Carstairs' voice was dry. "They'll probably find it amusing. This man has worked for them on a number of occasions, but he drinks too much to be reliable. Our newsmen often use him when they pass through Sofia. His name is Carleton Bemish."
"Bemish," repeated Mrs. Pollifax, writing it down.
"He's an Englishman-an expatriate-who's lived in Sofia for years and speaks the language fluently. He's even married to a Bulgarian. Technically he's a free-lance correspondent-does pieces for the London papers when there's a Balkan crisis-but actually he's one of those alcoholic hangers-on who can never go home again because of some tawdry scandal or another."
"He doesn't sound very appetizing," commented Mrs. Pollifax.
"Of course not. From what I'm told he'd sell his own mother, but he'll be a helluva lot easier to lose than Balkantourist when the time comes for you to make contact. By the way, we've decided you should rent a car for your stay in Sofia. That might entice Bemish, too-he doesn't have one. Is your license up to date?"
"Yes."
"Good. Try to get Bemish," he said, and rang off.
Mrs. Pollifax added his name to her list and continued her research on Bulgaria, impressed and surprised to learn that it had been free of Turkey's oppressive rule for only some eighty years. It was the Russians who had helped liberate Bulgaria from Turkey, and it was the Russians who had liberated them later from the Nazis. It suggested a much more congenial relationship than she'd expected, and a difference from other satellite countries that intrigued her.
There was one visitor to Mrs. Pollifax's apartment, however, that she had not expected. She came home one afternoon to find her door ajar and the lock so jammed that she could not turn the key in it. Yet so far as Mrs. Pollifax could discover nothing at all had been taken. "But just see the lock," she told the policeman when he arrived.
"You're sure nothing was stolen?" he said skeptically.
"I looked very carefully while I waited for you," she told him. "The only jewelry of any value is still in the box on my bureau. I have about thirty dollars in bills and small change lying here on the bookcase-in plain sight-in the Mexican pottery bowl. Even my television set's untouched, and it's portable."
"Odd," said the policeman, looking as baffled as Mrs. Pollifax felt. "Let's make a few inquiries. Maybe someone noticed a stranger on die premises. Your burglar may have been frightened away before he got inside."
The only person who had seen anyone at all in the hall that day was Miss Hartshorne, whose apartment lay across the hall. "Yes, I saw a stranger," she said. "I'd been downtown, and was having a little trouble finding the key in my purse. So I took longer than usual, and the elevator door opened and .. ."
Mrs. Pollifax was listening, as well as the policeman, and she smiled reassuringly at her friend. "But who was it?" she asked.
"Oh, he couldn't have been your burglar," Miss Hartshorne said flatly. "He had such a good face. Cheerful. He was whistling as he came out of the elevator."
Mrs. Pollifax said firmly, "Grace, some of the most fiendish murderers have kind, cheerful faces. What man?"
"The young man who was delivering your cleaning. He held it up rather high as he came down the hall. It was on a hanger wrapped in that transparent plastic, you know. He said 'Good afternoon,' and I said 'Good afternoon' and then I found my key, unlocked my door and went in. He walked on to your door."
"What on earth made you think he went to my door?" asked Mrs. Pollifax. "Did you actually see him?"
Miss Hartshorne looked reproachful. "No, but I knew he was going there because he was carrying your coat, Emily. That quilted brown raincoat you wear. The new one. I could see it very clearly through the plastic."
Mrs. Pollifax looked at her thoughtfully, and then at the policeman, who had written all this down, and who now thanked Miss Hartshorne for her help. She did not say anything. She went back alone into her apartment to wait for the locksmith, but she remained thoughtful for a long time because she had not sent her quilted brown coat to the cleaner. She opened the closet door and looked inside. The coat hung there without any transparent wrappings. She took it out and examined it, then put her hand into each pocket. From one she drew out a wrinkled handkerchief with the initials EP, and from the other a bus token. She carried the coat to the window and studied it more carefully in the sunlight, but nothing appeared to be different. She put it on and observed it in the mirror. For a moment she thought it might be a shade longer than she remembered it, and then she chided herself for imagining things. She returned it to the closet
But still it remained something of a mystery, not totally to be dismissed and apparently not to be solved until Miss Hartshorne changed her mind about its being this particular coat she'd seen.
A week later Mrs. Pollifax left for the Balkans wearing the coat and her new custom-made hat. She had misjudged Osmonde. He had produced a marvelously imaginative hat, and just the kind that she enjoyed most. It was an inflated, cushiony bird's nest made out of soft woven straw with a small feathered bird perched at the peak. It was true that it had a tendency to tilt, but Mrs. Pollifax skewered it sternly in place with three stout hatpins.
"You what?" said Bishop incredulously. He had been on vacation for a week-his first vacation in five years -and he had returned only the day before. Now a cable had arrived from Bulgaria that was utterly mystifying to Bishop. It lay on the desk between them in Carstairs* office. It read:
COAT FOR 10573 CLEARED OKAY AND IN POSSESSION, WILL PROCEED AS DIRECTED.
10573 was Mrs. Pollifax's file number.
Carstairs sighed. "I told you, it's this damn economy drive. Upstairs insisted. Budgetwise, it took two experienced men a week to forge those passports, and then there were Mrs. Pollifax's travel expenses, not to mention Osmonde's bill for the hat. As they pointed out Upstairs, we get nothing but good will out of sending eight forged passports into Bulgaria. It's not enough to justify the expense. I was told this flatly. I had to share my courier."
Bishop said accusingly, "This cable is from Assen Radev."
"Yes, by way of Belgrade, Frankfurt, London and Baltimore. It came out with his weekly delivery of pate de foie gras."
Bishop's coldness turned glacial. "Radev's one of our nasties-you know that-and you've always sworn you'd keep Mrs. Pollifax out of the heavy stuff."
"I told you this was not my idea," Carstairs reminded him irritably. "They had to get some things to Radev, I had already engaged Mrs. Pollifax and briefed her for a simple courier job. What could I do? Radev has been sent Mrs. Pollifax's original coat. A duplicate coat was made-an exact copy, but fitted with the papers-and smuggled into Mrs. Pollifax's apartment. They're doubling up assignments everywhere."
"Then perhaps you can explain why the hell you didn't tell Mrs. Pollifax she's going into Bulgaria loaded for bear!"
Carstairs sighed. "Because she only goes through Customs 'loaded for bear,' as you call it, and as soon as she's entered Bulgaria, Radev will quietly exchange coats with her. She won't even know about it. I decided that was wisest She's only an amateur, you know."
"I'm surprised you remember that," Bishop said bitterly. "I think it's shocking you didn't tell her. I suppose you've considered the possibility that Radev could have a heart attack before he can switch coats-or get clipped by a car?"
Carstairs said evenly, 'Traffic is extremely light in Sofia, and I understand the rate of cardiac seizure in Bulgaria is very low. Something to do with all that yogurt they eat." He shook his head. "I'm afraid you're losing your usual sense of detachment, Bishop."
"Detachment! I don't even dare ask what's hidden in that coat-"
"It's better you not," Carstairs assured him gravely. "This isn't Sears Roebuck or Gimbels, you know. We're heels in the CIA, Bishop-outcasts and sinners and heels. Try to remember that."
Bishop's lips thinned. "Outcasts, yes. Sinners possibly. Heels obviously. But I thought we were at least gentlemen," he said coldly, and walked out, closing the door.
4
Mrs. Polli
fax sat in the Belgrade air terminal and waited patiently for TABSO to announce its flight to Sofia. She was quite ready for departure. The wild gray cliffs of Yugoslavia, its friendly people, the incredible blue of the Adriatic had relaxed and charmed her, but now there was work to do.
She had arrived early because she enjoyed watching departures. The planes for Frankfurt, Budapest, Dubrovnik and Brussels had been announced and had presumably left. Now she guessed all the remaining travelers were bound for Sofia, and her glance returned to a group of young people who occupied the corner of the lounge. She had been covertly observing them for some time, certain that two of them were Americans. She had expected them to leave on the plane for Brussels, but they were still here. They were bare-legged, tanned and long-haired-boys and girls alike-and instead of luggage they carried dusty packs on their backs.
They looked as though they were quarreling now, and as she watched, one of the girls lifted her voice and said furiously, "But I told you! All of us don't want to go to Bulgaria, can't you understand?"
"Debby, you're shouting."
"Why shouldn't I shout? I feel like shouting!"
Mrs. Pollifax frankly eavesdropped.
"Phil, for instance-and me, too," the American girl said. "And last night Andre admitted he wasn't all that interested either."
Her anger appeared to be directed at the stocky dark young man who seemed to be in charge of the group. He looked less a student than the others, older and harder. Now he gesticulated in reply. "We have the visas, yes? You think it easy to get visas to Bulgaria? Why the hell not?" His was an accent Mrs. Pollifax found difficult to pinpoint-Yugoslavian, perhaps. In any case he sounded insulted by this revolt, and very angry indeed.
"But none of us really thought they'd give us visas!" flung out the American girl. "And Phil's got dysentery, and I just think it's-"
"We voted, didn't we?"
"Nikki and Debby, stop arguing," said the French girl flatly, and they all looked at her, and the ginger-haired English boy threw her a kiss and the third girl laughed and said something in German that caused them all to laugh.
All except the American boy named Phil, who picked up his knapsack and carried it to the bench beside Mrs. Pollifax and sat down.
'Trouble?" asked Mrs. Pollifax cheerfully.
He turned and stared at her and she in turn looked at him. He seemed a very nice young man. Disreputable, of course, in those filthy jeans and all that untidy black hair, but his eyes were a marvelous shade of intense blue and the height of his cheekbones gave his face an interesting shape.
The boy nodded; she had been approved. "We're getting damn sick of each other," he said bluntly.
Mrs. Pollifax smiled. "It happens. Have you been together long?"
He shrugged. "Some of us. But we were doing fine until Nikki came along. I'm beginning to hate his guts."
"That would be the bossy, dark young man?"
"Yeah, that's Nikki," he said, and they both stared across at Nikki, whose back was turned to them. "He showed up in Dubrovnik two weeks ago. Debby I met in Vienna-she's great-and she'd already met Ghislaine in Paris. Erika and Andre joined us on the road later, but Nikki-"
"Obviously the executive type," said Mrs. Pollifax sympathetically. Noting the expression on the young man's face she added sharply, "Are you all right?"
"Damn dysentery," he said. His face had gone white and he leaned over in pain, guarding himself by hugging his stomach with his arms.
"But haven't you medicine for it?"
He shook his head. "I lost it yesterday, but Nikki's feeding me his." He lifted his head and said with a little laugh, "Maybe I'll have to go along to Bulgaria with him just to stay with his pills. Actually I'm here only to see them off. I don't want to go to Bulgaria. No-I can't make up my mind." He laughed savagely. "Mind! I don't have any mind, it's gone all groggy."
Mrs. Pollifax said in alarm, "You poor boy, you look terribly pale and your speech is slurred. I think you're really ill."
"Dubrovnik," he said dreamily. "That's where we were and that's where I'd like to be."
"I've just come from there," Mrs. Pollifax told him, nodding. "It's magnificent, isn't it? I was there for the Music Festival."
He turned and looked at her. "You, too? Man, that was something, wasn't it? Those rock walls, the sea, the sky like velvet-" He abruptly yawned. "Damn it, now I'm sleepy-one extreme or the other, dysentery or stupor."
The right medicine would cure both," she told him sternly.
He shook his head as if to clear it. "I'll get some. Do you have any idea what this says?" He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "I can't even tell what language it is."
Mrs. Pollifax glanced down at the wrinkled, narrow slip of paper on which several sentences had been printed, followed by a series of numbers. "That's the Cyrillic alphabet, isn't it?" she said, frowning over it. "It looks rather like a pass to a swimming pool, or a lottery ticket. Where did you get it?"
Phil laughed. "I picked somebody's pocket."
At that moment the loudspeaker system crackled with life and began to announce the departure of the TABSO flight for Sofia in four different languages, the voices echoing and re-echoing through the terminal. Further conversation became impossible and Mrs. Pollifax held out her hand to the young man. "Emily Pollifax," she shouted at him over the din. "Delighted to have met you. And please-do see a doctor about your dysentery."
He arose, too, blushed slightly and extended a hand in the manner of one remembering a nearly forgotten ritual. "Philip Trenda," he shouted as they shook hands. Abruptly a new system of pain crossed his face and he doubled up.
The American girl with the waist-length hair-they had called her Debby-was suddenly at his side. "Phil, this is awful-you're really sick."
"I'll walk to the plane with you," he said.
"That's stupid. You ought to sit or lie down, not walk."
His mouth tightened. "I'm not sick and I'm going to walk you to the plane."
"Your piece of paper," called Mrs. Pollifax.
He vaguely gestured it aside as he shouldered his pack and joined the girl. Mrs. Pollifax dropped the slip of paper into her purse, picked up her flight bag and followed the group of young people toward the gate. There she saw them re-group-yes, and resume their quarreling.
With a shake of her head Mrs. Pollifax gave up her ticket, received her seat number and boarded the plane. The young people arrived several minutes later and noisily made their way to the plane's rear. The young man name Philip was with them.
She thought, He shouldn't have let them talk him into coming. Not with dysentery. But that was the way travel was: a series of chance encounters, fleeting involvements, motives never explained, endings never known. Firmly she put aside all thought of the young American and fastened her seat belt. As they taxied down the runway for takeoff she opened a tattered copy of Newsweek.
But as the plane lifted, Mrs. Pollifax realized that printed words were lifeless to her at a moment when she was about to begin another courier assignment. She put down the magazine and gazed out of the window, wondering what she would be like when she finished this job because it seemed to her that each one left her changed. Now, once again, she was leaving behind friends, identity, children, possessions-everything secure-for another small adventure. At her age, too. But this was exactly the age, she thought, when life ought to be spent, not hoarded. There had been enough years of comfortable living, and complacency was nothing but delusion. One could not always change the world, she felt, but one could change oneself.
The plane had begun to decelerate. Glancing at her watch Mrs. Pollifax saw that it was much too early for them to be reaching Sofia. A voice began an announcement over the loudspeaker in Bulgarian, then in French, in German and at last in English: they were making an unscheduled stop in Rumania. The delay would be brief. No one was to leave the plane.
They landed. From her window Mrs. Pollifax could see a sign at some distance that said triasca r
epublic socialist Rumania in huge red letters. Down the aisle an Englishman grumbled to his companion. "They never explain things in these countries. Or apologize."
"Police state, of course. I always wonder if they're going to arrest someone aboard or search our luggage. I say, it looks as if this stop's for someone special."
"Some high mucky-muck, eh?"
"Looks it."
"Isn't that General Ignatov? You were in Sofia last year. Bloody tiresome the way his picture was in the party newspaper week after week."
General Ignatov? Mrs. Pollifax turned to her window and saw a number of people making their way across the field to the plane. There was a comic-opera look about the procession. It was led by a tall, darkly handsome man wearing a uniform that fairly dripped medals. He was walking with long strides and cutting the air with a walking stick. Behind him two army officers had to break into a trot to keep up with him. Following them came a swarm of men in business suits.
Under Mrs. Pollifax's window the general halted, the others surrounded him and everyone shook hands. As the general moved slightly apart she saw him clearly. What a powerful face, she thought in surprise. He was laughing now, his teeth very white against his dark skin, his head thrown back in a posture of amusement, but she did not believed he was amused. She had the impression that he had taught himself to laugh because otherwise he would be all arrogance, cruelty, tension and energy.
A moment later he boarded the plane and she glimpsed him again as he paused in the space between tourist and first-class. He was issuing sharp orders now to the stewardess; the charm had vanished and he looked only brutal.
Mrs. Pollifax shivered. There was nothing comic-opera about this general. She suddenly understood that she was entering an iron curtain country, and that she was going to contact there a group that was defying all the power this man represented. She realized that General Ignatov could squash that group under the heel of one boot. He would squash her, too, if she crossed his line of vision. And under the bird in her hat she carried eight very illicit passports.
5
The Elusive Mrs. Pollifax Page 2