Palm for Mrs. Pollifax Page 6

  He sighed. “Mon Dieu, who does not?” He lifted his eyes heavenward.

  “He seems very upset, even frightened. I tried to pay a call on his grandmother less than an hour ago, to speak to her about it.” She shivered. “I was carried bodily out of the room by two men.”

  He whistled faintly. “That is surprising and not very hospitable. Let me think. The Zabyan party,” he said thoughtfully. “They occupy rooms 150, 152, 154. Their meals are served to them in their rooms with the exception of the boy and the maid. I have myself delivered some of the meals, but only to room 154, where a man in white jacket accepts the trays.” He closed his eyes. “Their names are—yes, I have it—Madame Parviz and grandson Hafez, Serafina Fahmy, Fouad Murad, and Munir Hassan.” He opened his eyes. “Other than this, I know nothing. They were not investigated further because, you see, they were not guests here when Fraser was killed.”

  It was Mrs. Pollifax’s turn to frown. “You’re quite sure of that?”

  “Quite, madame. They arrived that same day, shortly after, but they were not here at that time. I will, of course, make inquiries further.”

  “Oh please do,” she told him. “And there’s one other thing: When can I get into the kitchen?”

  His glance fell to the jewelry case and he smiled. “Ah, yes I see. But tonight no. Saturday—tomorrow—yes, there will be no one here then.” He glanced toward the stairs. “I must go,” he said. “Give me five minutes to get past the night porter. Technically I have been off duty four hours, and should be in my room in the village.”

  He moved to the stairs, listened a moment, and then with a wave of his hand to her vanished.

  She reflected that she had at least learned the name of Hafez’s grandmother, and that Marcel was vigilantly on guard outside the Clinic. She turned on her scintillator counter and crossed the hall to the door marked LABORATORIES. Inside this door lay a long narrow hall with small rooms opening from it. Of particular interest was the large storage room at the end of the hall. Her flashlight roamed past crates of peaches, spices, chocolate, and coffee. Another row contained crates of sterile cotton and cardboard cartons from various drug laboratories of Europe, none of them causing any change on her counter. At the far corner she found an aluminum chute standing against the wall, and above it a window of an exact size to fit both the chute and the crates. She realized this was where supplies were unloaded. The window would be opened, the chute locked in place, the crates taken from a truck and sent sliding into the basement. She stood on a box and peered out of the window; her flashlight picked out cement and a latticework trellis. Tomorrow she would look for the window from the outside.

  She had given Marcel his allotted five minutes. Denied the kitchen she began to have pleasant thoughts of bed, and returning to the lobby ascended the stairs to the Reception floor. This time, however, she was not so fortunate. The night concierge stood at his post by the switchboard leafing through a magazine. Shocked, he gasped, “Madame!” and rattled off a string of words in French, all of them alarmed.

  She said firmly, “I’ve been looking for someone to take care of my emeralds.” She removed the pendant from her pocket and placed it on the counter between them. “I saw a sign while I was brushing my teeth—in the bathroom, you understand—that said all valuables should be placed in your safe. How could I possibly sleep after reading that?”

  He understood English; he nodded but he had trouble removing his eyes from the play of light across the emeralds. “But, madame,” he countered, “I have no key. Only the head concierge can open the safe. I am sadly sorry. At seven he is on duty.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh well.” She put away the pendant with regret. “Bon soir, then.”

  “Yes, madame—and try to sleep a little? At seven he comes.”

  She nodded and continued up the stairs to her own floor. As she opened the door to room 113 she glanced down the hall and saw Hafez standing silently outside his room watching her. He was too far away for her to see his face clearly; he simply stood there, still dressed in white shorts and shirt, and then he turned abruptly and disappeared.

  It was 12:05. The Clinic, thought Mrs. Pollifax, seemed to have a hidden but vivid night life of its own.

  Locking her door she climbed into bed, reflected that she had at least made a beginning, and on that note fell asleep, entering a dream where she wandered through a labyrinth of dark rooms, each of them colder by degrees until she reached a hall thick with white frost. In her sleep Mrs. Pollifax stirred restlessly, and shivered.

  She opened her eyes to find that a cold wind had sprung up and was blowing through the door to the balcony, presenting her with the choice of getting up and closing the door or getting up to look for a blanket. Neither prospect appealed, she wanted only to sleep. As she lay and rebelliously considered these alternatives a curious thought occurred to her: she had not left the balcony door open, she had closed and locked it.

  A moment later she realized that not only was the door open but that someone else was in her room with her.

  Seven

  Her awareness was a combination of sixth sense and of those nearly imperceptible but speaking sounds comprised of motion, faint rustlings, and haste. She remembered the lamp sitting only a few feet away from her on the night table and tried to slowly disengage her right hand from its tangle of sheets. If she could reach the lamp before her unknown guest heard the rustling of the covers—

  Over by the desk a thin beam of light appeared down near the floor, a light scarcely broader than a hairline. Caution vanished. Mrs. Pollifax freed her hands, swept back the sheets, switched on the light and stared in astonishment. “You!” she cried.

  Robin Burke-Jones slowly rose to his feet from the floor. “Damn it, yes,” he said, looking shaken.

  “And through my balcony door—”

  “Sorry about that. I suppose you want my hands up and all that?”

  “If you’ll feel more comfortable that way,” she told him, groping for her slippers and wondering exactly where and how he fitted into this. Marcel had warned her, of course, but still she admitted a deep sense of disappointment because she had liked this young man. “At the moment I’d prefer to know just what you’re doing in my room at”—she glanced at the clock—“at half-past one in the morning.”

  Defiantly he said, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell you.”

  “And you’ll be damned if you don’t,” she reminded him.

  “A typical double-bind situation, I believe, but you don’t have to rub it in.” His voice was reproachful. “Look here, I don’t suppose if I promised to leave the Clinic first thing in the morning, ever so discreetly—”

  She ignored him; she had just seen that her jewelry case stood open on the desk. “Have you a gun?”

  He looked actually offended. “Of course not.”

  “I think I’d rather see for myself if you’re telling the truth. Do you mind keeping your hands up?”

  “Of course I mind,” he said snappishly. “Have I any choice?”

  “None at all.” She approached him gingerly, noticing for the first time his clothes, a startling contrast to his daytime costumes, being entirely and soberly black: black pullover, black slacks and black rubber-soled shoes. Patting him she found no gun but there was an oddly shaped bulge in his left pocket. “Out,” she said sternly. “Empty it.”

  “A scandal’s not going to help the Clinic,” he warned her. “If I go quietly—if I swear to you—”

  “Out,” she told him.

  He sighed. From his pocket he drew a small black object that looked like a truncated binocular. “One jeweler’s glass,” he said resignedly, and digging again he brought out her emerald pendant and two ruby necklaces. “The diamond pin dropped on the floor by the desk,” he told her, and added bitterly, “I suppose you know that every damned one of these pieces—for which you can send me to prison for years—is a blasted fake?”

  Mrs. Pollifax stared incredulously at the display and then
lifted her glance to him accusingly. “But you’re only a jewel thief!” she cried.

  “What to you mean ‘only’?”

  “Why didn’t you say so at once!” she demanded. “I thought—I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  He backed away from her in astonishment. “Relieved? I don’t think my hearing’s been affected but you said relieved?”

  “Yes, terribly. It makes such a difference.” She crossed to the windows, closed the balcony door and drew the curtains, really pleased to discover that her instincts had been sound after all. “Are you what they call a cat burglar?”

  He sank into a chair. “I’ve never really thought about it. God I wish I had a drink,” he said with feeling.

  “Why were you going to steal my jewels if you knew they were fakes?”

  “If you must know, they’re damned good fakes and there’s a market for good fakes. Look here, are you going to call the police?”

  She considered this thoughtfully and shook her head. “On the whole, I think it wiser not—provided, of course, that you return Lady Palisbury’s diamond.”

  He gaped at her. “Good God, you’re clairvoyant!”

  “It’s simply a matter of listening and putting things together,” she told him reassuringly. “Lady Palisbury had lost her diamond and now I discover a professional second-story man on the premises. You are a professional, aren’t you?”

  “I was,” he said bleakly. “Until tonight.”

  “So you’ve never been caught before! You must be very good then?”

  “Oh, one of the best,” he told her dryly. “God, I wish I had a drink.”

  “I’ll get you one.” She patted him on the arm and went to her suitcase from which she removed two envelopes of instant mix and a pair of paper cups. “I always like to travel prepared,” she told him. “Excuse me a minute.” She went into the bathroom, filled the cups with hot water and returned, stirring them with the handle of a toothbrush.

  “Cocoa?” he said disbelievingly.

  “It helps to settle the nerves,” she told him, pulling up a chair tête-à-tête. “You do realize, of course, that stealing jewelry is dishonest.”

  He managed a feeble smile. “I’m surprised it’s just occurred to you.”

  “Have you tried more conventional work?”

  He shrugged. “On occasion, but never with zest. I’m afraid I like the danger. I especially enjoy working alone.”

  She considered this and nodded. She could appreciate his point. “It’s been remunerative?”

  “Rather.” She received the flash of a smile. “I’ve managed to salt away a few choice pieces of real estate. Clothes of course are a huge expense, and I drive a Mercedes convertible.” He sighed. “The thing is, it takes a damnable lot of money to be rich.”

  “Mmmm,” she murmured, studying him. “There’s no import business, either?”

  He shook his head.

  “And I don’t suppose Robin Burke-Jones is your real name?”

  “Sorry about that,” he apologized. “Actually it’s plain Robert Jones.” He sighed. “It’s taken a damned lot of work turning myself into Burke-Jones and I wish the hell you’d tell me what you’re going to do about me.”

  “I’m thinking about that myself,” she admitted. “For the moment I wish you’d tell me how you arrived at my balcony without any noise. The gravel—how did you keep it from crunching like popcorn under your feet?”

  “With the proper equipment—in this case padded runners—it’s no bother.” His glance suddenly narrowed and his face changed. “Look here,” he said, “there’s something wrong about this. About you, I mean. Surely you ought to be in hysterics or tears over finding a burglar in your room? Most women would have screamed or gone into shock by now, and you should never never be sitting here plying me with cocoa and inquiring about my techniques.”

  “I am always interested in people who do things well,” she said with dignity.

  He put down his cup. “I don’t believe it. You shouldn’t have given me cocoa, it’s bringing me to my senses. Those jewels being fake—” He scowled at her. “You’re not in desperate straits, are you? I mean I could lend you a hundred pounds if you’re in trouble.” A thought struck him and he added politely, “Or give you them.”

  She laughed. “I’m really very touched, but thank you, no.”

  “You’re not going to blackmail me, and you’re not going to inform—”

  Mrs. Pollifax put down her cup and said crisply, “On the contrary, I said nothing about not blackmailing you.”

  He drew in his breath sharply. “I see. Yes, it would be that, of course.”

  “I propose an agreement,” she suggested. “Terms, shall we call them? I shall say nothing at all of tonight’s events, and nothing of your—uh—career so long as I hear sometime tomorrow that Lady Palisbury has found her missing diamond.”

  “Those are your only terms?” He looked taken aback.

  “Almost. Have you robbed any other people here as well?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not my technique. I never commit myself until just before I’m ready to leave a place—it’s too dangerous—but by that time I know precisely who to rob and how. I do my rehearsing ahead of time,” he admitted. “Like tonight. As a matter of fact I’ve spent the last three nights out on the roofs—”

  “Roofs!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes, testing exits and entrances and generally getting the lay of the land. If you must know,” he went on, “I overheard you telling the night porter a few hours ago that you had emeralds to put in the safe. Your voice carried, and I was in the solarium. I decided I’d better pay a visit ahead of schedule and see what you have. Most people don’t bother with safes, they never believe anything will happen to their jewels.”

  This had the ring of truth. “And Lady Palisbury?”

  He sighed. “No sense of property, that woman. She left her diamond out on her balcony two nights ago. Simply left it on the table.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “Not even sporting of her. I ask you, what was a man to do?”

  “Yes, I can see the temptation,” said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding. “Tell me, how did you happen to choose this particular profession?”

  “Is this part of the deal?” he asked darkly.

  “No, but I’m terribly curious,” she confided. “I’d feel so much more satisfied knowing.”

  He made a face. “There’s no point in going into it, it’s an extremely dull and vulgar story.”

  “But I enjoy dull and vulgar stories,” she told him.

  He shrugged distastefully. “If you insist, then. To be perfectly blunt about it, my name is not only not Burke-Jones but my father was a locksmith. Soho in London. Oh, very low caste,” he said with a scowl. “As the eldest of six children—I can’t possibly describe the accent I spoke with, the English very properly say that speech is breeding—my father taught me his trade so that by the time I was fifteen I could pick a mean lock.” He sighed. “He went crooked just once, my father. For the sake of the money and God knows he needed it. Somebody offered him a small fortune to open a safe and—well, he was caught and died in jail. Of grief, I think. And that, dear lady, stirred in me a hatred of all ‘systems’—that an honest trade brought debts and one fall from grace brought death and ruin.”

  “Life isn’t fair, no,” she agreed. “So it’s anger that motivated you?”

  “A very typical juvenile anger,” he admitted, “but serving its purpose. I left school, totted up my assets—negligible—and decided to change myself. Went to acting school. No Oxford or Eton for me. No Hamlet, either. Acting school trimmed off the rough edges, put the h’s back in my speech and removed the accent. Then I went off to the Riviera in borrowed clothes and made my first heist. But you see by the time the anger wore off I was too damned good at my trade to do anything else. There’s nothing else I can do.”

  “Overspecialization,” said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding sympathetically.

  “A certain amount
of hedonism, too,” he admitted.

  “I have often thought,” she said idly, “that police and criminals have a great deal in common, the only difference being that they’re on opposite sides of the law.”

  “Rather a large difference,” he pointed out dryly.

  She shook her head. “Purely one of intention, I’m sure. Both live by wit and deduction, don’t they, and share a common isolation? It’s always struck me that Sherlock Holmes took far more pleasure in talking to Professor Moriarty than to Doctor Watson.”

  He gave her a quizzical glance. “You’ve rather an unusual way of looking at things, haven’t you?”

  “I’m only thinking that you have invaluable talents,” she told him thoughtfully.

  He glanced at the clock on her night table. “Which I’d jolly well better put to work if I’m going to get Lady Palisbury’s diamond back before dawn. You’re really not going to call the police?”

  She shook her head.

  “And you’ll let me—just walk out of this room?”

  “You may consider yourself a free man.”

  He held out his hand and grinned at her. “I say, this has really been awfully pleasant. A bit strange but pleasant.”

  “It has,” agreed Mrs. Pollifax, getting to her feet and beaming at him. “Actually it’s been delightful. Which door will you leave by?”

  “I’ll feel much more secure leaving the way I came,” he assured her. “And look, if I can ever do anything for you in return—my room’s directly above yours, number 213.”

  “Number 213,” she repeated, and watched him vanish over the railing of her balcony. Although she listened very closely she could hear nothing, not even a whisper of gravel A fantastic performance, she thought, and as she turned off her light—there seemed no point in bothering with locks again—she reflected that Robin could prove to be something of a jewel himself.

  Eight

  In the morning there was a doctor, a large, hearty man named Dr. Lichtenstein. While he poked and prodded her they made polite conversation about America; Mrs. Pollifax obligingly coughed for him and he poked and prodded her still more. “Very good,” he said at last, and prescribed a metabolism test, a lung X-ray, three blood tests, and an electrocardiogram.