Desperately she called out, "Farrell! Joseph!"
At the panic in her voice, Farrell ran to her side. "Duchess, what—" Entering the room, he said, "Good God!"
She said in a shaken voice, "I think—think he's dead, Farrell, a man raced out of this room a minute ago, did you see him? With blood on his robe."
Joseph had followed them into the room with his more powerful flashlight. "Bismallah, " he gasped.
"Did you see him, the man who ran out?"
Farrell reached for Joseph's flashlight and said absently, "Someone passed us—we were talking."
Pointing, she faltered, "Can it be Ibrahim?"
"Hold the flashlight for me," Farrell told Joseph. "We've got to see if he's really dead." He leaned over the man, touching pulse and heart and nodded. "Unfortunately he's dead."
"Ibrahim?" repeated Mrs. Pollifax.
"I don't know—I'll have to search him." Farrell's voice was grim. "A man smuggling a manuscript, traveling with it, would package it and wear it strapped around his waist, at least, that's how I'd do it."
"But he's in Western clothes," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax. "And he's thin, he doesn't look at all padded."
"But how did he die?" asked Joseph. "Look, there's a dagger still in his hand, but I see no blood on him."
Farrell was groping under the man's shirt, searching, baring his waist. "No manuscript," he said, sitting back on his heels and staring at the body.
"If not the man you were to meet," said Joseph, "who is he?"
With a sigh Farrell tucked the man's shirt back into his slacks and reached into the jacket. From an inside pocket he drew out a wallet. "It's in Arabic," he told Joseph, handing it to him. "This should tell us who he is."
Joseph stepped outside with Farrell following him. Mrs. Pollifax, curious, peered closer at the dead man, studying the angle of his fall, his head against the wall. Daringly she reached out and tipped his head forward to examine the back of it.
"Farrell," she called out, "the blood is on the back of his head, he had to have crashed against the wall. Joseph, let me have the flashlight, I see blood on his dagger, wet blood."
No one was listening, she rose and went out to join the other two, but one look at Joseph's stunned face silenced her.
"What?" demanded Farrell.
"He is Iraqi," Joseph said in a shocked voice. "And his address is First Circle, Jebel Amman—their embassy, and—" His face paled. "Bismallah, " he whispered, "he's mukhabarat"
"What's that?"
"Secret police of the Ba'th party in Iraq. . . . Intelligence. Mr. Farrell, this is terrible—what have we met with?—we must call the police at once."
"I suppose so, yes," Farrell said reluctantly. "But how? Drive to Karak?"
"That tour bus may have a car phone. Some of them do. In case of breakdown."
"No," cried Mrs. Pollifax, "first we must find the other man, he was hurt, there was bright red blood on his sleeve and he—and he—"
"Could be Ibrahim," Farrell finished for her.
"Ibrahim?" repeated Joseph dazedly.
Impatiently Mrs. Pollifax said, "Please, there's no time for talk. Joseph, you know the castle, try to find the man; he's either hiding or on his way out, the exit needs to be watched, as well as that black car. I can
do that from the top parapet where we've spent our mornings."
"You're right, of course," agreed Farrell. "I'll hunt down the tour guide and ask about a phone. Joseph—"
Joseph nodded. "I will need the flashlight again, please. Mrs. Pollifax, the stairs to the top of the castle—" He touched her arm and pointed, then raced down the gallery to begin his search.
Mrs. Pollifax, groping her way up another flight of dark stairs, was startled to find they led to a long dim room, which she vaguely remembered from Joseph's first-day tour. "Damn," she said aloud, furious that Joseph hadn't taken a few minutes to accompany her or to explain this aberration. In frustration she circled the room looking for a way out, sneezing from the dust stirred up by each footstep. Precious moments were wasted before she found the short flight of steps to the top of the castlè. Hurrying to the edge of the parapet, she looked over the low wall and down. The bus and the black car stood empty, a few minutes later she saw Farrell and the tour guide emerge from the castle and walk to the bus and enter it. Presumably Farrell had found a telephone.
No one else was in sight, except a woman and a boy walking down the road away from both the castle and Karak, the woman wore a long black robe and head scarf, the boy carried a basket. Mrs. Pollifax stood on watch until the police arrived, but the man they looked for had vanished.
They were questioned at the castle by a member of the Provincial Public Security Force, and then sent to the police station in Karak for their statements to be taken down in writing and signed. Telephone calls were made to Amman, but in Arabic, so that Mrs. Pollifax had no idea what was said, the Karak policeman was amiable; they were tourists, after all, and carried American passports. Mrs. Pollifax, who had found the body, could truthfully not describe the face of the man who had fled past her, she could speak only of the color of his kaffiyeh and the smear of blood on his pale robe, as for Farrell and Joseph, they had been walking behind her and discussing medieval warfare, scarcely aware of the man rushing past them, and only Mrs. Pollifax's cry for help had interrupted their talk, after they signed their statements, the policeman in charge wrote down the name of their hotel and their room and passport numbers, as well as Joseph's address, and told them the police in Amman would be questioning them further on their return to the hotel.
Joseph's face had interested Mrs. Pollifax during this brief interrogation; it had become very stern, lips tight and eyes expressionless. Most of his statements were given in Arabic, but if he did not mention their three mornings at the castle, she knew there was a limit to his loyalty; they would have to either explain to him about Ibrahim, or dispense with his services and rent a car of their own, now that they knew the country better. Or did Joseph guess too much already to let him go, having witnessed Farrell's search of the dead man?
It was Farrell who made the decision on their drive back to Amman. "Joseph," he said, "you don't have to continue with us as our guide if you'd prefer not,
because heaven only knows you couldn't have expected this"
Joseph steered the car to the side of the road, cut the engine, and turned to face them, he said, "You thought for a moment—believed—the dead man your friend. Yet you did not appear to know what your friend would look like."
"True," said Farrell.
"And you searched him," he said accusingly. "And you wondered if the man who killed him was your friend."
"Yes," agreed Farrell.
"But I'm not sure the man who ran away killed him," put in Mrs. Pollifax. "You left the room too soon, there was certainly a terrible fight there, but even you, Joseph, saw no blood on the dead man, there was blood, though; you weren't there when I examined the back of his head and found a great deal of blood, both there and on his dagger. It's possible that falling against that stone wall killed him."
When they both looked at her blankly, she said, "Oh for heaven's sake, Farrell, tell him why you're here."
Farrell sighed. "I only hope he won't—but I suppose we owe him some explanation. Joseph," he said, "I've come to your country to meet a man by the name of Ibrahim—I know no more of him—and if he's lucky enough to get here, he's bringing me a valuable manuscript from a friend of mine in Iraq who died in prison."
Joseph's eyes widened. "A manuscript? You mean a book? Is that all?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand," Joseph said, frowning. "Why would this Ibrahim do this? It's dangerous. What book could be that important? And how would a dead man in Iraq know you?
"Because the writer of the book had been my friend for many years," said Farrell. "He used to lecture in the United States, where we met, he is a very well-known, very courageous writer of books. His name is Dib Assen."
"But what?" asked Mrs. Pollifax gently.
"But we have read his books in university!" he said excitedly. "Everyone knows of him, he is one of us."
He was silent, and neither of them spoke while he digested this information; his face registered amazement, followed by doubt, suspicion, and, at last, curiosity. "It is for this, not a man in Syria, you wait? You are not—not a spy?"
"No," said Farrell gravely.
"Do you think the man who killed the Iraqi agent was this Ibrahim?"
Farrell shrugged. "You heard what Mrs. Pollifax found; it'll be up to the police now to decide, he may only have fought with him, as she suggests. This is possible."
"Yes, that is so," admitted Joseph. "But where did he go, whoever he was? He vanished like smoke! Before the police came I went through every room, and Mrs. Pollifax watched the entrance and did not see him. Where did he go?"
He would have gone into hiding, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and Farrell will have to leave Jordan without ever fulfilling his promise, and what will happen to the manuscript if it truly was Ibrahim?
"I don't know," Farrell said grimly, "but I'm going to return to the castle again tomorrow morning—I must, I have to, it's the only place he can find me. Joseph, can you possibly keep this a secret—for the sake of Dib Assen?"
Frowning, Joseph considered this, and then he said firmly, "You must return tomorrow, yes." He added wistfully, "If I could just touch the pages written by such a man! I would be the first to see it, even to read the first words, because they would be in Arabic, yes?"
"Yes," said Farrell guardedly.
Joseph nodded. "I will stay with you as guide, then, and I swear to you I will not speak of this, even to my brother. ... I will not abandon you. Besides," he added, with a quick, boyish grin, "how can I, when on Friday Hanan hopes to show Mrs. Pollifax her camel, and it would break her heart to not do this. ..."
He turned the key in the ignition and started the car, and they proceeded on their way to Amman, they had driven a long way in silence when Joseph said, "The Mask of the Mullah was my favorite, oh how I loved that book!"
CHAPTER 9
Mrs. Pollifax had returned from dinner when she heard a light tap on her door. Opening it she met with a slender man in a well-cut business suit, black hair flecked with gray. Mrs. Pollifax felt that she was becoming a connoisseur of mustaches now, and his looked particularly elegant in an understated way. "Inspector Jafer," he said, "Department of Criminal Investigation. You are Mrs. Pollifax?"
He held out his identification, and she said, "Yes, do come in."
He walked in and sat down in the upholstered chair by the window; she sat on the edge of her bed and said politely, "I'm very glad to see you—there's something we had planned to take to the police today—but I suppose that first you want more information about the man at Karak castle? Except that I can't think of any detail we missed in our statements."
"No?" he said smoothly. "Actually something else has come to our attention that interests us. In you," he added, with a charming smile.
"In me?"
He nodded, saying pleasantly, "We know, of course, that it was you who found the body, and it was you and your companion, as well as your guide, who were briefly interviewed first by the police at Karak castle. However—"
"Yes?" said Mrs. Pollifax when he paused.
"After you left," he continued, "the members of the tour group were interviewed, and it was noted that you had been seen at Karak castle on the morning before, the three of you." Seeing her eyes flicker, he added almost apologetically, "The tour guide ... You may not have noticed that the same person brought a different group there on both mornings and saw you there."
He had certainly surprised her, and he knew it; he was, she thought, a very good actor with excellent timing. "Naturally," he continued, "under such circumstances—the investigation of a murdered man from one of our foreign embassies—this seems a curious coincidence."
Curious indeed, she thought, and realized at once that it was up to her to protect Farrell and his purpose in being there, and to protect the unknown man who had fled the scene and might be Ibrahim, she said, "We were there because we were tired of being followed, and Mr. Farrell being an artist—"
"Followed?"
"Yes, and my room has been searched." Carefully she told her story, her eyes on Inspector Jafer's face. "I should have gone to the police earlier, after my room was searched, but I didn't understand why it was done, or why we were followed, until ‘ remembered the man who sat next to me on the plane from New York."
Inspector Jafer sighed but he said courteously, "The man on the plane," and then, lightly, mockingly, "There was a man on a plane?"
She could scarcely blame him for looking skeptical; since it had happened to her, she believed it, but hearing herself badly describe what had taken place, she realized it sounded like something out of a low-budget B movie. "I think," she said with dignity, "that it's time I turned over to you what was placed in my carry-on bag while ‘ was in the lavatory brushing my teeth."
"Drugs, perhaps?"
"It's in my money belt for safekeeping, if you'll excuse me for a moment? And it is not drugs."
She walked into the bathroom, where she released the money belt from around her waist. Carrying it back into the room, she unzipped it and brought out the key wrapped in paper. Handing it to him she said, "There was this key, and words written on this tissue paper in Arabic. Perhaps you can tell me what they say?"
He carefully placed the key on the arm of the chair and glanced at the diagram, and then pocketed both. "Where did you get these?" he asked.
"I told you, it had to have been dropped into the bottom of my carry-on bag while I was out of my seat on the plane. By the man sitting next to me."
"How do you know it was the man sitting next to you that did this?"
She said patiently, "Because I was on the aisle, and there was no one else next to me, also, while we talked, he showed me the plaque in which we found the key, and it was the plaque—"
"What plaque?"
"At the moment it's hidden under a pillow in Mr. Farrell's room, a Petra carving mounted on thick plywood, and the key was in the plywood."
"I would like to see that plaque," he said, "but since you tell me you and this man talked together, did he by chance give you his name?"
"Oh yes, and unfortunately I told him mine, too, he introduced himself as Mr. Nayef."
"Nayef," repeated Inspector Jafer, and bringing out a notebook, scribbled down the name. "And how did you happen to find this key in what you describe as a thick slab of plywood?"
Fortunately they were interrupted by a knock on the door; Farrell walked in, startled to find that she was not alone, she said brightly, "Farrell, this gentleman is from the Department of Criminal Investigation. ... It seems one of the tour guides at the castle today saw us there yesterday, as well as today, which Inspector Jafer has found curious. ‘ have told him," she emphasized, meeting Farrell's eyes and holding them, "that we were taking refuge there because we were tired of being followed by that dark red car, and we think the car, and my room being searched, is because of Mr. Nayef." She gestured toward her guest. "I have given him the key from the plaque."
"Thank heaven," said Farrell, with such fervor that the inspector looked startled.
"You are related?" he inquired, looking puzzled.
"Cousins," she announced. "We often travel together. Mr. Farrell is an artist, currently with a gallery in Mexico City, and he is very interested in the ruins here, he's been making drawings of Karak castle and will probably go back tomorrow to finish, he plans to write an illustrated article on your country."
Farrell looked gratified at this; obviously he could see where this was leading and wanted nothing to do with it. "I'll get the plaque," he said. "It's in my room."
"I'll go with you," said the inspector firmly. "I'm curious as to how you came to find such
a key so well hidden."
Mrs. Pollifax smiled at Farrell. "That," she said, feeling she'd already done her part, "is all yours to explain, dear Farrell."
Once alone Mrs. Pollifax locked her door and, with a glance at her watch, laid out her pajamas on the bed and walked into the bathroom. It seemed an appropriate moment to brush her teeth, since so much of her explanations to the inspector had involved a toothbrush, but Mr. Nayef no longer occupied her mind; she was relieved at having so conveniently gotten rid of Mr. Nayef s key, and she had also outflanked the inspector on further questions about their several mornings at Karak castle, she was, in fact, feeling quite virtuous.
She thought now about the dead man found in the dark room of the castle and the man who had rushed past her and vanished, she remained baffled by the mystery of his disappearance, she wondered if he would dare approach the castle again, but of course she also wondered if he had been Ibrahim.
How, she thought crossly, did he do it? He had raced past her in such haste that she'd seen little of him, and yet she had been aware of his features distorted in horror. Like Munch's painting The Scream, she reflected, and except for that small detail, what had left an impression most clearly was the blood on his robe.
Robe—on his robe . . . Why did this cause a frown? It bothered her, why?
She put down her toothbrush and thought about this, asking herself why the word "robe" was sending out suspicious flashes, she thought crossly. My subconscious is once again sending messages, and then, abruptly, she realized that a possibility was being presented to her, there was something overlooked, scarcely credible, and yet...
She left her room and knocked on Farrell's door. "Farrell, it's me," she called.
He opened the door, handsome in red silk pajamas, a map in one hand. "What's happened? I gave the inspector the plaque."
"That's not why I'm here," she said. "Farrell, tell me exactly what you saw this morning when you left the castle with that tour guide and walked over to the bus. You looked around, I saw you."
Mrs. Pollifax Innocent Tourist Page 7