"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 Moses Msonthi School, sir. Manchichi Road
."
"Right. I'll look for him there."
He hurried out to the entrance to find that, perversely, there were no taxis now. He paced and fumed, considered the state of his blood pressure and consulted his watch: it was 12:40 and Farrell had said the dedication ceremonies began at one o'clock . . . When a taxi finally arrived it was 12:45 and he was too grateful to express his sense of aggrievement. He climbed in and directed the driver to the school.
"Oh yes, sir, yes, sir," the driver said with a big smile. "Our president opens the school today. Very nice, very beautiful school for girls."
"Yes . . . well, see if you can get me there fast," he told him, and tried to think of what he'd do when he reached the school. There'd be crowds, he supposed; a big event opening a new school, probably speeches, perhaps not, but certainly crowds. He hadn't the slightest idea how he'd find Dundu, or whether Emily would turn up there too. Perhaps by now she'd discovered the man was a bona fide Zambian, except that if it really was Kleiber . . . Better not think about that, he decided, and practiced taking deep breaths to remain calm. The streets were relatively empty of traffic since it was Sunday and the shops were closed, but as they neared Manchichi Road
the traffic increased. Cyrus paid off the driver a block away from the school and set out to find Dundu Bwanausi, not even certain that he'd mastered the man's name yet.
Mrs. Pollifax sat on the edge of her seat watching the taxi ahead and contributing frequent comments to spur the driver on. "He's wanted by the police," she confided, feeling that some explanation was becoming necessary and hoping that what she said was true but hoping at the same time that it wasn't. "Not too close, driver, we mustn't be noticed. Have you any idea where they're heading?"
"We are very near Manchichi Road
, madam, perhaps he goes to watch our President dedicate a school."
Oh God, she thought, and said aloud, "Do you mean the Moses Msonthi School?"
"Yes, madam. This is Manchichi Road
we turn into now, and the taxi ahead is going to the school, see? It stops now."
She began fumbling in her purse for money. "I'll get out now, I hope this is enough," she said, thrusting kwacha notes on him, and as he drew up to the curb she added, "But will you do something important for me, driver? Will you call the police and tell them—tell them Aristotle is at the Msonthi School? Aristotle."
"Aristotle. Yes, madam." He gave her a curious glance.
She climbed out and gave him a long, earnest look. "I'm depending on you, I'm depending desperately on you."
"Yes, madam."
Up ahead she saw Mr. Kleiber strolling around the edge of the crowd looking for a place to enter it. She hurried toward him, mentally rehearsing what possible karate blow might fell him before he could shoot President Kaunda, because of course that had to be the only reason he was here in his masquerade, which meant that her instincts about John Steeves had proven sound after all, except that Steeves was now in prison and here was Aristotle still free, and no one knew . . .
It was frightening.
The sun was glittering, and shone on women in colorful blouses and skirts with babies slung over their shoulders, on barefooted children and men in overalls and in solemn Sunday best. A very neat avenue had been left clear for the President, she noticed. She saw Kleiber examine it and then, before she could reach him, he slipped into the crowd and vanished from sight.
Lieutenant Bwanausi was idling near a police car at the southern corner of the crowd, waiting to see his President, whose photograph hung on every wall of his small home. One of his friends passed and called out a greeting, and then came over and shook hands with him, asking how things went with him. Dundu thought back on his week's work, recalled how close an assassin had come to threatening the life of his President, and said that life went very well for him indeed. His friend strolled on, and hearing the crackle of static from the car radio behind him, Dundu reached for the microphone. "Bwanausi here."
At first he didn't understand what Soko was saying. "How is this, your speaking the name Aristotle, Soko," he said. "Two messages?"
First, it seemed, there had been the message from a man at the Hotel Intercontinental, which Soko now read to him. "But Dundu," he protested, "I thought the man was drunk. Now a second call has come in from a taxi driver. He says he and a woman chased a taxi to Man-chichi Road
, and this woman pleaded with him to call us and say that Aristotle is at the school."
Dundu felt a spasm of fear. Was this possible? Could John Steeves not be Aristotle after all? Yet how could this be, given the evidence? "Man, this is bad news," he told Soko. "Is it too late to reach KK's party? Aristotle is the code name of the assassin we thought we jailed last night."
There was a stunned silence. "Oh God," said Soko. "I'll try, Dundu, I'll try."
"Do that, send out a—" He stopped as he heard the sirens. "Too late, the President's here, Soko." He dropped the microphone and began running . . .
Mrs. Pollifax pushed her way through the crowd trying to find Mr. Kleiber, but now in her panic everybody had begun to look like Mr. Kleiber and she couldn't distinguish one face from the next. She stopped and forced herself to be calm, and instead of elbowing her way deeper into the crowd she turned and pushed her way toward the avenue down which the President would walk. Reaching the front row, she thanked a man who had let her pass and leaned out to look down the avenue. One glance was enough: she saw the President climbing out of a limousine and shaking hands with a number of people grouped around the car. She turned her head and looked to her left and saw Kleiber standing in line only twenty feet away from her, one hand in his pocket, a faint smile on his lips, his face remote, almost dreaming. Mrs. Pollifax turned and began to struggle toward him.
Cyrus had given up trying to find Lieutenant Bwanausi. He had withdrawn to a playground behind the crowd and had climbed to the top of a convenient jungle gym, from which he could sit and keep an eye out for a familiar face. He held little hope of finding one now, and if he didn't he wondered if Emily would expect him to throw himself across the President's path. Probably, he thought, and hearing a sudden ripple of cheers from off to his right, he realized that it was one o'clock and that President Kaunda must have arrived and that he'd better do something. Before climbing down he took one last look at the knots and clusters of people on the fringe of the crowd, framed against the wall of heads beyond, and then he realized that for several minutes he'd been absently watching something—a red stick or a pennant—move determinedly from a point on his right toward an unknown point on his left. Staring at it intently now, his eyes narrowing, it stirred his memory.
Emily's feather, he thought in astonishment, and taking a quick fix on it he climbed down from his jungle gym and hurried to the edge of the crowd, entered it at some distance ahead of where he judged Emily to be, and altern
ately pushed and shoved his way inward. He was in luck: the first time he stopped to look for the feather he spotted it some twenty feet away. Assuming that Emily was under it, he moved forward to intercept her, and at that moment the crowd shifted and he saw her. He also saw, not far away from her, the back of a man wearing a charcoal pin-striped suit: Kleiber.
Emily had seen Kleiber too. She crept forward, the feather at a ridiculous slant now, and when she moved in beside the man, Cyrus, thrusting aside several small children to reach her, guessed what she was planning to do. She had just lifted her right hand when Kleiber turned his head and looked at her. Cyrus saw them exchange a long glance, and then he saw the gun in Kleiber's hand and he caught his breath, appalled. Slowly Kleiber lifted the gun and pointed it at Mrs. Pollifax, who froze, staring at him in astonishment.
Cyrus gasped, "Not karate, Emily—judo now." Memories of long-ago gymnasium classes came back to him, of a dreary evening spent in throwing and being thrown to the mat, and with only a fleeting thought to brittle bones, Cyrus hurled himself across the twelve feet of space that separated them. His shoulders met solid flesh, there was a crunch of bone meeting bone, several sharp cries, and he and Emily Pollifax, Willem Kleiber and two small boys fell to the ground together.
Only Dundu Bwanausi, racing to them from the opposite side, knew that five people had not been accidentally pushed to the ground by the crowd. He leaned over Kleiber with a grim face, pocketed the man's gun and snapped handcuffs on his wrists. He picked up the two crying children and dusted them off. He gave Cyrus a hand, and then he helped Mrs. Pollifax to her feet and carefully restored her hat to her. Only when he looked into her face did his expression change. He said softly, fervently, "Oh madam, zikomo—zikomo kuambeia, ten thousand times zikomo . . ."
But Cyrus, too, had something to say. "Damn it, Emily," he complained, "only way to keep an eye on you is marry you. Think we could find a quiet corner and talk about that?"
CHAPTER
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