As soon as Mrs. Pollifax reached her hotel room she did not stop to relax; she paused only long enough to extract her striped flannel pajamas from her suitcase and then she reached for the telephone directory on the shelf under the phone. Sitting down on the bed with the book on her lap—she was surprised to see by its cover that it encompassed the entire country—she eagerly turned the pages until she found Lusaka.
"A ... B ... C... D... E ... F," she murmured, and running a finger down the list of F's she ticked off Farmer's Co-operative Society of Zambia Ltd., Farmers Prime Butchery, Farmers Produce Association, Fashion Mart Ltd. . . . the name of Farrell was conspicuously missing.
Impossible, she thought, frowning, and resolutely began again, attributing the oversight to tiredness: Farmer's Cooperative Society of Zambia Ltd., Farmers Prime Butchery . . .
There was no Farrell listed among the F's.
Thoroughly frustrated now, she began thumbing through pages at random, checking out Fs in towns with names like Chingold, Kazimuli, Kitwe, Kabwe. There seemed to be very few family names listed, and a vast number of government offices and co-ops. In small towns with only a dozen or so entries she noticed that telephone service was available for only a few hours each day, but none of these listed a Farrell either. Extensive research lay ahead, and she realized that in only six and a half hours she would be leaving for Chunga.
This time she began at the very beginning of the directory, but after an hour's diligent study she had still found no John Sebastian Farrell. Yet Bishop had reported that he was here, and that all of the checks sent to him in Lusaka had been picked up and cashed.
Barclay's Bank, she thought abruptly and, reaching for the telephone, dialed the front desk to ask what hours the banks were open. From eight o'clock to twelve, the desk clerk informed her.
It was half-past eight now. "And the afternoon hours?"
There were no afternoon hours.
Mrs. Pollifax thanked him, and with a wistful glance at her pajamas she picked up her purse and went out
Cairo Road
was a bustling main street lined with modern shops. A strip of green divided its double roadway, and there were pleasing, tree-lined cobbled spaces inserted between the buildings, restful to the eye. Women in long bright skirts, blouses and turbans mingled with women in smart frocks and sandals. Almost all of the faces were black, and almost all of the voices she overheard had unexpected and very charming British accents.
It was a noisy, cheerful scene, with a great deal of tooting from the small cars, motor scooters, Land Rovers and bicycles that streamed up and down Cairo Road
.
Mrs. Pollifax paid her driver and walked into Barclay's Bank to the window marked inquiries—mail. The man behind the counter looked forbidding, his black face buttoned into bureaucratic aloofness. She cleared her throat to gain his attention. "This is where mail is picked up?"
"Yes, madam," he said, regarding her with expressionless eyes. "Your name is—?"
She shook her head. "I'm not looking for mail, I'm looking for a man who receives his mail here. For three years his mail has been directed to him in care of Barclay's Bank, Lusaka. I don't have his address," she explained, "and I've come all the way from America and I find he's not listed in the telephone book."
"This is rather interesting," he said politely.
"His name is John Sebastian Farrell," she told him. "I thought perhaps after three years you might be forwarding his letters to an address?"
His gaze remained aloof, but after a moment he turned and called, "Jacob?"
The beaming young man who appeared was of a different generation; his tie was flaming red and his face eager. Mrs. Pollifax repeated her query to him, and he promptly said, "No address, he still gets his mail here."
"Personally?" asked his superior, who suddenly gave evidence of understanding exactly what Mrs. Pollifax wanted.
"I've never seen him," said Jacob. "A boy picks it up."
"Always?" faltered Mrs. Pollifax.
"I have never seen this man either," said the older clerk. "There has been some curiosity about him, of course. I too have only seen a boy ask for Mr. Farrell's mail. Not often, sometimes not for three months. A different boy each time."
"Oh," said Mrs. Pollifax, her heart sinking. "Oh dear. Are there—perhaps I shouldn't ask—but are there any letters waiting for him now, so that someone might be picking up his mail soon? I could write a note," she explained.
Now they were both gripped by her problem, touched by her dismay, their eyes sympathetic. "It would be good for you to write a letter to your friend," Jacob said earnestly, "but only two weeks ago Mr. Farrell's mail was collected. I myself gave it out—a small boy again, with the note authorizing him to gather it—"
"I see," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Yes—well, I thank you very much, both of you."
"You must write him," the older man said firmly. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course." She walked outside into the sun again, crossed the road to the center strip and sat down on a bench under a tree. She felt almost inconsolable, and very close to tears, which was probably the result of two nights of spasmodic sleep, but it was also due to a sense of acute loss. It was not just that Farrell was part of her assignment, it had nothing at all to do with her assignment. She was genuinely fond of Farrell and she had anticipated seeing him.
A newspaper lay beside her on the bench and she picked it up and opened it to conceal her tears. She saw that it was this morning's Times of Zambia, and out of some vague hope that she might find Farrell listed in it she turned to the back page and prepared to read the entire paper. On this last page, however, she found herself staring at classified advertisements, and at a column marked Personals in particular. She read:
GOOD SAMARITAN: befriend suicidal and despairing. Write Box 1-
A or telephone . . .
LOST: Mercedes keys left on counter National Commercial Bank Ltd. 10:30 Monday. Finder please return to ...
Mrs. Pollifax turned thoughtful; she hadn't lost any car keys but she'd lost Farrell; she wasn't suicidal, but at the moment she felt disappointed almost to the point of despair. She glanced at the masthead of the newspaper and made her decision. Taking the paper with her she retraced her steps to the bank and inquired the way to the Times office. Directions were given her, and ten minutes later she entered the Times of Zambia building, only a few blocks down Cairo Road
, and was given a form to fill out.
She wrote her name and her address in the United States, and then:
JOHN SEBASTIAN FARRELL: here for safari, love to see you. Back June 16 Hotel Intercontinental. Duchess.
As she completed this she became aware that a man had begun writing out a similar form across the desk from her, and glancing up she found him staring at her.
He was a big man, several inches over six feet tall, with a seamed, deeply tanned face and a thatch of white hair. Meeting her glance he nodded. "Good face."
"I beg pardon?" she said, startled.
"Good face," he repeated in a voice that marked him as American. "Look old enough to not mind my saying so."
"Old enough, yes," she said, smiling at him.
"Lost my wallet," he explained with a huge gesture encompassing the desk, his pencil and the office.
"I've lost a friend," she said, and carried her message to the young man at the counter. "How soon can you put this in your newspaper?" she asked him.
The young man accepted her copy and annoyingly read it back to her in a loud, clear voice. " 'John Sebastian Farrell: here for safari, love to see you. Back June 16 Hotel Intercontinental. Duchess.'" With a glance at his watch he assured her that it would be in tomorrow morning's paper without fail, and that it would cost her one kwacha and twenty ngwee.
"Roughly two dollars American," put in the huge American, waiting beside her, and peering into her change purse he pointed to one of the larger silver coins. "There's your kwacha, the little one's the twenty ngwee."
"Yes—thank you,"
she stammered, gave the coins to the man and hurried toward the door. Behind her she heard the American say, "Morning. Cyrus Reed's my name. Lost a wallet."
Out on the street she found a taxi discharging a passenger at the building next door and firmly captured it. Once back in her hotel room again, she climbed into her pajamas and resolved to put all thoughts of Farrell aside for the moment. She had done all that she could; if he was still in Zambia he'd see the advertisement, and the rest would be up to him. In the meantime, she thought, animals and Aristotle lay ahead of her. Smiling, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER
4
Her alarm awoke Mrs. Pollifax at one, and she jumped out of bed and eagerly approached her suitcase. She opened it lovingly and removed the new bush jacket and the new slacks, reached for a drip-dry blue turtleneck blouse and brought out her comfortable walking shoes. There was a small delay while she fumbled with price tags, but once she was in her safari clothes the effect was dazzling: the old Emily Pollifax, vice-president of the Save-Our-Environment Committee and secretary of the New Brunswick Garden Club had vanished along with the straw hat she'd packed away in her suitcase. She looked —swashbuckling, she thought, admiring herself in the mirror, yes, definitely swashbuckling. Tarzan, she felt, would have approved.
There was a further delay while she tried on the khaki
hat, the sun-goggles, the dust veil, and unfurled her parasol, but eventually she was packed and ready to leave. She descended in the elevator, paid her bill at the desk, left her bag with the porter at the front door and, still carrying her umbrella, headed for the Coffee Hut for lunch before her departure for Chunga. She was hesitating at the door when a man's voice behind her said, "Ha— found you again. Lunching now?"
Mrs. Pollifax turned and found herself staring into a kelly-green shirt. Lifting her gaze she identified its owner as Cyrus Reed, last seen at the Times of Zambia. "As a matter of fact, yes."
"Good. Have it with me," he said, and taking a firm grip on her elbow he piloted her into the patio and seated her efficiently at an umbrella-shaded table. "Don't give you a chance to refuse," he said, taking the chair opposite her.
"No, you didn't."
"Don't often ask women to lunch," he said gruffly. "To dinner either, for that matter. Nuisance, that sort of thing. You aren't, I hope, a real Duchess? Couldn't help overhearing your classified advertisement in the news office." "He did read it in a loud voice," she admitted. "Actually I'm Emily Pollifax. Duchess was a—a sort of nickname."
He extended an arm across the flowers and they gravely shook hands. He was certainly a large man; big was the only word for him, she decided, looking at him, but it seemed a matter of frame and muscle rather than fat. He moved and spoke slowly, as if stricken by lethargy, but he had whisked her to a table in seconds, and his smile, drowsy as it was, was singularly warm and responsive and his eyes shrewd. There was something very oriental about his eyes, she thought; it was because they were set into his face on the same plane as his brows, like almonds pressing into a snowman's face. Those Chinese lids increased his sleepy look and gave him the appearance of a large and slightly rumpled mandarin.
He said now, observantly, "Eyes had a faraway look when you explained the nickname. Good friend, this Farrell?"
"A very good friend, yes."
"Only kind to have," he said, nodding. "Imaginative idea, advertising. Cyrus Reed's my name, by the way. Lawyer, Connecticut. Care for a drink?"
Mrs. Pollifax smiled at the hovering waiter but shook her head. "I've not a great deal of time," she explained. "I'm being called for at half-past two."
"Then we'll order. I can recommend the chicken because I've had it every day since my arrival. Tirelessly, one might say."
Mr. Reed, it seemed, had been in Lusaka for four days. "My daughter," he explained, "is exhausting. Insisted on our stopping in Rome on the way here, and now she's gone off to Livingstone to see Victoria Falls while I catch my breath. Insisted on renting a car for the trip, said she'd see more of the country."
"I expect she will," said Mrs. Pollifax cheerfully. "Already late returning. Due back three hours ago. What brings you here?"
"I'm leaving on safari this afternoon," she told him. His sleepy gaze sharpened. "This afternoon? Not by any chance the five-day Kafue Park safari starting officially tomorrow morning?"
She looked at him in astonishment "As a matter of fact, yes. You don't mean—?"
He nodded. "Exactly. Arrival at Chunga camp in late afternoon, with game-viewing on the river tomorrow morning, followed by Kafwala camp in the afternoon?"
"Yes, with pickup at two-thirty here by Homer?"
He shook his head. "Sorry about that. We're driving. Lisa's idea." He looked at her and added frankly, "Damn sorry about that, actually, but if I'll see you again the fates are smiling. You're—uh—what's the word they use these days, unattached?"
"A widow."
"Ought to say I'm sorry but can't. I like you."
She looked at him and began to laugh. "I really like your directness but I'm not accustomed, you know, to such—such—"
"Unabashed admiration? Can't think why not. You look alive," he said firmly. "Can't stand dull people."
"I'm very dull," Mrs. Pollifax told him sincerely. "I do volunteer work—not very efficiently—and raise geraniums and really—that is, in general" she added conscientiously, "live a very quiet life."
"Doesn't mean a thing," he said. "You look interested, a sense of wonder lingers. True?"
"I feel like a witness being cross-examined on the stand."
He nodded. "Bad habit of mine, the trouble with being a lawyer. My two children call it a deficiency—or rather, when they're pleased with me they say I'm direct, when they're angry I'm blunt."
"You have two children, then?"
He nodded. "Boy's thirty, the girl—that's Lisa—twenty-six. Raised them myself since their mother died, which happened when Lisa was three years old, and then said hands off, at least until two years ago. You've children?"
Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "Also a boy and a girl, both of them grown up and parents now. But what happened two years ago?"
"Had to rescue Lisa," he said, leaning back for the waiter to deposit dishes in front of them. "You can't imagine from what squalor," he added, "which wouldn't have mattered a tinker's damn if she was happy. Found her living in the East Village in New York doing social work, weight down to ninety-six pounds and crying her heart out over a chap she'd been in love with." He snorted indignantly. "Loved him, she said, because he cared. Trouble was the chap seems to have cared indiscriminately—about women mainly, I gather—and led her a merry chase. Considering Lisa graduated magna cum laude from Radcliffe it seemed very unintelligent of her."
"Emotions have nothing to do with intellect," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax.
"You understand that," he said, nodding. "Lisa didn't."
"What's happened to her since then?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.
"You'll see her," he reminded her. "Cool, brisk, businesslike, that's Lisa. Liked her better when she tumbled for every cause that came along. Warm-hearted, ardent child."
'Then of course she still is," put in Mrs. Pollifax.
"Somewhere, yes, but in the last two years she's grown a shell three feet thick. Thought the trip might do her good. Not healthy for either of us, living together. Exhausting."
Mrs. Pollifax put down her fork and smiled at him. "Is there anything that doesn't exhaust you?"
He directed a sleepy glance at her and smiled. "As a matter of fact a few things . . . good food, good talk, collecting rare books . . . still play a decent game of tennis and I've been known to rouse myself at dawn for bird-watching."
"That's hard to imagine. Are you," she asked sternly, "ecology-minded?"
"Passionately," he said with a straight face.
Mrs. Pollifax laughed and decided at that moment that if she had been deprived of Farrell's company during her few hours in Lusaka, then Cyrus Reed made a rather fair replacemen
t. She also found herself hoping that Mr. Reed's lethargy was genuine, his daughter bona fide, and that he had not acquired a nasty habit of assassinating people in his spare time.
"Dessert?" suggested Mr. Reed, offering her the menu.
She glanced at her watch and shook her head. "I can only thank you for a delicious lunch," she told him, picking up her umbrella, "and see you next at Chunga."
They said goodbye and she removed herself to the lobby, where she chose a chair in sight of the front door. There she sat, gazing with interest at a party of dark men in turbans. A porter walked past her ringing a bicycle bell and carrying a chalkboard on which were scrawled the words "Mr. Kaacha wanted at desk," and then suddenly Homer Kulumbala appeared before her, smiling.
"Good afternoon, you are ready for Chunga?" he asked.
"Ready and waiting," she told him.
"Your luggage?"
She pointed to her suitcase next the door and he picked it up and led her out to the hotel drive. The same VW bus was parked among the bougainvillea, and again she chose the front seat next to the driver. Homer went off to round up other members of the safari and presently returned escorting a narrow man in a pair of slacks and a bush jacket. "Oh dear, we're twins," thought Mrs. Pollifax ruefully, glancing from his bush jacket and slacks to her own, and wondered if everyone on safari would wear identical khaki clothes. "Hello," she said as he reached the bus.
He was a prim-looking little man, perhaps forty-five or fifty, his one notable feature a reddish-brown goatee. He seemed an odd candidate for a safari: he looked fastidious and a trifle pinched about the nostrils, as if the world had a slightly rancid odor to him. At sight of Mrs. Pollifax he looked even more disapproving, or perhaps he resented her occupying the front seat. He stepped carefully into the rear and in faintly accented English called to Homer to be careful with his two suitcases. Only then —and after wiping the seat with his handkerchief—did he turn to Mrs. Pollifax and say peevishly, "They throw them, have you noticed?"
Mrs. Pollifax on Safari Page 3