Mrs. Pollifax Pursued Read online

  "And Willie knows this? You've told him?"

  "Oh yes, ma'am. But there's nobody here in Willie's show with a white beard. White as Santa Claus's beard, pure white like snow. Nobody here like that."

  "I see," she said, frowning. "How old would you have guessed the man to be, the one who was in a hurry to leave, and stepped on your foot?"

  Boozy Tim considered this judiciously. "Can't say, but he moved pretty damn fast for a man with a white beard."

  "Do you think the beard was false?" she asked. "A dis-guise?

  This had apparently not occurred to him and he looked troubled. "Only saw it fast," he said. "Real fast, and never thought about it anyway 'til Willie asked and asked if I'd noticed anybody up near Lazlo. Hear he's still alive, is that right?"

  "So far as I know," said Mrs. Pollifax, frowning over his story.

  "Willie really grilled me," Boozy Tim said. "He tole me 'Boozy Tim, if you was there you seen things' and I said 'no, Willie, didn't see a thing.' But then my foot was hurtin' and all that—still hurts a little—so I remembered that, and tole him."

  "Thank you," she said gravely, and smiled at him. "You must be a great help to Willie, do you run a concession?"

  "Me?" He grinned his broad toothless smile. "Oh no, ma'am, I repair what breaks down. Not much I don't know about the pig-iron—rides, that is—when they stop runnin'. Mechanic, that's me," he said with pride.

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled back at him. "I like you, Boozy Tim."

  "Like you, too," he said in a pleased voice. "Gotta check the merry-go-round, want a ride?"

  "Love one."

  "I give 'em all names," he confided. "You ride on Cynthia, she's my favorite."

  In this manner Mrs. Pollifax ended her first carnival evening riding dreamily up and down on Cynthia, lights flashing, the calliope playing "In the Good Old Summertime." She would have preferred to imagine herself riding to the rescue of the cavalry, or across a great desert to meet a sheikh who would definitely resemble Cyrus, but her mind remained fixed on a man who had stepped on Boozy Tim's foot in his hurry to leave the crowd last night, when people usually moved closer to learn what had caused a woman to scream.

  13

  On Friday morning Bishop arrived in his office fifteen minutes late. "Sorry," he apologized, "but I ran into the FBI at the café where I eat breakfast every morning . ., you know, Jed Addams. Want to hear the latest news on the Bidwell abduction?"

  "Is anyone immune?" said Carstairs dryly. "What's been happening?"

  "Strictly hush-hush, of course, but Jed says there have been three aborted attempts at delivering the ransom— three, no less, in the one week. They put together the fifty million in unmarked bills—no mean feat—and they followed instructions to the letter but nothing happened. The next attempt at delivery is to be late this morning, but in the meantime—" He stopped.

  "In the meantime what?"

  Bishop grinned. "I'm only trying to milk the one slice of drama on a dull Friday, but in the meantime a video's been found in a Manhattan post office, left on a counter yesterday, with Bidwell pleading for his life. They've decided to air it publicly today on the twelve o'clock news."

  "Bidwell, himself? Not his wife?"

  Bishop nodded. "Bidwell himself, speaking from captivity. Incidentally, Jed says his wife is still under a doctor's care but one of the chaps at the house is of the opinion that it wouldn't matter all that much to Mrs. Bidwell if the abductors did kill her husband. Portrait of a happy marriage, what.7"

  "Only one amateur's opinion," Carstairs reminded him.

  "Right, only one man's opinion," Bishop agreed with a smile.

  Carstairs pointed to the small television set in the corner. "I'd like to hear that, I'll be interested in how Bidwell's been enduring his captivity. The noon news, you said? Remind me."

  "You bet," said Bishop, and went back to his desk where at ten o'clock he made his sixth attempt to reach Willie and his Traveling Show in Maine, and again connected with his answering machine. "Foxy so-and-so," murmured Bishop, "I'll wager he's switched off his phone completely so he can sleep." He made a note to try again in an hour or so, and seeing the day's newspaper tucked in his OUT basket he scanned the headlines, then turned to the second page for a quick glance. At the bottom of the page he found a small headline: renewed violence in ubangiba.

  Carstairs's Ubangiba, he thought, and picking up a pair of scissors he cut it out for his attention, half humorously because of the strange interest Carstairs had been developing in the country these past few days. Before putting it aside he noted the words rioting and two deaths, and the fact that the Ubangiban gwar, once worth seventy-five cents to the U.S, dollar, was now worth only eight cents.

  Poor Ubangiba, he thought.

  Carstairs, in his office next door, had just completed the signing of three reports when a call came through from Allan in the Africa section.

  "About Ubangiba," he reminded Carstairs. "The soil analysis has been done for you posthaste, and we'll be faxing the report to you in a few minutes."

  Carstairs said, "Fine, but can you tell me now, briefly, the conclusion? Did they find possibilities?"

  "Only one," said Allan. "There's a mountain running along the southern section of Ubangiba, not high—a line of hills, actually—and from his analysis, which you can struggle with once the report reaches you, the only possibility would be coal."

  "Coal!" exclaimed Carstairs. "In Africa?"

  "Yes, our geologist points out that by mid-century Algeria was operating four or five mines they'd found in the Sahara desert. At Kenadsa to the west of Columb Bechar there was a vein of coal that produced 350,000 tons a year, for instance. Not pit mines, the seam runs through the hills in what he calls 'galleries.' About forty miles farther south they discovered a seam of coal of even better quality, and coal was later found at Ksi, Ksou, and Mazarif. If there's coal in Ubangiba it could be a remnant of the same primeval forest or marsh that ran through the area aeons ago. He doubts these mines are still in operation. They've probably closed down since the discovery of natural gas in the north, but coal there is, or was."

  "Not much anyone can do with coal in the middle of nowhere," growled Carstairs. "No way to export it in a landlocked country, and the yield sounds damn small."

  "Oh, I don't know," said Allan. "I would think in a country with no natural source of power except the sun it could } sumewmg. Heat and light a city or two, dig artesian wells, not to mention run a railroad or a few factories."

  "Hmmm," murmured Carstairs. "Well, send the report along."

  Coal, he thought as he hung up, and he admitted to disappointment. Oil and natural gas had pretty much supplanted coal, and coal scarcely seemed worth those concealed trips to Ubangiba to capture its mineral rights. What had Desforges said.7 Something to the effect that with cheap labor it could be modestly profitable. He'd said something else that Carstairs couldn't recall, something to do with cheap labor that nagged at his memory for a moment but without result; fortunately he had his conversation with Desforges on tape, when he had time to review it. For now, however, he could only feel baffled, and—he had to admit—a sense of let-down. He couldn't imagine a modest profit exciting a man like Bidwell with his ability to amass millions .., or billions, according to Bishop.

  He glanced at the news clipping that Bishop had left on his desk about the country, crumpled it up, and tossed it away. I'm losing interest in this—thank God, he thought, and it was never my business, anyway.

  At half-past noon Bishop returned from a quick lunch in the cafeteria and picked up his phone to once again dial Willie's 207 number. This time the phone was answered on its seventh ring.

  "Sorry old chap," he told Willie, "but I'm tired of leaving my cheery voice on your machine, it's time I talk with Pete's cargo the other night, no matter how busy you are."

  "It's time, yes," agreed Willie. "Incidentally, we'll be here one more night, the police insist on it. It will cost."

  "Our problem, not yours,
" Bishop assured him. "We don't appreciate our people getting stabbed in the back."

  "Right. Hold on, I'll fetch her."

  A door opened and closed, and Bishop waited; presently faint voices were heard and at last that of Mrs. Pollifax, somewhat breathless. "Hello, I'm here," she said.

  Bishop grinned. "So I notice, and it's been damn hard finding the right time to reach you. Carstairs, not to mention yours truly, want to know what the devil happened to you two nights ago."

  She said warmly, "And I want to thank you for rescuing us, Bishop."

  "Yes, but from what?" he asked. "And who was chasing you, and who is the 'us'? Talk, for pete's sake."

  He heard her take a deep breath. "Give me a minute to put it all together or it'll take hours." After a brief hesitation: "Alright, it started with Kadi Hopkirk," she began, "who needed help and is here with me: age nineteen, grew up in Africa, now studying art in New York. She was interviewing for a job in New Haven when she ran into a boy she'd grown up with, a student now at Yale. They met on the street. This childhood friend of hers introduced the young man with him as his roommate, and then over coffee slipped her a note saying, 'Not roommate—guard. ' "

  "I'm listening," Bishop told her.

  "She left puzzled and rather alarmed. A van parked outside the coffee shop began following her—to the bus station—and then followed her bus down the turnpike. At some point after Bridgeport, in a panic, she asked the bus driver to stop, jumped out, and ran through a neighborhood of houses and gardens, unfortunately pursued by the two men on foot, and ended up hiding in my house for two days without Cyrus and me knowing it. And I might add," she said, "that during those two days the same van drove past my house often enough for me to notice it even before I found her hiding in a closet."

  "Same one?" asked Bishop skeptically. "How could you tell?"

  She said tartly, "No one could help but notice it was the van she described, because of the crazy sign on its panel, Chigi Scap Metal."

  "You mean Chigi Scrap Metal, don't you?"

  "No, scap—they'd left out the 'r.' Not scrap."

  "Okay, scap," he murmured. "And this girl. You found her in your house, but what sort is she? Believable?"

  "A quite delightful missionary's child," said Mrs. Pollifax, "and as to believable I can testify to the fact that my house was entered and searched, after which we were followed up and down the Connecticut Turnpike for hours. We lost them in Worcester just long enough to register at a motel, but they found us there an hour later. My car's still there, we got away by taxi—to the hospital, where I called you."

  Bishop was silent for a moment, puzzled by what he'd heard. He said at last, "Well, we can do something about your car, anyway. What motel? I'll send Pete for it."

  "Bide-A-Wee," she told him. "It's near the highway exit, or in that area. But I'm very curious about Kadi's friend Sammy and I know she's worried about him."

  "All very strange," admitted Bishop. "One wonders—but I've got this on tape for Carstairs, he'll want to get back to you—he's at a meeting Upstairs just now. Any progress on you-know-what?"

  "No, but the police are here questioning everyone," she told him. "And so am I." She added brightly, "It was Willie's idea that I be a feature writer for a newspaper, I'm about to interview the Snake Woman."

  "Snake Woman," repeated Bishop blankly. "Yes, of course, the Snake Woman."

  "And Kadi is being sawed in half," she added blithely, and hung up.

  Bishop grinned. He decided that Mrs. Pollifax was thoroughly enjoying herself in spite of those earlier protests about being "stuck" that Willie had described.

  An hour later when Carstairs returned from his conference Upstairs Bishop told him, "I've finally connected with Mrs. Pollifax at Willie's; I've got it all on tape."

  Carstairs nodded absently. "Good," he said in that voice that meant his thoughts were elsewhere.

  "I said—" began Bishop again.

  "Yes yes, I heard you," Carstairs said impatiently. "They've been able to question Lazlo at last, he's been patched up enough for an interview."

  "Does he know who attacked him at Willie's?"

  Carstairs looked at him blankly. "At the carnival? No, I wanted him questioned in more detail about what sent him to Willie's in the first place, on March 10th. They just faxed the results to Mornajay."

  Thoroughly puzzled, Bishop said, "But so long ago. That's important?"

  Carstairs glanced down at the sheaf of notes he carried. "We think he might have been followed from Boston to the carnival, which at least would prevent our closing down Willie as a safe house, and could possibly give us a clue as to who stabbed him a month later. Lazlo had been given a surveillance job in Boston, where he tailed a man named Kopcha into a tenement building. There he overheard scraps of conversation about a ransom pick-up in April." Bishop whistled faintly. "A ransom pick-up in April? Carstairs nodded. "When Lazlo came out of that building he'd been beaten up and his arm was broken. That's when he went to Willie's."

  "Bidwell was kidnapped in April, do you think possibly—?" "I think possibly, yes," said Carstairs, but added sternly, "Only a possibility, however. If by chance it was Bidwell's abduction they were discussing, that tenement building could be where they planned to hold Bidwell, and where he may be hidden away now. I'd wanted more, but I'm not sure I have more."

  Carstairs frowned, scanning the faxed sheets. "He'd already described the size of the building: it was tall, vacant, brick, most of its windows boarded up. ... Asked to describe any possible identifying details on the street he remembered a fire hydrant at the vacant lot next to the building—not much help—and a van parked in front of the tenement, rather grubby, he says, with a sign on it 'Chigi Scap Metal—' " His frown deepened. "A type error here, they must mean Chigi Scrap Metal—"

  Bishop leaped out of his chair in excitement. "No, no, let me look!"

  "What on earth," protested Carstairs. "All I said was ..." "I know, I know, you said Chigi SCAP Metal—and so did Mrs. Pollifax, it's on her tape, I tell you it's on her tape, she described just such a van and I said just what you said, 'you mean scrap, don't you?' and she said no, Chigi SCAP Metal, they'd left out the R."

  "Are you mad? How can Mrs. Pollifax—" Carstairs stopped and stared at Bishop in astonishment. "It has to be a mistake, what possible connection—" With an effort he rallied, to say quietly, "I think you'd better give me that tape, Bishop, and no calls for the next half an hour."

  Carstairs retired to his office, and when he had listened to the tape of Mrs. Pollifax's conversation with Bishop he sat for a long time considering what he had heard. With a sudden glance at his watch he picked up the phone and prayed that Willie was in his trailer.

  A woman's voice answered. Carstairs said, "Emergency call to Willie, his Uncle speaking."

  The voice said, "This is Gertie. Just a minute, I see him talking outside the trailer."

  Carstairs waited, but impatiently, and once connected he said, "Willie, this girl who arrived with Pete the other night. You know her at all? Name of Kadi?"

  Willie said, "Nice kid, really knows how to handle a B-B gun."

  "She's from Africa?"

  "Yep."

  "Happen to know what country, Willie?"

  "Yep."

  "So?"

  "Ubangiba."

  Carstairs felt a flick of excitement. He said quietly, "Thanks, Willie," and rang off to sit and scowl at his desk as if he could find an answer there. Ubangiba again, he thought .., an abduction .., a stabbing .., a man in Boston who spoke of a ransom pick-up in April . . . Lecler and Romanovitch .., a safe house, and a girl pursued by a Chigi Scap Metal van .. , and Desforges's report.

  What had Desforges said that he wished he could recall? He picked Desforges's tape out of the rack and inserted it into his machine and listened with concentration to every word. He had said, "with cheap labor, and it would have to be VERY cheap labor—a bit Leopoldish, of course—but with cheap labor profitable, yes."

  "
Leopoldish" was the word he'd sought.

  Carstairs reached for his dictionary and turned to Biographical Names. There were several Leopolds listed but if he understood Desforges correctly he had been referring to Leopold II, King of Belgium from 1865 to 1909.

  Leopold and the Congo.

  Carstairs replaced the dictionary and frowned; it was like a jigsaw puzzle, he thought, for which he held in his hand only a few pieces, none of them fitting yet and most of them missing, but there began to be a single intelligible thread. He sat for a long time over his puzzle, dropping one piece into place only to remove it and try another. At last he ran Desforges's tape again through the machine, and when the tape ended he said aloud to himself, "I have to be mad to think what I'm thinking—utterly mad—and yet I'm thinking it."

  But it would certainly explain the huge ransom demanded for Bidwell's release.

  He had reached one decision, however: in the morning, Saturday, he would send Bishop personally to Willie's in Maine. It was time to interview Kadi Hopkirk.

  14

  Mrs. Pollifax, on her way to visit the Snake Woman, saw Boozy Tim slumped on a wooden crate next to the transformer. "Hello, Boozy Tim," she called out to him but he only mumbled a greeting and returned to scowling at the ground; without a smile on his face he looked shrunken and tired, all radiance gone.

  Meeting Shannon in the trailer compound she asked, "What's wrong with Boozy Tim? He looks as if he's lost his last friend, he scarcely spoke to me."

  "Off his feed," Shannon said, nodding. "One of those viruses, for sure. Sat next to him at breakfast, he stared at his food and left without touching it."

  "What do you do here for a doctor?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  Shannon chuckled. "I guess go see the girl who came with you, she's been telling me all about how medicine men cure things in Africa."

  "Kadi has?"

  Shannon grinned. "Yeah, her doctor-father was real interested, he knew a couple of them. Honey, would you believe that once, when a guy had gone crazy over there, some medicine man buried him alive in a pit for an hour—with a goat—then said a lot of incantations and when they dug him up the goat was dead and the madman alive? Cured, too, because her father checked him out."