Mrs. Pollifax and the Golden Triangle

by Dorothy Gilman

  "Ah, but you see I knew him," Cyrus said mildly. "High school days in Connecticut. Played baseball together—on the same boxing team, too. Had a good left."

  "Who on earth are we talking about?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  "John Lloyd Matthews," explained Bishop. "U.S. diplomat in Bangkok who disappeared some years back, rather like the famous old Judge Crater disappearance."

  Because the details had been so dramatic at the time Mrs. Pollifax found herself remembering, too. "But yes," she said eagerly, "didn't he leave a cigar burning on the terrace—and a book open—and he'd just been brought coffee, and then minutes later his host came back and he was gone?"

  "That's the one," Bishop said, spreading out a street map of Chiang Mai on the table.

  "No trace ever?" inquired Cyrus.

  Bishop shook his head. "Not a single clue. I believe the final conclusion was that he'd been seized for ransom by insurgents or drug people—those were rougher days in the north—and put up a fight at some point and was killed and buried in the jungle."

  "I wondered at the time if he worked for you people," Cyrus said.

  Bishop looked amused. "You're not the first person to wonder that, it makes a great story, but I can assure you absolutely not. He was, however, instrumental in getting Thailand the very best of deals when we asked for air bases there—he really loved Thailand—and you'll find that your guidebook lists a couple of statues of him over there. Here we are..." He smoothed out the map of Chiang Mai and they leaned closer. "I've written all the details down but here's where you'll find Ruamsak, behind one of the shops near the eastern gate—see Thapae Road? You'll note the printed locations of the Night Bazaar, Wat Chang Khong, Wat Mahawan... see?"

  They nodded.

  "You'll find Thapae Road lined with shops: lacquer-ware, silk, cotton, et cetera... Between the Pekanant Silk Shop—the name's in English as well as Thai—and the Apichat Laequerware there's a narrow alley. Duck down it, and behind the lacquerware factory there's a small abandoned house—a hut really, I suppose—with what Ruamsak describes as a wooden fence spilling over with bougainvillea. Ruamsak will be expecting to deliver his package to someone on Thursday morning between eight o'clock and twelve noon."

  Cyrus grunted. "Rather conspicuous, isn't it, a pair of tourists ducking down a private alley?"

  Bishop grinned. "Tourists with cameras are forgiven anything. Just be sure you have cameras."

  "Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax, growing interested now, "but how will this person—this Ruamsak—know we're anything more than tourists with cameras?"

  "Because you'll give him this," Bishop said, bringing out a terra-cotta object from his pocket and placing it on the table.

  Mrs. Pollifax picked it up and found that it fitted neatly into the palm of her hand but with much more weight than its size implied. She held it out for Cyrus to see: an elongated oval with a primitive Buddha-image molded into its terra-cotta background.

  "Buddhist votive tablet," explained Bishop. "You'll find people carrying them in Thailand for protection."

  "It's certainly charming," said Mrs. Pollifax, "but isn't it rather heavy to carry around in a pocket?"

  Bishop grinned. "Actually what you're holding is a cube of gold bullion with a thin veneer of terra-cotta to conceal it. Just so you know what you've got there."

  "Payment?" said Cyrus.

  "Partial, yes." Closing his attaché case, he smiled at them. "So that's it, then. With the time change you'll arrive in Bangkok late Monday evening and I suggest you fly to Chiang Mai on Wednesday, which will give you a full day on Tuesday to recover from jet lag. We'll reserve two seats for you on the plane to Chiang Mai, and a room for you there at the Orchid Hotel. Where are you staying in Bangkok?

  "The Oriental Hotel."

  "Good." He nodded. "We'll see to it that your plane tickets are delivered to you there." He stood up, bestowing a warm smile on them both. "I can't tell you what a relief it will be to not worry about you this time—two of you, after all!—not to mention your agreeing to do this for us. I wish you both a wonderful and well-deserved holiday... Oh, and by the way, we'd appreciate your phoning us from Chiang Mai on Thursday once you've met with Ruamsak —Carstairs likes to tidy up loose ends and cross things off lists and all that."

  "You must remember us to him," said Mrs. Pollifax. "And how do we deliver this package to you?"

  "At the moment," said Bishop crisply, "our principal concern—of the utmost importance—is to collect the package before Ruamsak vanishes. We'll have instructions ready when you call us." He held out his hand to Cyrus and then leaned over Mrs. Pollifax and gave her a quick hug. "Thanks again, and take care of yourselves," he said.

  "I'll see you to the door," Cyrus told him, and ushered him out, leaving Mrs. Pollifax alone at the table to stare at the remnants of her egg.

  She reflected that the stripes on her back had turned into scar tissue, the nightmares had ceased, and she had been certain that the experience in Hong Kong had in no way affected her spirit.

  It hadn't, had it?

  A very small errand, she reminded herself. When a person has fallen off a horse...

  Exactly, she told herself firmly, drew a deep breath and stood up to begin clearing the breakfast dishes from the table. Nevertheless she felt shaken by her sudden attack of anxiety. On his return to the kitchen Cyrus would insist on probing her feelings about Bishop's small errand and she was determined that he not suspect her sudden uneasiness. As she carried dishes across the room and inserted them into the dishwasher she searched for a change in subject to distract him.

  When he strolled back into the kitchen she was ready for him and met him with a bright smile. "Cyrus, I had no idea you grew up with a future diplomat, even if he did get murdered. Tell me about him!"

  She watched the grave look on his face vanish; Cyrus was chuckling. "Well, he wasn't John Lloyd Matthews in those days," he said. "We called him Joker Matthews. Wasn't very diplomatic then, either, the two of us nearly came to blows any number of times over whether Charley Wexler or Bud Hastings should have won the high school boxing championship. Stubborn as a mule, Joker was."

  "But you liked him?" she said, smiling. Hearing about Cyrus's many acquaintances never bored her. She felt, however, that Joker Matthews could not possibly measure up to Slip-Fingered Frank or Deadly Eddy, both of whom Cyrus had represented in court a number of times before he became a judge.

  "Liked him very much," he said, and proceeded to tell her all about John Lloyd Matthews, a.k.a. Joker, until she discovered that in distracting Cyrus she had also distracted herself from her doubts; she was ready again for Thailand.

  Climbing into his car, Bishop placed the attaché" case on the seat beside him, started the car and drove down the driveway to enter Route Two. He did not immediately pick up the car phone to report to Carstairs but waited until he had reached a rest area. Pulling into it, he called the office and when Carstairs came on the line he said, "It's okay, they've agreed to do it."

  "Splendid! No problems?"

  "Cyrus balked a little, worried about Emily taking this on so soon after Hong Kong but Mrs. Pollifax, bless her, talked of climbing back on a horse immediately after falling off... Now what happened after you sent me dashing off in the middle of our midnight conference, anything new?"

  There was a moment of silence and then Carstairs said evenly, "What happened after you left is that Upstairs decided we have to learn who and what Ruamsak is, and—"

  "What?" shouted Bishop.

  "—and therefore, after Emily and Cyrus have made contact with him, he'll be placed under surveillance."

  "I don't believe it," gasped Bishop. "That's just what you don't want!"

  "Placed under surveillance," went on Carstairs without expression, "by a chap recommended Upstairs, the surveillant to be a young man from the Bangkok office by the name of McAndrews."

  "But he's their computer expert," Bishop said in astonishment.

  "I have been told that he's al
so trained in surveillance."

  "Do you believe it? Who on earth Upstairs came up with this brilliant idea? Who did this recommending?"

  "Mornajay."

  "Mornajay!" exploded Bishop. "By what right?"

  Carstairs said coolly, "Since Lance Mornajay is one of my superiors I suppose he has every right, and since he spent ten years in Thailand during the Vietnam War I can only hope he knows what the hell he's doing."

  Aha, gloated Bishop, Carstairs is furious under that brittle calm.

  "McAndrews is to follow Emily and Cyrus from the moment they land at the Chiang Mai airport," he continued, "and thence to the hut off Thapae Road on Thursday."

  "I never heard of anything so stupid," protested Bishop. "Does Mornajay understand the risks? Does anyone Upstairs? Don't they realize that if Ruamsak discovers he's being followed we'll never hear from him again, and we lose a damn promising informer?"

  "There's no time for sulking, Bishop," Carstairs told him. 'if you'll tell me just when Emily and Cyrus arrive in Chiang Mai I’ll cable time of arrival to this—this McAndrews."

  Bishop caught the distaste in Carstairs's voice and was glad for it. Digging into his attaché case, he brought out his notes and repeated the plane's schedule; his lack of sleep was beginning to affect him, and between this and news of Mornajay's interference he felt distinctly irritable.

  "All right," Carstairs said, and repeated the hour. "Still parked by the side of the road, Bishop?"

  "Of course. Drinking in every pristine word," he said crossly, "and not liking any of it."

  "Then I suggest you get moving immediately because all hell's breaking loose again in the Sudan and you're needed. You can sleep on the plane."

  "Sleep?" repeated Bishop, starting the car again. "A word vaguely familiar to me, yes, but perhaps as I drive along you could describe it to me, with added descriptions on how it knits the ravel'd sleeve of care and all that?"

  But Carstairs had severed the connection. Bishop grinned and settled for the car radio instead and a very loud Jimmie Cliff rendition of "You Can Get It If You Want."

  Following that he swore passionately at Mornajay, whom he did not like. Probably nobody did, he thought, but still it was unlike anyone Upstairs to interfere and he shared all of Carstairs's resentment.

  CHAPTER 2

  TWO DAYS LATER BY THE CALENDAR, BUT only Tuesday in her new time zone, Mrs. Pollifax sat over coffee on the terrace of the Oriental Hotel and gazed with delight at her new surroundings, drawing nourishment from the sight of bougainvillea, jasmine and palm trees, and savoring the warmth of a January day at this opposite corner of the globe. They had arrived late the evening before, and it was noon in Bangkok now, although heaven only knew what time it was at home, probably the middle of the night, she reflected, since she had left Cyrus soundly asleep in their hotel room. She did not feel sleepy at all, or alone either, for the tables slightly below her were filling with people of assorted nationalities; she had already caught snatches of conversation in French, there was a large party of Japanese in one corner and the couple seated behind her were speaking in the clipped accents of the British.

  Like a toy paper flower dropped into a glass of water, Mrs. Pollifax felt herself expanding and flowering.

  Beyond the terrace the life on the river was equally as interesting to her. Long green ribbons of hyacinth flowed with the current past the terrace and at the moment three barges were passing, each of them with a tiny house perched on its stern. As the barges moved out of view a fantailed sightseeing boat with awnings put-putted into midstream, merrily tooting its horn, and before that had disappeared another barge slid into view towing a long line of teak logs on which several men squatted, their colored shirts vivid against the dark wood.

  So this is Thailand, she thought dreamily, and then amended this, remembering that most of the country was rural: this was therefore Bangkok, which they would presently go out and explore once Cyrus was awake. In the meantime she had already walked out to see the spirit-house that stood at the corner of the hotel to placate any disgruntled spirits, and she had purchased a huge square of Thai silk at a shop across the street. She wore it tied around her head now, although presently it would have to be exchanged for the handwoven straw hat with a wide brim that she had brought with her, because it was growing steadily warmer and more humid. Even as she thought this a pair of waiters began unfurling striped umbrellas to shade each table from the sun.

  At the same moment, as if given his cue—and at such a time Mrs. Pollifax felt the world truly was a stage—a young man in baggy trousers and white shirt walked out of the door holding up a large blackboard and ringing a bell as he moved among the tables. On the blackboard in white chalk was printed the name Mrs. Reed-Pollifax: she was being paged. Waving a hand, she collected her message, paid her bill and left.

  Cyrus was waiting for her in the lobby, looking huge among the less bulky Thai and Japanese around him; he was holding an envelope and looking triumphant. "Plane tickets for Chiang Mai, Emily. Just delivered."

  "And you're awake!"

  "Awake and ready to see Bangkok."

  "Not hungry?"

  He smiled drowsily at her. "Cheated ... called room service and had a luxurious breakfast in the bathtub. Very therapeutic."

  "Exactly how holidays should be," she told him, beaming.

  "Golden Buddha first?" he suggested as they strolled toward the exit past palm trees set into huge porcelain tubs.

  The glass doors were swung open magically for them by a boy in oriental costume. "Cyrus," she breathed, "I do believe he does nothing but open doors all day. Cyrus, could we take a tuk-tuk as they call them, one of those motor scooters with a carriage built into it?"

  "Later." Cyrus took her arm and said firmly, "I think after seeing all the traffic last night—and they drive like bats out of hell here—we take a taxi. Don't mean to deprive you, m'dear, but I've a horror of being squashed between two buses. The Wat Trimitr—Golden Buddha," he told the cab driver, and they set off to see their first temple.

  There was nothing so enlivening, thought Mrs. Pollifax, than to be plunged into a new culture and to grope for a key to its workings. She was to feel later that their visit to the Wat Trimitr summed up many of the contradictions of Bangkok and of Thailand because much to her astonishment the Golden Buddha—made of five and a half tons of pure gold—stood in a temple on the edge of Chinatown near the railway station, on a shabby and congested street that in New York might even be called a slum. Yet there sat the Buddha, huge and massive, its five and a half tons of gleaming gold smiling tranquilly down at those who casually wandered in to bow three times, kneel, leave offerings of paper flowers, ribbons, incense, or to take photographs.

  "And not a guard in sight," she whispered to Cyrus.

  "But accessible," pointed out Cyrus. "Available to everyone."

  She admitted that she liked that, as well as the story behind it: that when it was found it had been a huge stucco Buddha, accepted as such until in being moved by a crane it was accidentally dropped, chipping off a corner of the stucco to reveal the glitter of gold underneath. And now it was here, just off a crowded courtyard in a busy temple, and of such value that it boggled the mind.

  "But I'd still worry about it," she said, adding earnestly, "I don't mean anyone in Thailand would consider making off with it because it's a sacred relic, but when you think of how art treasures are being stolen everywhere—"

  "A bit unwieldy," pointed out Cyrus. "Need a derrick. Then what?"

  "I don't know," she said, troubled, "but I'd worry. I don't think they realize—"

  He smiled at her. "Already thinking how?"

  "Of course not," she told him, but she had the grace to blush. "Well," she admitted, "there's perhaps a small amount of the criminal in all of us."

  Cyrus's eyes were twinkling. "Speak for yourself, m'dear, but softly, or we'll be hauled off for questioning."

  And there it was, she thought ruefully, her imagination was
so lamentably undisciplined. There had always been an unconventional Emily under the various Mrs. Pollifaxes who had raised two children, grown geraniums, chaired Garden Clubs and poured tea but this odd bent had never been acknowledged, and when it occasionally surfaced it had been considered an aberration, at least until she had begun to work for Carstairs and the Department, where she had discovered that odd bents fitted being a spy very well.

  Perhaps, she thought doubtfully, such a perverse way of looking at things was a prerequisite for any agent but she wondered if sometimes it was a little hard on Cyrus. He was very tolerant but, after all, he had been a judge for years, passing sentence on the criminals of the world, and then—absurdly—he had married a woman who held a brown belt in karate and occasionally entered a netherworld where the same laws that Cyrus represented had to be twisted, if not broken. It must strike him as ironic, she thought, but then Cyrus enjoyed irony. Nevertheless she wondered for a brief moment whether her risky assignments for Carstairs might have brought a mutation in her thinking.

  After pondering this she decided that she still had scruples and, virtuously, that being aware of how the criminal mind worked was just as important as making blancmange and growing geraniums in her more conventional life. With this decided, for Mrs. Pollifax was conscientious by nature, she dismissed her philosophical doubts and was happy to move on with Cyrus to the Grand Palace.

  Here they wandered through an enchanted fairyland of color and glitter, a virtual forest of chedis with their pointed spires of gilt, mosaic or gold. Pausing under the sweeping curves of slant-roofed temples, they gazed down vista after vista of gilt, blue tile, brilliant frescoes, trees, flowers, often interrupted by the tall thin stems of gilt parasols that looked like huge and glorious gold goblets. They came at last to the Temple of the Emerald Buddha where Mrs. Pollifax found herself disappointed because she had expected the Emerald Buddha to be at least the size of the five-and-a-half-ton Golden Buddha but instead it was quite small, it could be measured in inches and was almost obscured by the smoke from joss sticks.