Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (7 page)

Mrs. Pollifax made the only decision that was possible for her. “If we hurry I think we can get to the Embassy before it closes,” she said, and stood up. “I’ll go with you. I think your doubts about Nikki are quite sound, for reasons which I’ll explain when we get there.”

“You mean you’re listening?” gasped the girl.

“I’m listening,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “You’ve already missed your plane. Have you any money? Have you a room for tonight?”

“Money, yes,” said Debby. “No room, because we bunked in a place Nikki found for us and I didn’t want him to know I was staying behind.”

“Very shrewd of you,” said Mrs. Pollifax, placing her hat squarely on her head. “If Rila has no space for you, you can share this room, but you really must promise
to leave Sofia in the morning,” she told her sharply. “You simply can’t go around expressing yourself in a country like this without getting into a great deal of trouble.”

“I’m already in trouble,” Debby said forlornly.

“Then promise, and let’s go.”

It was almost six o’clock before they were ushered into the office of a Mr. Benjamin Eastlake at the Embassy. “I want you to listen to this young friend of Philip Trenda’s,” Mrs. Pollifax said, adding tartly, “if only because we’ve had to talk to so many people before reaching you. I shouldn’t care to try finding you again.”

“My apologies,” Eastlake said. “I’ve been running late all day and now I’m overdue at a tiresome cocktail party. I’m well protected by secretaries,” he added wryly. “A most serious business, this, the Bulgarians arresting an American and charging him with espionage. I’ve been in touch with Washington all day and I can tell you that a formal complaint has already been lodged with the Bulgarian government.”

“Will that help?” asked Debby eagerly.

Eastlake shrugged. “It depends entirely on why the Bulgarians arrested him. Or why they
think
they arrested him.”

“Perhaps what Debby would like to tell you may add a piece to the puzzle,” suggested Mrs. Pollifax.

Eastlake smiled at Debby. “You look familiar. You were here yesterday?”

Debby smiled back shyly. “Yes, except I didn’t say anything. Nikki did all the talking.”

He nodded. “Very well. Talk.”

Debby explained her suspicions to Mr. Eastlake, beginning with Belgrade and ending with her visit to Mrs. Pollifax at the Hotel Rila.

“Who quite wisely felt I should hear this,” he said judiciously. “But you know it’s very difficult to believe this young Nikki can be quite as sinister as you paint him. He was properly outraged about the whole situation, and extremely concerned.”

Mrs. Pollifax said quietly, “I wonder if you know what passport he travels under?”

“Passport? You mean his nationality?” Eastlake rang a buzzer. “Bogen, could you get me that list of young people traveling with Trenda?” It was given him and as he glanced down the sheet he frowned. “Odd.”

“What is?”

“He had a German passport. He didn’t have a German accent.”

“He told us he was Yugoslavian,” Debby said indignantly.

Eastlake’s scowl lightened. “Then he’s probably a transplanted Yugoslavian. Yugoslavs are allowed to leave their country, you know. Theirs is the only communist government that allows immigration, free access and egress, et cetera.” He smiled. “Very possible, you know, for him to be both German and Yugoslavian.”

Mrs. Pollifax was not to be diverted. She said firmly, “Last night I went to the apartment of a gentleman I’d been told might become my guide around Sofia. Do you know a Mr. Carleton Bemish?”

Eastlake winced. “I’ve met him. I shouldn’t care to
know
him.”

“Mr. Bemish appeared to have met with a windfall,”
she continued quietly. “Champagne on the table. Boxes of new clothes on his couch. He wasn’t at all interested in becoming my guide. He was far more interested in the guest he was expecting.”

Eastlake looked bored but polite.

“As I was about to leave,” she went on crisply, “his guest arrived at the door and they greeted one another effusively, like very old friends. His guest,” she added, “was Nikki.”

“Nikki!” echoed Eastlake.

“Nikki?” said Debby in a startled voice and turned to stare at Mrs. Pollifax in astonishment. “But Nikki’s never been to Bulgaria before. He said so.”

“Can you be certain it was Nikki?” asked Eastlake with a frown.

“I was so certain that I reminded him I’d seen him in the Belgrade air terminal, and had traveled on the same plane. He made no attempt to deny it. In fact we spoke of …” She stopped in mid-sentence.

“What?” asked Debby, leaning forward.

Mrs. Pollifax frowned. “I’d quite forgotten. I told him I’d seen you all being questioned at Customs, and I told Nikki I hoped there had been no trouble.”

“Yes?” said Eastlake, no longer looking bored.

“Nikki said it had been nothing, only a small misunderstanding, but
he didn’t mention that Philip had been arrested
.”

“This was last night?”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded.

“But that was hours after Phil had been arrested,” gasped Debby. “What time?”

“About seven.”

“Only an hour after Nikki was here in this office wanting to know what was being done to release Phil,” said Eastlake. “You think Nikki could be Bulgarian?”

“It’s an interesting possibility, don’t you think?” suggested Mrs. Pollifax.

Eastlake whistled. “It would certainly put a different light on the subject.”

Debby was looking excited. “Oh, I’m so glad we came!”

Mrs. Pollifax looked at her. “But none of this begins to free Philip, you know. It may only make it … more difficult.”

“But why?”

It was Eastlake who replied. “She means that there may be some purpose behind Phil’s arrest that we don’t know and can’t guess.” He regarded Debby thoughtfully.

“What are you thinking?” asked Mrs. Pollifax, watching him. “What will you do?”

He lifted both hands helplessly. “Report this at once to Washington, of course.”

“But why Phil?” asked Debby.

“Exactly. Why not you, or that young Andre? Why anybody at all?” asked Eastlake. “Above all, why a young American student? If they’re trying to provoke an incident …” His lips tightened. “Now that you’ve reported this, Debby, I want your promise to be on the morning plane out of Sofia.”

Debby sighed. “I already promised Mrs. Pollifax.”

“Then if you’ll wait in the corridor I’d like to speak to Mrs. Pollifax alone.”

When she had gone Eastlake shook his head and stood up. He walked to the window, stared out and then turned. “A damnable situation,” he growled. “That girl absolutely must be gotten out of Bulgaria tomorrow.”

“You think she’s in danger?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Danger? Not very likely. Why should she be?”

“I thought–”

“It has other ramifications,” he said curtly. “I wish like hell this girl had left with the others. The Bulgarians are very strait-laced about their young people. I’ve been trying all day–before I heard these new details–to
find out who on earth allowed these kids into this country.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

“They’re virtually hippies,” he said bluntly. “Oh, nice enough kids, of course, but not representative of our best American youth. The propaganda value of their appearance alone is enough to turn my hair white. I understand they were seen walking barefooted in Sofia–and not a one of the young men has had a haircut in months.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “I suppose it’s your job to consider things like this, but I would have thought you might be more concerned about–”

“Naturally I’m concerned,” he snapped. “But I happen to officially represent the United States here and this means thinking in terms of image.” He leaned forward. “I’m talking about publicity, Mrs. Pollifax, Photographs. Make sure that girl leaves tomorrow, and wearing shoes and a clean dress.”

“I’m not sure she has a dress,” said Mrs. Pollifax tartly. “She’s waiting outside, do you want to ask her?”

He looked at her. “Just get her out before the news story heats up.”

“In the meantime,” said Mrs. Pollifax, rising, “I assume that you’ll keep in mind that Philip Trenda, no matter what length his hair, is still an American citizen?”

Eastlake gave her a long, level scrutiny. “Oh yes, Mrs. Pollifax, we will,” he said dryly. “We do our best for distressed American citizens even if they turn out to be criminals or bona fide spies. But it would be infinitely simpler if it was someone like yourself who had been arrested yesterday.”

“Even if I turned out to be a spy?” asked Mrs. Pollifax with a pleasant smile.

He looked at her pityingly, as if the poverty of her humor overtaxed his patience, and Mrs. Pollifax left with the feeling that she had delivered the last word, even if her audience didn’t realize it.

At nine she and Debby dined together in the hotel restaurant. They had no sooner ordered when a waiter emerged who spoke primitive English–Mrs. Pollifax wondered where the management had been hiding him–and announced that Balkantourist was calling her on the telephone at the front desk.

“That will be Nevena,” she said with a sigh, and left Debby to follow the man upstairs to the lobby. “Mrs. Pollifax,” she said into the phone.

But it was not Balkantourist. “How do you do,” said a man’s voice, lightly accented. “This is the man from the shop you visited yesterday. About the brown sheepskin vest?”

“Oh–yes,” gasped Mrs. Pollifax. “Yes indeed.” She was aware of two desk clerks at her elbow and she inched unobtrusively away from them. “I’m very glad to hear,” she said, but of one thing she was certain: this was not the same man she had spoken with in the tailor shop–the voice and the accent were different.

“Our mutual friend has been called away,” continued the voice smoothly. “It is suggested you meet him in Tarnovo.”

“Where?”

“It is some distance. You have a car? It is suggested you leave tomorrow, Wednesday morning. It is a drive in miles of some one hundred fifty. A reservation has been made for you at the Hotel Yantra tomorrow night.”

“Those two names,” said Mrs. Pollifax, fumbling for a pencil. “Again, please?”

“Tarnovo. T-a-r-n-o-v-o. The Hotel Yantra.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, baffled by such unexpected instructions. “But why?” she asked. “Is this really necessary? I don’t understand–”

The voice was cold. “Quite necessary.” A gentle click at the other end of the line told her that she was no longer in contact with her mysterious caller. She placed the receiver
back on the hook. With a polite smile for the two young desk clerks, she made her way quickly to the ladies’ room, locked the door behind her and removed a map of Bulgaria from her purse. Eventually she found Tarnovo–it was the center of the country.

But why? she thought indignantly. Why must she leave Sofia and go driving halfway across Bulgaria, even if the country
was
only three hundred miles from west to east?

She could think of only two reasons at the moment. The small gray man might
not
be one of Tsanko’s people. Or Shipkov’s message and his telephone call were both a trap and there was no Tsanko at all.

Neither possibility was heartening. But she had come to Bulgaria to carry out an assignment and this was the first communication she’d received. If it was a trap, she was going to have to discover it for herself by following it through to the end.

Carefully she tore up her written notes on Tarnovo and flushed them down the toilet. Returning to Debby she said, “I’ll be leaving Sofia too, tomorrow. I’m going to do a little touring of the countryside.”

“Oh,” said Debby, startled.

Mrs. Pollifax reached out and patted her hand. “But I won’t forget about Philip. I’ll keep in touch with the Embassy for as long as I’m in Bulgaria and if you’ll give me your address I’ll write every piece of news I hear.”

But even as she reassured Debby she was thinking, Why Tarnovo? Why so far?

It was upsetting, and she admitted to a distinct uneasiness.

A change of plan was not casually accomplished. The hotel had collected Mrs. Pollifax’s passport upon her arrival and in order to recover it she had to explain her plans to leave the next day. Balkantourist was telephoned, and an irate Nevena summoned again to demand what on earth she wanted.

“I want to drive into the country tomorrow and remain away for a few days,” explained Mrs. Pollifax.

“You arrived only yesterday in Sofia.”

“That’s true. Now I want to leave.”

“Why?”

Mrs. Pollifax sighed and embarked upon a story about meeting tourists that day who had told her Sofia was not the real Bulgaria.

“They said
that?
” Nevena said suspiciously. “Who were they?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. But in any case you know I want to see the real Bulgaria and I was planning anyway to drive into the country before I leave. Now I want to go tomorrow.”

“Yes? Well, then, Borovets would be good, very good. It is south of Sofia, they ski there big in winter. I make a reservation at Hotel Balkantourist in Borovets for your arrival there tomorrow.”

Mrs. Pollifax opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. There was obviously no point in mentioning Tarnovo to Nevena if Nevena wanted her to go to Borovets. If she persisted, the reservation at the Hotel Yantra might be accidentally uncovered, too. At this moment Mrs. Pollifax clearly understood the frustration that caused small children to lie through their teeth in the face of authority.

“Give me the manager, I speak with him,” Nevena said, and Mrs. Pollifax gladly handed the phone to him. At length he promised to have her passport for her in the morning when she checked out.

“Thank you–nine o’clock,” emphasized Mrs. Pollifax, and decided that it would be infinitely simpler if she did not mention that Debby would be staying the night with her.

Mrs. Pollifax set her alarm for a seven o’clock rising, determined to see that her young charge arrived at the airport on time; she wanted nothing to interfere with her new rendezvous in Tarnovo. She was pleased to note that at sight of a proper bathroom Debby made happy feminine sounds and dug out shampoo, soap and creams from her pack. It was possible, thought Mrs. Pollifax, that she would even wear a dress for the flight.