Mrs. Pollifax and the Whirling Dervish Read online

  As the porter removed his suitcase Mrs. Pollifax looked at Janko with interest. "I begin to see why you overlooked my airport arrival," she said softly. "You plan to overlook me, too?"

  The charm vanished. He said curtly, "I've been prepared to leave as soon as you deliver the photos to me." He hesitated and then said bluntly, "You might as well know I've no intention of taking you along with me, I'm accustomed to traveling alone. It's out of the question that I be accompanied—you can take a tour, do whatever you please, but leave me bloody well alone to do my job. The very thought of traveling with— with—"

  "An aunt," she supplied helpfully.

  "I have no aunts," he said, glowering at her from under fleecy eyebrows. "I wasn't consulted, this change was arranged entirely without my knowledge. The original assignment was simple, clear and without obstruction, and I don't know what the hell they're thinking of, saddling me with you. Do you speak Arabic? Have you any idea of the assignment or its importance, of how a second person can only slow me down or clutter up matters?"

  She said coolly, "To that I can answer no, yes, no, no, and point out that better minds than yours, Mr. Janko, sent me here to accompany you."

  "Better minds? That's insulting," he told her. "There's absolutely no need for you to be here once you've delivered the photos. I travel alone, damn it."

  She said calmly, "I can understand your surprise at having an aunt foisted on you at the last minute, Mr. Janko—although I can certainly understand why now—but I'm sure you can also understand my surprise at finding you such a rude and unpleasant man. Obviously we must both make the best of a very unhappy situation."

  "Impossible! I intend to do no such thing."

  "You're very stubborn."

  "No—independent," he flung at her. "Now hand over the photographs."

  Mrs. Pollifax considered him thoughtfully. "I think not," she told him curtly, "in fact I see no other solution but to keep the photos, since as long as I have them I'm indispensable."

  "You wouldn't dare!"

  "Try me."

  "Blackmail?"

  She said pleasantly, "I believe it's called that, yes."

  His eyes fell to her purse and she knew exactly what he was thinking; his glance moved around the room and then returned to her speculatively, and again she guessed his thoughts and braced herself; he was just furious enough to use force and she prepared to defend herself.

  The moment passed, he shrugged and said curtly, "We're wasting time."

  "Yes we are," she agreed, "since the first person to be checked out is here in Fez, in the medina."

  He looked surprised. "In Fez?"

  "Yes."

  "Having established that, do you care to tell me where we go following that? If I'm driving, maps need to be studied and a route planned," he pointed out, adding sarcastically, "or do you plan to do that too?"

  She said calmly, "The person we check out after Fez is in Er-Rachidia."

  "Thanks," he said bitterly. Unfurling a large road map he examined it. "Then we head south, yes, but at Er-Rachidia there is a junction, you see?" He held out the map to her. "Beyond Er-Rachidia do we remain on route 32 and head west, or continue south to Erfoud?"

  Unwillingly she said, "Erfoud."

  "Good, Erfoud is a matter of 300 hundred miles and we should be able to drive that in one day. But not today," he said curtly. "I suggest,'" and here he used the word mockingly, "that we keep these rooms for the night and accomplish both Er-Rachidia and Erfoud tomorrow, unless, of course, you—?" He paused, lifting one eyebrow.

  "There's no need to be sarcastic," she told him. "It sounds a very sensible and agreeable plan, especially since—" She looked at her wristwatch. "Especially since it's already afternoon now, and we have work to do here. If you'll excuse me I'll go to my room, change into walking shoes and be back in five minutes."

  "I hope with the photos," he said.

  "With one of them, yes." With a nod she left him, but his move from rage into mere sarcasm had not fooled her in the slightest, she was going to have to remain on guard. How tiresome, she sighed, but there was no overlooking the fact that for the briefest of moments he had actually been prepared to wrest the photographs from her by force. A strange man . . , she thought that only his doubts of their being in her purse had held him back but he would try again, of this she was sure; his outraged and affronted ego would not allow him to give up easily.

  Entering her room she extracted from Cyrus' money-belt the snapshot labeled number one: Hamid ou Azu, a bearded man of middle age wearing a red fez and a striped djellabah. A shaft of sunlight illuminated his face and turned to gold the great bowls and trays of brassware that surrounded him in his souk. He looked a shrewd and prosperous businessman but she already knew his face, she had memorized it before leaving home, and the address on the back she had memorized on the plane:

  Hamid ou Azu,

  Place es Seffarin, in the médina Fès el Bali.

  Fine brassware.

  3

  After what seemed to Mrs. Pollifax an interminable argument a guide named Dasran was hired for their trip into the medina. There was such a difference of opinion about this that Mrs. Pollifax realized there would probably be similar arguments at every stop they made, and this further exacerbated her jet-lagged spirits. "The guidebook recommends—"

  "Guidebook!" sneered Janko.

  To this she pointed out that the Fès el Bali was centuries old, labyrinthian, and that finding one brassware merchant among all the souks in the medina would be very much like finding a needle in a haystack.

  "You have a tourist mentality," he said scornfully.

  Her reply was equally as hostile. "It's all very well to be a free spirit but it's already past one o'clock and there is such a thing as efficiency and getting the job done."

  In the end she prevailed, and this at least gained her a reprieve because Janko glowered instead at Dasran, who wore a djellabah over Western clothes and beamed at them joyously. "Yes yes I take you to Place es Seffarin—much brass, much copper—come!"

  They entered by the gate near to the hotel, the Bab Guissa, and plunged at once into another century, a medieval world of dim and cobbled alleys and passageways, and Mrs. Pollifax's spirits rose at once. Souk after souk lay before them on either side, lighted by a ray of sunlight from above, or by dim artificial light below, and if the interiors of the shops were like dark caves they nevertheless blazed with color: over one souk hung great skeins of brilliant silk thread—pink, fuchsia, purple, orange—suspended on ropes to dry. From the shop next door came the scent of perfume and of spices, with displays of magical wares: tree bark, roots, charms and potions. They passed souks with mounds of lemons, tangerines, oranges, black olives shaped into pyramids, and tubs of scarlet paprika, yellow saffron and cumin. Over it all hung a beehive hum of activity, of merchandise being made, bartered and sold. One turn in the twisting streets took them past woodcarvers, then a shirtmaker bent over his sewing machine. A stall sold lemonade and pastries next to a shop where sheepskins were being stretched taut over terra-cotta pots to fashion drums.

  She and Dasran and Janko moved in a steady stream of people: old men in turbans and djellabahs shuffling along, pairs of women in black veils with only their eyes showing, and children who ran barefooted over cobbles slippery with damp and dung. In a particularly narrow and sunless alleyway a man behind Mrs. Pollifax shouted furiously "Balek! Balek!" and she flattened herself against a wall just in time to escape being trampled by a donkey with huge panniers strapped to its sides. The passage widened, a child raced past, saw them, stopped and held out a hand for money.

  Dasran waved the child away but the incident appeared to have given him ideas of his own, for he turned to them, beaming. "You wish to see brass-work," he said. "My cousin—he sell beautiful brass pots—come see! Only a minute—in next street. Very good prices, too!"

  Janko turned, lifting an eyebrow; he looked amused. "You asked for this," he said.

  Thus cha
llenged Mrs. Pollifax told Dasran sternly, "We wish the street of brassware. We wish to begin first with the merchant recommended to us at the hotel, the souk of Hamid ou Azu."

  "Pah!" snorted Dasran. "You will pay dearly at that place, I can tell you. My cousin—"

  She added firmly, "And we pay a very large tip to arrive there quickly. With haste."

  She had only disappointed him for the moment. "A leather handbag? A beautiful leather handbag, surely? I have another cousin who sells beautiful Moroccan leather cheap."

  "No."

  He sighed. "How much tip?" he asked, weighing this against the commissions he would receive from the shops of his cousins.

  "Take us to Hamid ou Azu's shop and you'll see."

  His shrug told her that he thought poorly of her for missing the wonderful purchases he was ready to present to her but he led them up and down alleyways until they arrived at an intersection, where he pointed to an open-fronted souk on the corner across from them. "There is the shop of Hamid ou Azu," he said indifferently, with a shrug.

  And there he was, plainly visible to both of them, seated cross-legged before a low table and talking with a young man next to him who kept jabbing a finger at a pocket calculator. On the low brass table between them stood a tray with small glass cups of green tea.

  They had found Hamid ou Azu, and his face exactly matched his photo.

  Beside her Janko opened the guidebook in which he'd placed the snapshot she had given him, checked Hamid's face for himself and nodded. "Mission accomplished," he murmured. "Number one is in place." With a mocking glance he said, "You've found the shop, now I'll leave you to Dasran, I feel like a drink. You'll find me in the bar at the hotel."

  She realized at once that he was enjoying a predicament that she'd not clearly foreseen when she'd insisted on a guide, and this was how to dispense with Dasran now that he'd brought them to the souk of Hamid ou Azu. Janko was gleefully abandoning her to solve this problem alone. She said silkily, "Yes, why don't you do that? Since Mr. ou Azu looks very busy with a customer I'll continue on with Dasran and buy a souvenir or two."

  The glance Janko gave her came close to being appreciative, as if he suddenly found her almost a worthy opponent; then he turned and was quickly lost in the crowd.

  To Dasran she said, pointing to his robe, "Show me a souk that sells djellabahs."

  He brightened. "Djellabahs, yes."

  "But no cousins, please."

  Politely Dasran said, "That man—he is a little rude, is he not? Surely not your ¿¿«-your son?"

  "No-nephew."

  When he looked puzzled she drew out her phrase book, turned the pages and pointed to herself. " 'amma."

  "Ah," he said, nodding. "Not son—good! I not like him."

  This immediately established a warmer relationship between them, since Mrs. Pollifax heartily agreed with his reaction to Janko—it was, after all, why Carstairs had sent her here —and she set out with him to explore more of the medina.

  An hour and a half later, tired but happy, Mrs. Pollifax had bought a curved Moroccan dagger—a khanjar, Dasran told her —as well as a gray wool djellabah for Cyrus and a black-and-brown-striped one for herself. Over a cup of mint tea at a tiny cafe she learned that Dasran had three sons and a daughter, that times were not good, that he and his wife came from the Sous and that he would return Mrs. Pollifax to the hotel by way of the brassware souk but if she found the prices too high he would bargain for her.

  "From my heart I do this," he said, "for the man is not a cousin. You are nice lady but—what is the word, innocent? To bargain you must begin low, very low. It is a game, you see? An enjoyment. It is how things are done here."

  Mrs. Pollifax wanted to tell him that it was not necessary to return by way of Hamid ou Azu's shop, that in any case she was beginning to feel very tired and hungry but before she could explain this to Dasran he was on his feet, and soon she was being eagerly pushed through the crowds toward the Place es Seffarin. Oh well, she thought in resignation, there may be something small to buy, and I will certainly enjoy meeting one of the informants.

  They emerged at the familiar intersection from which she had first seen Hamid ou Azu. The volume of sound had increased here, becoming more than the murmur of voices and %the flip-flop of sandals treading over stone: she realized that someone was shouting loudly and insistently and that people had begun running.

  Dasran abruptly clutched her arm, stopping her.

  "What is it?"

  "He says someone is dead."

  "Dead?"

  "He is shouting for teachers and for the ulama and for the police."

  Watching the confusion she suddenly gasped, "But they're running to—Dasran, they're running to the shop of Hamid ou Azu! Something has happened, we must see what's happened." Shaking off his arm she raced across the cobbles to the growing swarm of people who had collected in front of the brassware souk. Pushing her way in among them she peered between heads and over shoulders and saw that a man had fallen across the brass table and that a knife had been thrust to the hilt into the flesh of his back. The face lay half-turned to the crowd, the eyes and mouth wide open; it was a face very familiar to her, and one that she had seen only two hours ago. It was Hamid ou Azu, and—oh God, she thought, he's dead, he's been murdered . . .

  Dasran had edged to her side and was tugging at her sleeve. "Not to see," he told her, his face white with shock. "Bismallah, he is dead."

  "Yes, dead," she whispered, and standing in this dim, medieval street of souks she felt a sudden chill run down her spine as she remembered that Hamid ou Azu was not just a merchant who sold brassware but an informer in a network of informers. She thought, It's nonsense to think he's been killed for such a reason, he must surely have been an informer for years, why should he be killed now?

  Unless the imposter whom Carstairs suspected was already at work, she added, and shivered, wondering just what she had stumbled into with this assignment.

  The crowd was retreating as a police car made its way down the narrow alley, pinning people to the wall to allow its passage. Feeling a little sick she told Dasran, "I hope it's not far to the hotel, I want to go there now." She realized that she felt astonishingly relieved that she was not on this trip alone, no matter how unpleasant her companion.

  She found her unpleasant companion in the hotel bar, scowling into his drink. When she slid onto the stool beside him he glanced up and said, "I take it you managed to get rid of that vulture Dasran and I hope you didn't over-tip him."

  "A small brand}-—any kind," she told the bartender.

  Looking more closely at her Janko said, "You look terrible, what's wrong with you?"

  The brandy arrived, she drank half of it recklessly and felt the sickness in her subside. She said, "Hamid ou Azu is dead."

  "What?" he roared, and then with a glance around him, "Sorry, but what the hell do you mean? How do you know such a thing?"

  "Dasran and I started back to the hotel," she told him, her voice trembling only a little, "and we passed his shop on the way, and—and he'd just been killed. He was lying across a table with a knife in his back. A very long knife," she said, remembering.

  His eyes narrowed. "You'd better finish that brandy."

  "Yes, but do you suppose, do you think—?"

  He sighed. "You have too melodramatic a mind. Rule number one is never leap to conclusions. A lot of these countries have blood feuds and long lists of wrongs to be avenged, and if what you're thinking—"

  She finished the brandy and stood up, interrupting him. "What I'm thinking," she said, coldly, "is that we should leave very early tomorrow for Er-Rachidia and for Erfoud."

  He nodded. "I'll meet you at five o'clock in the lobby downstairs."

  Picking up her packages she left Janko, but not for her room. She went instead in search of Dasran, hoping he might be where they had found him stationed outside among the official tour guides who competed for tourists from the hotel. He was there, leaning against a car,
his eyes hawklike in their search for business. When he saw her his face brightened. "Ah—my friend! You wish new tour? For you I give good price."

  "No, Dasran, but I've a favor to ask of you," she said crisply. "About my nephew."

  His face fell. "Oh—him."

  "Yes." She said frankly, "He drinks far too much, Dasran."

  He looked attentive but puzzled.

  "He drinks very much," she emphasized. "His mother is very unhappy about this. She cries."

  Dasran became all sympathy. "Ah, the wiskee, the wine . . , so that is why he is not nice."

  "Yes. He tells me—he insists, Dasran—that he has not been at the hotel bar drinking ever since he left us in the medina." She sighed. "His mother is so upset about him. Could you cleverly—very quietly—ask the men who tend bar if he has been there since he left us? For learning the truth of this I will pay,- fifteen American dollars."

  "Madehm," said Dasran simply, "for fifteen U.S, dollars I stand on my head."

  "But only for the truth," she reminded him. "They will allow you to report to my room, which is 314?"

  He beamed at her. "There are ways, madehm. Trust me, I will be there. Room 314."

  Once back in her room she waited patiently, wondering many things, feeling a shade paranoid but wanting to cross her /'s and dot her ;'s. Janko was CIA, but nevertheless Hamid ou Azu had been murdered today of all days and it remained a strange coincidence.

  She might have waited patiently but when she heard the knock on her door she raced across the room to open it. Dasran stood in the hall looking very sad.

  "I am so sorry, madehm," he said. "Sorry for his poor mother and for you. It was Madani Amar at the bar who served him, and he tells me—I am so sorry—he sat in the bar all that time, your nephew. More than one hour, nearly two. He drink five beera, one coffee."

  "All that timer You're quite sure? This Madani is very sure?"

  Dasran sighed mournfully. "He did not even go to the toilet, Madani says. Also Madani says he is not polite, he left no tip and he is sorry for his mother, too."

  "Yes," she said with considerable relief, and counted fifteen dollar bills into his palm. "Thank you, Dasran."