Palm for Mrs. Pollifax Page 13

  Hafez turned to look at her, his eyes huge. “We are locked in the castle, madame?”

  “Yes,” she said, and it seemed to her that her yes reverberated up and down the empty corridors and through all the empty rooms. Except the castle wasn’t empty, she remembered. “Fouad!” she gasped.

  They turned and ran back to the room where they had left him. Opening the chest Hafez said with relief, “He is still here, madame, may Allah be praised!”

  He was still breathing, too, noted Mrs. Pollifax. He lay on his back, knecs lifted, his eyelids fluttering as if he dreamed deeply. He gave no apparent signs of returning consciousness but she did not enjoy the thought of being locked in the castle with him. “There was rope in one of those rooms,” she told Hafez. “We’ve got to bind his wrists and ankles or he’ll spoil everything.”

  “I do not like him much,” said Hafez, staring down at him. “If this was war I would shoot him, even if I am ten years old.”

  “Don’t be bloodthirsty,” she chided him. “Come, let’s find the rope and tie him up—a gag might be in order, too—and then we’ll have supper.”

  “Supper?”

  “Well,” she pointed out hopefully, “I was thinking of your Wiener Schnitzel, cut into equal portions with your jackknife. If you’d care to share it,” she added politely.

  Fourteen

  In Langley, Virginia, it was mid-afternoon. Carstairs inserted the key into the lock of his office door and entered with a sigh of deep relief. He felt he had been excessively well-behaved today. He had risen at dawn, driven bumper-to-bumper to the golf club, awaited his turn in a milling crowd and played eighteen holes of golf under a humid, 90-degree sun. His doctor had told him the fresh air and exercise would rejuvenate him but instead he felt hot, irritable, and betrayed. To a man accustomed to deploying live human beings around the world he could think of nothing more idiotic than mindlessly pushing an inanimate ball around a green sward in the sun.

  Shrugging off his jacket he sat down at his desk and realized that with two hours of work he could clear away last week’s minutiae and begin the next seven days with a minimum of encumbrances. His office was quiet and refreshingly cool. He could order coffee from the commissary and later his dinner and in time he might forget his hysterical attempt to be normal. Normalcy, he decided without a flicker of regret, was simply not for him.

  His buzzer sounded and he flicked on the switch. “Mr. Carstairs, sir?” said the bright young voice from the covering office in Baltmore.

  “Afternoon, Betsy,” he said. “They’ve stuck you with Sunday this week?”

  “Yes, sir, and I was afraid you wouldn’t be in the office this afternoon. I’ve a most peculiar call on the switchboard, sir. A Mr. Parviz insists on talking with you but he’s not on our list at all. He’s calling from Zabya.”

  “From where?”

  “Zabya. Something about a cable you sent him. His English is either a little primitive or he’s very upset, it’s difficult to say which—and I might add that on top of that the connection’s dreadful, too.”

  “He’s certainly not one of ours,” said Carstairs, frowning. “How the hell could he have gotten our unlisted number?”

  “I’ve already asked him that, sir. Apparently he had the address, he turned it over to the Zabyan Embassy in Washington and they came through with the telephone number. Is the telephone company bribable, sir?”

  “Not to my knowledge, and I can’t imagine an embassy going to so much trouble, either. It’ll be a damned nuisance if we have to change the number. Put the chap on my line so I can find out who the devil he is.”

  “Right, sir. A moment please.”

  Carstairs leaned over and switched on the tape-recording machine and sat back. There was a series of pops, followed by a peculiar underwater sound that occasionally accompanied transatlantic calls, and Carstairs heard a harsh, accented voice say, “Mustapha Parviz speaking. I am connected with Mr. William Carstairs, please?”

  “You are, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “I am calling in reference to the cable I received from you early today. You have just arrived back in America?”

  “Just arrived back?” echoed Carstairs.

  “Yes, I received your cable at noon here by Zabyan time. This is Mr. William Carstairs of the Legal Building in Baltimore Maryland, of the United States, who sent to me the cable from Europe?”

  “Ah, the cable,” said Carstairs craftily.

  “Yes. It is most urgent, sir—I must learn the circumstances under which you saw them. Are they safe? Did you actually see them? Are they in Montreux?”

  Castairs stiffened. “Montreux!” he exclaimed. “In Switzerland?”

  The man at the other end of the line drew in his breath sharply. “You are playing with me, sir. I implore you—you must know this is of the gravest urgency, a matter of life and death. Where are they?”

  Carstairs said swiftly, “I think we might clear this up very quickly, Mr. Parviz, if you’ll just read me the cable.”

  The voice turned cold. “If you sent it, sir, I scarcely need read it to you.”

  “But you say that you received a cable from Montreux today, and in tracing it you discovered it was sent by—”

  “You don’t know.” The voice broke. “You did not, then, after all—oh my God,” the man said, and hung up.

  Carstairs stared at the telephone in astonishment. After a moment he leaned over and switched on the recording machine and played the tape, listening carefully. Mustapha Parviz—the name struck him as vaguely familiar. Where are they? Are they safe? Did you actually see them?… Parviz had lost or misplaced something, documents or people, and it had something to do with Montreux. A matter of life and death … There was no mistaking the desperation in that voice; it had been studiously disciplined to the point of curtness but there were the revelatory small breaks, the quick intakes of breath, culminating in that bleak cry, You don’t know—oh my God.

  It was obvious that Parviz had no idea to whom he was speaking. It was equally obvious that he didn’t care; he wanted only one thing, information, but without volunteering any in return. He’d been given the Baltimore address, but with neither explanation nor telephone number, and he’d desperately hoped—but how could he have gotten the address? Who would have sent him a cable bearing Carstairs’s name?

  He picked up the telephone and put through a call to Bishop on the off chance that he might be spared an hour’s hunt through the files. Bishop wasn’t at home but he was given a Georgetown number and presently he captured him on the phone.

  “It’s Sunday,” Bishop reminded him. “Day of rest and gladness, remember? I’m at a party with a stunning blonde.”

  “Congratulations,” Carstairs said dryly. “Now can you possibly tell me why the name of Mustapha Parviz sounds familiar to me?”

  Bishop sighed. “Because he’s in the Zabyan report we did for the State Department last week, file Z1020 if I’m not mistaken. Except it’s not just Mustpaha Parviz, it’s General Mustapha Parviz. He’s head of the Zabyan army.”

  “Good God,” said Carstairs.

  “Don’t you remember the Jonathan and David bit? Parviz, son of a poor tentmaker, brought to the palace to be schooled with Jarroud so that the future king would rub shoulders with the poor? Later there was a commission to military school and then he saved Jarroud’s life in ’60 by taking a bullet in his shoulder intended for Jarroud. Now Jarroud’s the king and Mustapha’s General of the whole shebang.”

  “A fact he neglected to mention,” mused Carstairs. “One more question, Bishop. If someone—and I can assure you it wasn’t I—sent a cable from Montreux giving the sender’s address as William Carstairs, the Legal Building, Baltimore—”

  Bishop interrupted. “That could be only one person, sir—Mrs. Pollifax.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Oh yes, we’ve only two investigative agents in Switzerland this week and one of them has no knowledge at all of the Baltimore co
vering address. Interpol doesn’t have it, either, they contact us directly.”

  Carstairs sighed. “I don’t know why I resisted thinking of it but of course it’s just the sort of thing she’d do.”

  “Is Mrs. Pollifax into something, sir?”

  Carstairs said testily, “For heaven’s sake, Bishop, she’s been there only two days.”

  “Three days now, sir,” pointed out Bishop with maddening precision, “It’s already Sunday evening in Europe. Do you want me at the office?”

  “No, but you might stay available while I contact Schoenbeck in Geneva. I’ll call you back.”

  He hung up, consulted his file and asked that a call be put through to Schoenbeck’s office. While he waited he used another phone to order a pot of coffee and then drew out file Z1020. He was studying it with concentration when his call to Geneva came through. “Schoenbeck?” he snapped.

  But Schoenbeck was out. A cool, formal voice explained that this was his assistant speaking and that Schoenbeck had left Geneva several hours ago. Could his assistant be of help?

  “The biggest help you can give me is to tell me how I can reach him immediately. This is Carstairs in Washington, about the Montbrison business.”

  “Ah yes, of course,” said the assistant in well-modulated tones. “It is the Montbrison case, monsieur, that has taken him from Geneva today. He left in midafternoon to confer with M. Gervard. Unfortunately he is not returned yet.”

  “What time is it over there?”

  “Nine o’clock, sir, in the evening.”

  “And he’s not back yet?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  Carstairs said abruptly, “Something’s happened then? Look here, we’ve an agent at Montbrison, too, and I’ve had a most peculiar telephone call—”

  The voice was soothing. “No, no, monsieur, it had nothing to do with your agent Mrs. Pollifax. It is our agent who has disappeared for the moment. We are making inquiries.”

  “Disappeared!” exclaimed Carstairs. “Marcel?”

  “It will be cleared up, I am sure,” the voice went on with the blandness of a doctor reassurring a terminal patient. “It is M. Schoenbeck’s urgent hope that cover need not be broken and so he consented to help with inquiries, very discreetly.”

  “When did you last hear from Marcel?” demanded Carstairs. “And what was on his mind?”

  “His last report was yesterday—Saturday—at the usual hour of five o’clock, monsieur. As to what was on his mind—” The voice hesitated and then turned silky. “He mainly expressed some doubts about your agent, sir.”

  Carstairs’s voice became even silkier. “May I ask why?”

  “But of course, monsieur. He had requested her to make the acquaintance of a man named Burke-Jones, about whom serious suspicions have been aroused, and she did this. But she became quickly distracted by a small child staying at the Clinic. Marcel had begun to feel the maternal instincts had blunted her—uh—shall we say perceptions?”

  Carstairs said curtly, “You may tell Schoenbeck that Mrs. Pollifax is distracted by everything that comes her way but never to the detriment of the job. Her distractions are notorious but never without point. When was Marcel’s next contact to be made?”

  “He should have telephoned this morning, monsieur, before going to work at the Clinic.”

  “But that’s nearly fifteen hours ago!”

  “Yes, monsieur. Naturally we have made discreet inquiries. He did not return to his room in the village last night.”

  “Has my agent been told about this?”

  The voice was polite “A call was attempted, sir. I put it through myself, after working out the code for it and asking her to make inquiries about Cousin Matthew. Unfortunately your agent had just left for a little drive with friends.”

  “What friends?”

  The voice was disapproving. “I’m sure I cannot tell you, sir, but Monsieur Schoenbeck will contact you upon his return.”

  “Do that,” said Carstairs. “I’ll wait for his call.” He hung up and swore steadily. He was still swearing when Bishop telephoned, and when he had finished, Bishop said mildly, “You’re upset.”

  “You’re damned right I’m upset. I’ve been talking with a Pollyanna in Schoenbeck’s office who informs me that Marcel hasn’t reported in for fourteen and a half hours but everything’s all right.”

  “It doesn’t sound all right to me,” said Bishop.

  “Bless you for that,” breathed Carstairs. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for the moment except wait for Schoenbeck’s call. You can return to your day of rest and gladness, Bishop.”

  “Thank you, sir. Are you worried?”

  “I don’t know,” fretted Carstairs. “It’s maddening not to be in charge myself, and still more maddening to think how easily they could blow this. Schoenbeck is so damned cautious, so damned discreet. It inhibits him.”

  “Well, sir, my blonde is gorgeous but not quite so diverting as Mrs. Pollifax. Give me a ring if something comes up.”

  “Yes,” said Carstairs and hung up with a sigh, knowing that if one of his agents had been out of contact for nearly fifteen hours in a closed situation like this he certainly wouldn’t be driving off to a rendezvous to discuss it, he’d be tearing the Clinic apart and to hell with everybody’s cover stories. “Too damned polite,” he growled and began to consider a few things he could do from this end that, hopefully, wouldn’t irk Schoenbeck. He could, for one thing, telephone Mrs. Pollifax and make certain that she was all right, and he could discover just why she had sent a cablegram in his name. Schoenbeck wouldn’t care for his meddling but Mrs. Pollifax was his agent, after all.

  He put through a call to the Hotel-Clinic Montbrison and it was placed before he had finished his cup of coffee. Whoever was on night duty over there spoke a disjointed English, and guessing the man’s accent Carstairs switched to Italian. Even in Italian, however, he couldn’t reach Mrs. Pollifax because there was no answer to the telephone in her room. This was worrisome because if it was nearly ten o’clock in the evening over there she ought to be getting ready to signal from her balcony. He asked a few questions about schedules at the concierge’s desk and the porter replied, adding a few complaints as well.

  “Who was on duty this afternoon?” Carstairs asked. He nodded and wrote down the name and home telephone number of the head concierge, thanked the porter and hung up.

  Consulting the code given Mrs. Pollifax he picked up the telephone and asked that a cable be sent to her at Montbrison. “Take this down,” he said and dictated: “URGENTLY REQUEST EXPLANATION CABLE SENT IN MY NAME SUNDAY STOP UNCLE BILL ON THE LOOSE AGAIN IN FRANCE STOP WHERE IS COUSIN MATTHEW STOP ARE YOU RUNNING A TEMPERATURE STOP LOVE ADELAIDE. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get me Switzerland again.” He frowned over the name of the head concierge. “A Monsieur Piers Grundig, in St. Gingolph.” He began to feel the satisfaction of working through some of his frustrations and was just congratulating himself about it when Bishop walked in. “What on earth!” he said in surprise.

  “Couldn’t help it, sir,” said Bishop cheerfully. “Something’s up, isn’t it? It was beginning to interfere with both the rest and the gladness. What do you think is up?”

  Carstairs shrugged helplessly. “I wish I knew. Marcel disappeared from view sometime between five o’clock Saturday and seven o’clock this morning their time, and in midafternoon today Mrs. Pollifax went for a drive—with friends, I’m told—and she doesn’t seem to have returned yet. Marcel’s missing and I’m beginning to think Mrs. Pollifax is missing, too. And I had that damned mysterious call from Parviz. Hello?” he barked into the phone. “Is this Piers Grundig, head concierge at the Hotel-Clinic Montbrison?” He waved Bishop to sit down.

  His questions to the man were concise and organized. He had seen Madame Pollifax leave? She had gone for a drive with people from the Clinic? She had left at what hour? And the names of the friends, he inquired as he reached for pencil
and paper.

  “Monsieur Sabry, yes,” he said, writing busily. “Two gentlemen not familiar to you, and the boy Hafez. Hafez what?” He looked astonished. “Parviz,” he echoed in a hollow voice. “Yes, I see. Thank you very much, Monsieur Grundig, I’m obliged to you.”

  He hung up, and seeing his face Bishop said, “Trouble.”

  “Trouble or a very remarkable coincidence,” growled Carstairs. “I don’t like it.”

  “Your intuition’s usually right, And no Schoenbeck yet?”

  “No Schoenbeck yet.” Carstairs looked grim. “I gave Mrs. Pollifax to Interpol like a gift and they give every evidence of having discarded her like a boring Christmas tie.”

  Bishop said soberly, “Well, you know she doesn’t look like a gift at first glance, sir. She confuses people by looking the nice cozy grandmother type.”

  “This time she seems to have confused the wrong people,” Carstairs said harshly. “She’s confused Interpol but I’m beginning to have the acute feeling that someone has seen through the façade and discovered she’s dangerous. And Interpol is the last to guess this.” He lifted his glance to Bishop. “There’s a damned busy week ahead, Bishop, but it’s time someone translates Mrs. Pollifax to Interpol. Is your passport available?”

  Bishop brightened. “In my desk, sir.”

  Carstairs nodded. “I’ll call a taxi for you. I want you to take along the tape recording of Parviz’s call, and I want you to give it to Schoenbeck, but first—I repeat first—you’re to find out where the hell Mrs. Pollifax is.” He glanced at his watch “It’s half-past four, Bishop, you’ve just time to catch the six o’clock plane to Geneva. It will get you to Geneva—given the time differences—by seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

  “On my way, sir,” said Bishop, snatching up the tape and his jacket.

  “Oh and Bishop—”

  He turned at the door. “Yes, sir?”

  “For God’s sake keep me posted.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and the door slammed behind him.