Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (15 page)

On it she had printed in pencil:
MUST SEE TSANKO AT ONCE
.
URGENT
.

The man looked at her sharply.

“Something has come up,” she said clearly. “Can you rush the order?”

He handed the slip of paper back to her. “I see what can be done. You are lady at the hotel?”

“The Rila, yes.”

“How soon do you leave?”

“As soon as I have the vest.”

He nodded. “I will let you know,” he said, and she left.

This time Debby submitted her passport at the hotel and registered legally, receiving a room of her own down the hall, which she left as quickly as possible to rejoin Mrs. Pollifax. It was she who opened the door to the tailor a few hours later. He carried a handsome vest on a hangar, unwrapped so that Mrs. Pollifax could see that it was brown. He handed her the bill, bowed and quickly walked away down the hall.

But it was not a bill, it was a note.
BE AT SIDE ENTRANCE
7:15,
WATCH FOR BLUE CAR
. To this had been added in script,
Why does a man who raises geese carry in a valise a coat identical to yours?

“Well, that’s a punch line,” Debby said when Mrs. Pollifax passed the message to her. “What does it mean? And–good heavens, what’s the matter?”

Mrs. Pollifax had abruptly sat down on the edge of the bed. “An exact duplicate,” she said in a startled voice. She was remembering her first night in Sofia, and the burglar who had arrived in the middle of her nightmare. She had discovered him with her quilted brown coat in his arms, yet at the same time her coat had been locked away securely in the closet. Supernatural powers indeed! There were
two
coats, and the burglar had brought the second coat into the room
with
him.

But why?

At that moment–with dizzying clarity–Mrs. Pollifax found her thoughts going back to Miss Hartshorne and
a jammed door lock.
Of course he was heading for your apartment, Emily, he was carrying your brown quilted coat with him. I could see it plainly through the cellophane wrapping
.

Very softly Mrs. Pollifax said, “I have a distinct feeling that Mr. Carstairs wasn’t frank with me this time. Debby–hand me those scissors on the bureau, will you?” Reaching for her coat, she looked it over, turned it inside out and stared at the lining.

“What are you going to do?” Debby asked in an alarmed voice, handing her the scissors.

“Operate,” said Mrs. Pollifax and, grasping the lining of the coat, she began snipping the threads of one of the plump quilted squares.

“Are you out of your skull?” gasped Debby.

“I’m solving a mystery. You like mysteries, don’t you?”

“I used to until I came to Bulgaria.”

“Well, here’s a new one for you.” From her coat she drew a folded piece of paper and held it up.

“Money?” said Debby in a shocked voice.

“Some kind of foreign money.” She turned over the note, frowning. “Not Bulgarian. Russian, do you suppose?”

Debby brought out a Bulgarian
lev
and compared them. “Not Bulgarian. Mrs. Pollifax, you didn’t
know
about this? Do you suppose every single quilted square in your coat has a bill like this?”

“I think we can count on it,” she said, and was silent, considering the situation.

“But why? And what are you going to do with the money now that you’ve found it?”

A faint smile tugged at Mrs. Pollifax’s lips. “Since Mr. Carstairs didn’t enlighten me, I see no need to do anything at all. I think I shall regard it as ‘found money.’ Finders keepers, you know.”

“But there could be a small fortune here!”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “It’s almost the hand of Providence
intervening, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully. “I always say it’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow someone good.”

“Mrs. Pollifax, you’re being mysterious.”

“Yes, I am,” she acknowledged truthfully. “But now it’s time to go and meet Tsanko, and we mustn’t keep the blue car waiting.”

As Mrs. Pollifax and Debby advanced from the hotel steps to the curb the small blue car drew up, a young man leaned over to open the door for them and they climbed quickly into the rear seat. For fifteen minutes they toured the streets of Sofia and Mrs. Pollifax noted how frequently their driver checked his rearview mirror. Once he parked on a side street to allow cars to pass before he maneuvered out again to resume driving. It was half an hour before he abruptly pulled into a long alley, drove the length of it to an inside court, cut the engine and gestured toward a door ahead of them.

It was a rear door to a low, concrete-block warehouse. There were other warehouses and other doors emptying into the yard, all of them dark. Their escort unlocked the drab metal door with his own key and beckoned them to follow. They descended broad cement stairs and walked across an echoing expanse of floor piled high with wooden crates in neat rows. At the far end a door opened, emitting light, and Tsanko observed their arrival.

“Well, Amerikanski,” he said humorously.

“Well, Tsanko,” she said warmly.

“I was not sure I would see you again. I know that bad news brings you, but still I am delighted.”

“Very bad news,” Debby interrupted breathlessly. “They released Phil–cameras and newsmen and everything–and it wasn’t Phil at all.”

Tsanko nodded. “Yes, I learn this as soon as I returned to Sofia this afternoon. I learn more, too. Georgi–you have met Georgi? He is student at our university.”

“Hi,” Debby said.

Tsanko gave the young man instructions that sent him ahead into the room from which he’d emerged. Yet when they followed him inside the room was empty, which startled Mrs. Pollifax.

“We talk here, please.” He pulled out wooden crates and they each claimed one.

“We meet in strange places,” observed Mrs. Pollifax. “A cave, a furnace room–”

“About Phil,” said Debby impatiently.

Tsanko began speaking, but without looking at Debby, which Mrs. Pollifax thought ominous. “As I told you this morning, General Ignatov is in charge of this nasty situation now, and General Ignatov is a man of much resource. He has produced another Trenda–a stroke of genius, is it not?”

“But how?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

“There is this young man, of a same physiological character, a promising young man highly trained in the Soviet Union to speak English, to accomplish various matters, but with the great misfortune to have become addicted to cocaine. You understand? A grave embarrassment.” Tsanko glanced at his watch. “He is just now landing in Belgrade to meet your press. He will be taken to a hotel. Tomorrow morning he will have performed usefully for his country–he will be found dead in his bed of a heart seizure.”

“Oh no,” she said sadly.

“Thus Philip Trenda will have been disposed of–
but not in Bulgaria
. Already it has been suggested to the senior Mr. Trenda in your United States that this is not his son. He knows, you understand? He will announce his departure for Europe to recover the body of his son. In truth he will proceed to Zurich to deposit the ransom money in a number account on Monday morning.” He stopped, still not looking at Debby.

“And Phil? They’ll release Phil then?” she asked in a hopeless voice.

Tsanko met her glance squarely at last, and after a terrible moment Debby covered her face with her hands.

“How did you find out all this?” asked Mrs. Pollifax quietly.

He didn’t reply; he said instead, “You see the situation. To free your friend would make too many Philip Trendas.”

There was silence, and then Mrs. Pollifax said in a stifled voice, “He’ll never see America again, then. He’ll die here?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s alive
now?
”

“Until Monday, when the ransom has been paid.”

He had never wanted to come to Bulgaria and now he would meet his death here. He couldn’t be more than twenty, she thought, and by Monday night he would be another statistic, another human being sacrificed to an insane political end. She thought of Philip’s father preparing to leave for Zurich, understanding the odds but praying that somehow his son might be allowed to live. She said, “His father will be hoping for a miracle.”

“There are no miracles in Bulgaria,” Tsanko told her. “Someone has said that in my country a happy ending is a battle where only five thousand Bulgars are sacrificed to save a hundred Turks or Russians.”

“Then we must make a miracle,” said Mrs. Pollifax fiercely. “Surely we can make a miracle? Just to stand by and let this happen …” She looked at Tsanko. “Your Underground group is somewhere nearby, aren’t they? Would you let me speak to them?”

Tsanko gave her a quick, startled glance. “You are always a surprise to me, Amerikanski. Yes, they are in the next room. They expect a report from me tonight about the passports.”

“I have a proposition to make to them.”

“Proposition? I do not know this word.”

“Let me put it this way. You mentioned a mental hospital in Sofia.”

“Panchevsky Institute, yes.”

“You said that several of your friends are there now. I happen to believe Philip’s there, too. That gives us a mutual interest in that prison, doesn’t it? And you have an Underground.”

His jaw dropped. “My dear Amerikanski, if you mean what I think you mean–”

“There’s the other factor, the political one,” she continued determinedly. “You don’t approve of General Ignatov–you said so–but if he succeeds with the ransom and with Philip’s murder then there’ll be no stopping him, isn’t that true?”

Tsanko stared at her from under his heavy brows. “You continue to surprise me, Amerikanski!”

Debby said, “Mrs. Pollifax, he seems to know, but I don’t.
What are you talking about?
”

Neither of them answered her. With an effort Tsanko wrenched his gaze from Mrs. Pollifax’s face. “You had better meet my ‘Underground’ before you develop ideas,” he said dryly, and he arose and moved behind the furnace. There he opened a small steel door and led them into a room that resembled a ship’s boiler room, its walls an abstract of crisscrossing pipes.

Four people turned to look at them in surprise. There was Kosta, whom they had last seen in Tarnovo, and Georgi, who had brought them here, and two other men, both of Tsanko’s vintage. “This is all?” said Mrs. Pollifax, startled.

“We are only amateurs–concerned citizens,” explained Tsanko. “We have never been militant revolutionists. It simply grew too much for us, seeing innocent friends threatened, misunderstood and sent to prison. Allow me to introduce you, putting aside last names, please. First I would like you to meet my old friend, Volko.”

Volko arose, beaming at her. He was very tall, a charmingly
pear-shaped gentleman whose narrow shoulders sloped down to a swelling stomach hung with a gold watch chain. He wore a black suit and a stiff white collar. She’d not seen anyone dressed like that since her childhood, and then it had been a costume shared by bank presidents and morticians. He looked very proper, very dignified, but there was a sardonic glint to his black eyes that promised a sense of the absurd. “I am so much honored,” he said, very nearly clicking his heels as he bowed.

“Volko is the businessman in our group,” Tsanko explained gravely. “As a matter of fact this is his warehouse.”

“Volko,” she murmured, smiling and shaking his hand.

“And this is Boris.”

“Boris! The man who warned Shipkov on the street?”

Boris, too, arose, but languidly. He looked like a man who nursed a chronic case of exhaustion–once erect he slouched as if the effort of standing had depleted him. Every line of his face drooped with irony and her exclamation of pleasure at meeting him caused him to flinch, as if he’d been met by an unexpectedly strong wind. But the grasp of his hand was surprisingly firm.

“Kosta you have already met,” concluded Tsanko. “He has driven my car for me for many years.” If he had expected comment on the smallness of his group he was disappointed; Mrs. Pollifax was the more intrigued by the fact that in a socialist state Tsanko had his own personal driver.

“Hi,” said Debby, with a smile for Kosta.

“Does everyone speak English?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

“All except Kosta.”

“Perhaps then you could explain to them what I’ve just suggested to you?”

“What
have
you suggested?” asked Tsanko bluntly.

Everyone had sat down and now they all looked at her expectantly. It was not quite the same as addressing the
Garden Club at home, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and she anxiously cleared her throat. “I have an idea. A dangerous one,” she admitted frankly. “I’ve brought you eight passports from America which you can’t use because your friends have been taken to Panchevsky Institute. And there’s Philip Trenda–only a pawn, you know, a young American student who’s going to be murdered next week so that General Ignatov will keep his power. I think Philip’s at Panchevsky Institute, too. Here are all these people imprisoned in the same building. I think we should get them out.”

“Out?” echoed Debby in an awed voice.

“Out?” cried Georgi eagerly. “Oh–splendid!”

“Out,” mused Volko thoughtfully. “Hmmmm.”

“I have never heard such simplicity,” murmured Boris. “Just–out?” He snapped his fingers.

“Yes.”

Tsanko said, “Naturally we’d all enjoy very much rescuing our friends. Unfortunately none of us are magicians. No one escapes from Panchevsky Institute.”

“Then perhaps it’s time someone did,” she said. “What on earth is an Underground for if you don’t do things like that? I’ve never heard of an Underground just sitting around. They’re supposed to …”

“To what?”

She gestured helplessly. “I don’t know.
Do
things. Blow up trains, rescue people. That’s what they do in movies.”

“But this is not a movie,” pointed out Tsanko logically.

“But who else can get them out? What
will
you do with your group?”

“Rescue people when possible, yes, but not blow up trains.”

Mrs. Pollifax said, “I don’t see why you can’t rescue them while they’re
in
prison. If we all put our heads together–”