Amazing Mrs. Pollifax (21 page)

“Ssh,” said Mrs. Pollifax as Dr. Belleaux came striding back.

He went first to the campfire and looked down at Magda, then he leaned over, felt her pulse, nodded and straightened. Seeing the gypsies emerge silently from their wagons he gestured them closer and began speaking to them. Eloquently he spread his arms, smiled, frowned, pointed to Magda, then to Mrs. Pollifax and Colin, his voice becoming increasingly edged with contempt and indignation. It was surprising, thought Mrs. Pollifax, how much could be communicated without a single word being understood.

“Born orator,” growled Colin. “Real Hyde Park material.”

“Can you catch any of it at all?”

“Just the word kill, which occurs with monotonous frequency,” said Colin dryly.

Beckoning his audience closer Dr. Belleaux drew them away from the campfire toward the small group at the tree. Within minutes Mrs. Pollifax was surrounded closely and in danger of developing claustrophobia. At this point Dr. Belleaux suddenly drew out a knife; he seemed to be challenging one of the gypsies to use it, and to Mrs. Pollifax’s surprise Goru stepped forward and grasped the knife, the gypsies cheering with approval at his move.

Goru ran his fingers over the knife’s edge and tested it lovingly. The expression on his face made Mrs. Pollifax shiver. She looked up into the stolid faces of the gypsies and then at the triumphant smile on Dr. Belleaux’s lips and she experienced the first chill of doubt. She realized that she had allowed herself to be tied up again, and that she was helpless. She remembered the money taken from her by the gypsy youths … it was so very
much
money. Now that Magda had been returned to the gypsies of what value really was she, or Colin, or his uncle or Sandor, compared to the wealth they had brought into the camp? It was wealth that would have to be given back if the gypsies chose to save them. She had trusted Anyeta but the woman was an invalid—had she really any influence? What if Goru chose to disbelieve or to ignore her? For the first time she realized that her being persuaded back to the tree could be a cunning trick, and she a fool to have trusted the persuaders.

Goru suddenly laughed and called out to one of his companions,
who brought him a small jug.
“Icki,”
Goru said to Dr. Belleaux, and held out the jug to him. Dr. Belleaux sighed with exasperation as he accepted it. Another gypsy handed jugs to Stefan and to Assim, and at once jugs blossomed everywhere among the gypsies. Apparently a toast had been proposed by Goru—a toast to their murders, wondered Mrs. Pollifax?

“I don’t like this,” Colin said in a low voice.

Obviously Dr. Belleaux did not like it, either. Impatiently he lifted the jug to his lips, drained it, threw the empty vessel to the ground and spoke sharply to Goru. Goru, sipping his drink like a connoisseur, smiled back at him and smacked his lips appreciatively.

Angrily Dr. Belleaux seized the knife from Goru’s hand.
“Budala,”
he snarled and turned to Mrs. Pollifax. “Enough delay!” he said, and looking down at her in a cold fury, he lifted the knife for its thrust into her heart.

Behind him no one stirred. The gypsies watched with a passive, detached interest, and Mrs. Pollifax realized they were not going to stop her murder. Dr. Belleaux’s livid face came close and she gasped, bracing herself against his blow, and then she gasped again as he continued a headlong descent and pitched into her lap, the knife still in his hand, his body limp. He twitched once, and then was still.

“They will sleep for eight hours, they are not dead,” Anyeta was explaining to Colin and Mrs. Pollifax. “We would be fools to kill a
gorgio
, the police are our enemies everywhere, like fleas forever on our backs.”

An unbelievable amount of activity was taking place in the gypsy camp; Anyeta had been carried from her tent to a wagon where she sat on a cushion giving orders in a low husky voice. Her tent had been struck and packed away, and the two campfires extinguished and raked. Horses were being harnessed to the wagons, and the three casualties of the night—Magda, Sandor and Ramsey—had already been stowed carefully away in one of the wagons, wrapped in blankets and still unconscious.

“We have our own drugs, but kinder than theirs because they are herbs as old as time,” she explained with a flash of a smile. “The three men will sleep dreamlessly for eight
hours, and wake up refreshed. By then we must be far away.”

“But where did your men carry them?” asked Colin.

“To the plane, where they have been strapped into the seats. They will make a peaceful picture when they are found. Now it is time to ask you an important question: You have found us, and you have found Magda’s grandson, and soon she will open her eyes to see him, too. What do you plan to do with her?”

Mrs. Pollifax explained their hopes that Magda might be alert enough to be placed on the Friday plane at Kayseri.

“She has passport?”

“She has passport, ticket, money and clothes.”

Anyeta smiled broadly. “Not money.” She shook her head. “Yule!”

The youth who had robbed Mrs. Pollifax ran over, and Anyeta held out her palm. The young man grinned handsomely, brought the wad of bills from his pocket and bowed as he placed them in Anyeta’s hand.

“He is very skillful, we are proud of him,” Anyeta told Mrs. Pollifax. “But of course we do not steal from friends. Count it.” She affectionately boxed his ears and he ran off to help with the loading. “So. You wish to take Magda to Kayseri. That is good—we head in that direction. What is more difficult is a place to hide for a day or two. You say Friday?”

“Yes. It must be Thursday by now. The plane leaves Friday morning at eight. The next plane is Monday, but who knows what could have happened by then?”

Anyeta nodded. “No hiding place is safe for that long! A place for us all to wait safely, then, during the daylight hours today. Yes I know of one, but far—we must go straight as the eagle flies toward the rock country near Ürgüp. From there it will take only hours to walk or ride to Kayseri, and it will be dark again when the time comes to get her to the airport.” She nodded. “Very good.”

A long shrill whistle broke the silence. “We are ready to go,” Anyeta said. “We go cross-country, avoiding all roads.”

Mrs. Pollifax took leave of her and hurried to the wagon in which her friends lay. Colin climbed into the van—he was to drive it a few miles from the scene and leave it hidden, to be found later. The wagons formed a line. From the lead
wagon in which Anyeta and Goru rode there came a shout, and six wagons began to move into the night with only the stars to guide them south.

There was no tarpaulin over the wagon in which Mrs. Pollifax rode, and she could feel the softness of the cool night air on her cheeks. The wagon creaked and groaned over the untilled, rocky ground but the movement and the creaks were not unpleasant, and as her eyes adapted to the darkness Mrs. Pollifax could decipher rocks and boulders to left and right, and at last the silhouettes of her companions. Magda was beginning to stir at last, to fling out a hand and murmur occasional unintelligible words. The silhouette of dark curly hair beside her was Dmitri—her grandson, Mrs. Pollifax repeated to herself, still touched and amazed by the discovery. Colin drove the van that whined in low gear behind them while his uncle snored peacefully on the floor of the wagon, sharing a blanket with Sandor, who had also slipped into the exhausted sleep that still eluded Mrs. Pollifax.

Magda called out sharply, and Mrs. Pollifax crawled over Sandor and Ramsey to look at her. Dmitri was leaning over speaking to her, and Magda said, “It’s you? It’s really you, Dmitri?” in a wondering and astonished voice.

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “I believe it’s morning!”

Magda began to laugh. “And you too? No no, it is too much,” she gasped, and reached for Mrs. Pollifax’s hand. “Again you have rescued me. And found Dmitri!”

“It’s been a long night,” admitted Mrs. Pollifax, “but I had a great deal of help: Colin and Sandor, Colin’s uncle, a girl named Sabahat and your gypsies.”

Magda’s laughter abruptly turned into tears, and then into exhausted, wrenching sobs.

“It’s all right, Dmitri, let her cry,” Mrs. Pollifax told the boy, patting his shoulder. “She’ll feel better for it, she’s been through so much.”

Gradually Magda’s tears subsided and she slept. She would need that sleep if she was to gain enough strength to board a plane within twenty-four hours—and that, thought Mrs. Pollifax as she crawled back to her corner of the wagon, was the one thing that mattered now. The seriousness of her
own plight had dimmed once she had met Dmitri—and then the boy had pulled the Evil Eye from under his ragged shirt to show her, and Mrs. Pollifax had understood that she was of no importance at all to Dr. Belleaux, nor was Magda or her grandson. From the beginning he had been set upon recovering something more. What had Carstairs said? “The mystery is why Ferenci-Sabo’s abductors didn’t silence her on the spot by killing her—they certainly had no difficulties in gaining access to the consulate, damn it. Obviously Ferenci-Sabo still has more value to them alive.”

But not because of Dmitri, Mrs. Pollifax realized. The kidnapped son of a high Bulgarian official would never bring about such a merciless pursuit. At most it would beget inquiries and protests at a government level, but not murder after murder, and certainly not the possible loss of Dr. Belleaux as a highly placed counteragent in Istanbul. Since Magda had not been killed following her abduction it was obvious that the knowledge Magda carried in her head was of less concern to the Communists than what she had carried out with her that was concrete, graspable, returnable and of an almost hysterical significance to them. Only after this had been recovered would Magda be silenced.

“A great deal changed with the invasion of Czechoslovakia,” mused Mrs. Pollifax. “Perhaps even Russia’s leadership changed, but certainly to the western world she turned suddenly irrational, paranoiac, unpredictable. As to what might be sealed inside that innocent-looking blue stone I can only guess, of course. What might it be to prove so threatening to the Communists? Transcripts of a terribly secret conversation? a photostatic copy of the minutes of a Politburo meeting? It would have to be an important clue as to what happened that August, and what can be expected in the future, and this would matter a great deal to NATO, to Yugoslavia and Rumania, to future nuclear pacts, to the balance of power.”

Magda and her blue stone had to be gotten out of Turkey.

Not even Dmitri could be involved in the departure now. Perhaps Colin could look after the child until he had acquired the necessary papers to travel. She had no illusions as to what lay in store for herself, and jail would be no place for the boy.

The caravan halted, and Goru went to the rear of the line and spoke to Colin; the van was directed off the road, and several minutes later Colin jumped into the wagon beside Mrs. Pollifax carrying the van’s battery in his arms. “Good lord what terrain!” he gasped. “Thought I’d have to abandon her long before this! No wonder roads are called the lifelines of civilization.”

“Where did you leave the van?” asked Mrs. Pollifax curiously.

“There’s a deserted village in there—Anatolia is pockmarked with them. A well runs dry, the people just move on and start a new village. I rammed the truck into one of the buildings that still has a roof.” He glanced up at the sky. “It’s just past three now, you know, it’ll be dawn in an hour or so, and there’s that damn helicopter to worry about as soon as it’s light.”

“Yes, the helicopter,” sighed Mrs. Pollifax.

They dozed uncomfortably for another hour. Just as the country around them was growing visible in the cold first-light they crossed a main road, the first Mrs. Pollifax had seen since they left Yozgat. They crossed it wagon by wagon, with Goru waving each one on or back. Then they resumed their interminable procession southward. It must have been the Kayseri-Kirsehir road, Colin said drowsily, but Mrs. Pollifax only half-heard him.

When she opened her eyes again Magda was awake, propped up against the side of the wagon with one hand resting on Dmitri, who had fallen asleep with his head in her lap. The sun was rising with an explosion of colors that swept the sky like a wash of watercolor. Mrs. Pollifax looked at Magda and saw that her eyes were fastened almost hypnotically on Colin’s sleeping uncle. Seeing Mrs. Pollifax sit up Magda lifted her free hand and waved at her, but it was with a puzzled frown that she said, “This man here—I do not understand where he came from.”

“He—just arrived,” said Mrs. Pollifax with humor.

“He so much resembles someone I once knew.”

“He does?”

Magda nodded. “Someone I’ve not seen in—oh, twenty-five years at least. Many times I’ve wondered what happened to that man—one does, you know,” she said with a
faint smile. “Yet I believed I’d forgotten him until I saw this man. That same beak of a nose—”

Mrs. Pollifax looked at Uncle Hu buried in his blanket and said with a twinkle, “His nose is all one
can
see of him. Who is the man he reminds you of—a good sort, I hope?”

Magda nodded. “I have loved only two men in my life. There was my first husband Philippe—they called him the rich French playboy but it was the big performance with him because he too was an agent.” She looked across the tangle of sleeping bodies at Mrs. Pollifax. “You understand he worked for his government—the French—in Intelligence. We had one year together before he was murdered.”

“By whom?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

“They were called Reds then,” said Magda. “Only they did not just murder him, they arranged it to appear I had done their work. He was shot with my small pistol, still with my fingerprints on it, and there had been arranged false evidence of a lover.” She shrugged. “It was blackmail. I would have preferred to kill myself but I was expecting a child, which revived my interest in living. And they did not know I already worked for my husband’s people. I took my problem to French Intelligence.”

“So that’s when you became a double agent.”

“Yes.” Magda was silent, and then, “At least until World War Two when I work also with America and England.” Her lips curved ruefully. “One does not expect to love a second time. I did not believe I had the heart left.”