Elusive Mrs. Pollifax Read Free

the message isn’t authentic, Mrs. Pollifax. I want you to remember that. If you meet with unforeseen circumstances, you’re to make a fast exit. Very fast.”
    “All right.” She was copying the message on paper, and without glancing up she said, “I go to this shop and order a vest and then wait to be contacted. When I’ve given this man Tsanko the passports do I ask for anything from him?”
    Carstairs frowned. “There’s no bargain involved here, and he’d have every right to be affronted if we insist on anything in return. But if the occasion arises–I leave this entirely up to you–we certainly wouldn’t mind learning more about a man named General Ignatov. What’s his complete name, Bishop?”
    “General Dimiter Kosta Ignatov,” said Bishop promptly.
    “You understand this Tsanko will probably know nothing. The press is state-controlled over there and the people aren’t informed about much of anything,” Carstairs explained. “But we’d appreciate your asking.”
    “I’ll be glad to.” Mrs. Pollifax completed her notes and handed Shipkov’s message back to Carstairs, who stood up. “But you’re leaving without finishing your coffee!” she told him.
    “We have to. There’ll be a helicopter waiting for usat your airport in”–he glanced at his watch–“ten minutes. But I must admit it’s been a real experience meeting you in your natural habitat,” he said with a grin. “As well as seeing your night-blooming cereus.”
    “Both the night-blooming cereus and I seem to bloom once a year,” she said, smiling and rising, too. “Mr. Carstairs, I shall do my very best in Bulgaria, I really will. You can count on me.”
    Bishop saw Carstairs open his mouth to speak, wince and close it with a snap. “Yes,” he said, and then, “We’ll be in touch.”
    “What were you about to say?” asked Bishop curiously as they descended in the elevator to the street.
    Carstairs said testily, “It wasn’t anything I was going to say, damn it. I just experienced the most incredibly clear memory–it came over me in waves–of how I worry about that woman when she’s away.”
    Bishop nodded. “Yes, I believe I pointed that out to you only a few–”
    “If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s an ‘I told you so’ attitude,” snapped Carstairs.
    “Yes, sir,” Bishop said, grinning.

3
    Mrs. Pollifax’s preparations moved along smoothly. The next day she announced to friends and family that she would be flying to Europe soon for a visit to Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. Her daughter in Arizona was appalled. “Mother! Your first trip abroad and you’re not going to visit Paris or London? You
must
visit Paris and London!” Jane tended to be somewhat managing, and Mrs. Pollifax braced herself for a long conversation.
    Before telephoning her son, Roger, in Chicago, Mrs. Pollifax also braced herself, but for a different reason: Roger was a very intuitive young man.
    “Bulgaria,” he said now with interest. “You pick the most surprising places, Mother. Not Switzerland, France, Scotland or Belgium?”
    “Bulgaria,” she said firmly.
    “We had the most interesting note from your neighbor Miss Hartshorne at Christmastime,” he told her. “She seemed to think that you’d been here with us for a week last summer, and that Martha had been quite ill.”
    It was not the
non sequitur
that it sounded; Mrs. Pollifaxunderstood him at once. “How very odd of her to think that,” she said weakly.
    “Wasn’t it?” He chuckled. “Whatever you’re up to, Mother, I hope it’s fun.” And with that he blithely hung up.
    The gentleman named Osmonde arrived on Thursday at ten o’clock, and was thoroughly enjoyable. Mrs. Pollifax fed him tea and macaroons and was struck by his conscientiousness: he insisted first upon seeing, measuring and photographing the coat she would wear with the hat. “For the blending, the amalgamation,” he said vaguely, and she obediently buttoned herself into the quilted