The Amazing Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

  "Damn fool," Sandor shouted, shaking a fist at the horizon.

  Colin said in a choked voice, "What the devil does that mean!"

  "Reconnaissance, I think," said Mrs. Pollifax. "But by whom?" She was rather unnerved by the incident; until now she had felt safely removed from Istanbul, but she resolutely put aside her anxiety, helped Magda back to her cot and insisted that Colin have the dubious honor of napping on the floor because he was the more tired from driving. Again she took the passenger seat, this time beside Sandor, and they set off—or rather flew off, thought Mrs. Pollifax, clinging to the sides of the leather seat, for Sandor drove with abandon, swerving gaily around the holes in the road, swearing in Turkish and English at the holes he did not miss, and frequently taking both hands off the wheel to rub dust from his eyes or to light an evil-smelling cigar which almost immediately was extinguished.

  The climbed now to a ravined and arid plateau, and the dust they raised all but obscured the sun. It was hot, the van captured and retained both the heat and the dust, and their water supply was gone. Since leaving Nallihan they had passed only one car and that one had been abandoned beside the road—probably with a broken axle, thought Mrs. Pollifax ominously. Nothing moved except the mountains on the horizon, which swam in the rising heat like mirages, until far ahead of them Mrs. Pollifax saw an approaching cloud of dust. "Dust storm?" she inquired—it was impossible to doze at all with Sandor at the wheel, and he had just finished telling her that dust storms were frequent in summer on the road to Ankara.

  "Car," he said briefly.

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded; she had begun to feel that if Sandor said it was a car it would be a car—and as it drew nearer it was indeed a car, a very old dusty touring car of 1920 vintage. The sun shone across its windshield, turning it opaque, so that as it approached them it appeared to be driven by remote control. It was therefore all the more startling to Mrs. Pollifax when she saw a hand and then an arm extend full-length from the passenger side of the car. When she saw the gun in that hand she stiffened. "Watch out—a gun!" she cried, and ducked her head just as the windshield in front of her splintered.

  Sandor virtually stood on the brakes. "Wotthehell," he shouted, and fought the steering wheel to get them off the road.

  Behind her Colin shouted, "Stay down, Mrs. Pollifax!"

  Metal protested, tires squealed and Mrs. Pollifax's hat fell off as the van lurched across the ridge that contained the road; they bumped uncomfortably over unfilled ground. Sandor was tugging at his belt with one hand; he brought out his gun but the car had already passed them: the sound of a second bullet rang ping! against the rear of the van.

  In alarm Mrs. Pollifax turned and saw that Colin was reacting with astonishing efficiency; he had remembered that he had a gun, too, and now he was slashing at the glass in the round porthole window in the back; as she watched she saw him lift the gun he had taken from Stefan and push it through the window. She thought he fired it, but there was too much confusion to know. Sandor was swearing as he fought the wheel again, turning the van to head it back to the road.

  "Look out! screamed Mrs. Pollifax as the van swung around, for the ancient dust-ridden car had also turned and was heading toward them at accelerated speed, hoping to ram them if it couldn't shoot their tires first. For a second the van's wheels spun uselessly in a gully, then Sandor roared the engine and the van shot back on to the road just as the elderly Packard left it. A bullet zoomed over Sandor's head, again just missed Mrs. Pollifax and went out the open window. But Sandor had fired, too. He seemed to have three hands, one for the gearshift, one for the wheel, and one for firing. With a wrench of the wheel he turned and backed the van and tried to shoot down the car but the Packard swerved, circled and returned to the road to face them head-on.

  They remained like this for several seconds, each car facing the other on the road with a distance of perhaps twenty yards between them, each driver revving his engine and waiting. Then with a burst of noise the Packard started down the road at full speed, heading directly toward them. "Hooooweeeeee," shouted Sandor, his eyes shining—it was clearly a game to him—and he recklessly steered the van straight at the Packard, not giving an inch. Mrs. Pollifax screamed and slid from seat to floor. From here she looked up to see a familiar face—Otto's—almost at their window, saw the Packard hurtle past them, barely missing them. As the Packard passed from sight she heard Colin's gun begin firing from the rear window, heard the scream of tires, a terrifying sound of metal twisting and turning, twisting and rolling, and Mrs. Pollifax put her hands to her face. 'They've turned over," cried Sandor, braking, and leaped out.

  Mrs. Pollifax slid from her side of the van and jumped to the road. The Packard was lying upside down in the dust after rolling over several times. Mrs. Pollifax began to run. "We must help them," she cried, and then suddenly the silence was rent by a great explosion and flames turned the Packard into a funeral pyre. Mrs. Pollifax stepped back and covered her eyes. "Did anyone get out?" she gasped in horror.

  Colin was beside her with a hand on her shoulder. He looked pale and shaken. "No," he said. "I watched. It was Otto driving, and a man I'd never seen before doing the shooting."

  Sandor said belligerently, "What the hell goes on here, they maniacs? Nuts? They tried to kill us!" He looked incredulous. "What the hell they want?" he said, shaking a fist.

  "Us," Mrs. Pollifax told him in a trembling voice.

  He gaped at her. "Those jerks were gunning for you?"

  Mrs. Pollifax nodded a little wearily. "Yes. First they sent the plane—there must have been radio communication, and then—"

  Sandor looked from her to Colin and back again. "But why?" he demanded indignantly.

  Mrs. Pollifax said weakly, "They apparently didn't want us to get to Ankara."

  "That I could see for myself but what the hell's going on?"

  Mrs. Pollifax hesitated and then recklessly took the plunge. "You might as well know, Sandor, that not only those men are after us but the police, too."

  "Police!" He stared blankly. "You?"

  "Yes."

  His mouth dropped. "You did shoot the guy you was unloading in the cemetery!"

  "No," she said patiently, "but Otto did—the man driving the Packard."

  A light of comprehension dawned in Sandor's eyes. "I'll be damned," he said, and to Mrs. Pollifax's surprise he gave her a look of grudging admiration. "I'll be damned," he said again, scratching his head, and then he began to laugh. "You're crooks tool" he cried delightedly.

  Colin interrupted primly. "I say, I resent that very much!"

  Sandor was wiping his eyes with a filthy handkerchief. "No offense, I know we're not in the same league." He grinned at them both. "So when I picked you up in the cemetery back there—and you let me come along like that —you was really picking me up!" He shook his head admiringly. "I thought I had you two scared to death of me."

  Mrs. Pollifax said soberly, "I don't think we should stand here talking like this. I think we should leave before someone sees the smoke and comes to find out what's happened. Colin, do go back and reassure Magda." Still she remained standing and staring at the smoldering wreckage. "It could have been us," she said with a shudder. "They intended it to be us. Sandor, you did a remarkable job of driving."

  He was still regarding her with amazement. "That guy Colin had a gun—he had it all the time. And you got gangsters after you—I picked a helluva bunch of people to hitch a ride with!" The expression in his eyes was one of infinite respect. "I know a guy could use you. You want to make some real money? I'll introduce you when we get to Ankara."

  "I'm not sure Ankara's a good place for us to head," said Mrs. Pollifax sadly. "Not now. There may be roadblocks. And thank you but I don't need any 'real money,' I just want to get safely out of Turkey."

  Sandor nodded wisely. "That bad then," he said, escorting her back to the van. After handing her up to the front he appeared to have reached a decision. "You come to Ankara," he said firmly. "Ankara's the
place for you. I got good friends there, you hear? A little crooked"—he shrugged and grinned —"but wotthehell, you need help. If anybody can smuggle you into Ankara it's me, Sandor, and there my friends help you, wait and see."

  Mrs. Pollifax looked into his face and was touched by his concern. "Thank you, Sandor," she said simply.

  From the rear of the van Colin said bitterly, "He probably thinks he's bringing his pals two bona fide members of the Mafia."

  9

  In Langley, Virginia, it was Tuesday morning, just half-past eight and already over ninety degrees in the streets. Carstairs had arrived in his air-conditioned office high in the CIA building and was sipping a second cup of coffee as he read over dispatches that had come in during the night. He had just lighted a cigarette when Bishop walked in. "Sir," he said.

  "Yes, Bishop, what is it?"

  He held out a sheet of paper. "It's a routine report that arrived at the clearing office a few minutes ago from the State Department. They shipped it up here as fast as they could. It seems that during the night the State Department received an urgent request from Istanbul for the verification of one Mrs. Emily Pollifax, an alleged American traveling under an allegedly American passport."

  "What the devil!" said Carstairs, scowling. He took the sheet of paper and stared at it. It was, as Bishop had said, one of the routine memos that circulated through a number of channels until it ended, heaven only knew where, as a fifth copy of what already had been filed in the Passport Division of the State Department. Its message was innocent enough but reading it Carstairs experienced his first uneasiness.

  "I don't like it," he said.

  "No, sir."

  "I don't like it at all."

  "No, sir."

  "I see it's stamped five-fifteen a.m, upon arrival here. What time would that have been in Istanbul?"

  "Nine-fifteen last night, sir."

  Carstairs swore. "Only an hour following Mrs. Pollifax's first attempt to meet Ferenci-Sabo then." He didn't understand, of all the people moving in and out of Istanbul, what on earth could have drawn the attention of the police to Mrs. Pollifax?. Her passport had been arranged on a top-priority basis and had been processed in less than an hour; had there been something important omitted in the processing? Had it appeared different or even forged to the police? No, that was impossible, he had double-checked it thoroughly himself.

  'This is not calculated to induce calm," he said dryly. "When the police single out one person out of thousands— and that person happens to be an agent of ours—then a certain bleak note enters the picture." He shook his head. "We can't contact the Istanbul police, our interest would only produce a reaction that would be the despair of our diplomats—the right hand must never know what the left hand is doing," he added, and stubbed out one cigarette and lighted another.

  But a possibility had occurred to him. "We can't do anything directly, Bishop, but we can be devious. Contact Barnes over in the State Department. Ask him if he'd mind cabling our consulate over there in Istanbul, in his name, to ask why the hell the Turkish police questioned the legal passport of one of our American citizens. I've got a meeting upstairs in five minutes but keep me posted if it lasts longer than I expect."

  "Yes, sir. He's to make his inquiry routine but ask for immediate information?"

  "Right. If the police have gone so far as to question Mrs. Pollifax the consulate ought to know about it. If they don't know, they'd jolly well better find out. I'm curious to say the least!"

  "Right, sir."

  When Carstairs returned from his meeting there was still no word. He sat back and reflected upon Mrs. Pollifax's schedule. She would have arrived in Istanbul about four yesterday afternoon—at least he knew now that she had arrived safely, he thought dryly. But at nine o'clock, or soon after, the Istanbul police had sent off a cable asking that her credentials be verified by the American government. Routine curiosity? Was the Hotel Itep under surveillance now? Had Mrs. Pollifax been injured, or even killed?

  The reply, when it came in from the American consulate, was brief. The Istanbul police had questioned one Mrs. Emily Pollifax for half an hour during the preceding evening but they refused to say why they had taken her to central headquarters for questioning. They had retained her passport for twenty-four hours; upon receiving verification of her identity they were now prepared to return the passport to her. Mrs. Pollifax had not been located yet, however. She was registered at the Hotel Itep but had not been seen there since late Monday evening.

  At this Carstairs swore again, briefly but savagely. "Not been seen! Not been located! And she doesn't have her passport?"

  "No, sir," said Bishop. "They're still holding it for her."

  "Thank God she's got Henry with her, but where the hell can she go without a passport?" demanded Carstairs. "Damn it, I'm helpless. I can't find out one blessed thing without endangering Ferenci-Sabo as well as Mrs. Pollifax, not to mention the goodwill of the Turkish government."

  "There's Dr. Belleaux, sir."

  He shook his head. "Not yet. I wanted absolute secrecy on Mrs. Pollifax—and I've got it, blast it, in fact I'm stuck with it. I'd contact Henry before I risked anyone else—but if Mrs. Pollifax is not in the hotel then it's not likely he'd be, either. Bishop, someone's knocking on the door."

  "Yes, sir." Bishop opened it and returned bearing an interservice message. "From Barnes, sir, in the State Department. He's heard from the American consulate in Istanbul again."

  "Again."

  "Yes, sir. He's scrawled a note here saying he doesn't know what's up— or want to—and he's too much of a coward to phone you with this news."

  "What news?" asked Carstairs in a hollow voice. "Read it, Bishop."

  "Yes, sir. It's a cable: regret inform you body of

  AMERICAN CITIZEN HENRY MILES "

  "Body?" echoed Carstairs in a stricken voice. "Yes, sir. Shall I go on?" Carstairs nodded, his face grim.

  "OF HENRY MILES DISCOVERED EARLY THIS MORNING IN USKUDAR CEMETERY STOP."

  "Cemetery!"

  "ONLY CLUE HANDWRITTEN NOTE APPENDED TO BODY QUOTE THIS IS HENRY MILES HOTEL ITEP STOP POLICE HAVA IDENTIFIED HANDWRITTING AS BELONGING TO

  " Bishop Suddenly stopped and swallowed hard.

  "They've got a lead?" broke in Carstairs savagely. "Get on with it, Bishop, for heaven's sake!"

  "BELONGING TO MRS. EMILY POLLIFAX, AMERICAN CITI

  ZEN OF—"

  "What?" exploded Carstairs.

  "OF NEW BRUNSWICK, NEW JERSEY, AND REGISTERED AT

  SAME HOTEL."

  "Oh no," groaned Carstairs.

  Bishop nodded. "Yes, sir. Emily is cutting quite a swath, isn't she? There's one more sentence, sir—"

  "Then finish it," growled Carstairs.

  "warrant issued for her arrest."

  "Good God," said Carstairs and slumped back into his chair. "Henry dead—our second agent killed inside of forty-eight hours over there; Mrs. Pollifax missing, and not a single word on Ferenci-Sabo." He sighed and shook his head. "It just about ends our attempt to contact Ferenci-Sabo, Bishop. If Mrs. Pollifax is still alive—and there's no certainty that they didn't get her, too—she's been rendered helpless without a passport. What can she do, where can she go? We'll have to proceed on the assumption that she can be of no more help to us."

  "Yes, sir."

  Carstairs rubbed his brow. "But we've still got to keep that lobby covered every evening until Friday—just in case. Is Hawkins still in London?"

  Bishop nodded.

  Carstairs sighed. "Apparently it's like dropping people into a bottomless well to send them to Istanbul, but we must keep trying. Fix up a telephone connection, will you Bishop? I'll give Hawkins the most superficial of briefings and if Ferenci-Sabo is still alive—the chances grow less every hour—he'll have to hide her in a cellar somewhere until we can think what to do next. Damn," he added.

  "And Mrs. Pollifax, sir?"

  Carstairs nodded. "I was coming to that. Send off a cable t
o Dr. Belleaux, Bishop. Alert him to the fact that Mrs. Emily Pollifax is one of our people, and may try to reach him, in which case we'd appreciate his giving her what help he can without bringing the roof down upon all our heads."

  "Yes, sir."

  Again he shook his head. "Not much else we can do for her, Bishop." He added irritably, "Oh, and add a full description of her for Dr. Belleaux so that he'll know precisely what she looks like, Bishop—and don't forget that damned flowered hat!"

  10

  Carefully Sandor inched the van through streets so narrow the houses could be touched on either side. Frequently their passage was halted by a donkey ambling ahead of them, or by women carrying jugs of water on their heads. There was no coolness in the shade. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and sun and dust lay heavy in the alleys, trapping smells of spices, charcoal, olive oil and manure. Mrs. Pollifax's impression of their entry into Ankara had been chaotic: they appeared to have approached the city by means of a dried-up river bed over which they had clattered and bumped, half-circling Ankara before darting furtively across one tree-lined boulevard to vanish into the old town. As they climbed higher now in this maze of streets Mrs. Pollifax glimpsed the top of the citadel ahead and then lost it. A moment later the van halted; Sandor wrestled furiously with the steering wheel and backed the van slowly, laboriously, through a hole in a crumbling wall. Bricks toppled and a fresh cloud of dust enveloped them.

  They emerged in a courtyard, abandoned except for a solitary goat, tied to a ring in the wall, who lifted his head and brayed at them in protest. An old adobe building opened into the courtyard, its roof open to the sky, its walls giving shade to the few sparse tufts of grass on which the animal fed.