Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax (13 page)

He stopped and Peattie said wryly, “Don’t torture yourself, my friend—don’t.”

“I try not to,” Carstairs said with a bitter smile. “Let us say very simply that I must now think of plausible telegrams to
send to the woman’s relatives explaining why she is not en route home from Mexico at this moment, and that eventually—once her death is substantiated—I must arrange some plausible death for her in Mexico.”

“Stevens is working on that now,” put in Bishop. “A boating accident has been suggested, with no body recovered. Either a chartered boat off Acapulco or a freak drowning at Xochimilco. Mexico is being very helpful.”

“How nice,” said Carstairs sourly. “Then her son and daughter will hold a memorial service for her and have her name cut on a stone in the family plot and say ‘What a way for Mother to go’ and they will never guess how their mother did die, or for what purpose, or know that half a dozen people in Washington, D.C., and Mexico City worked over the details, making their mother’s death palatable and acceptable to them.”

“I get the point, you needn’t labor it,” said Peattie gently. “But you must know by now that inevitably there’s one person for whom one feels unusually responsible.”

Carstairs nodded, a faint smile on his lips. “I ought to know that by now, Peattie. Rum job, what?”

“Rum job,” agreed Peattie, and stood up. “I’ve got the picture now. I can promise you information, positive or negative, within the next week. I wish it could be sooner but China still moves pretty much by oxcart in spite of Mao’s boasts to the contrary.”

“Thanks—we’ll take anything we can get.”

When he had gone Carstairs lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and gave Bishop a weary smile. “I don’t know whether you saw the message that came in late last evening or not. Tirpak is dead. A knife in the back in Guatemala about a week ago, the identification just made.”

Bishop sighed. “What you’d call a clean sweep then. No, I haven’t had time to catch up on last night’s communiques.”

“They make lively reading—there’s even more,” added Carstairs wryly. “Our photographic-supply friend in Costa Rica processed all the information that Tirpak brought him, and duly burned the papers. It took three days to get all of Tirpak’s documents on film. There were six microfilms, but here’s the sad news: Tirpak gave no indication of how these films were going to be conveyed to Mexico City, or in what form. Whatever he did next with them was done secretly. According to our friend in Costa Rica Tirpak picked up each microfilm with
a pair of tweezers, dropped them one by one into a plain white envelope, and left.”

“Ouch,” said Bishop.

Carstairs nodded. “Three days later he was murdered, but he must have started moving them toward Mexico City before then. What he did with them is anybody’s guess but I would assume he planned to insert them into something printed—say a letter or a book.”

“You do think the microfilms reached Mexico City then.”

Carstairs nodded. “Tirpak would have seen to that even at the cost of his life. He was that kind of man. What he couldn’t have realized was just how closely he was being followed and watched—and just how closely those microfilms were being watched. Yes, I believe they reached Mexico City. They reached the Parrot Bookstore and DeGamez was killed because of them.”

“So General Perdido has the microfilms then.”

Carstairs frowned. “They’re lost to us in any case, Bishop, but I’m not so sure that General Perdido has them, either. Take a close look at this timetable of events I’ve written out—see if it suggests anything to you.”

Bishop took the memo and read:

Bishop was thoughtful. “I see what you mean. Why go to the bother of keeping the bookstore open after DeGamez’ demise, and why search Mrs. Pollifax’s room, if they’d gotten what they wanted.”

Carstairs nodded. “Exactly. It implies a certain lack of success. If General Perdido had gotten the microfilms from DeGamez before DeGamez was killed, then I don’t really see what purpose was served by his turning into a bookstore clerk to set a trap for Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell. And that’s another
thing: their including Farrell bothers me very much. Farrell’s only link with the Chinese Reds was the friendship with Miss Willow Lee that he was busy cultivating at our orders. He had no knowledge of either Tirpak or Mrs. Pollifax, and as to the microfilms, he didn’t even know of their existence.”

Bishop nodded. “Snatching him
does
imply desperation on the part of General Perdido.”

“Yes. And that’s why I’m reasonably sure that he chose to keep Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax alive—at least for a day or two. And that, my dear Bishop, is why I am not sleeping well these nights, because General Perdido’s methods of extracting information are neither polite nor pretty.”

“But Mrs. Pollifax had no information to extract,” pointed out Bishop.

Carstairs gave him a hard look. “Let’s not be naïve, Bishop. Do you think Perdido would believe that?”

There was a long silence during which Bishop tried to think of something tactful to say. Finally, with a forced brightness, he concluded, “Well if Perdido doesn’t have the microfilms, that’s something, isn’t it?”

Carstairs gave a short laugh. “Oh yes—yes, indeed. It means they’re lost to everyone, floating in space, so to speak, and of no use to anyone. If they were appended to a book sold in DeGamez’ shop then someone at this very moment may be reading that book, never realizing that it’s the repository of secrets costing eight months work and the lives of innumerable people who would otherwise be alive today. And that is what I call waste. Where is the telegram sent to Mrs. Pollifax’s next of kin?”

Bishop drew copies from his file. “Here they are, sir. They went off late yesterday from Mexico City; this one to Mr. Roger Pollifax in Chicago, this one to Mrs. Conrad Kempf in Arizona.”

Carstairs read them with irony:

HAVING WONDERFUL TIME STOP POSTPONING RETURN A WEEK OR MORE STOP MEXICO CHARMING STOP LOVE TO ALL MOTHER

General Perdido returned to the cell the next afternoon, but Mrs. Pollifax had been forewarned by the sound of his voice in the hall. The general, entering, found Mrs. Pollifax playing a quiet game of solitaire and Farrell tossing feverishly on his cot.

“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Pollifax coldly.

“Where?” shouted Farrell, thrashing feebly. “Take the green ones away, for God’s sake!”

Both the general and Mrs. Pollifax turned to look at Farrell, one with exasperation, the other with admiration. To the general Mrs. Pollifax said bitingly, “I have set his leg but he still has a bullet in his arm and I am
not
Dr. Schweitzer. The wound is infected.”

General Perdido crossed the cell to Farrell and looked down at him. “Senor Farrell,” he said harshly.

Farrell opened his eyes and stared into the face above him.

“Carmelita?” he said tenderly, and then, hopefully, “My darling?”

General Perdido drew back his arm and sent his fist crashing against Farrell’s cheekbone. There was a sickening sound of bone meeting bone. Mrs. Pollifax turned away and thought, “I really can’t bear this.”

There was, for the next few minutes, a great deal more to
bear. The general was a thorough man, a determined and an intelligent man, and he intended to leave no stone unturned in his search to learn whether Farrell was shamming or if his mind could still be reached. Mrs. Pollifax moved to the attenuated window and forced herself to look beyond it to the narrow rectangle of stones glittering in the sun, and the thin slice of bleached white sky. “I won’t listen,” she thought. “I will detach myself forever from this room and this moment.” It was an exercise in deception that she had practiced before but never so desperately as now. But when at last the general desisted she was more calm than he—the general’s face was distorted with fury. Pausing with his hand on the cell door he said stiffly, “I will be going away until I am informed that Mr. Farrell is well enough to be questioned. You may tell him so. You may also tell him that I will look forward to his speedy recovery.” He opened the door and turned back dramatically. “As for you, Mrs. Pollifax, you have inconvenienced me so greatly that I resent your very existence.” The door slammed behind him and she heard the bolt drawn outside. Only then did she dare look at Farrell. “I think General Perdido has been seeing too many B movies,” she said lightly, and wanted to cry at the sight of Farrell’s battered face.

Farrell said evenly, his words slurred by two very puffy lips, “Let’s give him to Hollywood then with our compliments.” He sat up. “Did he break my nose, damn him?”

Mrs. Pollifax sat down beside him and for the next few minutes they took inventory. The list was encouraging: it consisted of bruises, two loosened teeth—both molars—and a split upper lip; but there appeared to be no bones broken and Mrs. Pollifax felt it was reasonable to hope there was no concussion of the cheekbone. She said gently, “You managed very well. Have you had to endure this sort of thing before?”

He glanced away. “Once, during the war. That was when I knew Carstairs.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “There are limitations, you know, especially after the first time. The second time the mind knows what to expect. It anticipates. Actually the mind can become a worse enemy than the person inflicting the pain. But this was brief—mercifully.”

Mrs. Pollifax considered his words and nodded. “Yes, I see how that can be.” She felt his forehead and sighed. “You still have a fever, you know. About a hundred and one, I’d guess.”

“But not the raving kind,” he said, and winced as he tried to smile.

“No, not the raving kind—you put on a very good act.” She brought from her purse the package of cigarettes he had given her and held out the last one to him. “Could you manage this with your torn lip?”

“Pure nectar,” he said longingly. He took it and began stabbing his mouth with it to find a comfortable corner for it. She lighted it for him and he inhaled deeply. “Duchess,” he said gratefully, “I’ve known an incredible number of young, beautiful and nubile women—more than any one man deserves—but I would have to nominate you as the Woman I Would Most Like to Be Captured with in Albania. You are a true blessing to me in my old age—and I feel I’m aging pretty damn fast in this place.”

“Ah, you are feeling better, I’m delighted,” said Mrs. Pollifax with a twinkle. She returned to her own cot, carrying her small table with her, and laid out her playing cards for a game of Clock Solitaire. “How did you fall into this preposterous sort of life?” she asked, thinking he might like to talk now. “This preposterous life with beautiful nubile women and General Perdidos in it. You’re American, aren’t you?”

“As American as San Francisco,” he said, sending streams of blue smoke toward the ceiling from his horizontal position. “My mother was Spanish—I learned to speak Spanish before I knew English. And I got the wandering bug from them. They were both vaudeville people—dancers.”

“How very nice,” said Mrs. Pollifax, charmed by the thought. “I always did enjoy the flamenco. Did you live out of a suitcase?”

“Mmm, just about.”

“Do you dance?”

“Only a waltz,” he said cheerfully. “In me the talent came out in art. I was in the war very early, and when I got out I headed for Mexico to paint. It may surprise you to hear that I really do paint—off and on. By the time Carstairs found me I had already acquired just the reputation he wanted: half playboy, half adventurer, half artist.”

“You have too many halves there,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax primly.

“You don’t feel that exaggeration adds flavor?” he inquired.

Mrs. Pollifax struggled and lost. “Actually, I have been guilty of a small amount of exaggeration myself at times.”

He chuckled. “I’ll bet you have, Duchess, I’ll bet you have. But lived a very quiet and respectable life in spite of it?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Very quiet and very respectable. My husband was a lawyer, a very fine one. My son is a lawyer, too,” she added, and thinking back added with nostalgia, “Yes, it was a very pleasant and peaceful life.”

Farrell turned his head to look at her through the gloom. He said tactfully, “Think I’ll have a little nap now, Duchess.” Carefully adjusting his position to his wounded arm he left Mrs. Pollifax to her thoughts and pretended to fall asleep.

It was at mealtime that the new prisoner arrived. He was pushed in ahead of the trays and kicked ungenerously by Major Vassovic and apparently sworn at in the language of the country. A third cot was then brought in and placed along the third wall. Mrs. Pollifax was too busy feeding Farrell with a spoon to pay much attention, but while she ate her own meal—reluctantly putting away her playing cards to make room for it—she eyed the man curiously. He lay on his side, with his face resting on his two hands, but all that she could really see of him was a bristling, white, walrus moustache jutting up, and the top of a bald pink head fringed with white about the ears. It was a very elegant, splendidly Victorian moustache—she hadn’t seen one like it since she was a child. She realized that Farrell, propped against the opposite wall, was also studying the man. He said suddenly, “My name’s Farrell, what is yours, sir?”