Amy's mouth, which had dropped open, closed with a snap. "And because of this you advertised for him in a newspaper? How could you be such a fool? How could you do such a thing? Just see what it's led to!"
"Well, I certainly didn't expect it to lead to this," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax reasonably. "But what Simon doesn't understand," she added, "is how very difficult it is to identify a man one hasn't seen for years. Perhaps I'd recognize him if he walked into this hut, but from a photograph, after twenty-some years?" She hesitated and then added warmly, "He used to call me the Duchess, you know—quite teasingly, of course—but he was that sort of child, very affectionate with adults, and so aware. Such a nice boy," she concluded, and her nostalgic smile was genuine enough: she was hearing Farrell roar with laughter at her story.
Amy appeared unmoved. She said, "I don't know why you can't trust me. I think you're telling me a lot of nonsense. You were very brave with that terrible man Simon but you're not talking to Simon now. I think you're playing games with me."
Mrs. Pollifax began to wish that Amy were a little more perceptive so that she would understand the situation. She said, "My lip is bleeding and my jaw hurts and I don't feel very much like games, I can assure you."
"But you must know one of those men," said Amy, "and I mind very much your not being frank with me. My God, it's my life too, you know. We ought to talk— make plans—because once you identify this man they'll let us go free, they'll return us to the safari, we'll be out of this nightmare."
Mrs. Pollifax doubted this very much but she thought that to say this would imply a working knowledge of evil that had best be concealed for the moment; it seemed far more sensible to maintain the façade of a woman who had never met with anything more violent than a snub from her garden club president over the identification of a knotweed. She felt it rather naïve of Amy to believe that Simon would return them to the safari if she identified Farrell. He had said the ransom was only a red herring; how would he explain this if she and Amy were returned to camp? It was more likely that he would simply abandon them in the bush and let them fend for themselves, and even this, she thought, was the happiest alternative; she could think of others far worse. She had not, for herself, detected any signs of altruism in the man. She said crossly, "That's all very well but I can't tell them what 1 don't know."
She stood up and began to walk restlessly around the hut, Amy's eyes following her, and then she moved to the corner and pushed aside the tarpaulin with her bound hands and looked outside.
The first thing she discovered in the moment before the guard saw her was that Simon was riot, after all, glued to the canvas listening to their conversation. She could see this clearly because two lanterns hung suspended from the branch of a tree, creating a circle of light in which Simon and Mainza were siphoning gasoline from a drum into the tank of the Land Rover. Above the lanterns a tarpaulin had been clumsily rigged to conceal the light from above, suggesting that it was search planes that worried them.
But it literally staggered Mrs. Pollifax to realize that Simon had not been eavesdropping on them. When the guard turned and lifted his rifle threateningly she dropped the edge of the tarpaulin and returned to her orange crate, but she remained shaken by this discovery. Why hadn't Simon been listening? He struck her as a very clever young man, and she simply couldn't conceive of his missing such an opportunity. He'd left behind him two frightened women, alone together for the first moment since they'd been snatched from Kafwala camp. He'd made his demands and then he'd hit her and then he'd walked out, leaving behind him the perfect climate for confessional. He must have known that something would have to be said about Farrell, but he'd not even troubled to listen. He was either very sure that he had all the time in the world to extract information from her, or he was not so clever as she'd thought him, or—
"I'm going to get some sleep," she said abruptly. "Simon said we'd be here until dawn, didn't he?"
"Sleep!" cried Mrs. Lovecraft.
"Yes, sleep. I'm really very tired, and not as young as you are," she pointed out, tugging at a sleeping bag. She pressed it flat with her bound hands, sat down and inserted herself into it. "If you wouldn't mind extinguishing that lantern—"
"I would mind," snapped Mrs. Lovecraft.
Mrs. Pollifax only nodded and turned her face to the wall away from the light. She stretched one leg and then the other; the ground was very hard and her bones sharp, but she had no intention of sleeping. Outside she could hear one or two murmurs from the men, and somewhere very far away the haunting cry of an animal. She attempted a gentle snore, moved and then settled down to the business of pretending sleep, surprised at how difficult it was.
What she wanted to think about in particular—and think hard—was the sobering fact that she had not, after all, been selected for this abduction at random. This needed growing used to, it changed every premise and, above all, her prospects. The kidnapping had been arranged exclusively for her, and because it was due entirely to her advertisement in the Times of Zambia on Tuesday morning it must also have been arranged very hastily. But this in turn led her thoughts to Farrell, and to the most pressing question of all: who was Farrell now, and what had he become that he was the object of a policeman's inquiry and the motivation behind this insane abduction?
She tried bringing back into her mind the photograph of him she'd just been shown, but all she could remember of it was her response, the shock like a whiplash that had hit her. It had not been the clearest of pictures, she recalled, but she'd recognized him at once, for what was recognition, after all? Certainly it was not the shape of a nose or mouth or jaw but a matter of essence and of memory that stemmed from an organ far different from the eye. It was instant and it was inexplicable. And now, whatever he was up to, she was going to have to protect him for as long as she could, while she waited for deliverance or an opportunity to escape. It was not a pleasant thought.
She had been feigning sleep for perhaps fifteen minutes when she heard the sound she'd been waiting for. Amy Lovecraft rose from her sleeping bag, blew out the lantern and stood quietly in the middle of the hut, listening, and then she moved noiselessly to Mrs. Pollifax's side and leaned over her. Hearing no change in her breathing, Mrs. Lovecraft tiptoed across the hut, lifted the tarpaulin and walked outside.
There was no outcry.
"She's asleep," Mrs. Lovecraft told the guard in a low voice, and then, "Where's Simon?"
Mrs. Pollifax pushed back her sleeping bag and sat up.
"She's asleep," she heard Amy repeat.
"She's talked? She's told you everything?"
It was Simon speaking, but in so low a voice that Mrs. Pollifax left her sleeping bag and crept across the earth floor to place her ear against the tarpaulin.
". . . some improbable story I don't believe for a minute. How long do we have before we kill her?"
"Until Sikota comes. We meet him at nightfall across the Lusaka-Mumbwa road at an old burial ground. I have compass instructions. That gives us twenty hours and we'll need them if they begin a search. But she could be useful, Tsa, like tethering the goat to capture the lion."
Mrs. Lovecraft said impatiently, "We can't linger, you know that. By Saturday I've got to be far away, and so must you. We can't take her with us, she has to be disposed of inside of twenty hours whether she talks or not. I thought by now—"
"This was your idea, Tsa."
"Don't be impertinent," she snapped. "If you do your work well she'll talk, I promise you. She's a fool, but she could be a clever fool. Hit her harder, Simon, and then I suggest . . ."
Their voices receded as they walked away and Mrs. Pollifax crept back to her sleeping bag and sat in it shivering. If you do your work well she'll talk, I promise you . . . the words hung still in the air. It was not pleasant to realize that her wildest guess had turned into fact: there had been no need for Simon to eavesdrop because Amy Lovecraft had never been a hostage at all, she was only pretending to be one in the hope that Mrs. Pollifa
x might confide to her what she refused to tell Simon.
She ought to have realized the complicity earlier, she thought, considering this, and perhaps a part of her had, for she had minded very much—with an astonishing anger —that Mrs. Lovecraft's wrists had been bound together in front of her, giving her so much more comfortable a ride. There had been a curious lack of alarm in her attitude too, and surely her exchange of words with the driver on the road had proven a lengthy one, considering the size of her query. There was Mrs. Lovecraft's persistence in not believing her about the photographs . . . her performance had been convincing but her skepticism had continued for perhaps a shade too long in a situation where they both were victims. More than this, though, there had been a growing awareness in her that Simon had known just whom to abduct at Kafwala camp, which implied that someone on the safari had been involved.
She remembered now the palms rustling at Chunga camp after her interview with Lieutenant Bwanausi, and Mrs. Lovecraft in the office as she passed. There was the radio message that Julian had mentioned her sending too. Not your typical tourist, thought Mrs. Pollifax angrily, a woman who traveled on safari and then casually called in cutthroats from Lusaka for an abduction. Her talents as an actress had been superb too; in retrospect there seemed a downright innocence about Amy's lusting after every man in the party.
But for how long could she hold out against torture, she wondered now, as she objectively examined a situation that was more hopeless than she'd realized. Simon had announced that they would stay in this hut until dawn, and soon he would come back primed by Amy to hit her harder, and with whatever fresh suggestions Amy had made after they passed beyond hearing. Twenty hours lay ahead of travel, alternated with torture, and at the end of them she was to be killed.
And no one but herself would ever know why. As a bona fide hostage there had always been hope, because many hostages survived, but she saw now that it was going to be Mrs. Lovecraft who survived this particular ordeal. She could even guess at a scenario: after she had been killed tomorrow night there would be Sikota to smuggle Simon, Reuben and Mainza out of the park by some clever means, and then, following a suitable length of time, Amy Lovecraft would stumble out of the bush in a state of hysteria. There would be a few artful scratches and bruises, a terrifying tale of how Mrs. Pollifax had been murdered while attempting to escape. And who would not believe her? Amy would be a heroine.
And for so long as these wrists of hers remained bound, thought Mrs. Pollifax, that scenario was going to proceed very smoothly toward her murder and Amy Lovecraft's elevation to sainthood. She minded this very much, but even more, she realized, she mourned the comfortable illusion that she'd just lost of having a confederate of her own here, however unstable. Until a moment ago she'd believed they were three men against two women. Now there were suddenly four people against one—and she was the one—and it felt lonely.
The tarpaulin opened—Mrs. Pollifax could see the dark sky and the stars beyond it—and Mrs. Lovecraft tiptoed back to her sleeping bag. She had just settled into it when someone outside gave a startled cry.
Simon called, "Ssh—no, leave the lights. Reuben?"
"Here, Simon."
"Be silent. Wait."
The shout did it; Mrs. Pollifax rose from her sleeping bag and went to the tarpaulin, leaving Amy to her own dissembling, which consisted of sharp gasps and, "What's that? What woke me?" Ignoring her Mrs. Pollifax pulled back the flap and looked out. The lanterns were still lighted under the tree, but Simon and Mainza stood rigid now, both staring out into the bush. Following their gaze Mrs. Pollifax saw a large shape moving through the grass toward the camp, too tall to be a lion, too slender to be an elephant. The apparition moved steadily and noisily toward them, a bulky, man-shaped silhouette against the night sky, and then as it drew closer the farthest projection of the light picked out a pair of ragged sneakers, then a pair of bluejeans followed by a sweater and jacket until it reached the face of Cyrus Reed.
She had to be dreaming, thought Mrs. Pollifax.
He came to a stop and stood there, looking big and wondrously normal and not at all ruffled. "Hello," he said amiably, blinking at the sudden brightness. "Saw your lights. Damn tiresome wandering about out there in the bush. Mrs. Pollifax around somewhere, and Mrs. Lovecraft?"
CHAPTER
10
Standing just behind Mrs. Pollifax, Amy said furiously, "Oh, the fool!" and then she recovered herself and added with less heat, "Now he's a hostage too!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax dazedly, "but how do you suppose he ever found us?"
Reuben turned and saw them and waved his rifle menacingly. Mrs. Pollifax dropped the tarpaulin and retreated to her orange crate and sat down to wait, her heart beating very fast, her thoughts in a turmoil. Several minutes later the tarpaulin lifted and Cyrus stepped inside the hut with his wrists tied together. He stood in the improvised doorway, blocking it completely, and Mrs. Pollifax thought that she'd never been so glad to see anyone before in her life. His glance took in Amy Lovecraft, lingered a moment without expression on Mrs. Pollifax's torn lip, and en he said in his mild voice, "Damn good to see you."
"Oh Cyrus," she said simply, "how on earth did you get here?"
"More to the point," interjected Amy sharply, "did you come alone?"
"Sorry about that," he told her. "No U. S. Cavalry racing to the rescue but there should be soon. Chanda's gone to get help."
"Chanda?" said Mrs. Lovecraft incredulously.
Cyrus nodded, looking pleased. "Damn clever boy, Chanda, or ba na mdno, as he puts it in Bemba. Damn clever at tracking too. We were only half an hour behind you. Slowed us down a bit, that false turn off the road you made, but it took Chanda only a few minutes to look over the signs and guess the trick. Learning a lot on this safari," he said, smiling at Mrs. Pollifax.
"But tell us how you got here," cried Amy, looking as if she wanted to shake him. "You can't have walked, and the Land Rovers—they said the Land Rovers—"
She had almost given herself away there, thought Mrs. Pollifax, watching her.
"Oh, yes, all the tires were slashed," Cyrus told her cheerfully, "but these ruffians who carried you off didn't realize there were spares in the storage hut. Julian took off in a great hurry for Chunga in one of the cars. Wanted to radio the police, he said . . . organize search parties. Seemed a damn shame nobody thought of following you while the trail was hot. / thought of it, and Chanda thought of it, so we had a little talk and stole a Land Rover."
"Just like that," said Amy with a hollow laugh. "How —how original! Then you've brought a Land Rover here?"
"Not exactly here," he conceded. "Got mired in a swamp piece of land half a mile away. Thought we'd have to sit there until dawn, the two of us, but then we saw the light here. Chanda gave me escort—just to be sure I didn't tangle with any lions—and then took off into the night for Kafwala."
"On foot?"
"On foot," nodded Cyrus, giving her a curious glance. "Something wrong?"
"No, not at all, but what a story," said Mrs. Lovecraft. "Then Chanda will be coming back with help very soon?"
Mrs. Pollifax wanted to cry out, Don't say any more, but she sat helpless and irresolute, not wanting Amy to learn that her connivance was known.
"Afraid not soon," confessed Cyrus. "Not that many spare tires. Julian's got four on his Land Rover but he's down at Chunga camp now. Other four are on the Land Rover stuck out there in the bush. Only a matter of hours, though."
"How—how comforting," said Mrs. Lovecraft, attempting another brittle laugh.
If Amy was laughing, Mrs. Pollifax was struggling against tears. Her emotions had never felt so battered; at sight of Cyrus her spirits had gone skyward, but now they were plummeting as she realized with a sense of horror what his arrival meant for him. She was touched by his courage, appalled by his recklessness and comforted by his reliable and enormous presence. At the same time—just to complicate the tangle—she wanted to laugh at the comic note he
was introducing into the situation. For instance, he was blocking Simon's entrance into the hut now, which became more and more obvious from the rude noises outside. Cyrus turned, looked down, said, "Oh—sorry," and Simon emerged from behind him looking very much like an angry puppy riding herd on a Saint Bernard.
Simon said sharply to Mrs. Lovecraft, "Out—quickly. I separate you now. Into the other hut."
Mrs. Pollifax had wondered how they would confer about this development, and she thought that Simon managed it very convincingly; in turn, Amy Lovecraft managed to look convincingly frightened as she walked out ahead of him. As soon as the tarpaulin fell in place behind them Mrs. Pollifax whispered, "Be careful what you say, he's really taking Mrs. Lovecraft out to confer with her."
"Confer?" said Cyrus, staring at her in astonishment.
She nodded. "When Amy thought I was asleep she walked out and began talking to them about me. It turns out that she's in charge of the whole thing, except for someone called Sikota in Lusaka."
"Good God," said Cyrus, looking appalled. "And I was about to ask if we ought to worry about her being taken off alone like that. Glad you told me. Damn glad I came."
"Yes, because if Chanda hurries—how long do you think it will take him to reach Kafwala on foot?"
Cyrus shook his head. "Too long," he said uneasily. "And they'll know it. Shouldn't have told Amy about Chanda."
"But how could you have not told her when you thought she was a hostage too?" protested Mrs. Pollifax. "And they would have insisted on knowing how you found us, Cyrus. If you'd refused to tell them they would have followed your tracks to the Land Rover."
"Shouldn't have mentioned there being so few spare tires, either," Cyrus said gruffly. "Very bad. Who's this Sikota chap you mentioned?"
"He must be the man who delivered a ransom note to the television station in Lusaka at the same time we were captured. They talked to him by radio," she explained.
"Oh?" said Cyrus, digesting this. "Pity Julian couldn't have known that before he went dashing off to get the news out. Done better, I'm thinking, to have followed you."
The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax Page 34