Palm for Mrs. Pollifax Page 11

  “I won’t be hurt.”

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled. “I wonder if you can be sure of that. Of course you know very little about Robin but I wonder if you can be absolutely certain he’s just like Eric. When you find out more about him there may be a few—well, surprises,” she said, honestly enough. “For that matter you may not fall in love with him at all. Whatever makes you sure the future will be exactly like the past?”

  “I don’t know.” Court shivered. “I don’t know. But he—well, you see, he kissed me last evening in the library, while the film was being shown—”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding.

  “And—” She lifted her chin angrily. “And I thought—all right, I’ll say it—I thought how wonderful it would be to marry and—and even have children. Which I can assure you was the furthest thing from my mind when I came here.”

  “Of course if you run away,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax, “you can’t possibly have a baby.”

  “No,” said Court miserably.

  Mrs. Pollifax patted her affectionately on the arm. “What you need, I think, is a little bit of Zen.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Zen—tremendously refreshing. There’s a great deal to be said for letting life just happen.”

  “Without control?”

  “That’s it, you see—without control.”

  “But—but that’s frightening!” cried Court.

  Mrs. Pollifax laughed. “On the contrary, it’s much less painful than fighting every step of the way, and so much more delightful than trying to arrange life like a table setting, which one can never do, anyway. Really it’s quite exciting to see what will happen along next,” she added.

  “At your age,” said Court cautiously, “there are still surprises?”

  Mrs. Pollifax beamed at her forgivingly. “Frequently, I can assure you, some pleasant and a few not at all pleasant, but of course one can’t have the one without the other. It’s impossible.”

  “Oh,” said Court.

  From the path behind them Robin called, “So there you are! I thought my two favorite ladies had vanished into thin air.” He pulled up a chair and smiled at Court. “Where have you been all day?”

  Mrs. Pollifax let Court reply while she glanced casually across the garden to the gazebo. The sheik had returned his papers to the attaché case and was standing as he talked to Sabry, delivering what looked to be an impassioned speech. Certainly Sabry was receiving it without his customary passiveness; his eyes gleamed and he looked almost exalted, yet even exaltation could not quite obscure the insensitivity of his face. How empty his eyes were, she thought idly; if he were not in a wheelchair, if he were not welded to it and helpless … if he were not confined … And suddenly the general’s words yesterday slipped into her mind: I have found this is not true of the professional killer who murders more than once, and in cold blood. It is a curious fact that it shows in the eyes, which I believe the poets call the windows of the soul. I have found the eyes of the habitual murderer to be completely empty. An interesting revenge by Nature, is it not?

  Sabry’s eyes were empty, like stones.

  Mrs. Pollifax suddenly sat upright in amazement, excited and a little breathless as she considered that wheelchair and the illusion it gave of immobility. If Sabry were not in that wheelchair … She thought in astonishment, “It’s possible, it’s terribly possible. He was even here when Fraser was here, Marcel said so. But how shocking that it’s only just occurred to me.” Doubt assailed her and she shook her head. “No, no, impossible—purest imagination,” she told herself, but what a diabolically clever disguise it could be, she thought, and realized that even now she found it difficult, almost inhuman, to doubt a wheelchair.

  Court and Robin were staring at her in surprise. “What on earth are you thinking?” demanded Robin. “You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  “Perhaps I have,” she said, remembering the darkened hall last night, the sound of steps, and of heavy breathing in the stillness. “I was wondering what keeps Mr. Sabry in a wheelchair. What his particular illness might be.”

  Court looked taken aback but Robin’s glance was thoughtful. “I see,” he said softly, “Like Frankenstein you think he may—walk at night?”

  “This is a day for wondering,” she said.

  “I heard it was multiple sclerosis,” volunteered Court. “He came soon after I did, over two weeks ago. He takes whirlpool baths.”

  “Polio and strokes and broken limbs leave marks for doctors to see,” mused Mrs. Pollifax, “but multiple sclerosis is a very slow disease, isn’t it?” It made a good cover story. She was remembering Marcel’s last words: I will investigate thoroughly, I promise you, and a picture came to her mind of Marcel entering Sabry’s room, perhaps without knocking … Her eyes returned to the gazebo which was once again threatening to collapse as the sheik pushed Sabry’s wheelchair through the arch. They moved to the shade of the poplar and a formal exchange of gestures took place, rather like two Frenchmen kissing and embracing. As he walked away the sheik turned and called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back at six o’clock. Until then, bkhatirrkoom.” Smiling with the air of a man with many things to do, he walked quickly through the glass doors and vanished, leaving Sabry idle with a sheaf of papers in his lap. He began to sort and then to read them.

  “What do you think?” asked Robin, watching her face.

  “I think it’s time I found out.” She stood up. “Court, may I borrow Robin for a few minutes?”

  “Of course,” Court said, looking baffled.

  Robin followed her across the grass to the ground-floor entrance. Inside the door she turned to face him. “I want to get into Ibrahim Sabry’s room and search it, Robin. Can you unlock his door for me?”

  He glanced quickly out into the garden at Sabry. “That’s a damned fool idea.”

  She tapped her foot impatiently. “There may not be another chance, Robin, it’s a warm afternoon, it’s nearing tea time and he looks settled under the tree. I want to find out if he’s really an invalid. There has to be something, some hint—a pair of shoes with worn heels, a snapshot, even blood on his clothes if he was downstairs last night. Robin, do hurry!”

  “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Take the elevator, I’ll meet you.” He ran up the stairs two at a time and Mrs. Pollifax entered the elevator. At her floor she stepped out to wait, and after several minutes had ticked past Robin rejoined her. “I’m protesting this,” he said angrily, “and I insist upon going in with you.”

  She said flatly, “Absolutely not. If anything happens—if he has hairy monsters waiting in his room to devour people—then you’re the only one who knows what I’ve been up to.”

  His mouth tightened. “The balcony then. I’ll stand on his balcony and not even breathe until you’ve left. For God’s sake, woman, I can’t chat amiably in the garden when I know you’re in here. You’re an amateur at this!”

  She looked at him with exasperation but it was his skill that would unlock the door for her, after all. “All right,” she said, “the balcony then,” and led the way down the hall. Robin bent over the lock of number 153, the door opened and they entered Sabry’s room.

  “Now please—out of sight,” she urged.

  He moved across the room, stopping only to unlock the two doors of the huge wardrobe, which was fortuitous because they had not occurred to her at all. Blowing a kiss he slipped through the balcony door and was gone.

  There was silence, and Mrs. Pollifax looked around her. This room was darker than hers because it faced the mountain that hung over the Clinic but otherwise it was identical to her own. She hoped very much that it would yield something to support her suspicions. Going first to the desk she unearthed a number of papers, all of them written in Arabic. There were no snapshots. She turned to the right-hand side of the wardrobe that Robin had so thoughtfully unlocked for her and went through the five suits hanging there but she found no traces of b
lood on his clothes, nor were there any shoes in this side of the wardrobe. There was a suitcase, however, and Mrs. Pollifax removed it and carried it to the bed. It was a relatively small suitcase, 30″ in size and weighing roughly twenty pounds, she judged. An identification tag dangled from its handle and picking it up she saw to her surprise that it was not Sabry’s suitcase. It belonged to the sheik, who must have brought it with him today. The tag read YAZDAN IBN KASHAN, and, underneath, a temporary address had been scribbled in pencil: Suite I-A, Hotel Montreux-Palace, Montreux, Suisse. That was where he was spending the night, then, and at six o’clock he would come back and pick up the suitcase. She leaned over the lock but it had been made doubly secure by the addition of two small brass padlocks, which she found curious. She half-turned toward the balcony and then reminded herself of Sabry. The suitcase could wait. Leaving it on the bed she returned to the closet to open and search the left side. She turned the knob, tugged and drew the door open.

  Marcel’s body, the upper half wrapped in glistening transparent plastic, occupied the entire half of the wardrobe, his spine curled into the foetal position, his head turned to one side, his vacant dead eyes staring straight into hers.

  Mrs. Pollifax screamed.

  She could not remember screaming before in her life. It was involuntary, an outraged protest, a reply to those staring, sightless eyes and to the shocked realization that his body had never been discovered at all. In the charged silence that followed her scream she heard the handle to the balcony door turn and then she heard the sound of running feet out in the hall and the door to the hall was thrown open. Sabry stood gaping at her. There was no sign of his wheelchair.

  His glance moved from the suitcase on the bed to the opened door of the closet and his pale face turned scarlet. With three long strides he crossed the room, lifted his hand and struck her across the cheek. “Fool!” he gasped. “Idiot! Imbecile! Who are you?”

  Mrs. Pollifax wordlessly shook her head.

  He drew a gun from his pocket and tested its weight in one hand, his eyes malevolent, and then without another word he stalked out of the room across the hall and knocked with the gun at room 154. One of Madame Parviz’s white-jacketed attendants answered the knock and Sabry gestured mutely at Mrs. Pollifax standing in his room. The man’s eyes widened and he sucked in his breath with a hiss. Behind him Hafez appeared, and then the second attendant, both trying to look past Sabry.

  Mrs. Pollifax had begun edging toward the hall when Hafez saw her. His mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Madame!” he cried in a shocked voice. “Oh, madame!” Darting under Sabry’s arm he ran across the hall and flung his arms around her protectively.

  “You know her!” accused Sabry, following.

  “She is my friend Madame Pollifax,” cried Hafez. “Don’t you dare touch her, don’t you dare!”

  Sabry viciously slapped him. “You told her!”

  The mark of the blow was livid on Hafez’s cheek. “I did not,” he gasped. “I did not. Monsieur, I beg of you. You think I risk Grandmama’s life?”

  Mrs. Pollifax stood listening and watching in fascinated horror. She made no move to speak or to act; a knot had just been untied and an unraveling had begun.

  Sabry moved to the wardrobe and carefully locked both doors again. “She has seen what is inside,” he told them. “We must get her out of here.”

  “Injection?”

  “No, no, too dangerous at this hour.” He realized he was speaking in English and began to issue orders in Arabic. One attendant hurried down the hall and returned pushing Sabry’s wheelchair, which he must have abandoned down the hall at the sound of her scream. To the second man, reverting to English, he said, “Get the car, Munir.” To Munir’s question in Arabic he said with a shake of his head, “No, no, we do nothing until we speak with Yazdan.”

  “What does he mean, the car?” whispered Mrs. Pollifax to Hafez.

  His hand tightened convulsively in hers. “They are going to take you to the sheik, who left by car for Montreux fifteen minutes ago. They win ask him what to do about you. Madame, you are in great trouble.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, nodding, but on the other hand she knew it was the price she had to pay for watching the pieces of the puzzle rearrange themselves.

  Munir had vanished to get the car. She saw the second attendant emerge from Hafez’s room wearing a sports jacket and slipping a gun into his pocket. Sabry sat down in the wheelchair and pointed to the suitcase lying on the bed. “Bring it to me, Fouad—place it on my lap with a blanket to cover it. Quickly! It’s not to be left here again.” To Mrs. Pollifax he said grimly, “You will be leaving the Clinic now for a pleasant little Sunday drive. The boy will go, too. You will walk quietly beside my wheelchair, looking as if you are pleased. If you make a move, if you call out, speak or try to signal anyone the boy will pay with his life, do you understand?” His eyes raked her face with a hatred that had all the impact of a blow.

  “I understand,” she said quietly. There was no need to speculate any longer about evil, she had just met with it, felt it, and it shook her.

  “And you, Hafez,” he continued softly, “you will recall your own situation and see that you behave. Serafina will remain with your grandmother. It needs only a telephone call—”

  “I know,” Hafez said in a strangled voice.

  “Show them your gun, Fouad.” He nodded as Fouad brought it from his pocket, displayed it and returned it to his pocket. “Good. We will go.” His voice was contemptuous.

  And so they began their exodus down the long, carpeted hall, a small, tightly knit group, a man in a wheelchair with a woman on one side, a boy on the other and an attendant behind; a kind of obscene Family Portrait for Visitors’ Day, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and began to wonder what could be done. Nothing for the moment, she realized sadly. There was Robin. She was certain that he was safe but she had no idea how much he could have overheard from the balcony. Certainly he had heard her scream for she recalled the balcony door opening but it had quickly closed, which—under the circumstances—had saved him. Had he heard the footsteps running in the hall? If he had heard that much then he could have heard anything, and that was hopeful.

  The elevator reached the Reception floor and the doors slid open. Sabry nodded to the head concierge behind the counter, they moved to the huge main door and Fouad neatly maneuvered the wheelchair down the steps. Just out of sight beyond the entrance Munir sat at the wheel of a long black limousine with the motor running. I ought to scream, thought Mrs. Pollifax, but she was paralyzed by the knowledge of how casually Sabry killed; he would think so little of a child’s life or hers. Sabry issued more orders in Arabic and after a swift glance around him he climbed out of the wheelchair to take Munir’s place at the wheel while Fouad folded up the chair and placed it in the trunk. The other attendant pushed Mrs. Pollifax and Hafez into the rear, where Fouad joined them on a jump seat, his gun out of his pocket now and leveled at Hafez.

  Slowly the car moved up the entrance drive past the greenhouse, entered the main road through the woods and headed toward the village. Mrs. Pollifax exchanged a glance with Hafez and tried to give him a reassuring smile that failed. She was wondering what Robin could do. She was realizing that the most obvious course, calling the police, would take an incredible amount of time and include complications and explanations beyond belief, and neither she nor Hafez had time. She began instead to think of what she could do, which was nothing for the moment, but when they reached Montreux, and the Hotel Montreux-Palace, she thought there might be possibilities if she kept her wits about her. She could not imagine another Family Scene moving through another lobby. Someone would be sent up to Suite I-A—Munir or Fouad, she presumed—to summon the sheik downstairs. That would reduce their captors by two, and no one in the group realized that she knew karate. If she and Hafez acted together they might overpower the remaining two men and escape. But not without the suitcase, thought Mrs. Pollifax; she was growing very interested in a suitcase
with two extra locks that could not be left behind.

  “Two quick karate chops to disable them,” she said to herself. “Hafez open the car doors and I snatch the suitcase—” She fastened her gaze on the back of Sabry’s neck and plotted the precise route of her karate strike while she tried not to think what would happen if she failed.

  They reached Villeneuve and turned to the right along the waterfront, heading for Montreux. On their left Lake Geneva looked placid and washed of color in the late afternoon sun. Returning her glance to the back of Sabry’s neck she inadvertently caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and hastily looked away, her glance falling to the mirror attached to the side of the car. In it, to her astonishment, she saw the reflection of a dark blue Mercedes convertible following behind them.

  A dark blue Mercedes convertible …

  Her heart began to beat faster. There was suddenly nowhere for her eyes to safely rest and she began to study the floor of the car and then the gun in Fouad’s lap, snatching quick furtive glances into the mirror before dropping her eyes. It was impossible to see the driver of the Mercedes, or to read its license plate. She told herself there must be thousands of dark blue Mercedes cars in Switzerland, and dozens of them on this shore of the lake. On the other hand, this car was definitely dark blue and it was allowing other cars to pass while it remained at exactly the same distance behind them.

  It was a wide road, with increasing traffic. Glancing past Sabry she saw a castle up ahead on the other side of the road, and for a moment her attention was pleasantly distracted by the sight of turrets, ancient stone walls and pointed clay tile roofs. She was staring at it when Fouad suddenly cried, “Ha-sib! Ookuff!”

  Mrs. Pollifax turned her head and saw a flash of dark blue passing on their left. She caught a quick glimpse of a familiar profile—it was Robin—and saw his car surge ahead of the limousine. What followed happened all at once: the dark blue Mercedes cleared their car and slowed, Sabry leaned on his horn and cursed, the Mercedes braked and jerked to a stop and Sabry’s car rammed it from behind with a crash and a grinding of metal.