Amazing Mrs. Pollifax (25 page)

The hours crawled by, each of them bringing their own hell of doubt. Was Magda still on the plane? Was she even alive? Did Dr. Belleaux possess the Evil Eye by now? The very fact that no one came to her cell made her wonder if Dr. Belleaux was not exercising a great deal of authority; it was he who could least afford her communicating with anyone in charge here.

But if only
someone
would come! It was maddening to sit here charged with such a small, sad and truthless crime when she had news so explosive, and worries so alarming.

Toward noon she began to pace her cell, staring in
exasperation at the tiny window high in the wall, or standing by the door in the hope of hearing footsteps outside. There was nothing. The day grew hotter and the walls of her cell began to literally sweat, the moisture running down and dropping with a soft
phfft
on the stones. Just in case her cell was wired she took to saying in a clear voice every thirty minutes, “I must talk to someone in charge, I have information for the Turkish government.” No one came, no one listened, there was only heat and silence. After a number of hours Mrs. Pollifax ceased her pacing and wearily sat down on the metal bunk, feeling very depressed and extremely hungry.

She had completely lost track of time when the door to her cell suddenly opened. The light had grown dimmer—it must be late afternoon, she guessed—and it was difficult to see more than the outline of the man, who said briskly, “I am sorry, Mrs. Pollifax! There has been no time to interview you, and you have had a long wait indeed. You will come with me please to a”—she heard him sniff—“more agreeable place.”

“Yes,” she said in a dispirited voice.

He led her down a long, dimly lit dungeon of a corridor and up worn stairs to a more civilized hall. At an open door he turned to wait for her. “In here, please,” he said. It was a beautiful door—pure mahogany—and she realized that she was being ushered into an office. It was a vast improvement. There was sunshine in the room, as well as fresh air, and much more mahogany. Only the bars across the windows reminded her that she was still in prison.

She sat down in a leather chair beside his desk and now that her eyes were becoming accustomed to the light she examined the man with some surprise. “We’ve met before,” she said abruptly.

“Yes,” he said, sitting down and smiling pleasantly at her. “In Istanbul, at Central Headquarters. I am Mr. Piskapos.”

“Of course,” she said, recalling the man in plainclothes who had remained beside the window, scarcely speaking. “May I ask how Mr. Ramsey is? Mr. Colin Ramsey?”

“Oh yes, the young man found in the helicopter.” He nodded. “Just a flesh wound, quite negligible.”

“Has he—uh—spoken with you?”

Mr. Piskapos smiled at her with interest. “Now what would he speak to me about, Mrs. Pollifax, eh?” He leaned over and flicked on the switch of a tape recorder. “Have some figs,” he said, holding out to her a polished wooden bowl of fruit. “I must question you of many matters. Food will be brought you soon, but you must be very hungry.”

“Thank you,” she said, and accepted a fig and held it—it was a very sticky fig. She realized that after all these hours of waiting she had finally acquired someone to speak to, and she no longer had any idea of what to say. She could not think of any questions that might not provoke graver dangers for Magda—or Dmitri—or Colin and his uncle, or the gypsies, or even herself; nor of any answers that would not betray her connection with Mr. Carstairs and his organization.

“But let us get on with this,” said Mr. Piskapos, and added calmly, “I am a member of the Turkish Intelligence, Mrs. Pollifax, and so you may speak frankly with me. You are an American agent, are you not?”

She shook her head. “You flatter me, Mr. Piskapos, I am an American tourist.”

He nodded. “Then let us not pursue
that
detail any further.”

“Thank you,” she said with dignity. “Then may I ask—”

“Surely not why you’ve been incarcerated,” he said with a mocking smile.

“On the contrary, I would like to ask what charges you plan to place against me.”

“Any charges would be purely academic since your trial has already taken place,” he said flatly.

“My trial?” she gasped. “Without me?”

He nodded. “Perhaps the word trial is a poor word, Mrs. Pollifax—the Intelligence department does not have trials. Let us say instead that a hearing has been held—it took a number of hours, which is why I am so late—and you were quite fairly represented, Mrs. Pollifax.”

“Indeed?” she said coldly. “And by whom?”

“By Lieutenant Cevdet Suleiman.”

She said indignantly, “I’ve never met a Lieutenant Suleiman, nor has any such man spoken to me, so that I fail to see how he could represent me. This was doubtless a recommendation of Dr. Belleaux?”

Mr. Piskapos beamed. “It is interesting to hear you
mention Dr. Belleaux’s name,” he said. “Supposing you tell me how you happen to know Dr. Belleaux.”

“What time is it?”

“Five o’clock.” He leaned across the desk and displayed his wrist watch to her in case she doubted him.

Mrs. Pollifax hesitated and then nodded. If it was five o’clock in the afternoon then Magda was either safe or not safe, either landing in London or stalled hopelessly in Istanbul. In any case Carstairs could be left out of the picture: the important thing was to place Dr. Belleaux squarely
in
the picture. “Very well,” she said, and began to speak of her arrival in Istanbul to help a friend who had appealed to her for aid by cablegram. “Her name,” she said carefully, “was Magda Ferenci-Sabo.”

If Mr. Piskapos was startled he did not show it; his eyes remained fixed inscrutably upon the blotter on his desk, he did not even blink.

Thus encouraged, Mrs. Pollifax plunged ahead to describe the events of the past four days. She left out very little except the names of Madrali, the Inglescus, and Sandor. When she had finished Mr. Piskapos flicked off the tape recorder.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pollifax,” he said simply.

She found this annoyingly casual. She said, “Thank you for what? The truth? Lies? You don’t believe what I’ve said about Dr. Belleaux?”

At her question he looked up, surprised. “Oh yes.”

Jarred, she said, “Yes what?”

He smiled. “Perhaps I should tell you now that Dr. Belleaux is also in this prison—but not as a guest of our police this time. He was captured and booked only an hour after you arrived here, and he is here as a prisoner charged with espionage and treason.” He smiled wryly. “At the hearing it was decided—because of this, and because of your work in exposing Dr. Belleaux—that Ferenci-Sabo be allowed to continue unmolested to London.”

“Magda is safe?” gasped Mrs. Pollifax.

He said gravely, “We could have stopped her, you understand, but in this particular case the Biblical eye for an eye seemed just. In time, all of her information will be shared
with my government, and in turn we have—Dr. Belleaux, as Lieutenant Suleiman pointed out to us.”

“This lieutenant,” began Mrs. Pollifax.

“However, for the safety of everyone concerned,” continued Mr. Piskapos, “we have thought it best that if Alice Dexter White goes free, Magda Ferenci-Sabo must die. Die firmly, and publicly.” He drew a sheet of paper from under his blotter. “Perhaps you would be interested in the news release we have prepared for the voice wire services?”

Mrs. Pollifax glanced impatiently at a report of Magda Ferenci-Sabo’s death. Piskapos was saying, “You will of course wish to send a cable of reassurance to your superior, Mr. Carstairs, in Washington.”

At hearing Carstairs’ name spoken Mrs. Pollifax nearly choked on the fig that she had at last begun to eat. “You know—about Mr. Carstairs?” she gasped.

Piskapos laughed. “Obviously it is time that you met Cevdet,” he said. He leaned back and smiled at Mrs. Pollifax. “I must explain to you that Lieutenant Suleiman had been lately involved in following a man who entered Turkey illegally, Mrs. Pollifax, and who took a job as valet in the employ of a most noted gentleman in Istanbul—to spy on that gentleman, we thought. The name of the man whom Lieutenant Suleiman was keeping under surveillance was Stefan Mihailic, and the gentleman who gave him employment is Dr. Guillaume Belleaux.”

Mrs. Pollifax’s eyes widened in surprise. “Dr. Belleaux!”

“Which may explain to you,” continued Mr. Piskapos dryly, “how it was that Lieutenant Suleiman happened to be watching Dr. Belleaux’s house last Monday night when two strangers rode up in a van containing a corpse, proceeded to burglarize Dr. Belleaux’s house and then to carry out a half-conscious woman! Without consulting his superiors—but the man is a genius, of course—Lieutenant Suleiman decided that he must follow you in whatever conveyance he could put his hands on and discover what on earth you were up to. He had no idea who you or Ferenci-Sabo were until—alas—it was far too late.” Piskapos smiled. “He seems to have acquired the utmost respect for you, Mrs. Pollifax, a respect, I might add, which my government now shares completely.”

He leaned over and said into the intercom, “Send in Cevdet, please.”

“I am bewildered,” admitted Mrs. Pollifax. “I may be overtired but I simply don’t understand.”

Mr. Piskapos beamed at her reassuringly. “You will have plenty of time to understand. Lieutenant Suleiman has arranged a party for you all tonight in Ankara … for you, the young man Colin, Mr. Ramsey and Dmitri—who are already in Ankara now—and I believe something was mentioned of a pretty young woman from Yozgat. But Lieutenant Suleiman will tell you more of this. Ah, come in, Cevdet, come in!”

The door had opened. A figure in dazzling white linen stood there, a figure vaguely familiar and yet—paradoxically—utterly strange to Mrs. Pollifax. Black hair. A thin stripe of a moustache across the upper lip. Dazzling white teeth. Broad shoulders. This was an incredibly handsome man. Then he moved, and Mrs. Pollifax started. Dimly she remembered thinking—was it only a few days ago?—that even if he shaved and bathed she would recognize him because of his vitality, that bounding step and wonderful zest for life.

“Sandor!” she cried.

Mr. Piskapos stood up and said with a smile, “I would like you to meet Lieutenant Cevdet Suleiman, Mrs. Pollifax, of Turkish Intelligence.”

Sandor laughed delightedly. “What the hell, eh, Mrs. Pollifax?” he said, and bounded forward to kiss her heartily on each cheek.

It was Saturday afternoon in Langley, Virginia, and in his office in the CIA building Carstairs had been staring at a small exhibit on his desk.

There was a hat that had been airmailed to him from Istanbul, discovered by the police on Wednesday in a street bazaar in Ankara. It was a veritable garden of a hat bearing the label of Mrs. Emily Pollifax of New Brunswick, New Jersey, but he had already known this: he had seen it himself on Mrs. Pollifax’s head six days ago.

There was Bishop’s memo from Pan American Airways stating that no Mrs. Emily Pollifax was aboard today’s flight out of Istanbul for London.

There was the wire release torn from the teletype machine with the bulletin that would be tomorrow morning’s headline. It was dated Kayseri July 10, and it reported the body of a woman identified as Magda Ferenci-Sabo discovered by a shepherd that morning, near Ürgüp in central Turkey.

And there was the cable that Bishop had handed him only a moment ago, and which Carstairs had just begun to read:

Carstairs read it again incredulously. “I don’t believe it,” he said in a stunned voice.

Bishop chuckled. “It leaves out so much, don’t you think? Such as where she’s been for almost a week, and who killed Henry, and how she lost her hat, not to mention her rescuing Ferenci-Sabo—”

Carstairs said incredulously, “What did she do? How did she manage it? I thought she was dead. I thought they were both dead—”

“ ‘O ye of little faith,’ ” said Bishop with a grin.

Carstairs shook his head unbelievingly. “No word from Dr. Belleaux. Two agents already murdered. This hat turning up in Ankara of all places—and her passport. How did she get clear across Turkey without a passport?”

Bishop’s grin broadened. “What interests me at the moment is who’s giving the party in Mrs. Pollifax’s honor. The Turkish government, do you suppose?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Carstairs, and then as his glance fell to the cable he began to smile. “I’ll amend that,” he said. “Anything’s possible.”

He read the cable a third time, and as it dawned upon him at last that Ferenci-Sabo and Pollifax were both safe—and he had lost a great deal of sleep over them the past several nights—he chuckled richly. “Bishop,” he said, “find out what twenty-four hours’ delay does to Mrs. Pollifax’s arrival. She was booked on Pan Am all the way, wasn’t she? I believe I’ll meet her plane personally on Monday.”