Palm for Mrs. Pollifax (19 page)

Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Hafez is right, we
must
get back to the Clinic, Robin, it’s where Sabry will head as soon as he discovers Fouad and learns how we’ve gotten away. There isn’t time to go to the police.”

Robin said incredulously, “We can be there inside of ten minutes.”

“Yes and spend the next fifteen explaining to them. Robin, we must hurry to Madame Parviz—please!”

He angrily started the car. “Then you’d better explain to me what you found at the Clinic that’s so important you go back. What
did
happen in Sabry’s room?”

“Everything, and all of it ominous,” she said grimly. “Hafez and his grandmother are hostages—”

“Hostages?”

“Yes, and Sabry’s a murderer, and your old friend the sheik is heavily involved—”

“Yazdan!”

“And Serafina is guarding Madame Parviz, who’s been kept drugged, and just one telephone call from Sabry could end her life and—”

“But this is incredible,” protested Robin.

“Yes, isn’t it? And Marcel—” Her voice broke. “Marcel’s body is in Sabry’s closet. That’s why I screamed.”

“Good God,” he groaned. “You mean nobody knows he’s dead except us?”

“Yes,” she said, and sitting up saw that her words had at least effected a change in their speed for they were already entering Villeneuve. “We left Fouad tied up in a chest inside the castle but he was already beginning to stir and groan, and once they find him they need only telephone the Clinic, you see.”

“I’m not sure they’ll reach anyone—that night porter sleeps most of the night,” Robin said dryly.

“Let’s hope he’s sleeping now!”

“But what are these demented people up to?” protested Robin as he guided the car at top speed through narrow streets and headed toward the mountains.

“I think a coup d’etat in Zabya,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “The king is celebrating his fortieth birthday on Tuesday.”

“But that’s tomorrow.”

“My goodness, yes,” she said, glancing at her watch. “But what time is it?” she faltered, staring at a watch that said half-past midnight.

“Nearly four o’clock.”

“Good heavens!” She held the watch to her ear and shook it. “My watch has stopped, I’ve lost three hours!”

“Be grateful, they were damned tedious hours, believe me.”

She conceded this and sat back. It was no wonder, then, that Sabry and Munir had risked going into the castle after
them. They were obviously running out of time if they planned to return to the Middle East today or tonight to await a triumphant entry into Zabya tomorrow. If they were leaving the Clinic so soon perhaps they had planned to bury Marcel somewhere on the mountainside before they left. She had certainly been naive about Marcel’s death: of course they couldn’t risk the discovery of a murder so soon after Fraser’s questionable death. She had assumed that employees of the Clinic had concealed the tragedy when instead it was Sabry who had returned to the Unterwasser Massage room, carried the body up to his room and gone back to scrub away the blood.

And so neither the police nor Interpol knew that Marcel was dead, and there was nothing to warn them of anything wrong except that she had not signaled last night from her balcony. She wondered what they were doing about that She tried to think what she would do if she were Interpol but she was too tired, and anyway she had begun to suspect that Interpol did not expect a great deal of her. It was Marcel who had direct lines of communication with them, and from her they apparently wanted only reassurances that she was all right. This was gallant of them if one enjoyed playing Boy Scout games with a flashlight at night but it was of no particular usefulness when, as the expression went, all hell broke loose. Possibly a touch of male chauvinism there, she thought; Swiss women had only just won the vote, after all.

“Really,” she said aloud in an exasperated voice, “nothing seems to be going as they expected. I think Interpol has taken far too many precautions to keep everything undercover. There’s also this suitcase,” she added, looking at it speculatively.

“What suitcase?”

“You’ll see it presently,” she told him. “It has two padlocks on it beside the regular lock and I’m hoping you’ll open it for me, Robin. It belongs to the sheik, at least it
has his luggage tag on it, and Mr. Sabry seems to regard it as terribly important. Obviously it has something to do with the coup d’etat or whatever they’re planning.”

“I can hardly wait,” Robin said lightly.

They had entered the village on the mountain, and turning the corner at high speed they surprised an old man sweeping the sidewalk with a broom. He jumped back from the curb, shaking his fist in indignation, and then they turned and drove down the narrow road along the ravine to the Clinic. It was still night here but the rising sun was dusting the mountain peaks with gold. The lake below was wrapped in a mist that drifted lazily with each stirring breeze.

Hafez said in an anguished voice, “We’re almost there, but how shall we ever get inside the Clinic?”

“That you can safely leave to Robin,” she told him wryly.

“But Serafina mustn’t hear,” he protested. “She’ll be waiting for Mr. Sabry, and if she sees us without him—” His voice trembled. “You understand, monsieur, they kill so easily.”

“That,” said Robin grimly, “I’m beginning to understand.” He turned off the engine of the car and coasted it down the incline past the greenhouse. Abreast of the main door it came to a halt. “Don’t slam the car doors,” he whispered. “Watch the gravel—stick with the flower beds. Tiptoe around the Clinic to the garden door.”

A few minutes later they stood inside the Clinic on the ground floor next to the Unterwasser Massage room. “Now here’s what we do,” said Robin, taking charge. “No sense taking the stairs and all three of us creeping past the concierge’s desk. We’ll go boldly up in the elevator, each of us pressed against the wall. With luck hell think the elevator’s going up empty.”

Mrs. Pollifax offered him the gun. “Would you like this?”

“No, but I daresay it talks louder than I do.” He shoved it into his pocket. “Hafez, what will Serafina do when I knock?”

“She’ll ask who’s there.”

He nodded. “Be sure and tell me if she says anything else.” He reached out and ruffled Hafez’s jet black hair. “You’re quite a lad, Hafez, your father must be damned proud of you.”

The elevator carried them past the night porter and up to the third floor. Here they tiptoed down the hall to room 150 and Robin gently tapped on the door.

There were muted footsteps and then a low voice.
“Meen?”

“She asks who you are,” whispered Hafez.

In a thick voice Robin grunted, “Sabry.”

The door opened a few inches and Serafina’s face peered out. Quickly Robin placed his foot inside and leaned against the door. Serafina’s obsequious smile vanished, she gaped in horror, then turned to flee. Robin seized her, placed a hand across the mouth and dragged her to a chair. “I say—someone bring me a curtain cord and a gag. Hurry, she’s slippery as an eel.”

Hafez produced both. Robin gagged her and then wound the cord round and round her and under the chair as well. “Not bad,” he said in a pleased voice. “One could become accustomed to this sort of thing. Now what?”

“I think we move Madame Parviz to my room while I telephone the police,” decided Mrs. Pollifax. “I don’t like this room, it’s not safe.”

Robin said, “I couldn’t agree with you more.” He joined Hafez by the bed and looked curiously at the slender figure lying there unconscious. “So this is the mysterious Madame Parviz. Not quite the dragon I imagined, she looks more like a fallen eagle. Well, steady does it.” He lifted her slight body easily. “If someone will open the door—”

She was carried down the hall to Mrs. Pollifax’s room
and placed on the bed. Mrs. Pollifax put down the suitcase with a grateful sigh and then remembered that its contents were still a mystery and turned to Robin. “Open it,” she said.

“Now?”

“Now.”

He took one look at her face, sighed and brought out his pocket-sized kit of keys. Carrying the suitcase to the desk he examined the padlocks and set to work grimly. The first padlock was quickly removed and discarded. “The second’s a combination lock. Be very quiet while I listen for clicks. Look, can’t you be calling the police while I do this?”

“In a minute,” she said impatiently.

The second padlock was removed and Robin bent over the conventional lock. It snapped, and with a grunt of triumph he opened the suitcase. Sand-like grains of filler spilled across the desk. The suitcase was lined with small plastic sacks of the stuff, some of which had split open during the jolts of the night. Puzzled, Mrs. Pollifax reached down and pushed them aside to discover a layer of shredded newspapers. She peeled this away and suddenly stepped back in horror.

“What on earth?” exclaimed Robin.

“But what is it?” whispered Hafez.

Mrs. Pollifax was staring incredulously at the contents of the suitcase, at two innocent-looking drab cans suspended in a birdcage-like contraption and placed in a nest of newspaper and cotton. She had seen two such cans before but when she had seen them they were projected on the wall of a room in the Hotel Taft in New York. There was a world of difference between phantoms on a wall and the real and tangible thing. She could not remember when she had felt so shocked. She said in a shaken voice, “It’s plutonium—I’ve just found the plutonium.”

The intrigues of Sabry and the sheik abruptly took a dark and ominous turn and she was caught breathless and
frightened by it. She had the stricken sensation of one who has taken time out to catch a minnow and has unexpectedly reeled in a whale.

“I must telephone,” she said in a dazed
voice.

Hafez leaned over the suitcase looking awed. “This is PU-239?”

“Don’t touch it!” she said sharply. “Not without gloves.”

“But it belongs to the
sheik!
” pointed out Robin, reading the label.

“Yes. Astonishing, isn’t it?” She was remembering how Marcel had deplored her interest in an old woman and a boy, reminding her that they couldn’t possibly be involved in the search for plutonium, and she recalled, too, her reply: of course not, but there is something peculiar there. They had each of them been blind; the two puzzles had always been one and she was incredulous at how easily they fitted together.

She replaced the shreds of newspaper, the sacks of filler and headed for the door with the suitcase. “I’m going downstairs and call the police and then Mr. Carstairs in America. I shall never make the night porter understand unless I’m face to face with him.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Robin.

“Me, too,” echoed Hafez.

Ignoring the elevator Mrs. Pollifax hurried down the flight of stairs to the Reception floor with Robin and Hafez in her wake. The night porter rose to his feet, looking startled at such an exodus. “Madame?”

“I want you to put through two telephone calls for me,” she said. “First to the police, and then—”

“Police?”

“Police,” she repeated firmly.

He shrugged. Dropping a colored envelope on the desk in front of her he moved to the switchboard and plugged into the board. Mrs. Pollifax glanced at her watch—it was nearly 6:30—and then at the envelope. She discovered that it was addressed to her and she opened it, bringing out a cablegram that had arrived for her during the night. She read:

Her immediate reaction was one of intense gratitude—at least
someone
guessed that something was wrong—but since Carstairs was several thousand miles removed from her this was of small comfort. Where were Marcel’s people? She had just found Uncle Bill, and she had already found Cousin Matthew if only someone would come to the Clinic and ask. She glanced impatiently at the porter, who was swearing in Italian into the mouthpiece. “Are you speaking with the police?” she asked.

He shook his head. With a bewildered look he removed the headpiece and turned to her. “The line—she is dead.”

“Line?”

“Switchboard.” He stood up and moved to the rear of the board, checking knobs and outlets. “Dead,” he repeated in surprise.

A chill crawled up Mrs. Pollifax’s spine. Turning to Robin she met his equally startled gaze. She said quietly, “Try the lights.”

There were no light switches at hand; Robin turned instead to the elevator and pushed the button. Nothing happened. No lights twinkled on the board overhead, there was no whispering of descending cables. The elevator, too, was dead.

They’re coming
, she thought,
they’re on their way
, and she drew a deep breath to calm her skidding heart.

Hafez tugged at her arm. “Madame—it cannot be coincidence, surely?”

“I don’t know.” To the night porter she said, “Does this happen often?”

He sucked in his lower lip judiciously. “In the winter, two or three times, madame. Sometimes. In summer, only with the storm, but—” He shook his head. “No, no, fantastic.”

“Where is the director of the Clinic? Can you call him?”

There had to be a director, even if she had not seen him, but after a few skirmishes with the porter’s clumsy English it became apparent why she had not seen him. His family was on holiday in France, and he had left Thursday night to bring them back today. The secretary was in charge but she lived in Villeneuve.

Mrs. Pollifax found herself remembering the aerial view of Montbrison that Carstairs had projected on the wall of the Hotel Taft. The Clinic was surrounded by woods, isolated and alone in the center of seventy acres of forest and ravine, its narrow gardens carved out of the hillside with only the one road entering the property from the village a mile away. It would be very easy to lay siege to it. “There are only three of them,” she reminded herself aloud.

“Four if you count the sheik,” said Robin grimly. “And don’t say ‘only’ four. It’s like saying there are ‘only’ four
copperhead snakes on the loose in a small room. I say, if we lock all the doors in the building—”