"Yet this Nikki was allowed a passport to leave Bulgaria and go to Yugoslavia to bring back young Trenda. He could have managed this only with powerful backing," pointed out Tsanko. "This I have found astonishing from the start. Please note as well that although my government knew nothing of this plot there were bona fide members of the secret police keeping you under surveillance. Someone with influence is behind all this."
"You think it's General Ignatov," she said, nodding.
Tsanko said dryly, "I always think. The coincidences begin to grow surprising."
"There's more?"
He nodded. "The arrests began at once last night. Included among them are some members of secret security. Our friend Nikki, however, was given promotion at once."
Mrs. Pollifax's lips formed an O out of comprehension.
"Out of hundreds of secret police it is Nikki that is singled out. The arrests are of much interest as well. Each person arrested has been severe critic of General Ignatov, or is out-and-out enemy, and several are men to whom he owes much money. Creditors, in a word."
"He's planning to overthrow the government," said Mrs. Pollifax flatly.
Tsanko nodded. "I think so. Not immediately, but soon -and my government is too blind at this moment, too upset to see. All that General Ignatov has needed is to have the secret police in his pocket. And last night he was given this like a gift."
"Oh dear," said Mrs. Pollifax.
"My informant is among his enemies," he added sadly. "He, too, is member of the secret police, an old friend. He fears now for his life."
"I'm sorry," she said. "He's one of your group?"
Tsanko shook his head. "No, but he has given us much valued information. It is he who told us the man Shipkov was to be arrested." He smiled wryly. "He and Shipkov shared an interest in General Ignatov, they nearly met one night watching General Ignatov's home. Each one occupied-I am told-a different flowerbed."
Mrs. Pollifax smiled. "That must have been funny. But Tsanko, why the ransom? If General Ignatov now has what he wanted from the beginning-"
"Why not?" said Tsanko with a shrug. "Doubtless he will use the ransom as evidence against his enemies. He will say, 'Look at the plot-all this for Western currency!' Each dollar will be a nail in their coffins. He can impound the money and present it to his government-that will earn him another medal. And there is nothing like a million in American dollars to make oneself popular." He shook his head sadly. "Poor Bemish. He wanted only a little money for wine and women and cigarettes, and see how he has been used by these two."
"And Philip?" she asked quietly.
He nodded. "Exactly. That is why I beseech Encho to take you to Sofia at once, in his taxi-you can pay him a little something for it?-so that you can be at the Embassy at two. Myself, I must go back also, but alone."
"Balkantourist is sending . . ." Mrs. Pollifax stopped and shook her head. "We'll go with Encho," she said. "I'm very alarmed about this." Removing her bird's nest hat, again she gave it to him. "Please—these are the passports I was sent to give you."
He nodded. "I will accept them now, although-alas-three of the people these would have rescued were taken to Panchevsky Institute last night. At General Ignatov's orders."
"Taken where?" she asked.
"That is the name of a mental institute in Sofia, now filled with political prisoners-who may be the sanest of us all," he added with a sigh.
She said swiftly, "You doubt your government."
"I would protect my government against General Ignatov with my life." His fierceness startled her.
Forgetting discretion, she asked bluntly, "Tsanko, who are you? Ah" this information, and you've collected it in hours. And Tarnovo," she persisted. "You're free to travel here without question?"
He laughed. "I have a summer home here in the hills, which is why I come to Tarnovo. As to who I am-I'm a good communist, a patriot and also-God help me-a humanist."
"But are you against the Russians?"
His brows shot up. "Please-not at all! They protect us from the wolves, they give us years of peace, some prosperity." He hesitated and then he said soberly, "But before I die I would like to see my country move, have direction. We go nowhere in Bulgaria, and our young people deserve better. They grow bitter, despondent, strangled by bureaucracy-"
"You're a nationalist!" she cried triumphantly.
He laughed. "Please—such words are very dangerous. It is best we not talk political, Amerikanski. Allow me the pleasure to enjoy my first American, like a good wine, eh?"
On the ride back to Sofia, Debby said suddenly, "I don't want to like you, Mrs. Pollifax, and I shall keep trying not to like you, but I do want you to know that I'm grateful to be alive today."
"I confess to a certain pleasure in it myself," said Mrs. Pollifax, startled.
Debby said, "My parents give me everything." She said it as though she were reciting something too important to be given significance. "They say they want me to have everything because they had such a hard time when they were young. But when I ask for something / want they tell me I'm spoiled and ungrateful. My mother always wants me to confide in her," she said. "Girl stuff. The one time I did tell her something important she was shocked and called my father and they punished me. My father spends all his time making money and my mother spends all her time spending it, shopping with her friends or playing bridge. They're bored and miserable and they want me to grow up to be just like them. And I can't-I won't, I won't, I won't."
A boil is being lanced, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and said without expression, "I see."
"Phil's parents are different. I think it's why I like him so much. Do you know he had to earn every cent he's spending on this trip to Europe?" Her voice was awed.
Mrs. Pollifax glanced at her with interest.
"Of course you can now start explaining my parents," Debby pointed out. "Don't you want to?"
"Not at all," said Mrs. Pollifax truthfully.
"You're not going to tell me they mean well?"
"I don't know whether they mean well or not," said Mrs. Pollifax tartly. "I've never met them."
"Don't you even want to give advice?"
Mrs. Pollifax laughed. "No, because you'll work it out for yourself. You strike me as being a very intelligent young person. And also," she added thoughtfully, "because you came very, very near to losing your life last night."
"What's that have to do with it?" asked Debby indignantly.
"Everything, I think," said Mrs. Pollifax musingly. "It's the greatest revolution of all. But not recommended in large doses," she added firmly, "and now we must keep it from ever happening again."
They were late in reaching Sofia, and there was no time to go first to the hotel and leave their suitcases. It was already five minutes past the hour when Encho deposited them at the Embassy; they had time only to wave good-bye to him as they flew across the pavement. Now it was Debby who was in command as she went to the desk and asked if Philip Trenda was really being released today.
"The group is in the library," said the clerk stiffly.
"Group?"
"Mr. Trenda is meeting with foreign reporters."
"Then he's really here?" cried Debby excitedly.
"But of course," said the clerk, looking at them in surprise.
A feeling of deep relief filled Mrs. Pollifax: miracles did happen, and Tsanko had been wrong.
"Wonderful," Debby cried. "Oh, Mrs. Pollifax, isn’t this a beautiful, beautiful day? He's here, he's free, he's out. Where's the library?"
The clerk patiently ushered them down the hall and into the library. It was a large sunny room, half filled with people and cameras. Unfortunately the twenty or thirty men present—as well as cameras—were all in one corner of the room, forming a tight, almost inviolate circle around two people who stood against the wall.
"We really are late," murmured Mrs. Pollifax, standing on tiptoe.
"Oh blast, I can't see him," Debby said, jumping up and down.
&
nbsp; Mrs. Pollifax looked about for a chair, found one and stood on it. "I can see his head," she told Debby, peering between and over the newsmen. "He's grown a small beard. Try a chair, Debby. There, do you see him?"
"I can't-yes! There he is."
Phil stood next to Eastlake, his shoulders slouched; he was wearing dark glasses against the popping of the flashbulbs. He looked thinner, weary, lacking in animation. I wonder if he was drugged while in prison, thought Mrs. Pollifax.
"Please, gentlemen," Eastlake was saying, "he has a plane to catch, and we've very little time. But as you can see, he's been released and that's the important thing. Keep your questions very brief, please."
"Were you treated well?" called someone from the rear row.
Philip replied in a low husky voice.
"We can't hear him back here," called out a man with a British accent.
"He said he was treated well and is looking forward to getting home now," Eastlake said. "He has a slight cold, touch of laryngitis."
"Is he aware that his arrest made sensational headlines all over the world?"
Eastlake answered for him, smiling. "I don't think he realizes anything, he's been completely out of touch and we've had little time to talk."
"Does he hold it against the Bulgarian government that he was arrested like this?"
Eastlake looked pained. "Gentlemen, please, I refer you to the written statement which has been distributed among you all. He says he holds no personal animosity toward the Bulgarian government, he's only glad to be freehand going home. And now I think we really must leave for the airport. If you will excuse us, gentlemen . . ."
There was a fresh storm of flashbulbs and then a path was made for Eastlake and Philip. They passed very near to Mrs. Pollifax, who stood back. Debby, on the other hand, moved forward. "Phil?" she said as he passed by.
His head turned slightly-Mrs. Pollifax could no longer see his face-and then he followed Eastlake out of the room and down the hall. The newsmen pressed forward, separating Mrs. Pollifax from Debby.
In a matter of seconds the room had emptied and Mrs. Pollifax turned to see Debby leaning against the nearest wall, her eyes closed and both of her hands pressed to her stomach. She looked as if she were about to be very ill.
"Debby?" faltered Mrs. Pollifax.
Through clenched teeth Debby said, "It wasn't Phil. Do you understand-that wasn't Phil."
Mrs. Pollifax stared at her. "Wasn't Phil," she echoed, and suddenly sat down because she realized at once that Debby was right: there had been no sense of recognition, of familiarity when she'd glimpsed him. The height and build and general characteristics were the same, but it was someone else-an imposter-with laryngitis to disguise the voice, a stubble of beard to confuse the jawline and dark glasses to conceal the eyes.
Tsanko had said that there would be a last-minute cancellation, some kind of delay-but this was worse, this was far more ominous because in the eyes of the world it had been Philip Trenda who had just walked out with Eastlake, and that meant . . .
"Oh God," Debby said, covering her face with her hands. "Phil's still in prison-and nobody knows?"
Mrs. Pollifax nodded.
Debby uncovered her face and looked at Mrs. Pollifax. "I'm scared," she said. "I've never been so scared in my life."
"It's better to be angry," said Mrs. Pollifax thoughtfully. "This is why they tried to kill us last night. They knew."
"But how can they get away with it? There'll be Phil's parents . . ."
Mrs. Pollifax said sadly, "I don't think we have to speculate-I'm sure they'll have thought of everything." But what that everything might be was too chilling for her to name yet. "I wish you'd screamed in front of everyone as soon as you saw it wasn't Philip," she added forlornly.
"I couldn't," Debby said. "I'm inhibited. I am. I really am. All those people, and then I wasn't absolutely sure until they were walking out." She shivered.
"Well, we've certainly got to tell Mr. Eastlake as soon as he returns from the airport."
Debby shook her head. "You can, but not me. He'd only insist that I leave the country again."
"But you just said you were frightened."
"For Phil, not for myself. Actually I'm terrified for him if you want the truth."
Mrs. Pollifax believed her. How oddly quixotic the child was! Filled with prickly hostilities and impulsive bursts of warmth, deeply troubled and only half formed but unquestioningly generous. "I'll see Mr. Eastlake alone," she said, and then reconsidered. She could hear herself explaining all that she knew to Eastlake and she could hear his protestations. "My dear Mrs. Pollifax, what an outrageous story you tell! Can you substantiate just one of these wild accusations?"
And she couldn't. She couldn't produce Tsanko, and she couldn't reveal her own role in this or even prove what lay behind the series of accidents. Was there anything she could prove? Yes, there was.
"Dry your eyes, Debby," she said, and stood up. "I've an idea-let's go."
"Go where?"
'To see Mrs. Bemish before she learns she's a widow."
Debby's reaction was forthright: "Ech," she said distastefully.
The smell of cooked cabbage competed today with the odor of a very strong antiseptic. Mrs. Pollifax reached the third landing of the apartment house with Debby close behind her, and knocked on the door of 301. She wondered if she was drawn here by guilt, because if she had not interfered with Bemish's greedy plans he would still be alive. Even more pertinent, however, she felt a need to share this crisis with someone who might care about Philip. Carstairs would be appalled at her coming here, and Tsanko might be shocked, but it was time to prove beyond doubt that a relationship existed between the Bemishes in Sofia and the Trendas in America.
The door opened a few inches to frame a stoic, browned face. "Mrs. Bemish?"
"Da." The door opened wider and Mrs. Pollifax recognized the drab little woman she had glimpsed on her earlier visit. This was a peasant's face, shuttered, proud, seamed and crisscrossed with lines. On the left cheekbone a bruise was turning purple; Bemish's legacy, no doubt. What an odious man!
She said, "Do you speak English? May we come in and talk to you?"
The door opened wider and Mrs. Pollifax and Debby entered the dreary, cluttered apartment. "I speak small English," the woman admitted. "But-my husband not here. He left with business and is not back yet."
"I know he's not here," said Mrs. Pollifax. "We came to see you."
"Yes?" The woman had sat down opposite them in a chair, her hands slack in her lap. Now she looked startled and uneasy.
"We came to ask about your brother in America."
"Petrov! Oh yes, yes," she said eagerly, nodding her head.
"You do have a brother in America, then," said Mrs. Pollifax, exchanging a quick glance with Debby.
"Da," the woman cried excitedly, and jumped to her feet and hurried into the next room. When she returned she carried pictures with her. "Petrov," she said proudly. "Very good man. He is called Peter now."
"Peter Trenda?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.
"Here's Phil!" cried Debby, leaning over the pictures. "See?"
"You know Philip?" said Mrs. Bemish in an astonished voice. "You know Petrov's son?"
"We're friends," Debby told her, nodding.
"You and Philip!" The woman's eyes fed hungrily on Debby's face. "This is much honor," she whispered.
Leaning forward, Mrs. Pollifax said, "And do you know that Petrov's son-your nephew-is here in Sofia?"
The woman drew in her breath harshly. "Here? Bora, how is this?"
"He's in Sofia in jail. In prison."
Mrs. Bemish looked bewildered. "Why should Petrov's son be in prison?"
"Dzhagarov and your husband arranged this."
"Dzhagarov and-" She bit off her words abruptly, looking frightened and angry. "I do not believe this."
"Do you know the word 'ransom'? They want a great deal of money from your brother Petrov. You must know your nephew was visiting Yug
oslavia?"
"Da," the woman said. "His first trip to Europe. Yugoslavia."
"Nikki was there, too, and persuaded him to come here to Bulgaria."
The woman looked from one face to another, studying each of them. "Philip never come to Bulgaria," she said, shaking her head. "Never. Not good."
"But he did come," Debby told her. "I think Nikki drugged him to get him here. And he was arrested at once here in Sofia-I was with him when it happened. He was charged with espionage."
"What is this word 'espionage'?"
"Spying," said Mrs. Pollifax.
Mrs. Bemish said sharply, "I cannot believe. There are no Americans at Panchevsky Institute. You lie."
"Where?"
"Panchevsky Institute. I work there," said Mrs. Bemish. "I know. Every night I work there, eight o'clock to six in morning. I work there in kitchens. No Americans." She shook her head fiercely.
"You mean the prison here is called that," Mrs. Pollifax said, remembering Tsanko's words. "But working in the kitchens, would you know?" She leaned forward. "They say it's in newspapers all over Europe that Philip Trenda has been arrested on charges of espionage. Your husband sent out the early news stories, but it's not in the papers here because-" She stopped.
Something she said had triggered a response. Mrs. Bemish looked suddenly chilled and old. "When?" she whispered.
"Monday," Debby told her.
They waited while the woman wrestled with some fact or piece of gossip overheard or guessed; it must have been this because her refusal to believe had been replaced by doubt. She was silent a long time and then her eyes narrowed and she stood up and walked over to the window, pulling back the curtains and stood there staring out. "So," she said at last and turned, her eyes hard. "So."
Mrs. Pollifax saw that she was trembling, and then, as she watched, Mrs. Bemish threw back her head and with her lips shut tight in a grimace there came from her throat a harsh animal cry of pain. It was terrible. In her cry was expressed all the anguish and the humiliation of years, suffered stoically and in private. It was indecent to watch, and Mrs. Pollifax looked away.
The Elusive Mrs. Pollifax Page 10