MRS. POLLIFAX STOOD UNDER A DRIPPING umbrella and wondered why it so often rained at funerals. Or at burials, she amended, staring out from under her umbrella at sodden flowers heaped around the grave, and a dozen figures in black, heads bowed as the words ashes to ashes, dust to dust were intoned. She too was in black, wearing a veil that scratched her nose and made her very much want to sneeze; resisting this compulsion she gripped her purse more firmly in front of her with both hands and moved edgily to the left and then to the right. From the look of the sullen gray sky overhead she guessed the gentle rain was about to become a downpour, and at the same time she realized the last prayer was over and the figures around the grave were stirring, eyes opening, heads turning.
A man to one side of Mrs. Pollifax glanced at her and said, "A sad day."
"Yes," she said. She gave him an appropriately wan smile from behind her veil and opened her purse to tuck away her handkerchief. There seemed nothing more to do, and with a last glance at the group of mourners, separating now into individuals of various shapes and sexes, she detached herself and walked away, slowly threading her way among the tombstones toward the graveled road that wound through the cemetery. Passing the hearse and a line of cars she continued toward a limousine that had pulled up under the dripping trees at a distance from the others.
Seeing her approach, a chauffeur in uniform emerged from the limousine to open the door. Taking the umbrella she handed him, he snapped it shut, bowed, and once she was settled inside he walked smartly around the car to seat himself behind the wheel. A moment later, the car in motion, he said over his shoulder, "Go all right?"
"My purse made odd little clicking sounds every time I snapped a picture," she told him, "but I think the rain on the umbrella covered it up."
"Good," said Bishop, assistant to Carstairs of the CIA, and he pressed his foot to the accelerator. "I suggest we get the hell out of here and back to headquarters so Carstairs can brief you on where you're going, and why."
"Not to mention whose funeral I just attended," she said tartly, and since Bishop seemed determined not to explain anything yet she sat back and wondered if Cyrus had reached Chicago yet.
She had begun the day with Cyrus, who was leaving for Chicago on a 9:30 a.m, plane: his nephew Jimmy was heading the defense team for the biggest murder trial of the season and he had begged his uncle to bring his legal expertise to Chicago for consultations and support. Mrs. Pollifax had planned to join him in a week, once the trial was underway—or so she had assumed until Bishop's hurried phone call at half-past six that morning.
"No time for small talk," he'd said quickly. "We've had an SOS from John Sebastian Farrell in Europe, asking for you and Cyrus by tomorrow noon."
Momentarily stunned she had said, "Farrell's working for you again? But at Christmas he wrote that he was back in Mexico City—rescuing the art gallery he had to abandon when his cover was blown."
"Explanations later," said Bishop. "Can you and Cyrus head for Europe tonight?"
"Cyrus can't," she blurted out. "Cyrus, are you there?"
"Yes, m'dear," he said from the extension phone in the living room.
"He's leaving for Chicago in three hours," she explained. "For the Bates murder trial, I'm driving him to the airport in twenty minutes. His nephew's defending Bates."
"Your nephew's James Reed, Cyrus? Chip off the old block, obviously. But that means—look here," Bishop said desperately, "can one of you still go? You, for instance? This is Farrell."
She'd said, "Well, Cyrus? Still on the phone?"
"I'm here. Always said I'd never interfere," growled Cyrus, "but damn it, Bishop, I've every right to insist she not go alone. What sort of trouble's he in?"
"No idea," said Bishop, "and he's not working for us, but we owe him and an SOS is an SOS. Look," he added, "if Emily can go I've an idea Carstairs will know exactly the person to go with her, in fact I can guess who it would be, a well-trained and knowledgeable agent, I promise."
"I'll worry like hell—as usual," said Cyrus, "but I'm fond of Farrell, too. Can you pack in twenty minutes, Emily?"
"In fifteen," she said eagerly, "and if you weren't in the living room, Cyrus, I'd give you a hug."
"That too has to wait," said Bishop. "Start packing, there'll be a private plane for you at the airport when you deliver Cyrus and you'll be paged."
Now, seven hours later, Mrs. Pollifax had progressed no further than Virginia, where she had been presented with a black coat and hat and sent off to a mysterious funeral to take photographs, she was in a limousine with Bishop being driven back to headquarters to learn where she was to go, why Farrell wasn't in Mexico City where he was supposed to be, and what a funeral had to do with his being in enough trouble to send an SOS to the Department. She thought crossly that it was like a treasure hunt, this being rushed from place to place with no idea why, but it was now two o'clock in the afternoon and high time to unravel this confusing skein of events.
"Are we nearly there?" she asked. "I hesitate to mention it but I am cold and wet, Bishop."
"One more mile," said Bishop, "and I might point out the heater in this elegant stretch-limo is defective—in a word, it doesn't work—and I'm cold, too."
Mrs. Pollifax couldn't resist a pointed, "A private plane, a limousine, someone to take Cyrus' place, and a trip to Europe, all this for Farrell when he's not working for you?"
Over his shoulder Bishop said indignantly, "You know damn well we want him back; he's not even forty-five yet, he's too young to retire. Naturally we're hoping you'll emphasize the lengths to which we're going to give him aid and comfort. We miss him."
So do I, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and smiled as she remembered her first meeting with Farrell in Mexico not long ago. How shocked she had been to find herself shackled to a man who resembled a hero in a cheap B-movie! A handsome and reckless-looking adventurer, she had thought disapprovingly, being at that time fresh from her Garden Club in New Brunswick, New Jersey, and not vet accustomed to being drugged, kidnapped, and tied to a post with a stranger. Following this introduction they had experienced a very educational two weeks in a prison cell in Albania, during which she had puzzled out how to escape with a badly wounded Farrell and with the mysterious stranger in the adjoining cell. The fact that she had accomplished this with some élan—or so thought Carstairs—had proved the beginning of a number of adventures and a new career to which she had to admit she had become addicted.
Now she wondered who on earth Carstairs could find at such short notice to accompany her to Europe, and she fervently hoped he would find no one; she also wondered why Farrell was there at all when she remembered so clearly the business card that he'd enclosed with his Christmas note: Signor J. Sebastian Farrell, Galeria des Artes & Antiguallas, Calle el Siglo 20, Mexico City. . . .
Twenty minutes later they were entering Bishop's office high up in the CIA building, where he reached out a hand, saying, "I'll deliver the camera to the lab now and be right back."
Removing the black coat, Mrs. Pollifax reached into her shoulder purse and extracted from its depths the smaller purse that had accompanied her to the funeral. "Ingenious bit of trickery," she said, handing it to him.
"Ah, but we deal in trickery here," he said with a grin. Carefully placing the purse in a plastic bag he pointed to the inner door. "Just walk in, Carstairs is expecting you. And there's hot coffee," he called over his shoulder before he disappeared into the hall.
Mrs. Pollifax, shivering, murmured, "Positively ambrosial." Opening the door she walked into Carstairs' office, a quite familiar room by now, and found him already pouring coffee.
"Delighted to see you," he said, handing her a steaming cup.
"Damnably cold for early May. Cream? Sugar?"
"Black, thank you." Watching him as he moved to sit down at his desk she thought that he'd changed scarcely at all since the day she'd been given her first job as a simple courier; he really ought to look harassed and worn, considering all the intrigues he'd masterminded, and she said accusingly, "You should look older."
Amused, he said, "I am older. Would it make you happy if I admit to a touch of arthritis in my left knee?"
She said warmly, "It would, frankly, it provides the human touch. Now about this funeral—"
"That can wait," he told her. "Bishop's explained that during the night we had an SOS from Farrell asking for you and Cyrus as soon as possible?"
She nodded. "Yes, but not why, or where, and Bishop said he's not working for you?"
Carstairs sighed. "Unfortunately, no ... Stubborn chap. He's been busy with that art gallery in Mexico City, or he was until four days ago when we heard from him. At that time he phoned from Europe to ask two things of us: one, if we had any information in our files about a rather mysterious collector of art who had just hired him to pursue—for a great deal of money—a particularly rare document, and—ah, here's Bishop."
"They'll have the photos enlarged for us in fifteen minutes," Bishop announced, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Sorry for the interruption, pray go on."
"What sort of rare document, did Farrell say?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.
"Oh yes. Nothing political involved here, it was a straightforward inquiry and we owe Farrell that. It seemed that his collector, name of Ambrose Vica, had been told of a document discovered in Sicily bearing the signature of Julius Caesar. A real find, if authentic, since no signature of Julius Caesar has ever been discovered."
"Good heavens, Sicily?"
Car stairs nodded. "Yes. Both his earlier inquiry by phone and his SOS cable last night came from Sicily."
"So that's where I'm headed!"
Bishop nodded. "Plane out of Kennedy airport tonight, change at Milan, and arrival in morning at Palermo's Punta Raisi airport. And just out of curiosity," he added with a grin, "tell me the first word that comes to your mind when I say 'Sicily.' Free-association, no cheating!"
"Slip-fingered Eddy," she said at once, and seeing Bishop's astonishment she explained in a kind voice, "Eddy was Cyrus' favorite criminal, a small-time burglar who Cyrus sentenced more than a dozen times before retiring from the bench. He told Slip-fingered Eddy over and over and over that he was never cut out to be a criminal—he botched every job he tried —but Eddy just assured him that he'd try harder next time."
Bishop said, "That wasn't the answer I expected."
"So I noticed," she said with a twinkle.
"Was he Sicilian?"
"Born there, yes."
Bishop sighed. "You've ruined my theory on stereotypes; most people say 'Sicily? Oh, the Mafia.'
Car stair s leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Actually there's a great deal more to Sicily than any Mafia. It was occupied and fought over by the Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Greeks, Romans, Vandals, and—according to Farrell—Julius Caesar personally launched his attack on Africa in 47 B.c, from the town of Lilybaeum, now called Marsala. It's quite possible that if such a document exists it could have—might have—been found there."
"And now he's in trouble, but what can have happened?" Grasping at straws she said, "What did you find out about this Ambrose Vica who hired him?"
"That he's a wealthy collector," Carstairs said smoothly, "and not—as possibly Farrell wondered—Mafia-connected."
"Is he Sicilian?"
"No, but he has a villa in Sicily near Palermo, as well as a home in Mexico City, and in Paris, and an apartment in Rome."
"And Farrell would know about authenticating such things as a signature by Julius Caesar?"
Carstairs smiled. "He's certainly equipped to expose a forgery. Before you met him he'd built up quite a reputation at his gallery for authenticating old paintings and restoring those of value."
"A man of many talents, yes," murmured Mrs. Pollifax, "but this SOS?"
Carstairs put down his coffee cup and nodded. "It arrived by cable, and it read, if I remember correctly—" He closed his eyes a moment and recited, "URGENTLY BEG POLLIFAX AND REED SOONEST STOP MIDDAY PUBLIC SQUARE ERICE SICILY DEFINITELY WITH HIRED CAR MAYDAY MAYDAY SOS LOVE TO ALL FARRELL."
"He must be in hiding," said Mrs. Pollifax. "I don't like the sound of it, do you? But you mentioned his asking two things of you in his phone call to you four days ago: information on Ambrose Vica and—?"
Bishop answered this one. "That's where the funeral and the photographs come in—that was his second request. He asked for photos of those attending the funeral of a Mrs. Estelle Blaise in Reston, Virginia. He emphasized that it was very important but with no explanation as to why. We had to do a hell of a lot of work to find the right funeral home. His SOS, of course, came only last night, you understand. Now, of course, you can deliver the photos to him personally."
"You know no more than this?" she asked suspiciously.
Carstairs smiled at Mrs. Pollifax. "I needn't remind you that Farrell was one of our agents for nearly twenty years, and a damn good one, and we'd dearly like to have him work with us again. You might say we've extended him the courtesy of not pressing for explanations, always hopeful that he can be persuaded to come back to us."
A somewhat devious reply, thought Mrs. Pollifax, but she smiled back at him. "Then I think I'd like to change now into my own clothes and ask how"—she glanced at her watch—"how I reach New York."
Bishop smiled. "Royally. Private plane again, directly to Kennedy."
"And—I assume alone?" she asked at last.
Carstairs and Bishop exchanged glances. "To Sicily, yes," said Carstairs tactfully, "but you'll be met at Punta Raisi air-
port by someone who knows the island and will have hired a car."
She said resentfully, "And just who—?"
"Your suitcase is in the other room," Bishop told her cheerfully, "and you'll be restored to that dashing red-feathered hat you arrived in." When she gave him a stormy glance he added meekly, "Agent's name is Rossiter. And it will be all right. After all, you don't speak or understand Italian, do you?"
Taken aback by this, since it was quite true, Mrs. Pollifax rose from her chair and said with dignity, "If you'll lend me a closet, then, to change my clothes, please."
Carstairs rose, too, but he had not finished with her yet. He said firmly, "We want to be as supportive as possible, Mrs. Pollifax. This obviously has nothing to do with the Department but it's the Department that's lending you to Farrell and we'd like you to keep in touch. You still have the confidential cable and phone numbers by way of Baltimore?" When she nodded he said, "Good, have a fine trip then and give Farrell our regards."
Carstairs watched Bishop and Mrs. Pollifax leave. Reminding himself that he'd now completed his obligations to Farrell he returned to the intelligence reports waiting for him on his desk. To his surprise he found it difficult to concentrate; he had not previously wondered what a funeral and photos had to do with the rumored discovery of Julius Caesar's signature, and about what possibly could have driven Farrell into hiding, if Mrs. Pollifax's surmise was correct. There was Ambrose Vica, too, about whom he had not been entirely forthcoming, even though their dossier on him was only two sentences in length. He frowned and returned to the intelligence reports, but after struggling with errant thoughts for half an hour he rang the buzzer for Bishop.
"Has Mrs. Pollifax left?" he asked.
"On her way to Kennedy, yes," said Bishop.
"Do we have duplicates of the photographs she's taking to Farrell?"
"Yes, they're on my desk, I'll bring them in."
Together they looked over the dozen people that Mrs. Pollifax had photographed, each one enlarged now, but they meant nothing to Car stairs. No face brought a gasp of recognition, there were no hints or clues, and yet Car stair s couldn't suppress a growing feeling
of unease.
Puzzled, he said, "She captured on film everyone at the burial?"
Bishop nodded. "She reported twelve people present, not including herself." Pointing to one photo he said, "This cluster of people would be the family, I'd guess. She's managed close-ups of them, as well as those standing apart from the group." With a sympathetic glance at Carstairs he added, "You're not happy about this, are you . . . Intuition troubling you again?"
"Yes, damn it," growled Carstairs, "and I don't know why, except that I should have wondered why earlier. I've been careless—that coup in Africa, and Bartlett still missing, has been a complete distraction." He was silent, his eyes searching the unreadable faces in the photographs and wanting very much to know why they were of interest to Farrell. He said absently, "I don't recall Farrell ever asking for help before, do you, Bishop?"
Bishop shook his head. "To the best of my recollection, never."
"Exactly," Carstairs said, and nodding he said crisply, "All right . . . Top priority, Bishop. I want someone at Kennedy airport tonight, gate thirty-three, with passport and luggage. Henry Guise is free, isn't he? Give him a description of Emily Reed-Pollifax—that red-feathered hat should help—and emphasize that she and Rossiter are to be kept under surveillance every minute they're in Sicily, and if for any reason the two separate he's to stick with Mrs. Pollifax. Mornajay Upstairs will have my head for this if I'm wrong, but—"
"Better safe than sorry," said Bishop piously.
Carstairs gave him a reproachful glance. "Platitudes, Bishop? I also want to see the obituary on Estelle Blaise and any information available about her. Get on with it, will you?"
"Yes, sir," Bishop said, and hurried back into his office to set Carstairs' instructions in motion.
Monday
AS THE PLANE TOOK OFF INTO THE NIGHT FROM Kennedy airport Mrs. Pollifax had time to consider the last question she had asked of Bishop before departure. Actually it had been less a query than a complaint; she had said crossly, "Bishop, no one has explained to me how on earth you could find an agent to meet me in Palermo and travel with me to Erice at only a few hours' notice—I'm suspicious."
Mrs. Polllifax and the Second Thief Page 1
