Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief Read online

  "And Mrs. Pollifax—" He didn't finish this, he was wondering what on earth Farrell had gotten into, and what might have happened to him and to Mrs. Pollifax and Kate Rossiter once Guise lost them.

  "I've checked hotels in Palermo," Guise said. "No dice. That's where they were heading. Also," he added, "I know enough Italian to check obituaries. Nothing there either."

  Obituaries, thought Carstairs. Alarmed as he was by the implications of that word he was aware that it triggered something in his memory that had been overlooked. He said sternly, "Find them, Guise; I can give you one lead, and it's the best we have. Write down the name of Ambrose Vica. He's a wealthy collector who's currently occupying his estate in Sicily, I'm not sure where—"

  "Near Palermo," cut in Bishop.

  "Right—near Palermo. Someone ought to know where he lives, and when you find it keep the place under surveillance. The man that Mrs. Pollifax met in Erice has been staying with this Ambrose Vica; you may very well find that Mrs. Pollifax and Rossiter are there now. Let's hope so."

  "Okay, got it. V-i-c-a?"

  "Yes. And ring back as soon as she's found, will you? I don't like my people disappearing."

  He hung up and swore. "Two cars following, as well as Guise?" He shook his head. "What in heaven's name has Farrell gotten into?"

  "More to the point," said Bishop testily, "is what he's gotten Emily into. Those two hoodlums sound like gunmen to me. What about Rossiter's aunt?"

  "We'll save that for later, you know the problems we had in reaching Rossiter. In any case, Guise said that Rossiter was driving the car, remember? Vica's is the more likely place—if they made it there."

  "If," said Bishop gloomily.

  Carstairs sat back in his chair, frowning. "Guise mentioned obituaries, Bishop, why does that—" He snapped his fingers. "The funeral! Those photographs Farrell asked us for, and the obituaries I asked you for. Why haven't I seen them?"

  Bishop said patiently, "Because when I mentioned it to you in passing—I believe you were on your way to a conference Upstairs—you only looked at me blankly and hurried away. It's on my desk."

  "It?" said Carstairs with a lift of a brow.

  "There's only one, from her local paper."

  "Get it."

  "Yes, sir." A moment later he was back to place the single news clipping on the desk for Carstairs to read. There was no photograph of the deceased, and the obituary was meager: Estelle Blaise, widow of Marcus Blaise, appeared to have lived an eventless life, leaving behind three children: a son Marcus Jr., of Washington; two daughters, Mary-Marinela Asquith of Reston, Virginia, Jane-Petulia Bimms of England, and two grandchildren.

  "This doesn't mean a blasted thing to me," complained Carstairs. "Apparently Estelle Blaise was a homemaker, wife and mother. Small social life. Three children." He read it again and scowled. "There's nothing here at all, except for her penchant for giving the daughters perfectly ridiculous names, and the fact that one of them lives out of the country. What can Farrell have been thinking of?"

  "Shall I toss it then?"

  Carstairs hesitated. "Yes . . . No—wait." His scowl deepened. "Farrell has to have had a reason for asking this of us, you'd better check the files and see if we've anything on Blaise, Asquith or Bimms."

  "Right, sir." Bishop left, and ten minutes later rushed back.

  Carstairs, glancing up, said, "You look as if you've seen a ghost, Bishop. What's the matter?"

  "Here's the ghost." Flinging a sheet of paper on Carstairs' desk he said breathlessly, "We have quite a dossier on Jane-Petulia, wife of Rashad Bimms."

  "Kashad Bimms?" repeated Carstairs. "That has a familiar— Good God," he said in astonishment, "Aristotle?"

  Bishop nodded. "That was a tough one, wasn't it? Took years finding him. Actually it needed Mrs. Pollifax to catch him and—" He stopped and gaped at Carstairs. "Farrell asked for Mrs. Pollifax and Cyrus—and all three of them were in Zambia when Aristotle was arrested, in fact Mrs. Pollifax was the one who—but Aristotle's in prison!"

  Carstairs, staring at the report, said thoughtfully, "Apparently Farrell doesn't think he's in prison. Get me Paris—the Sûreté—on the double, Bishop. Ask for Bernard."

  "You bet," said Bishop and hurried back to his office.

  While he waited for his call to Paris to be put through, Carstairs scanned the report on Rashad Bimms, only too familiar by now. Turning the page he found himself staring at a prison photograph of Rashad Bimms, and attached to this was a newspaper photo of his wife as she made her exit from the courtroom. Mrs. Bimms, surrounded by newsmen, had flung up a hand to conceal her face but a photographer had nevertheless caught her from an angle below her upflung arm and her features were quite clear. Carstairs reached for the pictures taken at the funeral by Mrs. Pollifax two days ago, and placed them next to the news photo. A few years might have passed but only the hat worn by Mrs. Bimms was different: he found her easily in the group at the burial.

  He sat back in his chair, stunned by the coincidence. It was certainly difficult to believe that Aristotle was out of prison; if he remembered correctly, Bimms had been given a sentence that would keep him safely in a cell until he was nearly one hundred, if he lived that long. Yet Farrell—in Sicily—had somehow known that Aristotle's wife was going to be at a funeral in Reston, Virginia, two days ago. He must have met her somewhere, and considering how little publicity Mrs. Bimms had been given at the trial, Farrell could only have known who she was if she had been accompanied by her husband.

  He returned to the photo of Aristotle and studied the bland and expressionless face that nature had composed so there was nothing distinguishing about it at all. He was Everyman and No-Man .., a cipher . . , the perfect screen for innumerable disguises.

  He was thinking about this when his call came through from Bernard at the Sûreté, and he dispensed at once with formalities. "Bernard," he said, "I've only one question: is our old friend Aristotle, neé Rashad Bimms, still in prison over there?"

  The reply was passionate, and so loud that Carstairs had to move the receiver a few inches from his ear, and when he hung up he was shaken. Bishop, hurrying back into the office, said, "I couldn't listen in, Mornajay needed the report on—" One look at Carstairs' face and he poured him a cup of coffee. "Here," he told him, "you look as if you could use this."

  "I could use something even stronger," he said, and Car-stairs began to quietly swear at officialdom, corruption and various other insanities of society, while Bishop patiently waited for him to exorcise his anger.

  "Aristotle's escaped?" he said at last.

  "Worse—he was pardoned," Carstairs told him. "Eight days ago."

  "Pardoned ! Aristotle? "'

  "Heads have rolled. At the Sûreté they're livid, incensed, furious, and the government's launched a hush-hush investigation, a very quiet one because it is extremely embarrassing for them, needless to say, as well as alarming. Bernard says that it looks like big money behind this, and incidentally—and ironically—the pardon was for good behavior. It's obvious to Bernard that what lies behind this fiasco is power, influence and bribes distributed here and there, all accomplished quietly until Bimms walked out a free man. They suspect a Middle Eastern influence is involved."

  Bishop whistled softly. "Bad news."

  "No, alarming news. I wish I'd known it before sending Mrs. Pollifax off to rescue Farrell. I wish I'd known this before Henry Guise called, because if Aristotle is in Sicily—" He looked again at the obituary. "But he has to be," he said in surprise. "It's absolutely obvious now that Farrell believes he's spotted him, or why would he have taken this means of making positive identification?' '

  Bishop said in a shocked voice, "That means he's been sitting on his suspicions for nearly a week, and I hope you're remembering those two cars following Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax and Kate Rossiter."

  "I'm not forgetting, Bishop," he said grimly. "If they actually met—had any contact—the recognition between Farrell and Aristotle may very well ha
ve been mutual. He testified at his trial, didn't he? It certainly places the three of them in considerable danger."

  "From Aristotle."

  Carstairs shook his head. "I'm not thinking of Aristotle just now, he's important only if he recognized Farrell and said so. I'm thinking of whoever had the power and the money to have Aristotle discharged from prison, and—before all hell broke loose—smuggled into Sicily. It has the stench of a real conspiracy, Bishop. One man alone could never have pulled it off . . . Someone has plans for Aristotle."

  "Don't," begged his assistant. "It was so damned restful seeing off Mrs. Pollifax this time with only a dead Julius Caesar to hunt down. What are you going to do?"

  "For the moment, nothing," said Carstairs.

  "Nothing!"

  "What do you suggest?" asked Carstairs. "The three of them have disappeared, we've no idea where Aristotle and his wife may be hiding in Sicily, and I can assure you they'll not be presenting themselves in public if they're still there. Until Henry Guise finds Mrs. Pollifax or we hear from her—"

  "But they can't ¿non he's out of prison, they're operating entirely on Farrell's unbelievable conjectures!" protested Bishop. "This is Department business now, there has to be some way to— Damn it, they've no idea what they're up against!"

  "I suspect by now they know," said Carstairs dryly. "If not, how do you suggest they be told, when we don't know where they are? If Guise succeeds in finding them—"

  Bishop said angrily, "Yes, but Mrs. Pollifax—"

  Carstairs sighed. "One must be philosophical about Mrs. Pollifax, Bishop. We sent her off to Bulgaria to deliver a few passports to the underground and she proceeded to arrange prison escapes and the arrest of a Bulgarian general. We sent her to Mexico City to bring back microfilmed information and she ended up in Albania. There comes a time, Bishop, when for pure survival one must be philosophical, and you ought to know this by now."

  "But with two cars following them after Guise was side-swiped, we've got to find out what happened to them!"

  "I repeat, Bishop, there's nothing we can do just now. We wait."

  Bishop said accusingly, "You realize that at this very moment Mrs. Pollifax may be cornered and desperate?"

  Carstairs sighed. "Even if, at this moment, she is cornered and desperate, yes. I know you're fond of her, Bishop; I am too, but she's not alone. Try for some perspective! Try to remember we're neither the Marines nor the Red Cross nor the Ladies Aid Society—and I think Mornajay has just walked into your office and is looking for you."

  "Blast Mornajay," muttered Bishop, and stalked angrily from the room.

  ARE YOU SURE NO DOGS?" WHISPERED MRS. Pollifax, primed for adventure in sneakers, dark slacks and shirt, with a kerchief tied over her hair.

  Farrell had already disconnected the electronic alarm at the gate—"same type I have in my gallery," he'd explained—and with the aid of a rope ladder that Kate had contributed, Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell now stood uncertainly on the grounds of Ambrose Vica's estate. The car was parked down the road with Kate at the wheel, and she had promised to bring it up to the gate in thirty minutes.

  "No dogs, I promise you," Farrell whispered. "Don't forget I lived here for three days. No dogs. Let's go, shall we?"

  A warm day had turned into a cold evening but the air was fresh and Vica's lawns newly mowed, the fragrance of cut grass lingering in the night. It was dark, but the villa ahead of them was brightly lighted both upstairs and downstairs. Electricity, how lovely, thought Mrs. Pollifax, having watched Igeia pump up water at the kitchen sink in the Villa Franca. Cautiously they made their way toward the lights, past shrubs and trees and through a garden with a bubbling fountain. Reaching a point near the front entrance, Farrell stopped at the edge of the curving drive. Pointing to the row of lighted windows he said, "The main hall you know. A library's on the right side, the living room's to the left of the entrance. Let's try the library first."

  Mrs. Pollifax nudged him and pointed.

  "Mmmmm," he murmured, for through the lighted window of the library the silhouette of a man could be seen gesturing broadly as he talked with someone unseen. Half-crouching, Farrell led the way across the driveway and in among the arches to the window. Providentially the window was open a few inches, which Mrs. Pollifax noted with delight. A surreptitious glance told her that one man was Ambrose and that he was arguing with a very elegant man in a gray silk suit. With the window ajar it proved unnecessary to peer inside again; flattening themselves against the wall they could hear fragments of conversation as the men moved around the room.

  The man who was not Ambrose Vica said, "I told you, I made it clear . . ."

  ". . , are ridiculous, your terms," Vica said in an annoyed voice. "I want to examine the document before I—"

  ". . , receiving bids from others, you know that, a very highly placed Saudi for one, as well as—"

  ". . , bring it out in the open, Raphael, be reasonable, I'll match any—"

  Farrell said in a low voice, "We're seeing Raphael at last."

  "But no Aristotle," Mrs. Pollifax whispered back to him.

  "No," agreed Farrell, and gestured her away and back to the driveway. Taking refuge behind an acacia tree he said, "No Aristotle but I'm relieved to see what Raphael looks like. After all, it's his villa where I was shot."

  "The man who owns the Julius Caesar note?"

  "So he says. You saw him clearly?"

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "Not quite six feet in height. Broad shoulders. Very tanned, clean-shaven, very black hair, high cheekbones, thin lips, nationality puzzling. Very sleek."

  "Not bad," Farrell said admiringly, "but have you ever seen such a smooth and expressionless face? Very tight skin, not a wrinkle on it .., nobody could be born with such a poker face, I strongly suspect Mr. Raphael's had a recent face-lift." With a glance at his watch he added, "Let's separate now. That balcony looks negotiable, I'll climb up, check the upstairs windows and retrieve some of my clothes. You see if any other rooms on the ground floor are occupied. Remember, Aristotle has a mustache now, and is about ten or fifteen pounds heavier."

  "Right," said Mrs. Pollifax crisply. "Meet back at the gate?"

  He nodded. "In twenty minutes sharp."

  She didn't linger to see what talents Farrell possessed in balcony climbing, since twenty minutes wasn't long and it was a very large house. Immediately embracing her role of Peeping Tom she began her rounds in earnest but some fifteen minutes later, after inspecting each lighted room through its windows, she had seen a great deal of tapestry, damask, gilt and Louis XV furniture, as well as a man cleaning silver in the dining room, and an aproned woman asleep in a chair in the kitchen, but no Aristotle or his wife. Her tour completed she stole across the driveway, prepared to begin her passage back to the gate, only to discover this to be more difficult than on their arrival because she was leaving the lighted house behind her to face dim vague shapes rising out of an unrelieved darkness.

  Stumbling over flagstones at the edge of the garden she located the shape of a tree ahead of her, but in making a dash for it she fell over a large and leafy bush before she reached it. Once on her feet again she more cautiously approached the tree and clung to it, saw: another tree rising out of the earth at a distance, and with her eyes growing more accustomed to the night she navigated her way to it without mishap. It was when she reached it and stopped that she heard a snap of twigs behind her, and turned to see a shadow quickly move behind the tree that she had just abandoned. She was being followed.

  She thought, Farrell? But Farrell wouldn't be playing hide-and-seek with her; not Farrell, she concluded, and fought back a wave of atavistic panic at being stalked in the dark. At some distance ahead she could dimly make out a dark mass of artistically pruned hedges. Forcing herself to walk calmly she crossed the long sweep of greensward and entered this haven of dark shadow. Here she stopped, turned to look back, and was in time to see her pursuer emerge from behind his tree and start toward her. Definitely she was being
followed, and she braced herself behind the hedge and waited.

  It was a long wait, and even then she did not hear him, but suddenly his shadow loomed up in front of her; she had time only to see that her stalker was a man with a beard before she stepped forward and delivered a quick hard karate strike to the side of his neck. Without a sound he crumpled to the ground.

  A moment later Farrell, passing the hedge, stopped and said, "What the devil!"

  "He was following me," she said indignantly, pointing earthward. "It's too dark to see who he is but I think he has a beard."

  Farrell knelt beside him, brought out a book of matches and struck one that briefly illuminated a face with a very wiry black beard. "Not Aristotle," he said, disappointed. "Out like a light, Duchess—good show!"

  "But where did he come from?" she demanded. "He was stalking me, and why do I think I've seen him before? Light another match, Farrell."

  He lit a second one and she nodded. "Definitely I've seen him before."

  "Where?"

  "I'm thinking," she told him, and concentrated. "Erice!" she gasped. "In the public square when I was watching for you and carefully inspecting everyone I saw. Did you notice him? He had a cane and he sat down at a table not far from me and began reading a newspaper."

  Farrell said, "I remember a man reading a newspaper but his face was behind it."

  "This is very puzzling," she mused. "See if he has any identification on him."

  Farrell's teeth gleamed white in the darkness as he grinned. "Duchess, you're the most illegal, illicit member of any Garden Club that I've ever met." Searching the man's pockets ha said, "Aha, I think I've found a passport." He stood up and fumbled for a match. "Hold it, will you? These paper matches light and go out in half a second."

  "He's American," said Mrs. Pollifax after his first match briefly flared, and when Farrell lit another, "He's American and his name is Henry Guise."

  "Not very helpful," grumbled Farrell. "Not if he's in on this, too, and was 'stalking you,' as you phrased it. He certainly can't be a guard working here, not with an American passport in his pocket. Give it over and I'll return it to him, and then let's get the hell out of here."