Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (17 page)

“You were not in Tarnovo when the driver called for you at one o’clock this afternoon,” said Nevena.

“No–I wasn’t,” admitted Mrs. Pollifax.

“He waited.”

“I left a message–”

“He had orders to wait for you. He waited. Where were you?”

“I was offered a ride back to Sofia. Mr. Eastlake at my Embassy had telephoned–”

Nevena bluntly interrupted. “That we know. But”–she fixed her eyes sternly on Mrs. Pollifax–“Mr. Eastlake telephone you before I do.”

Mrs. Pollifax blinked at this; Balkantourist had been doing some thorough detective work during the course of the day. Obviously she was in trouble here, which, with so many other things to think about, seemed tiresome indeed. “I offered to go by train,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax. “I expressed an interest in getting back to Sofia earlier than you suggested.”

Nevena threw up her hands. “I never tour anybody like you. Balkantourist is angry, very angry. You do whatever you please, it is most insulting.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are sorry, but you continue to do what you please. You not behave nicely. It is too much, we have no choice.”

“No choice?” echoed Mrs. Pollifax, very alert now suddenly.

“You must go,” Nevena said coldly, rising. “You go first plane tomorrow.”

Mrs. Pollifax sat very still. She understood at last that her first battle was being fought here, in this room, and if she lost there would be no other battles at all. She felt a deep chill rising in her and she knew that she must use this cold to become ruthless, not for herself but for the thin hope of rescuing Philip Trenda. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly to Nevena. “I’m really very sorry, Nevena. I was about to telephone you my apologies and ask if I might visit one of your great collectives, of which I’ve been hearing such splendid things. But of course if I must leave …” She sighed. “If Balkantourist says I must leave then of course I must. My daughter, Jane, will be disappointed, of course. She raises geese.”

“She what?” said Nevena, startled.

“She raises geese,” Mrs. Pollifax said firmly. “I have just heard this afternoon, Nevena, that your country is becoming well known for its
pâté de foie gras
. I had no idea. My daughter would be so interested in learning what your country …”

Nevena stared at her. “You never mention this in your letter to Balkantourist of what you wish to see.”

Mrs. Pollifax shrugged. “I had no idea–I thought the French were the
pâté de foie gras
people. The Strasbourg
pâté de foie gras
is so … so …”

“French!” Nevena’s lip curled. “French?” She tossed her head. “We excel the French, they are bourgeois. We export much goose livers for the best
pâté de foie gras
–”

“So I’ve just heard,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax. “And I was looking forward–”

“The
French
,” Nevena repeated contemptuously. She was silent a moment and then she said cautiously, “It is possible that if your apology is acceptable–I can see.”

“It would certainly be merciful,” said Mrs. Pollifax truthfully.

“Okay, I see,” said Nevena. “If this is so, someone take
you tomorrow, which is Friday, and you leave Saturday morning.”

“Without a tour of Sofia,” said Mrs. Pollifax, nodding.

Nevena said sharply, “Without tour of Sofia? You have seen Sofia!”

Mrs. Pollifax shook her head. “Only Mount Vitosha, and then I became tired, you see, and returned to the hotel. I’ve not seen the Nefesky Cathedral, or your monument to the Soviet Army, or the Georgi Dimitrov Mausoleum. Or Lenin Square, for that matter.”

Nevena’s lips thinned. “You cannot be trusted with a car again.” But she had not said no. A lengthy silence followed, which heartened Mrs. Pollifax because Nevena was frowning thoughtfully. After a moment she lifted her gaze and regarded Mrs. Pollifax sternly. “You have no sense,” she said. “You come, you go, we cannot find you.”

“True, Nevena,” she said contritely.

“But you are old woman. I believe you when you say you are sorry. I make with you a compromise. If you behave very nice we take you tomorrow to collective farm. On Saturday ten o’clock you join organized tour–many peoples–of my city. Then you leave Saturday night seven o’clock sharp to reach airport nine o’clock plane.”

Soberly Mrs. Pollifax nodded. She had at least gained forty-eight hours; it might be enough time, it had to be enough time.

“And,” added Nevena severely, “you report to Balkantourist all the time. On such terms–”

“I’m on probation,” suggested Mrs. Pollifax.

“Pro-bation? I not know such word.”

“It means,” explained Mrs. Pollifax, “that I have behaved very rudely and am being given a second opportunity for which I am most grateful, Nevena.”

Nevena’s face softened. “You are not
bad
, she explained, as though she had considered this already in
some depth. “But you are careless, lazy. In Bulgaria peoples are not careless and lazy.”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded; she believed her.

“We give you forty-eight hours, no more. But I–how you call it?–intercede for you because you are not bad, only without sense. But you make sense now, you understand? Be very, very good or you go.”

“Thank you, Nevena,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

“You see? We are reasonable peoples, we Bulgarians,” Nevena said, touching her almost affectionately on the shoulder. “In our anger we can be kind.”

“Very kind,” said Mrs. Pollifax firmly, and hoped she would leave soon.

“The Dobri Vapcarow Collective raises geese for the
pâté de foie gras
,” Nevena said. “At nine sharp be in lobby.”

When she had gone Mrs. Pollifax fumbled for the slip of paper Tsanko had given her upon which he had written the name of the collective at which Radev worked: it was the Dobri Vapcarow Collective, and Mrs. Pollifax decided that her fortune, however mixed so far, was at least for the moment on the ascendency.

Debby was in Mrs. Pollifax’s room at seven. “I thought I’d want to sleep all day, but there’s too much going on,” she explained. “Mrs. Pollifax, were you serious last night? I mean, do you think there’s the slightest
possibility?
”

Mrs. Pollifax groped for pencil and paper and wrote,
Room may be bugged. Wait
. Handing it to Debby, she said casually, “My Balkantourist guide, Nevena, was waiting for me here last night. Balkantourist feels I’ve behaved very irresponsibly toward them–as of course I have,” she added piously. “Nevena had come to suggest I leave Bulgaria at once.”

“They’re expelling you?” gasped Debby.

“That word was not mentioned, fortunately–it sounds a little strong. However, she’s graciously given me another forty-eight hours–if I behave myself–so that I can visit a collective farm today, and tour Sofia tomorrow.”

“Well, wow,” Debby said, making congratulatory gestures.

Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “And now I shall take a bath.”

“I just might write a postcard to Dr. Kidd,” said Debby.
“I’ll tell him I’ve eloped with a Bulgarian sheepherder.”

Mrs. Pollifax closeted herself in the bathroom and blessed the sufficiency of hot water in Sofia: she had a great deal of thinking to do, mainly about Debby, who had been so conveniently overlooked by everyone for the moment. Debby’s thumb was healing now, they were back in Sofia, but somehow, through circumstances beyond anyone’s control, Debby had become more and more involved during the last twenty-four hours. The problem was, how much more involved should she become?

Her being here in Sofia was dangerous. There was Nikki, who by this time would have guessed something untoward had happened to Mr. Bemish on Wednesday night. Nikki would be asking questions. Inquiries in Tarnovo would take time; they would, however, establish the fact that not only had Mrs. Pollifax survived her trip to Tarnovo but that she had left Tarnovo alive yesterday and accompanied by a young American girl with long brown hair.

Of course there was no way to link them with Bemish in Tarnovo. The black Renault would be discovered parked on a main street in town, and the bodies of Bemish and Titko Yugov would probably never be found. But there would remain the unalterable coincidence that all of them had been in Tarnovo the same night, and that Bemish had disappeared while Mrs. Pollifax was still very much alive. It would also prove very dismaying for Nikki to learn that Debby was her companion; he wouldn’t like this. He would look for them in Sofia and place them under surveillance again. By tonight at the latest, she mused; we’ve had a day’s respite, that’s all.

But Nikki was such an angry young man that it was unpleasant to contemplate his reactions. Their unexpected survival would certainly curb his delight at how smoothly his plot was moving toward its climax in Zurich on Monday morning.

And if he ever learned that both she and Debby had
been at the Embassy yesterday to witness the release of Philip’s impersonator–she shuddered. It could become very difficult for them to remain alive in Bulgaria.

Should she suggest that Debby leave, then? She thought that if she insisted upon it Debby might consent to go as far as Belgrade and wait for news, but she would certainly rebel at going any farther. The trouble here was that Debby might talk too much in a changed environment. Belgrade would still be buzzing with gossip about Philip Trenda’s release and Debby would be eager to find other young companions again. The temptation to tell what she knew would be very strong indeed.

But the worst of it, reflected Mrs. Pollifax, would be Debby’s terrible vulnerability in Belgrade. Nikki had already found his way there once and he presumably still owned a valid passport for travel. Who would there be to watch over Debby?

This last realization settled it: it might be dangerous for Debby here in Sofia; it could prove equally dangerous for her to be banished to a nearby capital where Mrs. Pollifax could no longer keep an eye on her.
I’ll ask Tsanko about hiding her for the next forty-eight hours
, she thought, and made a mental note to see that Debby recovered her passport from the hotel today.

“The tailor delivered your coat,” Debby announced as Mrs. Pollifax emerged from her thoughts and her bath. “The receipt’s on the bed.”

Mrs. Pollifax picked up the receipt and read
Money in coat is counterfeit
. “What on earth!” she exclaimed.

Debby nodded. “Your–uh–employers are certainly weirdos.”

“Devious,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “Rather shocking, too, I might add.” She wondered if Assen Radev knew the Russian rubles were counterfeit. Probably. Counterfeit money did upsetting things to a country’s economy, didn’t it? If enough counterfeit Russian money circulated through a devoted satellite country it could cause some
rather hard feelings toward Russia, couldn’t it? The bills would move steadily out from Sofia into the villages and among the peasants, who distrusted paper money anyway, and if a hard-working peasant sold a precious cow and found his currency was worthless it would prove quite a blow. In fact it would be heartbreaking, she thought with a shake of her head. She would have to speak very sternly to Carstairs about this when they met again. Then she remembered that Carstairs would probably have a number of biting comments to make about her involving the Underground in unauthorized activities and she decided not to think about it now and began looking for a clean pair of gloves.

“And what kind of mash have we here?” asked Mrs. Pollifax in a depressed voice as she peered into still another tub at the Dobri Vapcarow Collective.

She and Debby had been at the collective for nearly two hours and had not so much as glimpsed Assen Radev. They had seen a great number of geese, and rather too much of their substitute guide. He was a young man named Slavko, who sweated heavily over his translations, but she supposed it was not every day that a guide was forced into translating words like force-fed,
foie gras
, liver, mash and gaggles of geese.

“This mixture has more corn than rye or wheat,” said Slavko after conferring with the foreman. He had already explained that the Dobri Vapcarow Collective was such a success that it was now a model for other collectives, and a laboratory for small experiments. “They eat our
foie gras
in all the capitals of Europe,” Slavko said proudly. “It brings much praise, much money.”

The foreman, who spoke no English, listened impassively. He was a huge, ruddy-faced man in overalls and muddy hip boots who seemed to regard Slavko with the amusement he would accord a three-legged goose or some other colorful mutation of animal life; he smiled
occasionally at Mrs. Pollifax, frequently at Debby and not at all at Slavko.

But of Assen Radev they had seen nothing, and Mrs. Pollifax began to fear that she had miscalculated. She’d had no real, graspable idea of what a collective farm was, vaguely assuming it to resemble a New Jersey truck farm, intimate and on a small scale. This collective was like an open sea of land with a small island of barns on it. The cluster of barns and outbuildings was separated by smaller seas of trampled mud, and totally surrounded by pens of geese, but beyond this nothing could be seen on the horizon except clouds, and field after field of growing corn and wheat: the collective incorporated three villages and mile after mile of land. Assen Radev could be anywhere; he was certainly not here.

“The land belongs to the workers,” Slavko was reciting. “After the crops are harvested, twenty percent of the profits go to the state, ten percent to the planting and ten percent to new machinery and repairs. The remaining sixty percent is divided among the workers according to workdays they have given–for two hundred workdays one thousand
leva
, for two hundred and fifty workdays, fifteen hundred
leva
.”

“That’s five hundred American dollars,” Debby announced triumphantly.

“In this room,” continued Slavko after consulting with the foreman, “there is compared the feeding by the hand with the feeding by machine.”

Debby peered into the room and stepped back. “Ech,” she said. She had barely survived watching the geese fed by machine. She had fled outside, where Mrs. Pollifax had heard her retching. “I won’t,” she said. “I can’t.”