Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief Read online

  "Borrowed," said Farrell with dignity.

  "—from the safe you were robbing."

  "You've got it all wrong," Farrell told her indignantly. "I protested very firmly to Vica about rifling a safe, at which point he reminded me that he was paying me a great deal of money to find and authenticate the Caesar document that this man Raphael claims he has in his possession. And it was Raphael's villa where I was shot."

  "But who is this Mr. Raphael?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "Vica is not given to confidences but his butler was a shade more approachable and said that Raphael had arrived a year ago in a huge yacht, leased a villa and settled down in it, presumably with the Julius Caesar document that Ambrose wants for his collection. What Vica did tell me was that he wanted to stop all the cat-and-mouse dickering and learn whether Raphael really owned an authentic signature, the man was being very tiresome, he refused to let Vica inspect it and he was wasting a great deal of Vica's time. Not to mention his money," he said, adding simply, "He's paying me thousands more than I'd make in three months' time in my art gallery."

  "Art gallery?" said Kate, startled.

  He looked at her as if he'd forgotten her presence. "Yes, art gallery. In Mexico City."

  "But there were three cars chasing us," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax. "There has to be something more."

  Farrell sighed. "Unfortunately yes—since four days ago. Something different and very disturbing. I don't think I'm losing my mind." He stopped. "But if I'm right—" He frowned. "Disturbing."

  "The funeral," said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding.

  Kate pushed a glass of wine toward Farrell and he gave her another startled glance. Sipping it he said, "I hope I'm not right but I have reason to believe—it's why I especially needed you and Cyrus."

  "Why us especially?"

  He sighed again heavily, and Mrs. Pollifax saw how tired he was. "Because the two of you were with me, and only you can help identify the man I've seen here. In Sicily." With a wtv smile he said, "This will need a trip down memory lane for you, Duchess, it needs remembering Zambia."

  "Zambia!" she exclaimed, and smiled. "Where Cyrus and I first met, and where you were working with the freedom fighters—

  "Yes, and you were there on safari—"

  She nodded. "Yes, because Carstairs and Bishop had intercepted a message that implied Aristotle was on the safari, too."

  "Who's Aristotle?" asked Kate.

  "A very professional and very experienced assassin," she said quickly. "The Department knew nothing of him except his code name of Aristotle."

  Farrell nodded. "He'd racked up quite a record, at least five known assassinations in Europe, one in the United States and one in South America, a man so colorless—and always working alone—that nobody ever noticed him or his gun. He'd hit and simply vanish."

  "Well, there were disguises," she pointed out. "When he was about to shoot Zambia's president he was—" She stopped and frowned. "Farrell, why are we talking about this?"

  "Because I think Aristotle's here in Sicily."

  "Nonsense," she told him. "Aristotle's safely tucked away in prison in France, given a very long sentence. For life, wasn't it?"

  "I know," said Farrell softly, "but four days ago, not long after my arrival here on the island, I could swear I was introduced to him. He had a wife with him, they were introduced to me as Mr. and Mrs. Davidson. Five feet five in height, a mustache now, eyes that struck me as very, very familiar. Piercing eyes—you can't disguise eyes, Duchess. There was one other detail: do you recall how you described the odd walk of the man on safari who turned out to be Aristotle?"

  She looked at him in alarm. " 'A strut and a stutter.' "

  He nodded. "That's why I asked for you and Cyrus. You both traveled with him on safari before you knew he was Aristotle, which is how you came to recognize his 'strut-with--a-stutter,' as you called it, after he'd completely changed his appearance."

  "But Farrell," she said reasonably, "how can this man Davidson be Aristotle when Aristotle's in a French prison?"

  "That's been my dilemma," Farrell said. "I keep telling myself Aristotle can't be in Sicily but at the same time I'm sure that he is, and I have to say," he added dryly, "that given the events of this evening—and how diligently men want to kill me —I'm inclined to think my instincts could be pretty damn sound. I've upset someone, and it can't be Julius Caesar. I testified briefly at Aristotle's trial, you know, and if he recognized me, too, four days ago—" He left the rest unsaid.

  "Where did you meet this man?"

  "At Ambrose Vica's villa."

  "Oh-oh," said Mrs. Pollifax.

  Farrell nodded. "Yes. He and his wife were just leaving Vica —they'd lunched with him—they were standing in the hall as I walked through the door. Vica introduced them and jovially explained that Mrs. Davidson was about to fly to the United States for the funeral of her mother in Virginia."

  "At last the funeral," breathed Mrs. Pollifax.

  "Exactly. So I waited politely, several feet away, studying the paintings on the wall while Vica wished this Mrs. Davidson a safe trip. I'm very good at eavesdropping and she was a talkative woman. The name of Blaise was overheard as they finished their farewells, as well as her destination, Reston, Virginia."

  "So that's why the funeral and the photographs," said Mrs. Pollifax eagerly. "Aristotle can change his appearance like a chameleon, but if you have the wife's picture, taken just this last week at a funeral, and can match it with old photos . . . ?" She fumbled in her purse for the photographs.

  He nodded. "It's something that could prove I'm not crazy."

  "Or that you are," pointed out Kate with a grin. "I didn't realize assassins ever had wives."

  Mrs. Pollifax handed her photos to Farrell, and glancing over them he said, "Here she is, this is the one." He drew out a pen and circled her face and Kate and Mrs. Pollifax leaned across the table to look.

  "I remember her," said Mrs. Pollifax. "A small woman, sharp-featured, cried a lot."

  "You keep referring to him as Aristotle," complained Kate, "but surely he has a real name?"

  "They finally discovered it, yes. It's Bimms, Reshad Bimms."

  "Bimms?" echoed Kate.

  "Extraordinary, isn't it? All those killings and his name is Bimms. Pakistani mother, English father, age forty-three at time of trial. Army-trained, expert at sharpshooting, dishonorable discharge from Army for reasons unstated. His wife attended the trial only once and then, it was said, she panicked at the publicity and photo-taking and wasn't seen again. But there'll be at least one picture of her in the newspaper files."

  "Did you personally see her the day she came to the trial?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  He shook his head. "Only a quick glimpse but I do remember the news photo of her. She's my only hope, Duchess, considering how Aristotle—what did the papers call him?"

  "The Invisible Man, of course. What else?"

  "Exactly. When you knocked that gun out of his hand, Duchess, he'd actually turned himself into a black man, hadn't he? With dye?"

  She said slowly, "Yes, but what we're talking about here, Farrell, is a man who was given a long prison sentence in Europe, yet suddenly you say he's in Sicily. It's very hard to believe."

  "Of course it's hard to believe," he said crossly. "I keep telling myself it's impossible, do you have to sing the same anthem?"

  Frowning, Kate said, "It should be easy to learn more if this man Davidson is acquainted with Ambrose Vica."

  "For whom you're supposed to be authenticating a signature of Julius Caesar," Mrs. Pollifax reminded him.

  "Interesting, isn't it?" said Farrell. "Especially when Aristotle is expert at bumping off heads of state and political nuisances for anybody with money, and Vica's reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the world."

  Frankly puzzled, Mrs. Pollifax decided it was time to return them to the practicalities of the present: she turned to Kate. "I was asleep when we arrived here, do you think we were followed to your
aunt's house?"

  Kate looked troubled. "I was able to lose the green Fiat in Palermo but when I turned up the hill to the villa—I just don't know. There was a car behind us at a distance, but of course it was too dark to see its color. I figured there would always be a car behind us at some distance, I had to take a chance."

  They were silent, considering this, and then Mrs. Pollifax sighed. "If we put aside the distraction of Aristotle, Farrell—"

  "—only at risk," he said.

  "/f we put aside Aristotle," she repeated firmly, "your sudden popularity could still have something to do with Julius Caesar, and what you were looking for in the safe. That's where you were first shot and followed, isn't it? Let's go back to it. You said you 'snatched what you could' from the safe. What did you take?"

  "I don't want to put aside Aristotle," he told her, "but if you insist—" He reached into the pockets of his voluminous smock and brought out a small framed daguerreotype and a sheaf of papers that he dropped on the table. "This is as much as I could grab from Raphael's safe, at least I was told it was his house before I fled with bullets flying all around me."

  Kate grinned. "You have quite a developed sense of the dramatic."

  "Impertinent child . . , it's hoped you read Italian because these papers are all in Italian. As for the daguerreotype" —he plucked the framed picture from the group—"it seems to be someone's relative, aged eight or nine, circa 1800."

  Kate, scanning the top document, put it to one side. "I can only recognize words here and there but this one looks a legal will. And this one has the word affittare," she said, scowling over it, "which I believe means rent, so it's probably the lease on the house of—ah, signed Albert Raphael. But this—what would this be?" Her frown deepened. "A list of names or of places with a lot of numbers."

  Mrs. Pollifax leaned over to study it. "Did your Mr. Vica happen to mention how Raphael comes by his wealth?" she asked of Farrell.

  "Shipping and oil was all that he said . . . Another rich one.

  Mrs. Pollifax picked up the sheet to examine it more closely. "I wonder what the numbers represent? Here's Osepchuk, for instance, followed by nine digits. A telephone number? But the word or name of Schweinfurth has twenty numbers following it, and that certainly can't be a phone number." She glanced up as Franca wandered into the kitchen to cut a slice from a loaf of bread.

  Kate said, "Franca, look at this, will you? Do numbers like this mean anything to you?"

  Farrell made a noise of protest and looked daggers at Kate but to no avail.

  With her mouth full of bread Franca walked over to look at the sheet of paper. "Looks like code," she said and continued walking out of the room.

  " 'Looks like code,' " mocked Farrell. "What would she know about it? And how many colored wigs does she have, and why on earth does she wear them?"

  "They please her," Kate said curtly. "She's never been exactly conventional, even in the States, and who cares?"

  Farrell said stiffly, "I'm sure I don't, but you have to admit it's unusual."

  Kate smiled. "Everything is unusual here." Seeing Mrs. Pollifax yawn and look at her watch she said, "Look, we've all had a long day, I think we should wait for morning to decide how to get you out of Sicily."

  Farrell's jaw dropped. "Get me out of Sicily! Are you crazy?"

  She said coolly, "Mr. Vica must have advanced you some of the money that brought you here."

  "Money!" he said in astonishment. "You think I'm going to leave without finding Aristotle, as well as Julius Caesar's signature? Or who keeps trying to shoot me, and why?"

  "That's all very well," she said hotly, "but what can you do? You can't just walk out of here, someone could be parked down the hill right now, waiting for you. I told you it's possible we were followed here."

  He said scornfully, "You surprise me. The Duchess tells me that you're CIA, and I gained the impression that you think yourself competent, but if you can't stand the heat—?"

  She flushed in anger. Half out of her chair she said, "If that's what you think— Oh, how dare you!"

  "Stop it," cried Mrs. Pollifax. "What's wrong with the two of you? Don't you see that we've got to think what to do? Kate's rescued us, Farrell, and given us a place to hide until the coast is clear, and quarreling is OUT. There's Ambrose Vica, for instance: I assume it was his car that you abandoned in Erice, what do you plan about that? For all you know he may be waiting patiently for you to return from your safe-cracking adventure three nights ago. We really have to learn whether he's involved or perfectly innocent—you owe him that much, surely."

  Farrell snorted. "Innocent when he sent me to an empty house that wasn't empty?"

  She said flatly, "I may be old-fashioned but certain courtesies ought to be observed, such as a man being innocent until proven guilty."

  Farrell said crossly, "If you feel that way, call him yourself tomorrow and tell him his car's in Erice."

  Mercifully they were interrupted by Peppino, who walked into the kitchen carrying a tray with three kerosene lamps, bandages, and small jars of what looked to be ointment. He said, "Gino and Blasi are on guard, Caterina. I am to see to this man's wound, which Franca says is not good."

  Mrs. Pollifax said wonderingly, "My goodness, how many men work for your aunt, Kate?"

  "They work with her, not for her." Rising, Kate took one of the lamps and handed it to Mrs. Pollifax. "Let's sleep on all this, I'm sure we'll all be brilliant in the morning, possibly even polite," she said with a dark glance at Farrell. "Come, I'll make sure you find your room again."

  It was a very nice little room, thought Mrs. Pollifax: friendly and cheerful with whitewashed stucco walls, two wooden chairs and a plain small table, and loveliest of all a bed with a pair of pajamas lying across it, and a toothbrush. Extinguishing the lamp she quickly undressed, climbed into bed and two minutes later was sound asleep.

  Tuesday

  MRS. POLLIFAX WOKE TO BRIGHT SUNLIGHT----- she had neglected to draw the curtains across the window—and lay wondering for a moment where she was, and then, remembering, sat up and looked at her watch: it was only six o'clock. What had wakened her was the sound of men's voices outside, and leaving her bed she went to the window and peered out. By daylight she could see more of the house than she'd glimpsed the night before, and she was surprised to see that an ell had been added in the rear, a rather inhospitable-looking addition, she thought, with no windows in their proper place but slits high up near the roof, on which several bubbles of glass implied sky-

  lights. From her window she could see the garden; beyond this the unpaved drive disappeared down the hill on which the Villa Franca stood and now she could see what had awakened her: a small parade of men were issuing in single file from the opposite end of the house, each one carrying a shovel; she counted seven of them before they disappeared down the hill.

  A curious sight, she thought, seven men carrying shovels at six o'clock in the morning.

  "Now where is the bathroom," she murmured, "to the right or to the left?" She felt that she could have slept another three or four hours but as a guest of Kate's aunt this struck her as inappropriate, and more to the point she wanted to learn how Farrell was this morning. Opening the door to the hall she discovered that her suitcase had been removed from the trunk of Kate's car and had been deposited there. She fell on it with enthusiasm and presently, washed and dressed, she set out to reconnoiter. If there should be coffee available she thought she might even manage some serious thinking about Farrell's insistence that he'd seen Aristotle, but in the light of day, and following six hours of deep sleep, this seemed curiously unreal and quite absurd.

  Farrell's door was closed and so she continued down the hall toward the kitchen, passing a huge living room, too dark to have been noticed in the night and much too baroque for her taste. It held a collection of marble tables, fringed lamps, overstuffed sofas, an array of hunting rifles over the mantel above a line of gilt-framed photographs, as well as ferns drooping and dying near
windows swathed in dusty velvet. It was a relief to reach the kitchen.

  To her surprise Igiea was standing over the stove, and at the table sat Kate and her aunt Franca, as well as three men in work clothes who immediately rose and left at Mrs. Pollifax's appearance.

  "Coffee?" said Kate's aunt cheerfully.

  "Love some. How is Farrell?"

  Kate shook her head. "Not so good. Peppino cleaned his wound last night and says it's infected. He's running a small temperature and Franca's sent for Norina."

  "Doctor?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  Kate grinned. "No, Norina is the resident witch."

  "I beg your pardon?" said Mrs. Pollifax, startled.

  "Witch," repeated Franca.

  Mrs. Pollifax turned her attention to Franca and tried not to react to her appearance. This morning her hair was a very tender shade of green; she wore no makeup but long silver earrings instead, and a smock much like the one Farrell had appeared in, heavily daubed with paint. Without the distractions of kohl and mascara she looked a sturdy and practical woman, her piquant face weathered by time and sun and yet at the same time, despite this earthy quality, there was something intriguingly childlike about her that interested Mrs. Pollifax. "I see," she said, adding pleasantly, "Then I hope she's a very good witch." On a more practical note she said, "I think it might be wise that Farrell not heal too quickly or he'll be off in an hour or two, hunting down whoever shot him—or others," she added with a glance at Kate. "And get himself killed. He should rest today."

  Franca looked amused. "I will convey that message to Norina. Kate has explained to you that he's quite safe here? She has also"—her eyes had a twinkle in them—"explained to me that this Mr. Farrell is a very difficult man."

  Mrs. Pollifax shook her head. "On the contrary, I've known

  Farrell for a long time, and once in quite desperate circumstances, and there's no braver, more gallant man in the world. Absolutely."

  Franca gave her a curious glance. "I see. Yes. Well, that's very interesting but in the meantime this angry man is asleep, sound asleep."