Palm for Mrs. Pollifax Read online

  As to Bishop’s parting words she preferred not to think about them for the moment. He and Carstairs had each of them been right: it was kinder for her to know the worst, yet the news did have its jarring effect. Obviously Fraser’s death meant there was something worth murdering for at Montbrison.

  Long before the film ended the sky beyond her window had turned silver and she watched horizon-long bands of orange and pink dissolve into sunshine. It was only midnight in New York but they had crossed a time zone to meet Europe’s dawn. Mrs. Pollifax made a last trip to the lavatory and then sat quietly attempting to enter her new role.

  “I’m a mother-in-law recovering from the flu,” she repeated to herself, and tried out an appropriate small cough … but a cough, codewise, meant that she was worried and was not to be confused with a flu cough. Her son-in-law was named Carstairs and he lived in Baltimore. There would be a limousine waiting for her, a delightful thought and she would be whisked off to the Clinic—about an eighty-minute drive, Carstairs had said—and there she must look suitably tired.

  Mrs. Pollifax coughed again, very delicately, and practised looking tired.

  The driver of the limousine spoke almost no English. He drove silently and skillfully, and Mrs. Pollifax’s attempts to compliment him on the weather lapsed. She stared out of the window at the countryside instead, at gentler mountains than she remembered seeing in the north, at red-tiled roofs and brief glimpses of a pale and shining Lake Geneva. They passed terraces of vineyards, villages just waking up—it was, after all, barely eight o’clock in the morning—and after an hour of driving they began to climb.

  Mrs. Pollifax leaned forward eagerly. They were negotiating breathtakingly abrupt turns on a road that zigzagged high above the town and the lake; looking down she could see only the roofs of chalets, cottages and villas, and the tops of trees. Slowing somewhat they entered a village laid out at a 70-degree angle on the slopes of the mountain. Shops edged the slanting street, among them a cafe with umbrellas blossoming over rows of bright tables. The car turned down a narrow paved road, they passed a stone church clinging to the mountainside, a chalet, a few gardens and then entered a green-shaded wood with a ravine far below them on the right. Ahead Mrs. Pollifax saw a discreet sign: PRIVATE, it read. HOTEL-CLINIC MONTBRISON.

  The driver cleared his throat and pointed. Mrs. Pollifax saw the rear of a large, rambling building almost suffocated by trees and shrubbery. They entered between two laurel bushes, drove down a steep narrow drive past a greenhouse, and arrived at the main door of the Clinic.

  The sun had not yet reached the back of the building and the shadows were deep. At the entrance a stocky young man in a green apron was sweeping the steps with a broom while a small boy of ten or eleven sat on the top stair and watched him. Both looked up curiously at the limousine.

  Mrs. Pollifax stepped out of the car. While the driver opened up the trunk to remove her suitcase she stood on the asphalt and glanced through the open door into the reception hall—it looked singularly gloomy with its dark paneling and rugs—and then the boy jumped up and called out shrilly, “Bon jour, madame!” This was followed by a torrent of words in French.

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I speak only English.”

  “But madame, I speak English, too,” he told her, jumping up and down. “Why have you come? Are you to be a patient here? Are you English? Have you arrived by air? Why are you in that limousine? Will you stay long? Have you brought a nurse?”

  A man in a black uniform appeared on the step, said something quieting to the boy in French and smiled at Mrs. Pollifax. “I am the head concierge, madame. Welcome to the Clinic. You are Madame Pollifax?”

  She nodded.

  “This way.” He gave brisk orders to the man in the green apron, who dropped his broom and picked up Mrs. Pollifax’s suitcase. “Please, you will come in and register, the secretary has not yet arrived in the office. It is very early, you see. Emil will show you to your room. You will wish breakfast, of course, it will be sent up to you at once.”

  He ushered her inside to the reception desk and held out paper and pen. Behind the desk she saw a switchboard, a wall of pigeonholes for mail and beyond that a pair of glass doors through which could be seen an empty office. She signed the register and handed over her passport.

  “Yes, this I shall keep, it will be returned to you within the hour,” he said. He appeared refreshingly business-like, a little harassed and eminently likable. “May you enjoy your visit here, madame.”

  As she moved slowly upward in the elevator she looked down and saw the boy standing just inside the door staring after her. His brief excitement had collapsed; his eyes were huge and filled with a haunting sadness. She was glad when the ascent cut her off from his view.

  Air and light was her first impression. As soon as Emil left, Mrs. Pollifax put down her jewelry case and crossed the room to open the door to her balcony. “Oh, lovely,” she whispered, moving to the railing. At this level she looked across the tops of high trees stirring in a light breeze. Beyond, and almost straight down, a toy steamer on the lake was disappearing between the treetops; it left behind it a V of tiny crepe paper wrinkles. Lake Geneva occupied the view almost to the horizon, like a pale blue, upside-down sky touched with glitter. A wash of insistent gray along the shores hinted at mountains still obscured by haze. Quiet morning sounds rose to her balcony: a tide-like rise and fall of traffic far away, birds calling, a muffled toot from the steamer, a church bell, all muted by distance and height.

  She looked down in search of the garden, and had to stand on tiptoe to see over the wide jut of gallery that ran from her balcony to the next and continued along the floor to the end of the building. The broad ledge cut off much of the view below but she could see thick, well-kept grass, a circle of bright flowers, a graveled path overhung with pink roses, and a gazebo. The hush was incredible.

  She turned and looked for her road and found it off to her left, just where Carstairs had said it would be, a narrow scar on the next hillside, unpaved and climbing at a precipitous angle. A flock of swallows interrupted her gaze. They dove in among the trees, almost encircling one tall Lombardy poplar, but they were the only sign of motion at Montbrison. Nothing seemed to move here, not even time.

  I could be happy here, she thought, and found that she had to wrench her attention back to the reasons behind her arrival. Remembering, her glance fell to the ledge beyond the railing and she found herself studying it with interest. It was nearly four feet wide and neatly graveled. “Like a path three floors above the garden,” she mused, and wondered if the other guests on her floor realized how accessible their rooms were. She thought it presented delightful possibilities for retreat or reconnaissance.

  A knock on the door of her room distracted her. Reluctantly she left the balcony and walked inside, calling. “Come in.”

  A waiter in a white jacket entered, tray in hand. With a flourish he placed it on the tray table in the corner and wheeled the table to the center of the room. “Madame wishes it here, or on the balcony?”

  “I think I’d fall asleep if I breakfasted on the balcony,” she told him, and they exchanged a long and interested glance. He was a short and stocky young man, quite swarthy, with bright blue eyes and black hair parted in the center like a Victorian bartender. In Bishop’s photograph he’d looked gloomy. He still looked gloomy but it was the sourness of a comedian who could fire off a string of ribald witticisms without a muscle quivering in his face. Marcel was something of a clown, she thought.

  “I’ll sit here,” she said, and promptly sat down.

  He wheeled the table beside her. “Madame has been sent the European petit déjeuner—very small,” he explained with a rueful shrug. “If Madame wishes more she may dial the room service and a waiter will bring whatever she desires. I may pour your coffee, madame?” Before she could protest he leaned over and said in a low voice, “There is one particular counterfeit among the guests, madame, name of Ro
bin Burke-Jones, usually in the garden afternoons, following three o’clock. We are most curious: none of his credentials check out, all data he gave upon registering is false.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Pollifax, smiling at him and nodding. “I think I have everything I need now.”

  “Mon Dieu, one hopes!” he said, returning to his humorous role. “If not—” He shrugged. “If not, the menu for service is on the desk. Jambon ou lard, oeuf plat, oeuf poache sur toaste—” His eyes were positively dancing at her. “My name is Marcel, madame. Bon appetit!” he said with a bow, and walked out.

  My confederate, she thought, and was grateful to him for giving her something specific to do because a night without sleep had left her feeling jaded and just a little disoriented. She realized that she was also ravenous, and began to spread marmalade on her croissants. Over coffee she gazed around the room, which was cool, pale, and high-ceilinged, all white with small touches of blue and a deep red Oriental rug on the floor. Tonight, she decided, she would begin her explorations with the Geiger counter, and as her glance fell upon the bed, heaped high with pillows, she conceded that a brief morning nap would not be decadent.

  Moving to the bed she saw that Marcel had left the door ajar, and that it was slowly opening wider. “Who’s there?” she called out, and when no one answered she walked to the door.

  “Bon jour, madame,” said the small boy she had seen at the entrance. He looked even smaller standing there, and more forlorn, his arms slack at his side. He lifted huge dark eyes to her face. “Would you be my friend, madame?” He pronounced the word m’domm.

  She stared down at him in astonishment. “Are you a patient here?” she asked. He was very brown, very thin and wiry and leggy, with jet-black hair. In the small-boned dark face his eyes looked enormous. She had thought him the gardener’s son.

  He shook his head. “Grandmama is a patient and I am here to be with her. Have you grandchildren, madame?”

  “Yes, three,” she told him.

  From somewhere down the hall a voice called, “Hafez? Hafez!”

  The boy turned with a sigh. “Here, Serafina,” he called.

  A sallow-faced woman in black joined him in the framework of the door, took his hand, bent over him and admonished him in a language new to Mrs. Pollifax.

  Hafez pushed out his underlip. “But this is my friend—one must have friends!” he cried, and there were tears in his eyes.

  The woman polled him away without so much as a glance at Mrs. Pollifax, who took a few steps into the hall to peer after them. Down at the far end of the hall, near the solarium, a man in a wheelchair sat watching the boy and the woman approach. Seeing Mrs. Pollifax he pushed his way back into the room behind him. Hafez and the woman went into the room opposite, two doors closed at once and there was silence.

  A curious child, thought Mrs. Pollifax, the sound of his voice lingering in her ear.

  She walked to the bed, lay down and fell asleep.

  Twice she was awakened by knocks on the door, the first by a young woman in white who said she was a nurse but would return, the second time by a woman in white who said she was a dietician and would return. The third knock brought the secretary of the Clinic, a pigeon-breasted woman profuse with apologies at not having welcomed Mrs. Pollifax earlier. Seeing that it was eleven o’clock Mrs. Pollifax abandoned the idea of further sleep and got up. Lunch, said the secretary, was from noon to one o’clock, and dinner from six to eight. Mrs. Pollifax would be examined by a doctor tomorrow morning.

  “Doctor? I’m only tired,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax.

  “Ah, but it is the prerequisite, a how you say, a must? Everyone is examined, it is the rule of the Clinic. I understand also that you have not been weighed by the nurse yet, nor given menu instruction to the dietician.” She shook her head reproachfully. “But you were tired?”

  “I was asleep.”

  “Ah, yes,” she murmured vaguely, and went out.

  It occurred to Mrs. Pollifax that at such a pace the quietness of the Clinic might be illusion. She had been here in her room three hours, and had already received a nurse, a small boy, a dietician, a waiter, and a secretary. Tomorrow there would also be a doctor. Quickly she changed from her traveling suit to a dress and went downstairs to discover where lunch would be served, and to do a little reconnoitering before anyone else interrupted her.

  She found solariums everywhere, all of them empty at this season of anything but jungle-like rubber plants. There were two more of them on the Reception floor, as well as a pair of television rooms side by side. The dining rooms lay at the far end of the corridor—Mrs. Pollifax could see the waiters moving past glass-paneled doors. She paused at what looked to be the library and glanced in at more dark, heavy furniture and rich oak paneling.

  One piece of dark furniture was occupied by a handsome, deeply tanned young man who appeared to be examining the crease of his trouser. He glanced up and saw her, lifted an eyebrow and said, “Bon jour, madame, but that’s the limit of my French.”

  “It’s just about the limit of mine, too,” she admitted, and decided this was an opportunity to meet her first adult guest. She sank into another large, overstuffed chair and wondered if she would ever be able to get out of it. “You’re waiting for lunch, too?”

  “I am waiting,” he said gloomily, “for something to happen in this place. After eight days here I would consider the dropping of a spoon almost intolerable excitement.”

  Mrs. Pollifax looked at him with amusement. He just missed being impossibly handsome by a nose that had been broken and still looked a little stepped upon; she liked him the better for it because it gave humor to a face that was otherwise all tanned skin, sleepy green eyes, white teeth, and blond hair. “You do look as if you’re accustomed to a faster pace,” she admitted frankly.

  “You’re staring at my purple slacks and red shirt,” he said accusingly. “I thought—I actually believed—Montbrison might have a touch of the Casino about it. After all, it’s patronized by many of the same people, except when they come hare it’s to repair their livers. How was I to know that repairing the liver is almost a religion?”

  “I had no idea,” said Mrs. Pollifax, fascinated by the thought. “Is it?”

  “My dear lady,” he sighed, “I can only tell you that when I saw the Count Ferrari at Monaco in April he had a blonde in one hand and a pile of chips in the other. The count,” he added, “is seventy-five if he’s a day. Here at Montbrison he is suddenly mortal and positively devout about it. He carries pills. A whole bag full of pills. He dines across the room from me, and I swear to you he comes in every evening with a plastic bag of pills. You can see them: red, green, blue, pink.”

  Mrs. Pollifax laughed. “You’re very observant but should you talk about your friend so loudly?”

  “Oh, he’s not a friend, he doesn’t speak English,” the young man said dismissingly. “We only say good evening to one another. I may not be a linguist—I confess to being stuffily British in that sense—but I can say good evening in approximately fifteen languages. Rather handy, that.”

  “Unless you meet them in the morning,” she pointed out.

  He grinned. “That, my dear lady, is a season of the day I avoid at any cost.”

  “If you’re so bored—and if no one obliges yon by dropping a spoon—and since you look so extremely healthy,” she said, “Why do you stay?”

  “Because my doctor sent me here.” He hesitated and then added crisply, “I’m recovering from the Hong Kong flu, you see. And you?”

  Mrs. Pollifax also found herself hesitating and then she said without expression, “Actually I’m recovering from the Hong Kong flu, too.”

  This ought to have produced instant commiseration, a few chuckles or a lively comparing of symptoms but it brought instead a flat, curiously awkward silence. I wonder why, she thought, and tried to find something to say. “I hear it was a particularly virulent strain last winter,” she ventured.

  “Uh—yes,”
he agreed, and suddenly aware of his clumsiness be began to speak when the doors of the dining room swung open. “Lunch!” he cried, springing to his feet. Very thoughtfully he helped her out of her chair. “You have to watch these chairs,” he said sternly. “They’re geared for sleep and that sort of thing. Everything is geared for sleep here, you can disappear forever in one of these damn things. Try the couch next time.”

  “I’ll remember that,” she told him gratefully. “By the way, I’m Mrs. Pollifax.”

  He bowed elegantly. “How do you do. And I’m—Bon jour, mon General,” he called out to an old man leaning heavily on a cane as he negotiated the hall to the dining room. “May I help you?” He was off like an Olympic runner to help the general, leaving Mrs. Pollifax with no name to attach to his acerbic personality.

  In the dining room Mrs. Pollifax was guided to the table reserved for the occupant of room 113; the number was discreetly displayed on the shining damask cloth between the vase of wild flowers and the oil-and-vinegar tray. The table itself was placed in a corner of the first dining room, which gave her a strategic glimpse of those sharing her ell but no view at all of the other two rooms. The general was helped to a single table across from her in the center of the room and then her tanned young friend wandered off to his own table. Presently a subdued Hafez was brought in by the sallow woman in black and Mrs. Pollifax was surprised to see that they went to the long table for six by the window. It suggested a large party; he had mentioned a grandmother but the woman with him was not old enough, and gave every evidence of being a maid or companion. She wondered who the other people could be, and where they were.