Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  “Then try to look sorry,” he snapped. “I’m a very sick man. Where have you been?”

  “Oh, here and there,” she said airily. “Walking with Colonel Nexdhet, picnicking on the cliff with Lulash, rubbing Major Vassovic’s back. We have even been discussing holding a small party in the guardroom tomorrow night.”

  “Party!” exploded Farrell.

  “Yes, you see Lulash knows some old Albanian mountain songs and he wants to sing them to me, and Colonel Nexdhet will bring a musical instrument and Major Vassovic went so far as to volunteer something alcoholic for the occasion, and one thing led to another, and now it’s to be a party.”

  Farrell stared at her open-mouthed. After a minute he closed his mouth with a snap. “All right,” he said crossly, “what exactly have you been up to, Duchess?”

  She sat down beside him and drew from the pocket of her jacket a sheet of onionskin paper and placed it in his lap. “For tracing the map in Lulash’s book,” she whispered. Drawing out a flat, round, metal case she added it to the sheet of paper. “And I won’t have to tell you what this is.”

  He pried open its lid and whistled. “A compass! But how on earth—and who—”

  “I traded with the major after I rubbed his back. I said I was getting rid of my effects early. It cost two new lipsticks, one Petal Pink and one Hug Me.”

  “Yes, but didn’t he wonder at a compass?”

  She smiled reminiscently. “He gave me several things to choose from in return, it was quite fun. He offered an old watch, a pen and his surveyor’s compass that has been in the guardroom for years, he said. Does it work?”

  “It moves,” Farrell said, frowning over it.

  “East,” she told him, “would be in the direction of the guardroom, and west behind the wall you’re leaning against.”

  He looked up. “And just how do you know that?”

  “Because we traveled into the rising sun when we came here,” she said. “We arrived from the west, from the city of Shkoder, where our plane landed. And according to the map the River Drin, which I can see from the precipice, flows from east to west, into the Adriatic, which places Yugoslavia just behind us.”

  She had captured his attention at last. He closed the lid of the compass with a snap and said quietly, “Perhaps you’d better tell me exactly what you’re thinking of, Duchess, if it’s not too late to ask. You really have been busy.”

  “Of course I’ll tell you,” she said warmly. “I’m only an amateur, you know—although a very determined one, I warn you—and I desperately need your professional advice. Have you been trained in escape procedures?”

  “Afraid not,” he said in amusement.

  “Oh, what a pity. Well, I guess that can’t be helped.”

  “Good of you to see it that way.”

  “What I do think I ought to tell you, though—and I would have sooner if you hadn’t been in such a state—is about the person in the cell next to us.” She described in a whisper the rappings on the wall that had taken place on the day that Farrell jumped from the cliff. “I’ve heard nothing since, you understand, but this afternoon, walking around the building, I dropped a note through the window slit of the cell next to us.”

  “A note?” echoed Farrell. “But this is Albania, and an Albanian jail. I really doubt that whoever it is would speak English, you know.”

  “Well, it wasn’t the most articulate message, but I made it up out of scraps of Albanian from Lulash’s book,” explained Mrs. Pollifax. “It said night—sleep—bring voice, if I remember correctly, but I did rather hope our neighbor would get the point that we’d like to hear from him again somehow.” Footsteps echoed in the hall and Mrs. Pollifax seized compass and paper, stuffed them into her purse and moved back to her cot. She was seated on it fingering her deck of cards when the door opened and Adhem Nexdhet—no, Colonel Nexdhet, she remembered—walked in. “Have a good walk?” she inquired pleasantly, and was suddenly all too conscious of the contraband book under her mattress, the gun cartridges distributed around the cell, the food and compass in her purse.

  “What is this game you always play?” he asked, stopping beside her table.

  “Different kinds,” she told him. “All sorts of solitaire. Very healthy for the mind and the nerves, I enjoy it. Has General Perdido returned yet?” she added casually.

  “He comes late Thursday, in the evening,” Adhem Nexdhet said absently, his eyes on the cards she was arranging.

  Mrs. Pollifax managed a rueful laugh. “And I don’t even know what day it is today!”

  “Tuesday.” Nexdhet abruptly sat down beside her. “Show me,” he said. “The cards in a circle, what is the key to this?”

  “It’s called Clock Solitaire,” replied Mrs. Pollifax, and began to explain the rules. But her heart was thudding at the realization that General Perdido would return on Thursday, and already this was Tuesday.… At once the general’s face came very clearly to her mind: impassive and observant with only the eyes, sans spectacles, betraying shrewdness and cruelty. Over the cards she glanced at Farrell and saw him chewing reflectively on the moustache that would in time resemble Adhem Nexdhet’s walrus-type adornment—if ever given the time. Haste makes waste, she thought a little wildly; escape in haste, repent in leisure; she wondered if Farrell remembered any of General Perdido’s parting promises; he had been feverish and in pain and she hoped he did not recall them. It was far kinder for him not to know what lay ahead of him.

  But only two more days, and they had made almost no arrangements…!

  Then something else occurred to her and she said in shocked astonishment, “But why is he coming back so soon? Is it you who told him Farrell is well enough to be questioned by then?”

  Colonel Nexdhet met her glance with a faint smile. “I believe I warned you that you must trust no one,” he pointed out gently.

  On Wednesday morning during her walk along the cliff Mrs. Pollifax selected two round, fist-sized rocks from the ground and took them back to the cell and hid them. She then borrowed Lulash’s sunglasses and walked a little farther, toward the clusters of fir through which she and Farrell had ridden on donkeys. What they needed most of all, she knew, was a crutch for Farrell; a very stout crutch or walking stick. Without this they might as well abandon all hope of reaching the valley.

  “Lulash,” she called across the rocks. He was sunning himself on the bench outside while he cleaned his gun. “Lulash, I’ve had the nicest idea.” She walked up to him, smiling. “But first I’ll need your permission and your help.”

  “What is that?” asked Lulash.

  “It’s Mr. Farrell,” she explained. “He cannot take walks, as I do—”

  “He would not be allowed,” Lulash said bluntly.

  “I know that, and it’s very difficult for him, shut up all day in that cell. Lulash, I should so like to hang some branches in the cell. Fresh green branches.”

  “Branches?” repeated Lulash, scowling.

  “Yes, branches. Surely it would be all right? Surely no one would mind?”

  Lulash’s brow cleared and he smiled indulgently. “Every woman, she likes to make things pretty, eh?”

  “Uh, yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “You do understand, I’m so glad. Should I ask the major’s permission, too?”

  “That I can do for you,” Lulash said gallantly.

  Major Vassovic not only gave permission but announced that he would come too, and they set out for the line of scattered firs together, with Mrs. Pollifax pointing out the beauties of the sky—a horrid bleached blue—the uniqueness of the rocks, and the wild scenery above them. She talked mercilessly until they reached the trees, whereupon she became reverently silent, and for such a long time that the men became restive.

  “This one—or this one?” she asked at last, touching first one branch and then another. She stood still, struck with apparently spontaneous inspiration. “Or do you suppose we could take back a very small tree?”

  “Tree?” echoed Major Vassovic
in astonishment.

  “Tree?” repeated Lulash.

  “This little one, for instance. It looks just like a Christmas tree.”

  “But this is summer,” pointed out Major Vassovic.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Pollifax said, nodding, and then, ruthlessly, she delivered the coup de grace. “But I will not—I will not be here—I will not see another Christmas.”

  That did it. Lulash angrily tightened his lips. “She will have the little tree,” he told Major Vassovic.

  “Of course,” nodded the major, and at once twisted the tree to test the depth of its roots. Lulash gave a small assist and the young tree was uprooted.

  “Lovely,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax with feeling, and with the tree between them like a fourth member of the party they marched back to the stone building.

  “What on earth!” exclaimed Farrell as Lulash leaned the tree against the wall of the cell.

  “Isn’t it beautiful? Christmas in August,” said Mrs. Pollifax, and added a warning frown because Colonel Nexdhet was seated on his cot reading a newspaper on which the banner head proclaimed the words ZERI I POPULIT. But he had already begun folding up his paper, and presently, with a nod, he went out wearing his binoculars.

  When he had gone Mrs. Pollifax sat down on her cot and said tartly, “I loathe myself. I have just given the most nauseating performance of my life—I, Emily Pollifax! I was girlish, I was kittenish, I very nearly fluttered my eyelashes at those two men, and at my age! Sickening.”

  “You didn’t,” exclaimed Farrell, grinning.

  She nodded. “I pulled out all the stops. I nearly had them weeping for me.”

  “Not over this—this ragged specimen of evergreen, I hope.”

  Mrs. Pollifax said crossly, “That ragged-looking specimen of evergreen, my dear Farrell, is shortly going to be transformed into the crutch that is going to help you walk across Albania to the Adriatic Sea.”

  Farrell whistled. “I’ve done it again, Duchess—my apologies.” His glance ran appraisingly over the trunk and he nodded. “Yes, the shape is there all right.”

  “No crosspiece,” she explained, “but we can use pieces of mattress and blanket to wad the top and protect the arm. Did you finish tracing the map?”

  “Yes, in spite of Nexdhet. That man wanders in and out—if he has to keep up the pretense of being a fellow prisoner I wish he’d put his heart into it and suffer along with me. He obviously has bathroom privileges, a discrimination I deeply resent, and he never speaks to me, he only grunts.”

  “But you finished the tracing!”

  “Oh yes. And something else happened, fortunately while Nexdhet wasn’t here. About half an hour ago this fluttered through the window.” He brought from his pocket a slip of paper.

  “Our neighbor!” gasped Mrs. Pollifax. “He did reply after all.”

  “In a fashion,” said Farrell, and watched with ironic eyes as she held the slip of paper up to the light.

  On it had been printed in beautiful script the following message:

  CHAPTER 15

  That evening Colonel Nexdhet followed their dinner trays out of the cell, and as soon as he had gone Mrs. Pollifax crossed the room to Farrell and sat down on the cot beside him. She had spent the afternoon in playing solitaire and doing some private assessing which had definitely not aided her digestive juices. She was also beginning to scratch and she feared that she had lice, but this did not concern her nearly so much as the knowledge that within twenty-four hours General Perdido would be appearing. The general, she reflected, was the more compelling irritant.

  “He’s gone?” whispered Farrell, sitting up. They did little talking at all while Adhem Nexdhet was with them.

  “He may not be gone long,” Mrs. Pollifax reminded him. She thought that Farrell was no less haggard, but he looked brighter-eyed and more interested than she had seen him in a long time.

  “All right, let’s go over the list.”

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “We have one tree.” She gave it a reproachful glance. “But no earthly way of cutting it down to a crutch.”

  On her memo pad he wrote knife or facsimile. “Go on.”

  She continued gloomily. “We have four magazine clips, apparently for Beretta or Nambu pistols but unfortunately we have no Baretta or Nambu pistols.”

  Farrell winced as he made a note of this.

  “We have enough cheese and stale bread for two people—two pygmies, really—for two days. But no water.”

  “Mmm.”

  “We have one compass that works—we think. And one tracing of a 1919 map of Albania. And two rocks.”

  “Ah—rocks!” Farrell brightened. “But let’s take the items one by one. The tree first of all: they’d never allow us a saw or a knife. I don’t suppose you’ve seen one lying around that you could, uh, pinch? Make off with?”

  “There are at least half a dozen knives in the gun rack in the guardroom,” Mrs. Pollifax told him. “But they’re under glass and locked up. There’s always someone with me, and I doubt if they’d trade a knife.”

  “No, not likely. I could always ask to shave—”

  “I’m sure they’d want the razor blade back.”

  He nodded, but without appearing in the least discouraged, which pleased Mrs. Pollifax because she was beginning to feel very discouraged indeed. He said, “The branches we can tear off at the last minute with our hands, but we do need a cutting edge to shape the top.”

  “How do we manage all this with Colonel Nexdhet here in the cell with us?” asked Mrs. Pollifax. “I thought—I mean I picked up one of those rocks thinking we could hit him over the head at the proper time but …” She shivered. “I couldn’t, you know, could you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you can’t even walk yet.”

  Farrell smiled faintly. “No, but I haven’t been completely idle, Duchess. At night while you and our spy friend are asleep I’ve been trying to get my strength back. I stand. I do crazy exercises. Look.” He got laboriously to his feet and stood, his weight on the good leg. “I don’t get dizzy any more. I nearly fell over the first time, I was so lightheaded. I’ve been exercising my hands and arms, too. Yes, I could hit our friend over the head, at least I can if he gets close enough to me. Let’s see those rocks, by the way, and whatever’s left of your trading goods.”

  “Trading goods,” repeated Mrs. Pollifax, smiling. “You mean for friendly natives?” She brought out the diminished contents of her pocket. “One lipstick, one handkerchief …”

  He was examining both as if he had never seen either. “Always use men’s handkerchiefs?” he asked with amusement.

  “For a number of years, yes. They were my husband’s, and so much more substantial.”

  “Excellent gag,” he pointed out.

  Mrs. Pollifax brightened. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “One must,” he murmured. He had taken apart her lipstick case and was studying it. He ran a finger over the rim of the metal tube and said quickly, “Let’s see those rocks, are any of them rough?”

  Mrs. Pollifax leaned eagerly over his shoulder. “You mean we may have found a cutting edge?”

  “Only a peeling edge, I fear. I’ll see if I can chisel a sharper point with the rock. Try to bring back a few more rocks if you’re allowed a walk tomorrow. Except that without a gun …”

  Mrs. Pollifax said reasonably, “But if we escape as far as the guardroom we can steal as many guns as we want.”

  “Yes, and a knife, too, except we can’t leave the crutch until the last minute. It would take too long to make. We’re going to have to manage it somehow during the last hour we’re here, preferably after our spy has been rendered unconscious.”

  “And he’s so pleasant, I like him,” mourned Mrs. Pollifax. “You will hit him gently, won’t you?”

  “Gently, yes, but very thoroughly.”

  “When should we—that is, what hour tomorrow should we plan on?” asked Mrs. Pollifax timidly. “It will have to be a time when s
omeone unlocks the cell and comes in, Lulash with a tray or whoever’s on duty. We hit him over the head, too, I suppose?”

  “Everybody. Major Vassovic, too—somehow.”

  “I could scream or do something like that to bring him in,” suggested Mrs. Pollifax, getting into the spirit of the thing. “About six o’clock, do you think?”

  Farrell shook his head. “Dinnertime’s too early. Too light outside. We don’t know how many people are left in the other building, the big one. They might see us stumbling around on the rocks.”

  Mrs. Pollifax said anxiously, “But if we wait until later, when they bring in the candle, that might be too late. General Perdido may have returned, and I’m sure he’ll want to see us right away.”

  Farrell said firmly, “I’ll think of something. I’m better now, trust me. Just don’t worry.”

  “Not worry,” echoed Mrs. Pollifax, and at once felt a trembling begin deep down inside her and run along her nerves until she began to shiver uncontrollably. Really this was madness, she realized—absolute madness, none of it could be real, neither Albania nor Farrell nor General Perdido nor this ridiculous cell in which she had been placed as a prisoner—and tomorrow evening they were going to try to escape with two rocks and a Christmas tree turned into a crutch. It was the final touch of madness.

  The spasm passed, and Mrs. Pollifax regained her poise and was relieved to see that Farrell had not noticed her moment of weakness. He was staring at their pathetic heap of treasures and saying, “Not bad, really, not bad at all. Their letting you out for walks, and these rocks you picked up, are the two real miracles allowed us. Nobody can ask for more than two miracles, the rest is up to us.”

  “I could ask for another,” said Mrs. Pollifax tartly.

  He grinned. “Then go ahead, maybe you have more influence than I. But don’t turn gloomy on me suddenly. Thanks to that map you spotted in Lulash’s book we know fairly well where we are—”

  “We think,” added Mrs. Pollifax warningly.

  “And thanks to your ingeniousness we have weapons, a bit primitive but no less effective.”