Farrell began to laugh. "Have them! Carstairs, the Duchess here played solitaire with those playing cards day in and day out, endlessly, right under the guards' noses, and in front of General Perdido, too. Have them! She drove everybody nearly crazy with them."
Mrs. Pollifax gave him a reproachful glance. Reaching down to her second petticoat she brought out the deck of cards and placed them on the desk. For a long moment Car-stairs stared at them as if he could not quite believe they were there. Then he reached out and picked them up and ran his fingers over them. "Plasticized," he said softly. "They're enclosed in plastic. Bishop," he said in a strange voice, "Bishop, take these to the lab on the double. On the double, Bishop— it's microfilms we're after."
"Yes sir," gasped Bishop, and the door closed behind him.
Carstairs sat back and stared at Mrs. Pollifax with a look of incredulity.
"I know just how you feel," said Farrell, grinning. "She's full of surprises, what?"
"Rather, yes." Carstairs shook his head, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And ten days ago I believed I had sent an innocent lamb into a den of wolves. You seem to have great resources, Mrs. Pollifax."
"It's my age," said Mrs. Pollifax modestly.
"And if those cards should turn out to be . . ." Again Carstairs shook his head. "Why, then, nothing would have blown up in Mexico at all. It's incredible, absolutely incredible."
"But I simply can't think why I didn't remember about those cards," said Mrs. Pollifax. "In my mind I always identified them with Senor DeGamez, yet I completely overlooked his tossing them to me like that. Is this what's called a mental block?"
The phone buzzed and Carstairs picked it up. "Carstairs." He listened and grinned. "Right. Thanks, Bishop." Hanging up, he smiled at both Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax. "They've found the first microfilm. Tirpak used two packs of very thin playing cards. He cemented the back of one card to the front of another, with the film between, and enclosed each in special plastic." He added fervently, "If that was a mental block, Mrs. Pollifax, then bless it. Perdido would have sensed at once that you were concealing something—if you had consciously recalled how you received those cards. It very definitely saved your life when you were questioned, and it's certainly recovered for this country a great amount of invaluable information." He shook his head. "Mrs. Pollifax, we are in your debt."
She smiled and said gently, "If I could just have a bath and a change of clothes ... I can't think of anything I'd enjoy more."
Carstairs laughed. "I'll make certain you have both within the hour. And for you, Johnny—a bevy of beautiful nurses." Farrell stumbled to his feet and walked to Mrs. Pollifax. He bent over and kissed her. "I won't say good-bye, Duchess, I couldn't. Just don't you dare leave town without coming to see me on my bed of pain."
Mrs. Pollifax looked up at him and beamed. "I'll bring roses, I promise you, my dear Farrell, and just to prove how opinionated and shortsighted you've been I'll also bring a deck of playing cards and teach you one or two games of solitaire."
He didn't smile. He said gravely, "A very small price to pay for my life, Duchess. . . . God bless you and have a wonderful bath."
Mrs. Pollifax put down her suitcase in front of the door to apartment 4-
A and groped in her purse for the key. It seemed a long, long time since she had last stood here, and it filled her with a sense of awe that the externals of life could remain so unchanged when she felt so different. Like a kaleidoscope, she thought, her imagination captured by the simile: one swift turn of the cylinder and all the little bits and pieces of colored glass fell into a different pattern. As she inserted her key into the lock a door across the hall flew open, spilling sunlight across the black and white tiles of the floor. "Mrs. Pollifax, you're back at last!" cried Miss Hartshorne.
Mrs. Pollifax stiffened. She said, turning, "Yes, I'm home again, and how have you been, Miss Hartshorne?"
"As well as can be expected, thank you. You must have had a marvelous trip to stay so long."
"Yes, marvelous," agreed Mrs. Pollifax with a faint smile.
"I've a package for you, it came this morning and I signed for it." Miss Hartshorne held up one hand dramatically. "Don't go away, don't even move, I'll be right back."
Mrs. Pollifax waited, and presently her neighbor reappeared carrying a box wrapped in brown paper and covered with seals. "It came special delivery all the way from Mexico City! I'm giving you last night's newspaper, too, so you can catch up on our news here."
"How very kind of you," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Won't you come in and have a cup of tea with me?"
Miss Hartshorne looked shocked. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of bothering you now. As an experienced traveler myself I know how utterly exhausted you must be. But I hope you'll invite me in soon to see your slides. I trust you don't mind, I took it upon myself to tell the Lukes and Mrs. Ohrbach that they could see them too. We're all looking forward to them so much."
Mrs. Pollifax said quietly, "I'm afraid there'll be no slides, Miss Hartshorne."
Her neighbor's jaw dropped. "No slides? You mean your pictures didn't come out?" Her glance was stern. "Didn't you study the lighting charts I gave you?"
You've forgotten pi again, Emily. . . . Mrs. Pollifax smiled and said gently, "I didn't take any snapshots, I was too busy."
'Too busy?" Miss Hartshorne looked horrified.
"Yes, too busy. In fact it might surprise you how busy I really was, Miss Hartshorne." She added firmly, "I believe I'll insist that you come in for a cup of tea now if you have the time. I don't believe we've ever had a cup of tea together, have we?"
Miss Hartshorne looked shaken. "Why—why, no," she said in an astonished voice. "No, I don't believe we have."
Mrs. Pollifax pushed wide the door and walked inside. "Do sit down, I'll put some water on to boil and then I'll join you." Leaving package and newspaper on the couch she hurried out to the kitchen to fill the tea kettle. 'There," she said, returning, "that won't take but a minute." From where she sat she could see the headline on the newspaper that Miss Hartshorne had given her: rescued scientist gains strength, dr. howell to meet press tomorrow. Mrs. Pollifax smiled contentedly.
"Your package," pointed out Miss Hartshorne.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The package. Aren't you dying of curiosity or is it something you ordered from Mexico?"
Startled, Mrs. Pollifax turned to eye the box beside her. "No, I didn't order it and yes, I am curious. Would you hand me the scissors on the table beside you, Miss Hartshorne? Ill attack this right now."
Scissors in hand she cut the strings. The box inside bore the label of a very expensive shop near the Hotel Reforma Intercontinental. "What on earth," she murmured, and eagerly tore it open. "Serapes!" she gasped.
"How beautiful," said Miss Hartshorne in a hushed voice. "A gift? How many friends you must have made, Mrs. Pollifax."
Mrs. Pollifax lifted out first one and then another until the couch was aflame with their brilliant colors.
"Six!" cried Miss Hartshorne.
"Why so there are," beamed Mrs. Pollifax. "One for each grandchild, one for Roger, one for Jane and one for myself. Isn't that lovely?" Then she saw the card that had been slipped between the folds of the last serape. It read very simply, "With mingled gratitude and apologies, Carstairs."
Carstairs. ... A great warmth filled Mrs. Pollifax at the thoughtfulness of such a busy man. She glanced around her apartment at the familiar furniture, the sunshine striping the rugs, the atmosphere of quiet security, and just for a moment a procession of unusual people trouped through her thoughts: a goatherder and his wife, a Genie who talked of life's choices being like intersections on a road map, Colonel Nexdhet of the walrus moustache, Lulash, Major Vassovic and a man named John Sebastian Farrell who faced pain with gaiety. She said with a smile, "I met a great many unforgettable people on my trip, Miss Hartshorne. Somewhat eccentric people, perhaps, but extremely unforgettable, all of them."
Simultaneousl
y the tea kettle began to sing and the telephone rang. Mrs. Pollifax said hastily, "Oh, Miss Hartshorne, would you pour the tea? The tea bags are in the cupboard over the stove and so are the cups. Do you mind?"
Miss Hartshorne laughed. It was the first time that Mrs. Pollifax had ever heard her laugh. "How casually you live, Mrs. Pollifax. This takes me back to my college days. No, of course I don't mind, this is really quite fun." Over her shoulder she called, "Call me Grace, won't you?"
But Mrs. Pollifax had already picked up the telephone. "Why Roger!" she exclaimed with pleasure. "How wonderful to hear from you, dear. Yes, I got in only a moment ago." She listened attentively to her son. "Worried?" she repeated. "You worried about me when I telegraphed I was staying longer? Yes, I fully intended to write but I was so busy." Mrs. Pollifax laughed suddenly and delightedly. "Roger dear, what possible trouble could I have gotten into at my age and in Mexico of all places. . . ." Her gaze fell to the serapes lying on the couch. With a small, very private smile Mrs. Pollifax picked up the card that had arrived with them and slipped it into her pocket.
CHAPTER
1
It was barely eight o'clock in the morning when the telephone call came in from Algiers, but Carstairs was already at his desk high up in the CIA building in Langley, Virginia. With his left hand he switched on a tape recorder, with his right be buzzed for his assistant while he listened with narrowed eyes. At one point he interrupted, saying, "Mind repeating that?" and scribbled several words on paper. When Bishop hurried into the office the call had just been completed.
"Sorry," Bishop said breathlessly, "I was in the men's room, sir. I've missed something?"
"You have every right to be in the men's room," Car-stairs told him reproachfully, "but you've missed an important call from Algiers. We may—just may, Bishop —have the first whisper of a breakthrough on the Aristotle case."
"Good God," said Bishop, staring at him incredulously. "After all these months?"
"It's possible. Remember that fabric shop that Davis' department placed under surveillance in Algiers? The stolen bank-note job," he added helpfully. "Bennet photographed some messages that were left out on a desk overnight and he decided, bless him, that one of them would interest us very much. Bright lad, Bennet. The cables and memos were in French and Arabic and he's only just finished translating them." Carstairs reached over and turned on the tape recorder. "Here we are," he said, and accelerating and then slowing the machine, he signaled to Bishop to take the words down in shorthand.
They both listened carefully as Bennet's clipped voice told them, "The original message, translated from the French, reads as follows: confirm order seventy yards
BLACK ARISTOTLE SILKS TO ZAMBIA THREE BOLTS COTTON DUE KAFUE PARK TWO BOLTS CHUNGA MUSLIN TEN YARDS FIVE-DAY SAFARI DESIGN CHINTZ DELIVERABLE JUNE NINE REPEAT CONFIRM RE-CONFIRM. CHABO."
"Right," said Bishop, puzzled. "Any more?"
"Yes, if you've got that down." Carstairs pressed the
button and the voice resumed . . . "and when the clutter
words have been extracted from the fabric order, using
their usual decoding technique, the message becomes:
CONFIRM ARISTOTLE TO ZAMBIA DUE KAFUE PARK CHUNGA FIVE-DAY SAFARI ON JUNE NINE REPEAT CONFIRM RECONFIRM. CHABO."
"Beautiful," said Bishop with feeling.
"I rather like it myself," said Carstairs. "Very promising indeed."
"Aristotle," Bishop mused, and shook his head. "I'd really begun to believe the man invisible, you know. All these assassinations and no one's ever noticed him in the crowd or come up with a description. How does he do it? It took us four months just to learn he has a code name and he's still a faceless, nameless Mr. X."
"He may have the reputation of being invisible," said Carstairs, "but damn it he's not supernatural." He pulled an atlas and a pile of maps from his desk drawer and began sorting through them. "Eventually somebody's had to refer to him through channels accessible to us, and it's possible that finally, at long last—" He pushed aside the atlas and began on the maps. "Here we are," he said abruptly. "Take a look at this. Central Africa in detail."
The two men bent over the map of Zambia and Carstairs pointed. "There's Kafue National Park, twenty-two thousand five hundred square kilometers in size, six hundred varieties of game. Note the names of the safari camps."
Bishop read aloud, "Ngomo, Moshi, Kafwala and Chunga." He glanced at Bennet's message and nodded. "Due Kafue Park Chunga . . . Chunga camp, that would mean. I must say it's a rare day when something falls this neatly into our laps."
"It hasn't yet," Carstairs reminded him, "but it's certainly an exhilarating possibility." He leaned back in his chair, his face thoughtful. "We do know a few things about our mysterious Aristotle. We know first of all that he's a mercenary, up for hire to whoever bids the highest price . . . Look at his record: Malaga was a Liberal in Costa Rican politics, and Messague in France was a Communist. There was that British chap—Hastings, wasn't it?—who was making some headway in Ireland on negotiations when he was assassinated, and the colonel in Peru whose politics were strictly middle-of-the-road, and then of course there was Pete." His fact tightened. "Our agents may be fair game these days, but no man deserves to be shot as he walks out of church with a bride on his arm."
"No, sir," said Bishop. "However, there's just one point—"
"Something bothering you?"
Bishop was frowning. "Very much so, now that I've caught my breath. What I mean is, a safari? An assassin going on safari!"
"We also know," continued Carstairs, appearing to ignore this, "that Aristotle is intelligent, he has a strong instinct for survival, and he's a complete loner or someone would have talked long ago. Tell me, Bishop," he said, leaning forward and pointing a pencil at him, "if you were Aristotle, how would you negotiate your assignments? How would you make contact with your next employer?"
"How would I—" Bishop was silent, considering this. "Russian teahouse?" he said at last, flippantly. "Turkish bath? A funicular railway in the Swiss Alps? I see your point, sir. Tricky. Very, very tricky, and probably a hell of a lot more dangerous for him than actually shooting down politicians."
"Exactly. It's this touch that encourages me very much. Damned clever idea, choosing a safari, it's perfect for a rendezvous. He'd have the chance to look over his potential employer before identifying himself, and then it gives them both plenty of leisure to haggle over terms and price. He'd be far removed from cities, with access to a wide area in case negotiations blow up, and what better protective cover than a small group moving through remote bush country? The man definitely has a flair for the artistic."
"You sound as if you're painting a portrait."
"One has to," Carstairs pointed out, "and then crawl inside it and puzzle out what he'll do next, and at that stage you've pretty well got your man, Bishop."
"Do we share this with Interpol?"
Carstairs shook his head. "No, definitely not. We first insert one of our own people into that safari. If we can pin down this man, find out what he looks like, identify him, learn where he comes from—"
"Not catch him?" said Bishop, startled.
Carstairs looked amused. "My dear Bishop, would you have us ask the Republic of Zambia to arrest everyone on next Monday's safari? And on what charge? Uh-uh. This calls for the purest kind of old-fashioned intelligence-gathering, and don't underestimate it."
"I never have, sir," Bishop said meekly.
"In fact, if you consider the world's population at this given moment," pointed out Carstairs, "you can understand how it narrows the field if Aristotle turns up at Kafue Park next Monday and we capture photographs of everyone on the safari. Instead of looking for a needle in a haystack, we'll have pictures of perhaps a dozen people to sort through, identify, trace and verify. Exposure does wonders for invisible men," he added dryly, "and Interpol can take it from there. What's the date today?"
"June first."
Carstairs nodded. "We'v
e got to move fast, then. We've barely time to find the right agent and get him over there. Set up the computer, Bishop, will you? We'll run through the possibilities."
"It'll only take a minute, sir." Bishop walked over to the closet where the machine they referred to as the Monster was housed. He punched master list, fiddled with knobs, fed it classifications like Africa, Zambia and Tourist and called to his superior. "Here you are, sir. Beginning with A, right down to Z."
"Always reminds me of a damn slot machine," growled Carstairs, gazing up at the screen with its myriads of blinking lights, and then he said, "John Sebastian Farrell! What the hell's he doing on this list when he hasn't worked for us in three years?"
Bishop, who had a memory to equal any computer, said, "Hmmm . . . Well, I could hazard a guess, sir. In that letter of resignation he sent us three years ago from South America—scrawled, if I remember correctly, on a torn sheet of wrapping paper—he said he was off to Africa to reclaim his soul or some such thing, and we could send any sums owed him to Farrell, care of Barclay's Bank, Lusaka, Zambia."
Carstairs frowned. "Something about cleaner air and a cleaner life, wasn't it? That still doesn't explain what he's doing on the computer list."
"A mistake, I think." Bishop left the computer, went to the phone, dialed a number and rattled questions into it. When he hung up he looked pleased. "Called Bookkeeping, sir. They tell me they've been regularly mailing Farrell's pension checks to Zambia for three years, and apparently that's what the computer picked up.
They're terribly sorry and his name is being removed at once."
"He's still there? Those checks are being cashed?"
"That's what they tell me."
"Farrell," said Carstairs musingly, and returned to his desk and sat down. "Damn it, Bishop," he said, scowling, "I've known Farrell since OSS days, he worked for this department for fifteen years, yet why is it I can no longer think of Farrell without thinking of Emily Pollifax?"
The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax Page 23