“Faster,” Farrell was saying sharply. “For God’s sake faster, we’re almost there and so are they.”
The fisherman wore a red jersey and a pair of tattered trousers. He seemed completely oblivious to the race being run nearby. In a leisurely fashion he reached from his boat to the dock, picked up a bucket and stowed it away, walked forward to untie the mooring lines, returned aft and pulled in the stern lines. Grasping the tiller he gave it a thrust, the sails filled with wind and the boat swung free of the wharf. The Genie had been aiming for the wharf; now he swerved to follow the sailboat out to sea, and both he and Mrs. Pollifax began shouting to the man at the helm. “Wait—wait for us,” cried Mrs. Pollifax, and the startled fisherman turned to look at them. They were very close to him now, and the motorboat was even closer behind them. “Wait,” shouted Mrs. Pollifax, waving violently. The fisherman scowled. Undecided, watchful, he gave the tiller a jerk and brought his boat about into the wind, sails luffing, bow pointed directly at them as he regarded them with suspicious curiosity. The Genie viciously thrust one oar back through the water and the londra shot across the bow of the fishing boat. Dropping both oars the Genie leaped over Mrs. Pollifax and jumped aboard the sailboat.
“Zott,” gasped the fisherman. He stood up and roared his indignation but the Genie ignored him and leaned over the water to pull the londra against the sailboat.
To Farrell the Genie shouted, “For heaven’s sake aim your gun at this man! And climb aboard before he kills me with his bare hands!” His voice mingled with shouts from the policemen behind them. Their launch was heading straight for the sailboat to ram it, but the Genie had now pulled the londra between the two boats as a buffer. “Hurry,” he told Mrs. Pollifax, and she stumbled toward Farrell to help him drag his useless leg over the side.
The fisherman had stopped bawling his indignation. He stood watching them with opened mouth, his stare moving ponderously from the gun in Farrell’s hand to Mrs. Pollifax. He glowered briefly at the Genie and then his eyes came to rest on the men in the launch and narrowed as he recognized their uniforms. Startled, confused, he glanced back at Farrell climbing aboard, looked again at the policemen and then decided that he was caught in an insoluble situation, and very sensibly chose a prudent course. He jumped overboard and began swimming toward the wharf.
“No, no, come back,” implored Mrs. Pollifax, seeing him slip through their fingers.
The tiller that he had deserted moved idly to one side and hung there a moment, then abruptly, savagely, the sails filled with a wind that sent the boom crashing, lifted one side of the boat and sent buckets skidding across the deck.
“Grab the tiller!” screamed Farrell from the bow.
“What’s a tiller?” screamed back Mrs. Pollifax hysterically.
“That thing—for God’s sake hold it steady!”
Mrs. Pollifax retrieved the long arm of smooth wood that jutted from the deck and clung to it, the boom nearly decapitating the Genie before it settled, the sails flapping erratically, the boat threatening to turn over on its side before it steadied. What saved them was the londra, which the Genie held captive with both hands, and which the two policemen also held captive, having attached themselves to the other side of it like barnacles. Only a second earlier the bald man had started to climb across it to reach the sailboat—he was caught with one foot in the londra and one still in the police boat; jerking upright he waved both arms wildly in a fight for balance, lost the fight and fell ignobly to the floor of the londra.
At once the thin man behind the wheel of the launch pulled out a revolver and fired across the boat at the Genie. Farrell returned the fire and the policeman slumped over the wheel. Mrs. Pollifax screamed, not because Farrell had shot the thin man but because the bald one in the bottom of the londra had climbed to his knees and was aiming a gun at Farrell. “Shoot,” she screamed at Farrell, pointing, and Farrell and the bald policeman exchanged shots simultaneously.
But the Genie’s clutch on the londra had weakened during the melee and it was the londra that had acted as a sea anchor. With nothing to hold them now the rigging tightened, the sails went taut and the wind carried them zooming off across the water with an abruptness that sent Farrell sprawling across the Genie on the deck. Mrs. Pollifax, holding tightly to the tiller, screamed for help.
“Let the tiller go! Drop it!” shouted Farrell, thereby totally confusing Mrs. Pollifax because earlier he had insisted that she grab it. She was further mystified when she let it go and the boat came about into the wind and ceased its reckless caroming. She said with interest, “Why does it …” and then stopped because Farrell had lifted himself from the Genie and was staring at him in horror. “Oh no,” she whispered, and both hands flew to her mouth to keep her lips from trembling. She understood now why the Genie had stopped holding the londra. Creeping over the coils of line she knelt beside him. “Is he dead?”
Farrell very gently placed the Genie’s head in his lap. “Not dead but very very badly hurt.”
“Oh God, you’re hurt too,” she told him, seeing blood well out of Farrell’s sleeve at the shoulder.
He nodded. “Not badly but I can’t risk moving and I don’t think it would be very healthy for the Genie, either. Duchess, you’re going to have to sail this boat.”
“I?” gasped Mrs. Pollifax in a shocked voice. “Me?”
“I can tell you what to do,” he pointed out. “Duchess, you’ve got to, you can’t fall apart now, you realize how far we’ve come, don’t you?”
She thought back to the night on the precipice, to the goats and the wild chase in the Rolls Royce and the guard shot in the cornfield, to the day spent in being periodically submerged by motorboat waves, and the night floating across Scutari on a log. She nodded wearily. There came a time when a person wanted desperately to give up; she supposed it was as good a time as any to rally; surely there must be a few ounces of overlooked iron in her soul. “I’ll try,” she said, and wiped a tear from what must be a very raddled cheek by now. “I can’t help crying,” she told Farrell. “I’m tired.”
“Can’t imagine why,” he said dryly. As she crawled drearily back toward the tiller he added casually, “Have any idea whether I winged that bald chap in the londra?”
Mrs. Pollifax looked back. “The boats are still there, bobbing around at some distance from each other. No head showing in the londra. You must have hit him a little.”
Farrell nodded. “There may not be much time before they’re discovered, and two boats, each with a wounded or dead policeman in them, will set off a merry chase. Duchess, before you take the tiller, do three things.”
“Yes?”
“Look for fresh water. Hand me that tarp over there so I can make a tent to keep the sun off the Genie. See if the fisherman packed a lunch.”
“Lunch?” said Mrs. Pollifax, brightening. “You mean food?”
“Naturally I mean food—the stuff we haven’t had since heaven knows when.”
Mrs. Pollifax, foraging around, was staggered by her success. She could not remember any triumph in her life that could possibly equal what she felt as she carried to Farrell the goatskin bag containing the fisherman’s noon meal. She brought from it a slab of cornbread, six olives and a square of cheese. From a smaller goatskin bag she poured a cup of goat’s milk. When she crept back to the tiller it was with her mouth full of flaky, exquisitely flavored cornbread and her heart filled with a faint hope that if the gods were smiling on them now their smiles might linger just a little longer.
“Okay, Duchess, full speed ahead.”
“But speed is what I’m afraid of,” admitted Mrs. Pollifax ruefully.
He paid this no attention. “Wind from the north. We can’t risk heading north to Yugoslavia, we might run into more police launches. We’ll have to head straight out to sea.”
Mrs. Pollifax gaped at him. “Out to sea!”
Farrell grinned weakly. “We’ve been doing everything else the hard way, Duchess, why stop now? Give me
that compass and turn the tiller to starboard—the right, I mean. And brace yourself first,” he added.
Mrs. Pollifax tossed him the compass and turned the tiller to the right. At once the boat came to life; the wind seized them like a gigantic hand, the sail tightened, the rigging creaked and Mrs. Pollifax was overwhelmed by a feeling of total helplessness as wind, sail and boat combined to send them skimming the waves. “But how do you stop this thing!” she wailed. She had the feeling of being on a roller coaster, idle one moment, the next moment hurtling at breath-taking speed.
“Easy does it,” Farrell shouted to her over the wind. “Keep the tiller in the center. You’re broad-reaching now, the wind on your starboard side.”
“Like this?”
“Excellent.”
“Yes—oh yes,” gasped Mrs. Pollifax. She had just felt the boat steady itself in response to a subtle turn of the tiller, had felt the boat under her become disciplined, the sails taut but not under strain, and she was delighted.
“Keep it that way,” Farrell told her. “If you hit a squall and get scared let the tiller go, the boat’ll come about by itself. If the wind increases but you’re not scared then move the tiller slightly left or slightly right—you’ll be tacking then. The important thing for now, though, is to get the hell out of sight of land as fast as possible.” With his one useful arm he was pulling the tarp over his head and shrugging it into position so that it would shade the Genie.
Mrs. Pollifax, tiller in hand, dedicated herself to getting them the hell out of sight of Albania as fast as possible.
Toward five o’clock that afternoon the Persephone, a seagoing tug returning to its home port of Otranto from Port of Venice, was making its way southward when the first mate sighted a sailboat with someone waving what looked to be a white petticoat. “Another damned tourist,” he growled, mentally and savagely condemning those pleasure-loving hordes that descended upon the Adriatic believing anybody could sail a boat. He reported it to the captain, who ordered their course slowed, and presently the small boat drew alongside the Persephone.
The first mate looked down into the boat and gasped. “Mon dieu,” he whispered, for seated at the tiller was one of the wildest-looking women he had ever seen, white hair in shreds, face filthy and blistering from the hot sun. Yards of voluminous skirt surrounded her, but although he recognized the clothes as Greek or Albanian the woman’s features did not match them. Then he saw the tarpaulin lift and his eyes widened, his memory flashing back to the war years and to lifeboats found in the Mediterranean. Both men looked as if they’d had it but the bearded one at least was in motion; he was grinning broadly and waving an arm, although it was plain from the blood-stained cloth strapped around his other arm that he badly needed a doctor. The first mate gave a brief thought to the type of gunfighters they might be escaping, and hurried to report to the captain.
Mrs. Pollifax, gazing up at the ship from below, wondered why on earth the sailors along the rail were staring at her with horrified fascination. She had naïvely pictured them being welcomed back to civilization with delighted smiles and shouts of joy. Now it occurred to her that in the eyes of civilization she and Farrell and the Genie might just as well be returning from a trip to the moon: their experiences of the past fortnight were too exotic, too melodramatic for a prosaic world to digest. It was the three of them who must adapt now; it was they whom violence had made foreign, and for the first time she conceded how tattered and bizarre they must appear to these well-scrubbed sailors just finished with their tea.
“We’re curiosities,” she realized.
Then the spell broke; a sailor shouted, “Inglese! Welcome!” Cheering broke out along the deck rail, and Mrs. Pollifax had to look away to conceal the tears in her eyes.
“Well, Duchess,” said Farrell, smiling at her.
“Well, Farrell,” she said, smiling back at him, and lifted a petticoat to wipe her eyes.
“You look like hell, Duchess,” he said fondly, “but you’re safe.”
“Safe,” repeated Mrs. Pollifax, tasting the word on her tongue as if it was a rare wine.
A rope ladder was flung over the side and an officer with a medical kit descended hand over hand to their boat. He went at once to the Genie and bent over him. Two sailors followed down the ladder and in broken English instructed Mrs. Pollifax in the rudiments of rope climbing. With their help she began the ascent, a dozen men shouting words of encouragement from the rail. She would have preferred waiting for Farrell but an officer in a starched, white uniform insisted upon escorting her at once to the captain.
“I must request identification,” said the captain, and then, unbending a little at sight of her face he added, “There must be people you would like to notify?”
Mrs. Pollifax thought of her son and daughter and reluctantly put them aside. “If you would be so kind as to contact Mr. Carstairs at the Central Intelligence Agency in Washington,” she said.
The captain’s eyes flickered. “It’s that way, is it?” He looked at her with open curiosity. “Suppose you write the message. I ask only that it not be in code and that I see it before it is sent.”
Mrs. Pollifax sat down gratefully at his desk and tried to pull her thoughts together. After chewing on her pencil for a moment she wrote the following:
SIR: RESCUED FROM ADRIATIC SEA THIS AFTERNOON BY …
She looked up. “What ship is this, and where are you going?”
“The Persephone, due to land at Otranto in two hours, or at 1900 hours.”
Mrs. Pollifax began again:
SIR: RESCUED FORM ADRIATIC SEA THIS AFTERNOON BY S.S. PERSEPHONE ARRIVING OTRANTO AT 1900 HOURS, FARRELL AND SECOND COMPANION IN NEED OF MEDICAL ATTENTION, HAVE NO PASSPORT OR MONEY AND MUST REQUEST SOME HELP OTHERWISE IT HAS BEEN A MOST INTERESTING TRIP, SINCERELY YOURS, EMILY POLLIFAX.
The captain read it through and nodded. “It will be sent immediately,” he said. “I will also send word to Otranto that a doctor will be urgently needed. We do not have one aboard, unfortunately.” He looked at her and smiled faintly. “And you,” he added, “you would perhaps like to wash a little and comb the hair?”
Mrs. Pollifax’s eyes widened. “Wash a little,” she repeated. “Wash a little? Yes, that would be very nice,” she said politely, and suddenly began to laugh.
The boat had not yet docked when a harbor launch drew up beside the Persephone and requested permission for two passengers to come aboard. Both men wore business suits; one carried an attaché case up the rope ladder and the other a medical bag. They were escorted at once to the cabin where Mrs. Pollifax, Farrell and the Genie were resting, and without a word the doctor hurried to the berth where the Genie lay. The second man stood and looked appraisingly at Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax. Completing his scrutiny he said, “Ben Halstead’s my name. I believe we have a mutual friend named Carstairs.”
Mrs. Pollifax brightened. “Yes indeed,” she said, rising from her chair. “I am Emily Pollifax and this is Mr. Farrell, who has a broken leg and a fresh bullet wound in his shoulder and an old one in his arm; and this man …” She glanced toward the Genie, whose eyes were open now but vacant as he gazed at the doctor. “We don’t know who he is but we brought him along anyway. He’s a very peculiar but resourceful Chinese man who speaks English, except that he preferred keeping it a secret for quite a long time.”
“Oh? That’s interesting.” Halstead moved to the berth and over the doctor’s shoulder looked down at the Genie. “He dropped no clues at all, you don’t know anything at all about him?”
“Actually I didn’t trust him at first,” put in Farrell. “Nor did he trust us, which is provocative. But he’s not a Red, and he rescued us from a very sticky situation.”
Mrs. Pollifax said slowly, “Yes, and when I asked him yesterday about next of kin, in case anything happened, he gave a little chuckle and said nobody would miss him, they would have held his funeral two years ago. He’d been dead a long time, he said.”
Halstead frowned.
“There’s something damn familiar about the look of him. What’s his condition, Bill, can he be questioned?”
The doctor removed the stethoscope from his ears. “Not for a day or two, sorry. He needs immediate attention and the best of care, but he can be moved. Stretchers, an ambulance, then blood transfusions and straight to the operating room.”
“Will he survive?” asked Mrs. Pollifax anxiously.
“The vital thing is removing the bullet and that’ll be a bit tricky. After that I could answer with more certainty. Some signs of malnutrition, of course; considerable patchwork needed after removal of the bullet, but the odds are in his favor. Barring anything unforeseen—yes, he’ll survive.”
“I’m so glad,” Mrs. Pollifax said warmly.
The doctor, standing erect, only nodded. “From the sound of it we’re docking now.” He pulled the blanket from the top berth and tucked it around the Genie. “The ambulance is waiting at the pier, I’ll send them word to hurry along with a stretcher and then I’ll take a look at you, Mr.—Farrell, is it?”
Farrell said cheerfully, “That’s me, but no need to hurry. I simply wouldn’t feel comfortable without a bullet in me somewhere.” He was watching Halstead, who kept staring at the Genie. “You recognize him, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.
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