Palm for Mrs. Pollifax (16 page)

“How long will he be—uh—indisposed, madame?” asked Hafez politely.

“I’m trying to remember. It’s so difficult, a matter of pressure points and degrees, and of course no one gets hurt in class. I hit him in the right place but I don’t know how hard,” she explained, frowning over it, and then gave up. “Anyway, let’s not wait and see, let’s
go.”

They caught up with the original tour group and passed them at the entrance to the Defense Tower. Instead of joining them, however, they hurried down wooden stairs
and across the open drawbridge to the steps leading into the courtyard. “We left Fouad in
Latrinehaus XIII
,” Hafez said, squinting at the diagram.

“May he rest in peace,” she added piously. “Here’s the courtyard, Hafez, put away your literature and let’s see if we can get out of here without being seen.”

From behind a low wall they assessed the main courtyard and the entrance gate. The little souvenir house beside the gate was being locked for the night by a guard, and on the other side of the courtyard a second guard was closing the small dark entrance to the castle proper and drawing bars across the door. Closing time was two minutes away, realized Mrs. Pollifax with a glance at her watch. She took a step forward, looked beyond the gate and ducked back.

“What is it?”

“The other one, the thin one, Munir. He’s just outside the gate watching everyone leave.”

“But it’s closing time!” cried Hafez. “What can we do? Where can we go?”

Mrs. Pollifax’s eyes raked the courtyard but a castle that had stood guard against attack for centuries had not been built with a variety of entrances in mind, and according to the tour guide the few secret exits had long ago been sealed. There was only the one entrance through which to funnel the castle’s pilgrims.

“If we can’t go forward we’ll have to go back,” she said, and grasping his hand she hurried him across the courtyard and up the wooden stairs to the drawbridge. A guard called out to them. Mrs. Pollifax shouted back, “We’ve left our raincoats inside!”

“Impermeables!”
called Hafez blithely, and they hurried across the drawbridge, passing both tour groups on their way.

“Closing time!” bawled the guide.

“Impermeables!”
Hafez called back, giggling, and they plunged ahead through room after room until they
reached the Grand Hall of the Count. When they stopped here to catch their breath the silence was sudden and disconcerting; a long shaft of late-afternoon sun reached the middle of the room and their haste had sent dust motes swirling up the golden beam. “The chests,” Mrs. Pollifax said breathlessly. “This is the room with two chests. Climb inside, Hafez.”

“I really don’t want to but I will. What do we do after this?”

“For encores?” she said tartly. “We’ll try again to get out when the castle’s settled down.” Crossing the room she lowered herself into the companion chest.

It was not a pleasant enclosure: it smelled of mildew and had the dimensions of a tomb. She was soon grateful for its protection, however, because some ten minutes later a guard entered the Grand Hall of the Count whistling cheerfully. He walked around the room, closed and locked the windows and went on to the next chamber. Mercifully there was no sound from Fouad in the room beyond, and soon both footsteps and whistling died away.

Half an hour later voices drifted up to them from the level below, and Mrs. Pollifax raised the top of her chest to listen. “But, monsieur, I cannot take you farther, as you can see the castle is empty and locked up for the night. I myself have inspected it. Nobody is here.”

It was Sabry who replied but she could not hear his words. The guard’s answer was impatient. “Monsieur, it is out of the question, it is against the rules. I cannot allow you upstairs, the castle is closed for the night.” A door slammed, followed by silence.

The silence expanded and deepened, became drowsy with the somnolence of late afternoon’s hush. Mrs. Pollifax closed her eyes, opened them and closed them again. The mildew seemed less potent, the warmth hypnotic. Over by the closed windows a trapped fly buzzed against the panes, endlessly, indefatigably …

Mrs. Pollifax awoke with a jolt and pushed open the
chest. It was still daylight; she saw by her watch that it was six-fifteen.
I mustn’t do that again
, she thought, and climbed out of the chest to rouse Hafez. He looked up and waved a tiny flashlight at her as she lifted the top, and she saw that he’d been lying on his back playing tick-tack-toe on the lid of the chest with a piece of chalk. “What else do you carry in your pockets?” she asked with interest.

He stood up and from the pocket of his jacket drew out three marbles, a roll of tape, a jackknife, his tape recorder and a slice of Wiener Schnitzel in a soggy paper napkin. She smiled. “You might as well add Fouad’s gun to your collection,” she suggested. “I’ll carry the suitcase. Let’s take a look around now, shall we?”

He said doubtfully, “Do you really think they are convinced we’re not here, madame?”

“No,” she said, “but they might go away for a while. After all, if they had to consult the sheik once about us they may decide to do it again.”

Hafez climbed out of the chest and pocketed the gun. Together they tiptoed through the cool, high-ceilinged rooms to the stairs by which they had gained the floor, but now they found the stairs concealed behind a closed door. Mrs. Pollifax rattled its latch but it did not budge. She ran her hands over the wood but it was a strong thick door with an ancient lock and no key. Hafez whispered, “It must have been locked from the other side, madame, or from this side with one of those old-fashioned big keys. Or perhaps it is barred?”

Mrs. Pollifax felt a sense of foreboding. This door, so huge and impregnable, was a surprise to her. She wondered how many other doors she had passed without noticing their existence. She and Hafez hurried back through the rooms toward the exit by which they had reentered the castle at five o’clock but here, too, their way was barred by a stout door, closed and locked. “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

Hafez turned to look at her, his eyes huge. “We are locked in the castle, madame?”

“Yes,” she said, and it seemed to her that her
yes
reverberated up and down the empty corridors and through all the empty rooms. Except the castle wasn’t empty, she remembered. “Fouad!” she gasped.

They turned and ran back to the room where they had left him. Opening the chest Hafez said with relief, “He is still here, madame, may Allah be praised!”

He was still breathing, too, noted Mrs. Pollifax. He lay on his back, knecs lifted, his eyelids fluttering as if he dreamed deeply. He gave no apparent signs of returning consciousness but she did not enjoy the thought of being locked in the castle with him. “There was rope in one of those rooms,” she told Hafez. “We’ve got to bind his wrists and ankles or he’ll spoil everything.”

“I do not like him much,” said Hafez, staring down at him. “If this was war I would shoot him, even if I am ten years old.”

“Don’t be bloodthirsty,” she chided him. “Come, let’s find the rope and tie him up—a gag might be in order, too—and then we’ll have supper.”

“Supper?”

“Well,” she pointed out hopefully, “I was thinking of your Wiener Schnitzel, cut into equal portions with your jackknife.
If
you’d care to share it,” she added politely.

In Langley, Virginia, it was mid-afternoon
. Carstairs inserted the key into the lock of his office door and entered with a sigh of deep relief. He felt he had been excessively well-behaved today. He had risen at dawn, driven bumper-to-bumper to the golf club, awaited his turn in a milling crowd and played eighteen holes of golf under a humid, 90-degree sun. His doctor had told him the fresh air and exercise would rejuvenate him but instead he felt hot, irritable, and betrayed. To a man accustomed to deploying live human beings around the world he could think of nothing more idiotic than mindlessly pushing an inanimate ball around a green sward in the sun.

Shrugging off his jacket he sat down at his desk and realized that with two hours of work he could clear away last week’s minutiae and begin the next seven days with a minimum of encumbrances. His office was quiet and refreshingly cool. He could order coffee from the commissary and later his dinner and in time he might forget his hysterical attempt to be normal. Normalcy, he decided without a flicker of regret, was simply not for him.

His buzzer sounded and he flicked on the switch. “Mr. Carstairs, sir?” said the bright young voice from the covering office in Baltmore.

“Afternoon, Betsy,” he said. “They’ve stuck you with Sunday this week?”

“Yes, sir, and I was afraid you wouldn’t be in the office this afternoon. I’ve a
most
peculiar call on the switchboard, sir. A Mr. Parviz insists on talking with you but he’s not on our list at all. He’s calling from Zabya.”

“From
where?
”

“Zabya. Something about a cable you sent him. His English is either a little primitive or he’s very upset, it’s difficult to say which—and I might add that on top of that the connection’s dreadful, too.”

“He’s certainly not one of ours,” said Carstairs, frowning. “How the hell could he have gotten our unlisted number?”

“I’ve already asked him that, sir. Apparently he had the address, he turned it over to the Zabyan Embassy in Washington and they came through with the telephone number. Is the telephone company bribable, sir?”

“Not to my knowledge, and I can’t imagine an embassy going to so much trouble, either. It’ll be a damned nuisance if we have to change the number. Put the chap on my line so I can find out who the devil he is.”

“Right, sir. A moment please.”

Carstairs leaned over and switched on the tape-recording machine and sat back. There was a series of pops, followed by a peculiar underwater sound that occasionally accompanied transatlantic calls, and Carstairs heard a harsh, accented voice say, “Mustapha Parviz speaking. I am connected with Mr. William Carstairs, please?”

“You are, sir. What can I do for you?”

“I am calling in reference to the cable I received from you early today. You have just arrived back in America?”

“Just arrived back?” echoed Carstairs.

“Yes, I received your cable at noon here by Zabyan time. This is Mr. William Carstairs of the Legal Building in Baltimore Maryland, of the United States, who sent to me the cable from Europe?”

“Ah, the cable,” said Carstairs craftily.

“Yes. It is most urgent, sir—I must learn the circumstances under which you saw them. Are they safe? Did you actually see them? Are they in Montreux?”

Castairs stiffened. “Montreux!” he exclaimed. “In Switzerland?”

The man at the other end of the line drew in his breath sharply. “You are playing with me, sir. I implore you—you must know this is of the gravest urgency, a matter of life and death. Where are they?”

Carstairs said swiftly, “I think we might clear this up very quickly, Mr. Parviz, if you’ll just read me the cable.”

The voice turned cold. “If you sent it, sir, I scarcely need read it to you.”

“But you say that you received a cable from Montreux today, and in tracing it you discovered it was sent by—”

“You don’t know.” The voice broke. “You did not, then, after all—oh my God,” the man said, and hung up.

Carstairs stared at the telephone in astonishment. After a moment he leaned over and switched on the recording machine and played the tape, listening carefully. Mustapha Parviz—the name struck him as vaguely familiar.
Where are they? Are they safe? Did you actually see them?
… Parviz had lost or misplaced something, documents or people, and it had something to do with Montreux. A matter of life and death … There was no mistaking the desperation in that voice; it had been studiously disciplined to the point of curtness but there were the revelatory small breaks, the quick intakes of breath, culminating in that bleak cry,
You don’t know—oh my God
.

It was obvious that Parviz had no idea to whom he was speaking. It was equally obvious that he didn’t care; he wanted only one thing, information, but without volunteering any in return. He’d been given the Baltimore address, but with neither explanation nor telephone number, and he’d desperately hoped—but how could he have gotten the address? Who would have sent him a cable bearing Carstairs’s name?

He picked up the telephone and put through a call to Bishop on the off chance that he might be spared an hour’s hunt through the files. Bishop wasn’t at home but he was given a Georgetown number and presently he captured him on the phone.

“It’s Sunday,” Bishop reminded him. “Day of rest and gladness, remember? I’m at a party with a stunning blonde.”

“Congratulations,” Carstairs said dryly. “Now can you possibly tell me why the name of Mustapha Parviz sounds familiar to me?”

Bishop sighed. “Because he’s in the Zabyan report we did for the State Department last week, file Z1020 if I’m not mistaken. Except it’s not just Mustpaha Parviz, it’s
General
Mustapha Parviz. He’s head of the Zabyan army.”

“Good God,” said Carstairs.

“Don’t you remember the Jonathan and David bit? Parviz, son of a poor tentmaker, brought to the palace to be schooled with Jarroud so that the future king would rub shoulders with the poor? Later there was a commission to military school and then he saved Jarroud’s life in ’60 by taking a bullet in his shoulder intended for Jarroud. Now Jarroud’s the king and Mustapha’s General of the whole shebang.”

“A fact he neglected to mention,” mused Carstairs. “One more question, Bishop. If someone—and I can assure you it wasn’t I—sent a cable from Montreux giving the sender’s address as William Carstairs, the Legal Building, Baltimore—”

Bishop interrupted. “That could be only one person, sir—Mrs. Pollifax.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Oh yes, we’ve only two investigative agents in Switzerland this week and one of them has no knowledge at all of the Baltimore covering address. Interpol doesn’t have it, either, they contact us directly.”