Elusive Mrs. Pollifax Read online

  She awoke suddenly, with a rapidly beating heart. But this is growing tiresome, she thought, staring up at a man silhouetted beside her in bed. He had half turned away from her and was holding an object up to the dim light from the window. He held it with one hand and with the other hand he stroked it. Eyes wide open now, Mrs. Pollifax saw that it was a knife he held. He was touching it, with a concentration that turned her cold.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A Fawcett Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1971 by Dorothy Gilman Butters

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  FAWCETT is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Selection of the Walter J. Black, Inc. Book Club, September 1971

  ISBN 978-0-449-21523-4

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-5184-9

  This edition published by arrangement with Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  First Fawcett Edition: March 1974

  First Ballantine Books Edition: September 1985

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Other Books by This Author

  1

  A small group of friends had assembled in Mrs. Pollifax’s living room on this warm July evening. There was Miss Hartshorne from apartment 4-C across the hall; Professor Whitsun from the botany department of the university, and various loyal members of the Garden Club, led by Mrs. Otis, the president. For the last hour–without the slightest embarrassment–they had continued to check both their wristwatches and the clock on Mrs. Pollifax’s wall. It was twenty minutes before midnight.

  “Do you think now, Emily?” asked the president of the Garden Club anxiously.

  “Yes, is it time?” asked Miss Hartshorne.

  Mrs. Pollifax glanced at the professor for confirmation. He nodded. “Now or never I should say.”

  “Wonderful,” breathed Mrs. Pollifax. “Lights out then, everyone!”

  Flashlight in hand, she led the group into the kitchen. The window was open to the sultry night and the screen was already unlatched. Her flashlight played over the grillwork of the fire escape and came to rest on the box under the window. A reverent hush descended upon the group as they hung over Mrs. Pollifax’s shoulder.

  “It’s bloomed,” said Professor Whitsun in an awed voice. “I see it!”

  “It’s in bloom,” called Mrs. Otis triumphantly over her shoulder to the others. “It’s happened!”

  “Turn on the lights and bring it inside,” ordered Professor Whitsun. “Gently now. Are my cameras in place?”

  Tenderly the window box was lifted to the sill, embraced and carried into the living room, where it was placed in the center of the rug.

  “There are three!” cried Mrs. Pollifax, dropping to her knees beside a trio of delicate, spiky white flowers.

  “So that’s a night-blooming cereus,” whispered Miss Hartshorne.

  “They bloom just once a year, and then only for a few hours,” said Professor Whitsun, adjusting the tripod for his camera.

  “And Emily grew it on her fire escape,” said Mrs. Otis. “Oh, Emily, it’s such a coup for our Garden Club!”

  “Speech,” called the corresponding secretary.

  “Yes, speech, Emily!”

  “Hear! Hear!”

  Beaming with pleasure Mrs. Pollifax rose to her feet and gently cleared her throat. “The night-blooming cereus …” she began.

  At that same hour in New York City, Carstairs of the CIA and his assistant, Bishop, were sitting in a shabby Harlem hotel room under a single twenty-watt bulb suspended from the ceiling. The man they had come to see was slouched wearily on the edge of the unmade bed. His name was Shipkov, and he had just arrived from eastern Europe.

  “I want the rest of this taken down in shorthand as well as taped,” Carstairs told Bishop. To the man on the bed he added, “You’re telling us that a stranger–a complete stranger–gave you accurate directions on just where and how to cross the Bulgarian border?”

  The man nodded.

  “Tell us again, slowly. Everything.”

  Shipkov closed his eyes in concentration. “It was in Sofia. I’d gone into a shop and he was waiting outside for me. He said ‘Shipkov?’ I turned. He began to speak to me in English–that was my first shock. He said, ‘Your name is next on the List.’ ” Shipkov opened his eyes and made a face. “There is only one list in Bulgaria. It’s not a healthy one.”

  “What did you say?” asked Carstairs, watching him closely.

  Shipkov shrugged. “For how long have I lived in Sofia without a soul knowing I speak English? I was in shock. I can promise you it chilled the blood, a man calling me by name on the street and speaking to me in this language. I said nothing.”

  Carstairs nodded. “Go on.”

  “Next he told me, ‘They’re at your apartment now. If you go straight to Radzoi and cross the border at 11 P.M. tonight the border will be clear.’ All I could think to reply was, ‘Radzoi! That’s the worst place of all to cross.’ ‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘Not at eleven o’clock.’ ”

  “Did he know you work for us?”

  Shipkov laughed bleakly. “How can I even guess? The whole thing was wild.”

  “All right, go on.”

  “He said …” Shipkov closed his eyes, nodded and opened them. “ ‘If you make it across the border get us help. Some of us care, do you understand? Right now we desperately need passports, identity papers. The arrests grow insane.’ ”

  “And that’s when he gave you the piece of paper with the address and the instructions?”

  “Yes. And then he simply walked away down the street.”

  “Amazing,” said Carstairs thoughtfully. “And you’d never seen him before in your life?”

  “Never,” vowed Shipkov.

  “Describe him.”

  “An educated man, well dressed but shabby. About sixty. Definitely an intellectual. As you can see, the instructions are typed, so he had access to an English type-writer. I’d guess a professor, but how many professors know how to cross the border?”

  Carstairs said slowly, “But you would trust this man?”

  “I didn’t then, I do now,” Shipkov answered promptly. “I hurried back to my apartment, as I told you. The police had already arrived. Two men were running up the steps, one stood in my window shouting down to them. Needless to say I bolted.”

  “And you met no guards at all crossing the border at Radzoi?”

  “Not a soul,” said Shipkov. “It was like a miracle.”

  Carstairs exchanged glances with Bishop. “The kind of miracle we like to hear about,” he said quietly.

  “You want me to go back into
Bulgaria with passports?” Shipkov asked. “With a new identity I could do it.”

  Carstairs shook his head. “Much too risky. This will need a courier–a particular kind of courier.” He frowned. “Have you any idea how the police got on to you?”

  Shipkov sighed. “Too many questions about General Ignatov, I think. I confess to some carelessness there. I got carried away. But something’s definitely up.”

  Carstairs leaned forward. “You discovered more?”

  Shipkov nodded. “The general’s been courting some of the younger members of the secret police. The new ones, the hero-worshipers. I’ve seen them going into his house late at night when he’s in Sofia. Enough to make up a small cadre of loyal supporters if his ambitions grow any bigger.”

  Carstairs whistled.

  “A dangerous man,” Shipkov said, nodding. “Ruthless. A hero, too, after taking Bulgarian troops into Czechoslovakia in ’68. The Soviets, they are very impressed with him.”

  “General Ignatov,” mused Carstairs, and then with a glance at Shipkov he brought himself back to the moment. “You need rest, you look like hell,” he said, and scrawling a few words on paper he added, “Go to this address, the people there will take care of you. On Tuesday I want to see you in Washington and we’ll get the rest of this on tape.” He drew bills from his pocket and handed them to Shipkov. “Get some clothes, too–and for God’s sake be out of this place in an hour.”

  “Thanks,” Shipkov said, pocketing money and papers. “Sorry I couldn’t finish the job, Carstairs.”

  “Fortunes of war,” Carstairs said, rising. “Bishop?”

  Bishop finished locking the tape recorder. “Ready, sir.” With a nod to Shipkov they went out, descended dark, cluttered stairs and reached the street.

  2

  When they had walked several blocks in silence Bishop said, “Shall I call a cab now, sir?”

  Carstairs shook his head. “No, I don’t think we’ll be heading back to Washington yet. Get us a car and driver instead, Bishop. I believe we’ll take a little drive into New Jersey.”

  “At this hour?”

  Hands in his pockets, brows drawn, Carstairs said, “That was a wild story Shipkov brought us.”

  “It certainly was.”

  “What’s wildest of all, I buy it,” Carstairs said thoughtfully. “Which leaves us with the possibility that some kind of Underground may actually be forming in Bulgaria. And if they need a few passports–”

  “Then you need a courier,” finished Bishop.

  “Exactly.” Carstairs turned his face to Bishop and smiled; there was a twinkle in his eye. “Any suggestions?”

  Without change of expression Bishop said, “You asked me to remind you, sir, never to use her again. You said she breaks all the rules–doesn’t even know there are rules–and you age ten years while she’s on assignment. In a word, sir, she’s too much of a worry to you.”

  “Nonsense,” retorted Carstairs, “it’ll be different this time.”

  “I believe you said that before, too,” Bishop pointed out.

  Carstairs stopped and glared at him. “Damn it, if I want Mrs. Pollifax, then I’m damn well going to get Mrs. Pollifax. That is, if she can leave her karate and her geraniums,” he amended.

  “She’s not growing geraniums this season,” Bishop told him. “I believe she’s trying her hand at the night-blooming cereus.”

  “Good God,” said Carstairs, and then he glanced sharply at his assistant. “And how the hell do you know that?”

  Bishop grinned. “Oh, we keep in touch, sir. She sent a fruit cake at Christmas–it made several members of the staff quite tipsy. There was a card at Easter, and she sent a knitted muffler in May. My birthday, you know.”

  “Good lord,” said Carstairs, shaken. “Well, get a car and a driver for us and let’s go.… Night-blooming cereus!” he repeated, and shook his head.

  The car was equipped with telephones, and before they had even crossed the New Jersey marshes Carstairs was issuing orders and setting queries in motion. For a few minutes Bishop listened and watched, still fascinated after years of working with the man. He knew that by dawn they would be back in Washington–Carstairs was ordering a helicopter now to meet them at the New Brunswick airport–and the whole operation would be neatly under way and stored between file covers. And in Washington, thought Bishop, there would probably be a new crisis waiting–he closed his eyes and slept.

  “Blast,” he heard Carstairs say, and unwillingly Bishop opened his eyes.

  “These damn budget cuts, this fiendish economy drive,” sputtered Carstairs. “I’ve cleared this with Upstairs, but damned if they don’t announce that if I’m sending a courier into Bulgaria with nothing but passports then my courier can jolly well smuggle in a few other items.”

  “Like what?” asked Bishop drowsily.

  “Who knows? Something for that remaining agent we’ve got in Sofia, whatsisname, chap with the geese–”

  “Radev,” murmured Bishop. “Assen Radev.”

  “I’ll fight it. I’ll blast them. I refuse to share my couriers.”

  “Mmm,” mumbled Bishop sympathetically.

  “If you’re going to sleep, Bishop,” Carstairs told him coldly, “then for heaven’s sake sleep and get it done with. I’ll give you ten minutes and then let’s buckle down to some real work.”

  Like a drowning man–how did Carstairs manage it, he wondered–Bishop clutched his proffered ten minutes and slept.

  At two o’clock in the morning they were seated in Mrs. Pollifax’s living room in New Brunswick, New Jersey, and she was looking at them as if they had just presented her with the Holy Grail.

  “But I’d be delighted–absolutely delighted–to go to Bulgaria,” she said, beaming at them, her face radiant.

  Her appearance had immediately revived Bishop. She was wearing a voluminous robe of black and white stripes. It looked like a tent; it had probably once been a tent because there was a definitely rakish Arab look about it.

  “But what an extraordinary story your Mrs. Shipkov told!” She hesitated and looked at Carstairs reprovingly. “Should you have mentioned his name to me?”

  Bishop grinned across the coffee table at his superior. “Yes, should you have?”

  “It is not,” said Carstairs pointedly, “his real name.”

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “I’m relieved. And will I travel under an assumed name, too?”

  Carstairs shook his head. “No point in being unnecessarily devious. We’d like you to be a straightforward American tourist as usual. In fact this time you can make a public announcement to your friends and children that you’ll be off to the Dalmatian coast, with a few days in Sofia. You’ll have plenty of time to get ready because I’m scheduling you to leave in about ten days.”

  “Oh, how nice,” said Mrs. Pollifax in a pleased voice. “You can’t believe how frustrating it’s been, nobody knowing where I go. Miss Hartshorne travels religiously on tours, and this year she’s urging me to visit Turkey–”

  Carstairs broke into a laugh. “Turkey!”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding. “How can I possibly tell her I’ve seen more of it than she has! There’s Albania, too. I am probably the only person in New Brunswick to have visited Albania–even if I was in shackles,” she admitted, “but my lips are sealed.” Abruptly she asked, “But why ten days? Why not sooner?”

  “Arrangements,” said Carstairs. “They’ll have to go by the conventional route. A visa. Letters to Balkantourist outlining what you’d like to see during your five or six days in Sofia.”

  “Balkantourist?”

  “Yes, it’s the only travel agency in Bulgaria, and it’s run by the government. It is the government. They’ll arrange your itinerary, they’ll arrange everything, as well as watch over you with vast benevolence.”

  “That’s clever.”

  “Yes, and you must never forget that it’s the government watching over you. In fact Balkantourist is going to be your big
gest problem, and we’ll have to think of something to deflect their interest. Happily, this is their peak tourist season. They’ve not many English-speaking guides as yet so we’ll hope and pray they won’t be able to assign you a full-time guide. We’ll see what we can come up with. You’ll find the people themselves extremely friendly–the country’s no larger than Kansas–and warm and nonpolitical, too. But not the government, Mrs. Pollifax. Not the government.”

  “I’ll remember that,” she said, nodding.

  “Now about the passports–”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, leaning forward eagerly.

  “I’ve always had the impression that you wear hats everywhere except to bed—an illusion I prefer to cherish,” he said with a glance at her uncovered head. “I think we’ll put them in your hat.”

  “How inventive!” she said warmly.

  “A special hat,” he went on. “Custom-made, with a false crown. Two crowns, actually. I’ve already set this in motion. A chap named Osmonde will call on you to consult about the design. Will Thursday morning at ten be convenient?”

  “Perfect,” she said.

  “Good.… Bishop, have we covered the main points?”

  Bishop glanced down at the memo beside his coffee cup. “Everything but the most important. The tailor shop.”

  Carstairs nodded and brought out the piece of paper Shipkov had given him. “Here it is–the original. I suggest you make a copy now.”

  Mrs. Pollifax looked at the wrinkled piece of paper that had been given to Shipkov on the streets of Sofia. She read:

  Durov, Tailor. Number 9 Vasil Levski Street

  Brown sheepskin vest

  Measurements: 40 long, 30 across back. No buttons.

  Give name and hotel.

  Tsanko will contact you.

  At the very bottom of the sheet, almost indecipherable, she read the words, We beg help. It was strangely poignant, this message scrawled in pencil on the soiled scrap of paper, and something of its urgency reached her as she sat in her comfortable living room thousands of miles away.

  “How many passports can you send them?”

  “We’re going to manage eight if we can. That will take time, too, since they can’t all be American. They’ll probably have to be forged. Exquisitely, of course,” he added with a smile.