "But you cannot be dangerous," protested Lulash.

  Mrs. Pollifax shrugged. "Does anyone care? This isn’t a democracy, you know."

  "They do not shoot people in a democracy?"

  "Oh dear, no. Not unless they've committed a murder, and even then—no, really, people do not get shot as punishment in a democracy." She sipped her brandy appreciatively. "And then it's in the hands of a jury, you know. It takes twelve people to decide on a person's guilt."

  Major Vassovic stared at her. 'Twelve officers, you mean."

  "Oh no," said Mrs. Pollifax. 'Twelve people. Citizens. Ordinary people. Working people. "The two men stared at her incredulously. Major Vassovic said, "But then no one would ever be found guilty. Who instructs them?"

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled forgivingly. "They are free to make up their own minds from the evidence that's presented."

  Major Vassovic looked thoroughly alarmed; Lulash looked interested. "Explain to me how it works," he said.

  Mrs. Pollifax hesitated, not from any lack of articulateness but because she was holding four gun cartridges in her lap. She said, "First I must put on my jacket, I'm cold." She left her chair and walked over to the stool upon which she had arranged her jacket so that it would conceal Albania: Land of Primitive Beauty. Slipping the gun clips into the pocket she shrugged on her jacket and managed to squeeze the book tightly under one arm. Her activity reminded Major Vassovic of his own condition and he started buttoning on his tunic.

  "It works like this," Mrs. Pollifax said, and returning to the desk drew pencil and paper toward her and began diagramming a courtroom. "The judge sits here," she announced, drawing a circle, "and we will call this the jury box and put twelve circles here. You will be one of them, and I will be another, and the major will be a third."

  "Please no," said the major in alarm.

  "It's only on paper," she told him soothingly. "And we will pretend that you, Mr. Lulash, are a farmer, and I am a housewife, and Major Vassovic sells ties in a store."

  "What are our political affiliations?" asked Lulash quickly.

  "Oh, but that doesn't matter at all."

  "But it must."

  She shook her head. "No, because this is a court of law and justice. We would be concerned only with truth."

  Lulash said, "But surely the jury would have been appointed by party officials?"

  "No," said Mrs. Pollifax firmly. "Not appointed at all. No commitments, no ties, no obligations. Absolute freedom to decide."

  "Zott," cried Major Vassovic despairingly.

  "Then surely the judge is appointed?"

  "Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax.

  "Ah!" cried Lulash triumphantly.

  "But the judge has nothing to do with the verdict," emphasized Mrs. Pollifax. "He cannot decide whether a man is guilty or innocent. That responsibility rests with the twelve jurors. "Lulash looked bewildered. "He cannot tell the twelve jurors they're wrong? He cannot punish them if they bring in the wrong verdict?"

  "Absolutely not," replied Mrs. Pollifax.

  From the doorway General Hoong said coldly, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Pollifax."

  Mrs. Pollifax turned. She had not realized before how very much the general's face resembled a fresh brown egg. The skin fitted his bones so snugly that she could not find a single line of laughter or of sadness, and she wondered if he could have had his face lifted. There was something very sinister about a man of forty or fifty who looked so remote and untouched by life. "Good afternoon," she said.

  His nostrils quivered fastidiously. "There is a smell of alcohol in this room. Private Lulash, Major Vassovic, have you been drinking?"

  "It's entirely my fault," intervened Mrs. Pollifax. "I was allowed a small walk and I had a touch of sunstroke. They offered me the brandy for medicinal purposes."

  Seeing the general's gaze drift from Lulash to Major Vassovic she continued in a firmer voice. "I'm glad you are here, General Hoong. I would like permission to extract the bullet from Mr. Farrell's arm. You
have seen Mr. Farrell today?"

  The general's glance rested upon her and his left eyebrow lifted. Mrs. Pollifax was relieved to see that this caused two lines above the brow without cracking the surface of his face.

  "It is obvious to me," she said in her most imperious Woman's Club voice, "that he will die if the bullet is not removed. This will make General Perdido quite angry, don't you think? I don't believe he will appreciate his dying at all. Not at all."

  The general's gaze lingered on her face. He might have been pondering a piece of rare jade, a beautiful sunset or the fish he was to eat for dinner.

  "I will need a knife," she went on recklessly. "A knife and some boiling water to sterilize it, and a bandage. This is possible?"

  The general's right eyebrow was lifted this time. His lips moved. "It is possible, yes."

  "Good."

  Gradually something resembling an expression stirred the shell-like surface of his face. 'There is nothing else?" His voice was brushed with the most delicate sarcasm.

  "I don't believe so," Mrs. Pollifax told him, ignoring the sarcasm. "Your food is quite good and I'm growing accustomed to the mattress. It's not exactly posturpedic, but it's firm. No, I think this is all."

  He bowed slightly. "I am so glad."

  "And now I believe I'd like to go back to my cell and lie down," she finished. "If you will excuse me?"

  Major Vassovic at once produced the key and led her down the hall. As he swung the cell door open for her he whispered, "Tomorrow, same time?"

  Feeling like a paramour making an assignation Mrs. Pollifax told him gravely, 'Tomorrow, yes." She entered the cell to discover that the Gremlin had disappeared and Farrell was asleep. As soon as the door closed behind her she hurried to her cot and hid the book on Albania under the mattress. Only then did she bring from the pocket of her Guatemalan jacket the items she had stolen from the ammunition drawer. It was a little like opening up a mystery prize, she reflected, as she held them up to the light to see what she had won. Carrying them to the nearest window slit for a closer scrutiny she found that two belonged to a Beretta pistol, and two to something called a Nambu. Very good, she thought, nodding. Next she wondered where to hide them and she decided at last upon diversification; she placed one in her purse, another inside her underclothes in a time-honored place of concealment, a third she trusted to a hole in her mattress and the fourth she hid in Farrell's mattress. Since Farrell was still asleep she took out Lulash's book and turned again to the map.

  "What, no solitaire?" asked Farrell suddenly from across the room, turning his head toward her.

  "For the moment I have something better to do," she told him absently. "Lulash has loaned me a book on Albania, much prized by him in spite of its being published in 1919. What is particularly interesting is that it has a very good map of the country. He really should have remembered it was there and removed it."

  Farrell's mouth dropped open. "Good God," he gasped, "you can't possibly be thinking of escape!"

  She thought it tactless to mention the alternative. Instead she said calmly, "But why not? You don't think I want to spend my sunset years in Albania, do you? The winters are extremely cold, the book says so, as cold as the summers are hot. If I only apply myself there must be a way to get us out, preferably before General Perdido returns." "Us?" echoed Farrell in astonishment. "You said us'?" Mrs. Pollifax looked up from her map in surprise. "You can't possibly think I'd leave you behind!"

  Farrell shook his head. "My dear Duchess, it must have escaped your notice that for most of today I've been off my rocker with fever. I also have a broken right leg and a bullet in my right arm."

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded indifferently. "Yes, I'd noticed. But I’ve asked for permission to cut the bullet out of your arm, and if you can bear another operation—I know it won't be pleasant—then your temperature ought to go down, and that will leave only the healing leg."

  "That's right—only a broken leg," rasped Farrell. Mrs. Pollifax returned impatiently to her book. "It isn’t clear to me yet, but I'm hoping it will come. The simplest way would be lowering you over the cliff, but we would need at least a hundred feet of rope for that. We ought to have a gun, too, and some sort of clothes for disguise, and food, and I suppose to be really efficient we ought to have a compass, although if the stars are out—"

  She found that Farrell was regarding her as if she had gone mad. He said with sarcasm, "A rope, a gun, a disguise, food and a compass—anything else? How about ordering a limousine?"

  "I don't think you're being at all receptive," she told him stiffly.

  It was their first quarrel. He said scornfully, "I think you've gone off your rocker, too, Duchess, but if it gives you something to keep your mind occupied—well, have lots and lots of fun. And now if you'll forgive me I'll go back to sleep, which is the best escape I can think of. You know—'sleep that knits the raveled sleeve of care' and all that?"

  "Coward," said Mrs. Pollifax with a sniff, and then was sorry for the word as soon as it left her lips. But it was too late; Farrell's eyes were closed and a kind of gentle snore was issuing from his half-open mouth. Mrs. Pollifax, watching him, wondered if he knew how becoming a beard would be to the shape of his face. A few more days, she mused, and he would have a very striking one, and then with a start she went back to Albania: Land of Primitive Beauty.

  The boiling water, a penknife and a towel arrived at dusk, brought in by Major Vassovic, who looked disapproving and then somewhat distraught as he added that he had been ordered to remain behind to help with the operation. In a gruff, nervous voice he addressed the walrus-moustached man who now shared their cell. "His name is Adhem Nexdhet," he told Mrs. Pollifax. "I have asked him to hold the candle for you, Lulash is not on duty tonight."

  "For me," thought Mrs. Pollifax, "he means hold the candle for me," and her knees suddenly felt very wobbly. She put down the pack of playing cards and stood up, trying to recall the dozens of splinters and the broken glass she had extracted from small knees and fingers in her lifetime, but finding little comfort in the thought. She remembered only one bit of advice given her by a doctor: never bleed for the patient, let him do the bleeding, you just get the job done.

  Mrs. Pollifax took the knife from Major Vassovic, saw to its sterilization, glanced just once at Farrell, whose eyes were open, and proceeded to go about getting the job done. She mentally granted to Farrell his own right to dignity, assuming he could manage his own hell just as she must somehow manage hers. Quickly and ruthlessly, knowing that speed was kinder than gentleness, she probed the rotting flesh for the bullet. When the knife met its hard resistance she thanked heaven that it was not embedded in a muscle and with one swift, cruel turning of the knife she lifted the pellet to the surface and heard it drop to the stone floor. Not knowing how else to complete the job she poured the hot water over the infected skin, and this at last brought from Farrell a yelp of pain.

  "I wondered when we'd hear from you," she told him. "They'd never hire you at Mount Sinai, Duchess." His face glistened with perspiration.

  "Really? And I was planning to apply next week—what a pity."

  He grinned weakly. "Just can't keep you from volunteering for things, can we. Have you finished your butchery?" "Quite."

  Farrell nodded and turned his face to the wall, and Mrs. Pollifax realized what he had already endured and must still face, and the resolve to escape hardened in her. She would not, must not, save Farrell only for General Perdido. Even if an escape attempt brought only death it was certainly a cleaner way to die than by whatever means the general was planning. In that moment she realized they were going to have to try it, and with this all her doubts ended; it was no longer a matter of whether but when and how. Major Vassovic had disappeared, leaving her the basin of water and several towels. Mrs. Pollifax dipped a towel into the water and began swabbing blood from Farrell's mattress.

  "You did that well," said Adhem Nexdhet suddenly. "Without emotion."

  Mrs. Pollifax stepped bac
k in surprise. "You really do speak English," she said accusingly.

  He smiled wryly. "But you already knew this, did you not? I am not unaware of the little trick Mr. Farrell played on me. Allow me," he said, taking the towel from her. "You are not young, you must be tired."

  Mrs. Pollifax backed to her cot and sat down. "I suppose you're also in the secret police then!"

  "Yes, I am Colonel Nexdhet of the Sigurimi."

  Mrs. Pollifax winced. "I see. That makes you the major's superior then." She sighed. "It also makes it especially kind of you to help. Thank you."

  He shrugged. "A good officer knows when to break rules here and there. Major Vassovic is not a good officer, except for his rigid obedience, which is the mark of a follower, not a leader. He is afraid of life." The colonel wrung out one towel and picked up another, saying over his shoulder, "There is one thing that General Perdido does not know about you, Mrs. Pollifax."

  Startled, she said, "Oh? What is that?"

  He turned to look at her. "He does not know how well you perform under pressure."

  There was a long silence. Nexdhet's words were ambiguous, but the man's stare made Mrs. Pollifax feel distinctly uneasy. Until now the comic moustache had obscured the fact that his eyes were both penetrating and intelligent. As pleasantly as possible Mrs. Pollifax said, "I'm glad to hear that."

  "You are more than you appear to be," he said, smiling.

  "Really?" He was clearly testing her, she decided. "I have no idea how I appear."

  "It is very interesting to me," continued Nexdhet. "I underestimated you at first glance. To General Perdido you are an embarrassing mistake. Now I wonder if he may not have underestimated you as well."

  "What you have underestimated," retorted Mrs. Pollifax firmly, "is my experience in first aid. However, if it pleases you to think otherwise—"

  The cell door opened. The guard who did not speak English came in to collect the dinner trays and the conversation was mercifully ended. Mrs. Pollifax spread out her playing cards for a last game of solitaire, but whenever she glanced up she was aware of Colonel Nexdhet watching her with a mixture of speculation and amusement.