Palm for Mrs. Pollifax (2 page)

“Is it a clinic
or
a hotel?” asked Mrs. Pollifax, puzzled.

“We’re not accustomed to the combination in America,” he admitted, “but European habits differ. Montbrison is a medical clinic to which the wealthy of the world repair for treatment, to rest, convalesce, lose weight, that sort of thing. The hotel concept makes it all palatable and exceedingly pleasant and I’m told the food is superb. It has a considerable reputation internationally, drawing people from the Middle East as well as Europe.”

“But you’re not sending me there to rest,” she said tactfully.

Carstairs shook his head. “No indeed.” Returning to his
chair he sank into its depths to ponder her over steepled fingers. “We’re in trouble, Mrs. Pollifax,” he said at last bluntly. “I can’t tell you all the facts, it’s classified information and since it now involves Interpol it’s not my story to tell. To wrap it up in one sentence, however, there have lately been two small, very alarming thefts of plutonium, the first one here in America, the more recent in England.”

“Plutonium!” echoed Mrs. Pollifax. “But that’s used in—”

“Exactly. The stolen pounds add up to a dangerous amount when put together—almost enough, in fact, to make a small atom bomb. Plutonium is man-made, you know, it’s processed in a nuclear reactor. This has kept it a toy of the moneyed countries and completely inaccessible to any underdeveloped countries—or was,” he added savagely. “The two thefts took place within the same month and with uncanny efficiency. We think they’re related. We’ve no idea who’s behind them but we’ve reason to believe that one of the shipments was sent by mail to the Hotel-Clinic Montbrison.”

“Can something like that be sent through the
mail?
” said Mrs. Pollifax incredulously.

“Oh yes. To make that one small atom bomb, for instance, you need only eleven pounds of plutonium. Which is what terrifies us,” he added pointedly. “So far nine pounds are missing, and if you’ve managed a package of that weight you know it’s relatively light, you could carry it easily in a suitcase. Damnable business, as you can see.” He moved to a leather case on the table and drew out a slide projector. Wheeling the table to the center of the room he said, “Mind turning off the switch just behind you?”

With the room in twilight he turned on the projector and a square of white light appeared on the opposite wall. A moment later it was occupied by a close-up of a small wooden crate. “This is how we think the shipment
looked,” said Carstairs, “or so we’ve deduced from the information we have. Black letters stenciled on each side of the box saying
MEDICAL—HANDLE WITH CARE
. On the top, stenciled in red the words
MEDICAL SUPPLIES—FRAGILE
.”

“That’s not the actual box?”

Carstairs shook his head. “A reconstruction from a description given us, but how accurate it is we don’t know. It’s believed to have been shipped
Airmail-Special Delivery-Special Handling
. It would have been delivered to the Clinic—unless it was intercepted on the way—nine days ago.”

“Would it still be there?” asked Mrs. Pollifax in surprise.

“We can’t be sure. Interpol put one of their men into the Clinic as a waiter, with the co-operation of the Swiss police. This man—his name is Marcel, by the way, and he’s still there—found no traces on the premises. After his search produced nothing the British sent one of their Intelligence people in as a patient, a man named Fraser.” He hesitated and then said quietly, “Unfortunately Fraser had an accident, Mrs. Pollifax. There’s no possible way of describing it without sounding ridiculous but two days ago Fraser fell off the mountain near the Clinic. He was dead when they brought him out of the ravine.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “Under the circumstances it sounds more suspicious than ridiculous, don’t you think?”

He nodded grimly. “We thought so, yes. We’d nearly crossed the Clinic off our list when that happened but Fraser’s death made it a whole new ball game.” He frowned. “I should add that we’ve not been completely frank with the people at the Clinic.”

“Oh?”

“They’ve been told it’s hard drugs that we’re investigating, and that some kind of surveillance would be set up. They asked only that we be discreet, which is quite understandable,
but we’ve not taken them into our confidence about Fraser or Marcel. We won’t about your presence, either.” He added dryly: “After all, it could be someone closely connected with the Clinic who’s using the place for illegal activities.”

“So they don’t know.”

“They don’t know, and now Fraser’s dead. It could have been a freak accident or he could have stumbled onto something. In that case—” He tactfully refrained from completing the sentence and said instead, “You have me to blame, Mrs. Pollifax, for recommending you and volunteering your services. The Swiss are co-operating in every way they can. Interpol is, of course, heavily involved, as well as the American government—and therefore my department—and the English have a stake in this, too.”

The compliment was unspoken but obvious; Mrs. Pollifax leaned forward and said doubtfully, “But do you really think that I—?”

He threw up his hands. “I can think of at least ten agents of mine who are well-trained, experienced and Gung Ho, and I’m sure the English can, too.” He frowned. “But aside from your record, which is startling, I have a feeling that this situation needs something more than training and experience. It needs a rare kind of intuitiveness, a talent for sniffing out what others miss. You’re rather good with people and you simply don’t act or react like a professional agent.” He added abruptly: “What we are looking for—aside from stolen plutonium, Mrs. Pollifax—is evil in its purest form.”

“Evil,” she mused. “That’s an old-fashioned word.”

“Positively Biblical,” he agreed, “but you have to remember that stolen plutonium is not quite the same as stolen money, Mrs. Pollifax. The uses to which illicit plutonium can be put are very limited but one of its uses is hideous to contemplate.”

“Hideous,” she said, nodding.

He leaned over his slides again. “I think you’d better
see what was inside that crate. It’s quite unlikely you’ll discover any of these items sitting about on someone’s desk as a paperweight but one never knows. Here we are—exhibit number one.”

Mrs. Pollifax studied the innocent-looking object projected on the wall. “
That’s
plutonium?”

“Yes, shaped into a metal button weighing about two kilograms. Not very prepossessing, is it?” He switched to another slide. “Each button was then individually packed into a plastic bag—there’s your plastic bag—and then,” he added, changing slides, “the bag was placed in a can filled with inert gas, which in turn was placed inside this odd-looking contraption they call a birdcage, probably because—”

“Because it looks like a birdcage,” finished Mrs. Pollifax.

“Yes. Five pounds of plutonium were in the crate stolen from England. If you come across any of these items, don’t touch. If you have to touch, use surgeon’s gloves.” He shook his head. “
If
you find anything.
If
it’s there.
If
more should be sent. If, if, it.” He sighed and returned to the projector. “Now I want to show you a diagram of the Hotel-Clinic Montbrison before we conclude this. You recall it’s room 113 that’s been reserved for you.”

“Any special reason?”

“Oh, yes. From the balcony of room 113 you’ll have a marvelous view of Lake Geneva. You will also be able to see from your balcony, on your left, a narrow, very primitive dirt road, incredibly steep, that winds and circles up the next mountain. From any other floor it’s screened by the trees.” He flicked on a new slide, a larger diagram that showed the terrain surrounding the Clinic. Standing up he pointed to a small X. “There’s your road, off on this mountain here. Every night at ten o’clock—it’s quite dark by then—there’ll be a car parked at a point on the road that you can see from your room. You’ll signal from your
balcony with a flashlight. That will be your contact with the outside world.”

She frowned. “Won’t anyone else see me signaling?”

He shook his head. “Room 113 is quite high. Actually it’s on the third floor because the Clinic’s built into the mountainside. The massage and treatment rooms are on the ground level, the reception and dining rooms are on the next level, and the patients’ rooms begin above that. As soon as you’ve signaled each evening the car will turn on its lights—you’ll be able to see that—and proceed down the hill. You’ll flash your light twice if all’s well but if you’ve something urgent to report you’ll blink your light four times.”

“And what will happen then?” she asked with interest.

“Then you can expect an incoming phone call within the half hour. Since it will come through the Clinic’s switchboard we’ll work out some kind of simple code for you, based on your health.” He unplugged the projector and carried it back to its case. “Other than this,” he said, “your job will be to mingle with the guests, do as much judicious exploring of the building as possible, watch, eavesdrop, listen, and don’t admire any sunrises at the edge of a one-hundred-foot drop.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

“We’ve booked you for a flight to Geneva on Thursday—the day after tomorrow. The letter confirming your arrival at the Clinic will be received by them today, and tomorrow I’ll cable them the hour of your arrival and ask that you be met at the airport by a limousine, as befits the mother-in-law of a noted Baltimore lawyer,” he added with a grin.

“And what am I recovering from?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

“If you’ve nothing more exotic in mind, how about a stubborn case of good old Hong Kong flu?”

“All right,” she agreed, “but what equally concerns me if I’m leaving so soon is what I tell people when I announce
I shall be away. People like my son in Chicago, my daughter in Arizona. The Garden Club. My neighbor Miss Hartshorne, the Art Association—”

“Go on,” said Carstairs, looking fascinated.

“—the Hospital Auxiliary, the Save-Our-Environment Committee and”—she paused to frown at the expression on his face—“my karate instructor.”

“I waited for the last with bated breath,” Carstairs said. “It still carries impact.”

“My karate strikes do, too,” she told him modestly. “But what is my New Brunswick—” She searched for the proper word. “Cover.”

“Ah yes. Well, at short notice the easiest is the best, I think. I suggest you visit an old friend named Adelaide Carstairs living in Baltimore. If any calls come through for Adelaide they’ll be diverted to my office.” He grinned. “I’ll leave it up to you to embroider on Adelaide, I’m sure you can come up with something dramatic.”

He glanced at his watch. “Good Lord, one o’clock! Have I covered everything? Damned nuisance not having Bishop with me, I’ll have to spend the next hour making arrangements for your departure.”

“On Thursday,” she reminded him.

“Right, at 6
P.M
. but I want you at Kennedy International by four o’clock. You’ll be paged over the loudspeaker system and given another briefing, as well as your tickets and the code that we’ll establish for you. I’d rather not have you paged under your own name. Can you suggest one?”

“Jones, Johnson, Smith,” she said quickly.

“We’ll make it Johnson. Mrs. Virgil Johnson.” Rising he held out his hand to her. “Well, Mrs. Pollifax,” he said with a rueful smile, “here we go again.”

“Yes,” she said, rising and shaking his hand.

“Bon voyage. Finish your bacon, tomato, and lettuce and leave the key at the desk downstairs.” At the door he
stopped with one hand on the knob. “And damn it, don’t disappoint me by getting your head bashed in.”

She was really quite touched by the emotion in his voice. She returned to her sandwich wondering whether Adelaide Carstairs should be an elderly aunt who had broken her hip—rather dull, that; a niece who had eloped with a scoundrel, or a friend who had just been swindled and desperately needed comfort and advice.

She would have been swindled, decided Mrs. Pollifax, by a tall man with a scar over his left eyebrow. He might have a slight limp, too—that always aroused maternal feelings—but he would definitely be very distinguished and have impeccable credentials.

In the end Mrs. Pollifax sadly dispensed with her distinguished swindler and turned Adelaide Carstairs into a plain old school friend, recently widowed.

I’m sure you remember my speaking of her
, Mrs. Pollifax wrote her daughter in Arizona that evening. Of course Jane would not remember her, but since children paid very little attention to their parents’ friends Jane would probably reply that of course she recalled Adelaide Carstairs.
I’ll just go down for a week or two and cheer her up
, she added, giving the Baltimore address in case of emergency, but after sealing the letter Mrs. Pollifax sat and stared at her desk blotter without seeing it for a few minutes. She was thinking of her grandchildren and the vocabulary that had been devised for the world into which they’d been born, words that were as familiar as cat and dog to them: megaton and isotope, military-industrial complex, nuclear capability, ABM, MIRV, arms race, defoliants, and at the end of that list DNA, the genetic material that one reckless person could distort forever with a small bomb containing eleven pounds of plutonium.

Madness, she thought with a shudder.

The next morning, feeling more cheerful, she walked
downtown to do a little shopping, but with no intention of buying either a dowdy hat or a cane; she had in mind a dinner dress. For a long time Mrs. Pollifax had nursed a secret longing to buy something more contemporary than offered by the third floor matrons’ department. She headed for the Psychedelic Den and spent a very interesting hour chatting with a young clerk in mini-dress and boots who labored under the impression that Mrs. Pollifax was going to a masquerade party. “Which, in a way, is quite true,” she thought.

What she brought home was a long purple robe and an assortment of prayer beads. The robe made her look rather like a fortune-teller or the high priestess of a religious cult but it was a satisfying change. It was also drip-dry, she reminded herself virtuously.