"Just like that?" said Cyrus.
"Just like that," promised Farrell, and turning to Patu he said, "Get me the radio now, Patu, we have a long night of work ahead."
CHAPTER
14
It was Sunday morning and Mrs. Pollifax stood outside the hotel entrance watching Dr. Henry pack his ancient Land Rover. It was already filled to the roof with cartons of medical supplies and bolts of brightly colored cloth, and Cyrus was strapping the last suitcase to the luggage rack. The two days of hedonistic pleasure that Farrell had prescribed for them had never materialized. Much of Friday had been spent at police headquarters making and signing statements, followed by a highly censored interview with a Times of Zambia newsman and a great deal of picture-taking. She and Cyrus had briefly shopped for souvenirs yesterday, but it had been impossible to forget what was going on behind the scenes. The safari party's return at midday, escorted by Lieutenant Bwanausi, had been a sufficient reminder, and Cyrus had not been allowed to see Lisa until late afternoon. Nor had she been able to sleep well: her dreams were haunted by fears that Aristotle would kill again and that the assassination, already set in motion, would somehow—in some mysterious way—take place in spite of the police.
Lisa, standing beside Mrs. Pollifax, turned and gave her a radiant smile. "It's all so incredible, isn't it?" she said. "Do you think that as soon as I arrived in Zambia something inside of me knew?"
"I think it's wonderful, and just right for you," Mrs. Pollifax told her warmly.
"And to think that it hit us both the same way," Lisa told her in an astonished voice. "And frightened us so much we kept our distance, not trusting it. I know how / felt ... I sat at the campfire that first night talking to John and thinking we were going to have a very pleasant safari flirtation, and then I looked up and saw Tom and I thought—I just thought, Oh, my God. Like that."
Listening to her, Mrs. Pollifax could almost forget— but not quite—that in a few minutes she would be meeting Farrell. She smiled at Chanda, who was playing with her multicolored parasol, opening it and closing it and grinning, except that it was no longer hers because she had given it to Chanda at breakfast. "It's a bupe," she'd told him after conferring with Tom on the Bemba word for gift. Now she asked Lisa, "Will you be married here or in Connecticut?"
Lisa laughed. "All I know is that Tom, the scrupulous guy, insists that I first see his hospital—and the funny house with a tin roof we'll live in—and then we'll make plans and I'll fly home and tell Dad."
Her father, joining them, looked at his watch and said to Mrs. Pollifax, "Nearly time, my dear. Ten minutes to twelve."
Lisa gave them each a curious glance. "You have a lunch date with that mysterious Mr. Farrell, haven't you. Will you tell us someday—you and Dad—what really happened to you out in the bush?"
"I'd tell you now," said Mrs. Pollifax, "except that it's not our story to tell. Not yet, at least." Not until we've seen Farrell, she reminded herself, and put this thought aside as Chanda came to say goodbye to her, the glorious multicolored parasol held high over his head.
"Goodbye, Chanda nunandi," she told him, gravely shaking his hand. "It's been a very real joy knowing you, and I hope—oh dear," she gasped, feeling a spoke of the umbrella become entangled in her hat
Cyrus began to laugh.
"What is it?"
Cyrus and Tom surrounded her, and the umbrella was carefully disentangled from her hat. Lisa giggled. "It's that red feather," she told her. "It's sticking straight up in the air, all fifteen or twenty inches of it. You look like an Indian chief."
"Very charming Indian chief," Cyrus said, grasping her arm. "No time to mend it, either. Goodbye, Tom ... Lisa, keep in touch."
"You too," she called after them.
Hurrying through the lobby toward the Coffee Hut, Mrs. Pollifax, aware of a surprising number of glances directed at her, said, "Cyrus, my hat—?"
"Very eye-catching," he told her truthfully. "Sets a new style. There—made it," he said, seating her at a table and taking the chair opposite her. "Nervous?"
"Of course I'm nervous," she told him, placing her sun-goggles and her purse on the table. "I've been nervous ever since Farrell telephoned to say they've arrested Aristotle and he'd tell us about at twelve."
"Should think you'd feel relieved, not nervous. Satisfied, happy."
Of course I'm not being logical" she conceded, "but I find it so difficult to dislike people. I know they're frequently
selfish or opinionated and egotistical, or dull or contrary
and sometimes dishonest, but if one expects nothing
from them it's astonishing how fascinating they
are, and always full of surprises. You see, I liked everyone on our safari, which makes Farrell's message very worrisome. It means I can expect to be upset soon."
He said accusingly, "Couldn't possibly have liked Amy Lovecraft."
"No, but she—I do feel sorry for her, you know."
"Ha," snorted Cyrus. "Got herself into it. Who was it said 'character is destiny'?"
"But that's just it," Mrs. Pollifax told him eagerly. "Life is so much a matter of paths chosen and paths not taken, and Amy seems unerringly to have chosen all the paths that would lead to her appointment with Sikota the other night. I can't help feeling cosmic undertones, Cyrus. It's like watching A lead to D, and then to M, and eventually to Z for all of us."
"All of us?"
She nodded. "Yes, because six days ago at this hour Amy was still alive, and although we didn't know it, Farrell was down south looking for her, and you and I were sitting here having lunch together—"
"—and Aristotle, whoever he is, was buckling on his moneybelt?"
"Oh, I don't think so," she said earnestly. "It would be a numbered account in Switzerland, wouldn't it?"
"Whatever you say, my dear," he told her blandly, "since you're so much more accustomed to this sort of thing than I. About that quiet life you said you lead . .. raising geraniums, was it?"
"I said that in general I live a very quiet life," she reminded him virtuously. "I do think there's a difference between living a quiet life and in general living a quiet life."
"Splitting hairs, my dear."
"Well, but—yes, I am," she admitted, giving him a dazzling smile. "And you noticed, didn't you."
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Farrell interrupted, pulling up a chair and joining them. "I'm afraid I can't stop for lunch with you, either, damn it, because I've got to head south and meet Jonesi in—" He stopped in midsentence, staring at Mrs. Pollifax. "Good God, Duchess, your hat?"
"Never mind the hat," she pleaded. "Who is Aristotle?"
"John Steeves."
"Steeves? Good heavens," said Cyrus.
"Now I really do feel upset," murmured Mrs. Pollifax. "I'm glad Lisa isn't hearing this. Farrell, are the police sure? Has he confessed?"
"I don't think you can expect a confession only hours after an arrest," Farrell told her, and with a glance at the hovering waiter, "Later, if you don't mind, we're not ordering yet . . . No, Steeves hasn't confessed, in fact he's refused even to give his home address or next of kin. The man's being completely uncooperative, which seems almost as incriminating as the parts of a gun and a silencer that were found in his luggage—apparently smuggled past Customs somehow—and the fact that, according to his passport, he was in France on the day that Messague was assassinated."
He hesitated, and Mrs. Pollifax said, "There's more?"
He nodded. "A notebook with scribblings in a code we've not been able to puzzle out yet, but on the last page—sorry, Duchess—a list of four names with dates: Messague, September fifth, which happens to be the day he was assassinated, Malaga, October thirtieth, and the names Hastings and O'Connell, which mean nothing to us at the moment but are being checked out. We think the last two were assassinations, too."
"Unbelievable," said Cyrus.
Farrell shrugged. "Perhaps, but would you have believed Amy Lovecraft was a Rhodesian named Be
tty Thwaite, or that the Duchess here was snapping pictures hoping to record an assassin's face?"
"Steeves," repeated Mrs. Pollifax, trying to assimilate this. A room with a door marked Keep Out, and Lisa saying, He seems caught somehow—and terribly sad about it. "Farrell, he had to have been blackmailed into it," she said. "There's no other explanation. Have you met him?"
Farrell looked amused. "Those sad spaniel eyes of his, you mean? I'm told women always want to mother a man who looks as if he's suffered, and perhaps he has, but I'd have to cast my vote for a troubled mind. Yes, I've met him."
"I wonder why he doesn't defend himself," she said, frowning, "although I suppose if he's Aristotle there's not much he can say. He's in prison?"
"Definitely in prison, yes, or President Kaunda wouldn't be dedicating the Moses Msonthi School at one o'clock today. Duchess, you've too soft a heart, it's time you retired too."
"It's just that he seemed genuinely fond of Lisa," she pointed out, "and it's so difficult to imagine any assassin being attracted to a woman and looking as if he cared."
"Someone," said Cyrus, "undoubtedly made the same remark about Jack the Ripper, my dear."
"Yes, but—all right," she conceded. "I'm sorry, it's probably the shock. What will happen to him now, Farrell?"
"For the moment, not a great deal," he said. "The man's safely tucked away, which is the main thing, booked for illegal possession of a weapon, and for smuggling that weapon into the country. It was all very discreetly handled after the safari ended, and now they've gained time to collect further evidence. Your Mclntosh, by the way, turns out to be Mclntosh Magruder—I thought that might interest you."
"The billionaire recluse?" said Mrs. Pollifax, startled.
"Multibillionaire recluse."
"Thought he never came out of seclusion," said Cyrus.
"Apparently even the Magruders of this world listen to their doctor. Magruder had been ill and his doctor advised some travel and a change of scenery. That's who Mclntosh is, while Willem Kleiber jets around the world selling earthmoving machinery to developing countries."
"Very appropriate for a man who is anything but earth-shaking," commented Cyrus.
"Yes. Prim little man, isn't he? Duchess, have you been in touch with Carstairs since you came out of the bush?"
She shook her head. "It costs twelve dollars to call the United States for three minutes," she told him. "I asked. So I thought I'd wait until I could present him with Aristotle's identity, which I think" she added, "he'd find well worth a twelve-dollar call."
"Frugal to the end," said Farrell, "except for those hats of yours. Duchess, what happened?" He stared fascinated at the feather that shot into the air like an antenna.
"Sorry you mentioned it," Cyrus said in his mild voice. "Been trying not to notice it myself."
"I had a small accident with a parasol," she explained with dignity, "and I will presently find a safety pin and tie the feather down, since it's the only real hat I brought. Farrell, do you think Carstairs will have heard about our abduction?"
He smiled. "Don't sound so wistful, Duchess, I doubt it. You were in and out of the bush too fast to reach the American papers. Front-page news here, though. I can't help noticing how the waiters are staring at you. Unless, of course, it's the hat." He glanced at his watch and sighed. "Duchess, I loathe goodbyes, but there's this long drive ahead of me—"
"I know," she said, nodding. "We've scarcely had time to talk, but I can't complain when you and Jonesi saved our lives."
"I owed you that, you know. It makes us even," he told her with his quick smile. "Duchess, you'll have to come back to Zambia soon. With Cyrus, perhaps, to visit Lisa? Only, for heaven's sake don't advertise for me in the newspaper next time, Duchess, or it'll cost me my head. You can always reach me in care of Qabaniso Bwanausi at our farm, I've written down the address for you." He opened her purse and slipped a piece of paper inside, and then he pushed back his chair and stood up. "Goodbye, Cyrus, I certainly like your style ... As for you, Duchess, one of these days—oh to hell with it, I'll just give you a quick kiss, a God bless and go."
He leaned over and hugged her, and with a nod and a wave to Cyrus he walked away.
"Oh—Farrell!" called Mrs. Pollifax after him.
He turned. "Yes?"
"I was to ask you very formally and very officially if you'd like to return to your old job. Carstairs misses you."
He grinned. "I'll take care of that myself, Duchess. Same cable address?"
"Same cable address."
He waved and walked out, and Cyrus said, "Damn decent chap, your Farrell, even if he doesn't know a soapbox derby from a horse race."
"Yes," she said, blowing her nose, and then she gave him a distracted smile and said, "Cyrus, would you mind terribly if we don't have lunch now? I think I've lost my appetite."
"I don't wonder," he said, helping her up from her chair. "A walk should do us both good."
"Thank you. I can't say that I even arrived with an appetite," she told him as they walked out of the restaurant into the lobby of the hotel. "The suspense made me edgy all morning, and now I simply can't eat when John Steeves—when he—and then Farrell going, too—"
"Perfectly understandable," he said.
He steered her through a crowd of people waiting for the elevator and came to a stop as the door of a descending elevator slid open and discharged a fresh crowd of people into the lobby. They stood patiently while the two groups exchanged places, the one swarming into the elevator, the other pushing their way through. Once in motion again, she and Cyrus fell into step behind a tall man in a turban who was hurrying toward the hotel exit. Just to one side of him walked a shorter man whose erect posture caught Mrs. Pollifax's eye next, and she transferred her gaze to him. There was something very familiar about that walk, she decided, and then she thought, Of course—a strut with a stutter. She said to Cyrus, smiling, "That's Mr. Kleiber ahead of us, Cyrus, let's catch up with him and ask—"
She stiffened as the man glanced off to the right and she saw his face. It wasn't Mr. Kleiber, it was a black man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, and so it couldn't be Mr. Kleiber, and yet—and yet it was Mr. Kleiber, she realized in astonishment, recognizing his nose and forehead, except that it was a Willem Kleiber without a goatee and changed, somehow, into a Zambian. She saw him walk through the glass doors and signal to a taxi and she gasped, "Cyrus, it is Kleiber—run!" and breaking free she raced after him.
"Taxi!" she cried as Mr. Kleiber drove away. A second taxi slid up to her, she fumbled with the door, jumped inside and gasped, "Please—follow the car that just pulled away. Hurry!"
The taxi shot ahead just as Cyrus reached the curb. Through the open window Mrs. Pollifax shouted to him, "Call Dundu—call someone! Help!"
CHAPTER
15
Cyrus, suddenly bereft of his lunch partner, stared after the vanishing taxi in horror. One moment Mrs. Pollifax had been with him, and the next not. He'd distinctly heard her say, "Cyrus, that's Mr. Kleiber ahead of us," and then the man had turned his head and revealed a gleaming black Zambian face, and obviously the man wasn't Kleiber at all. But Emily had gasped, "It is Kleiber—run," and had left his side with the speed of a gazelle and now she was gone, heaven only knew where, shouting something about Dundu and help.
He walked back into the lobby and sat down, mourning the slowness of his reflexes and reminding himself that six days with Emily Pollifax should have proven to him that he had to be on his toes every minute. No slides, he thought, grateful for this, but instead a woman who gave sudden shouts and vanished. He wished fervently that he'd reached the taxi in time to go with her.
Again he wondered why she'd jumped into that taxi, because there had to be a reason for it. What would Kleiber be doing wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, a charcoal pin-striped suit and a black skin? He supposed that some sort of dye could be injected into the veins, or perhaps there were pills for that sort of thing, but the idea was insane. Still, Emily
had believed it was Kleiber. Possibly she was overwrought after hearing the news about Steeves, but Emily, he decided, wouldn't be overwrought. If nearly being killed by Amy and Simon hadn't done the trick, he really didn't suppose anything could. And of course she knew now that Steeves was Aristotle, so why—?
He sat considering this until he felt a chill run down his spine, and then race up again, and when it bit the base of his skull he rose and walked over to the desk. "Look here," he said, "I want to put in a call to the police."
"Something wrong, sir?"
"Don't know but I want to call the police."
"This way, sir." The desk clerk led him into a private office and pointed to a telephone on the desk. "There you are, sir. Ring the operator and she'll connect you."
A moment later Cyrus was struggling to pronounce a name which he'd never seen spelled, and had only heard in passing. "A Lieutenant Dundu Bonozzi," he said. "Have to speak to him right away."
"Sorry sir, he's not here," said the man at the other end of the line.
"Could be a matter of life and death," Cyrus told him, feeling damnably awkward at saying such a thing. "Any way of contacting him?"
"He's at the Moses Msonthi School—guard detail, sir.
You can leave a message and we'll try to get it to him if he phones in."
"Yes," said Cyrus, feeling this was reasonable and at the same time trying to think of a way to express his unease. "All right, let's try this one. Ready?"
"Ready, sir."
"Here we are: 'Are you certain you have the right Aristotle? Kleiber left hotel as black man, Mrs. Pollifax in pursuit."
"A very odd message, sir."
"Indeed it is," said Cyrus uncomfortably. "Look here, anybody else there I can speak to?" But even as he said this he realized how entangled he could become in trying to explain a European in blackface to a stranger; Dundu was the only person who would understand. "Never mind," he said, "what's the name of that school again?"
The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax Page 39