Mrs. Pollifax Innocent Tourist

by Dorothy Gilman

  Both disappeared into the sheikh's tent.

  Mrs. Pollifax waited, but for what she didn't know: a polite request to search the tents, perhaps, or news of a dangerous man in hiding nearby? Her arm was throbbing, she'd had no sleep, and her head had begun to ache. I ought to warn Farrell, she thought, but she felt paralyzed and very, very tired.

  Over her shoulder she told Ibrahim, "They've gone into the tent of Sheikh Jidoor."

  "Yes," he said in a strangled voice.

  A flap in the sheikh's tent opened and she braced herself, but it was only young Joseph who emerged. Seeing her he waved and ran toward her, looking excited. "Mrs. Pollifax," he shouted, "the Desert Patrol has brought in a man lost in the desert last night! He is American and he is asking for you!"

  This was bewildering. "Asking for me? An American asking for me?"

  "Yes," cried Joseph. "Corporal Saidi found him last night near the Saudi border, very lost. His name is Rollin or Rallin or Rawling, and he says a Mr. Carstairs sent him."

  Carstairs .. . ! Her knees felt suddenly weak. Battered and bruised, she experienced the strangest longing to burst into tears but instead she laughed. It was a shaky laugh, but it was a laugh. "Ibrahim," she said, "you can stop hiding now, I think our angel of deliverance has just arrived . . , our miracle."

  Which, if Carstairs could have heard this, would have provoked an explosion of incredulous and pithy comments.

  EPILOGUE

  Mrs. Pollifax had been at home for four days before news reached her of arrangements made in Amman after she and Farrell left. Cyrus had already returned from the Cape when she arrived, and she was greeted at the door with a horrified, "Good God, Emily, a broken arm?"

  "No, no," she told him reassuringly, "it's only a small bullet wound, a Bedouin named Bushaq treated it, and a handsome young policeman disinfected it."

  He eyed her suspiciously. "Emily, a bullet implies a gun, and on the phone you said—"

  "There were complications," she admitted, and after a brief summation of her week in Jordan and an inquiry about his bird-watching expedition, she went to bed and slept for ten hours. This was dull but welcome, since she'd not slept on the plane or the night before, but once she awoke she began to want very much to hear news of what was happening to Assen and Ibrahim. Rawlings had promised her news... , a very nice young man, Rawlings, she thought, and almost abject in his gratitude to her for what he had experienced in the desert. "It was an adventure" he told her. "Absolutely thrilling, there was a moon, you know—I had no idea what I'd been missing!"

  She had refrained from mentioning what could have happened to him if his car had broken down in a less-patrolled area of the desert. Presumably he would learn this in time, since he gave every evidence of wanting to explore the desert further, she had given him Awad Ibn Jazi's name, emphasizing how interesting Rawlings would find him, and she hoped he would have the sense to contact him.

  It was Tuesday when she had returned from Jordan; it was Saturday when Bishop called from New York to say that if she and Cyrus were at home that afternoon, he would like to drive to Connecticut and see them, he had a small package for her, he added, that was too important to mail.

  "I hope not an Urn Tomb," was Cyrus's cryptic response.

  Bishop arrived promptly at two o'clock, attaché case in hand and looking as boyish as usual, his sandy hair concealed under a jaunty plaid cap, which he removed with a flourish. Bishop liked kitchens, explaining that he rarely saw any, and so they established themselves at the kitchen table with blueberry muffins and a carafe of coffee. It was apparent to Mrs. Pollifax that pleasantries had to be exchanged first, and she wondered if this was Bishop's way of commiserating with Cyrus at his missing his wife's fun and games in Jordan. This amused her enough to curb her impatience.

  Bishop said, "I liked that girl Kadi Hopkirk; I hear you took her bird-watching."

  Cyrus nodded. "A damn good sport, but raised in too hot a climate. Shivers a lot, always cold. Not sure I converted her to bird-watching," he said doubtfully. "Too much fresh air, perhaps."

  "You certainly look healthy," Bishop told him. "It obviously agreed with you."

  "Of course I look healthy," growled Cyrus, "I didn't go flying off to the Middle East to cope with a bunch of felons and get shot in the arm. Very devious woman, my wife," he told Bishop. "Phoned to tell me she was going off with Farrell for a week, to bring back some documents or some such from Jordan. Courier work, I thought. Comes home exhausted and with her arm in a sling."

  "Devious indeed," said Bishop with a grin.

  Mrs. Pollifax could be patient no longer. "Bishop, what's been happening?" she asked. "Have you heard yet, are they all right?"

  Bishop nodded. "I bear good news, yes. You'll be glad to hear that with a great deal of cooperation in Amman, we brought Assen and Ibrahim to the United States yesterday. His information's being turned over to the UN—as well as shared with Jordan," he added, "and damn important it is, he's now in a safe house."

  "I'm certainly relieved to hear that," she told him.

  "Real sacrifice, that manuscript," put in Cyrus. "I've read both Plague of Demons and Instruments of Tortura .., valuable books. Can he reconstruct from memory this book that's been destroyed?"

  "I doubt he'll want to now," said Bishop. "Now that he's free to say and write what he wants, and he no longer has to hide truths behind metaphors and anagrams and veiled hints and references."

  "But you're sure he's safe?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  Bishop grinned. "He's so safe that neither Car-stairs nor ‘ know where he is. Only Antun Mahmoud knows—and the FBI, who have given him a new identity."

  "Not even Farrell?"

  "Not even Farrell."

  "And Ibrahim?"

  "Ibrahim continued on to Mexico to join Farrell; it seems that he's an expert on Islamic art, so they have rather a lot in common. Dib Assen hopes to move there, too, once the FBI allows it. In the meantime he has a visa for six months and is eligible for political refugee status if he prefers to stay, but in any case he is being very well guarded for the moment, as to Farrell," he added gravely, "we are reimbursing him for all of his expenses; he went as Assen's friend but brought back to us more than we dreamed possible." He winced. "But I'm overlooking what brings me here, specifically this package that arrived through official channels, by courier and sans customs, with the request that it be promptly delivered to you."

  Puzzled, Mrs. Pollifax said, "What can that be?"

  "It's from the palace in Amman. No message. Simply that it comes from the palace." Opening his attaché case he presented her with a long and slender package wrapped in brown paper, after fumbling with the strings she found a tissue-wrapped box and, opening it, said, "But how kind!" and then, "Oh dear!"

  It was a dagger, its scabbard turquoise studded, very old and very beautiful, its handle circled with gems and insets of gold. Reluctantly she drew the dagger from its sheath.

  Cyrus said, "Oh-oh!"

  Bishop whistled through his teeth and said, "Gorgeous, a real museum piece!" He glanced at her face. "What's up? You don't look terribly happy to see it."

  She said weakly, "A dagger like this came very near to slitting my throat last Saturday just seven days ago at the Qasr at Tuba. Less ornate, of course, but just as sharp." She shivered. "Mr. Nayef—sorry, Mr. Slaman— was a very determined man."

  "Ouch," said Bishop. "But this dagger must be hundreds of years old—a real antique—and it's royal. You can't ignore it, and it simply wouldn't do to slice tomatoes with it."

  "This does make it all a bit tricky," Cyrus said thoughtfully. "I think an attitude is needed, m'dear, after all, from the palace—"

  "And so beautiful," said Bishop. "How about displaying it to remind you of the dagger that nearly did but didn't?"

  She gave him a reproachful glance, and then, running her fingers over the exquisite carvings on the scabbard, she admitted that it was indeed beautiful. "I'm sure that it's Bedouin," she said, and with a sm
ile, "A pity I can't share it with Hanan, wellahi hadha, beduwi—a real bedul"

  "You've already sent her a complete set of Nancy Drew mysteries," pointed out Cyrus.

  "I've thought of an attitude," said Bishop suddenly, with his usual flippancy. "Hang it on a wall as a reminder to beware of the person seated beside you on your next plane trip."

  "No need," Cyrus said firmly. "Next time, damn it— and I want her promise on this—it'll be me sitting next to her."