Mrs. Pollifax on Safari Read Free

pants and veils drawing water from a well. This time it was to be Africa.
    She said it aloud—“Africa”—and at the sound of the word her heart began to beat faster and she realized that she was smiling. Africa, the dark continent. Tarzan. She remembered that when her son Roger was a boy she had taken him to see every Tarzan film that came to the Rivoli theater, and when his tastes had begun to veer toward Rita Hayworth she had gone to see Tarzan alone, enchanted by the animals, the steamy jungles, poisoned arrows and roar of lions … Lions, she thought with a gasp. Even if Carstairs sent her to a bustling African city she must find a way to see lions. She would
demand
lions.
    How dull her life had been growing lately, she thought, and how exciting to realize that she was going to see Africa. There suddenly seemed a great many things to do. She would have to sort through her entire collection of
National Geographics
, and there was all that material on game conservation in her desk drawer …
    With a guilty start she realized that it was nine o’clock and the breakfast dishes were still unwashed. Bishop would be coming in a few hours too, and she wondered if he was still partial to chocolate eclairs—she would have to visit Mr. Omelianuk’s delicatessen at once. Shereached for her coat, tucked her hair under a floppy straw hat, and went out.
    It was a brilliant June morning but she walked carefully nevertheless, for the ground beneath her might be covered over with cement, and her eyes shaded by straw, but in Mrs. Pollifax’s mind she wore a cork helmet and moved soundlessly through tall grasses, her ears alert for the sound of native drums.

CHAPTER
2
    Bishop arrived precisely at two o’clock, and although he looked harassed he had lost none of his insouciance, which, considering the years he’d spent as Carstairs’ assistant, always astonished Mrs. Pollifax. “Why don’t you look older?” she protested, taking his coat. “You never do, it’s disconcerting.”
    “Nor do you,” he told her gallantly, giving her a kiss on the cheek, “but in my case I
know
I’m older because my pushups are growing lazier and when Carstairs loses his temper at me I sometimes feel an overwhelming urge to cry. Is that for me?” he asked, staring fascinated at the table in the living room set with damask linen, china teapot, flowered Haviland cups and pastries.
    “
Especially
for you. Sit down and I’ll pour. There are five eclairs.”
    “I count six.”
    “One,” she told him reproachfully, “is for me. I suppose you’re understaffed and overworked because of last year’s congressional investigations? Which, I must add, was very shocking indeed. Even
you
need some checks and balances, you know.”
    “
We
are not and were not being investigated,” he said, sitting down and picking up an eclair. “Carstairs asked me to tell you very firmly that his department has remained scrupulous to the letter in all its undertakings.” He hesitated and then said dryly, “At least as scrupulous as can be expected when our business is to gather information by nefarious means, hit troublesome people over the head, and indulge in other interesting forms of skulduggery.”
    Mrs. Pollifax, recalling certain people that she herself had been forced to hit over the head, did not comment: it was a very modest number, of course, but one of which she was sure neither her garden club nor her pastor would approve. She continued pouring tea, noticing that Bishop was already devouring his second eclair. “You’ve not had lunch?”
    “Clever of you to guess,” he said, swallowing. “Carstairs packed me off at eight forty-five with a thousand errands to do, and presently you’ll have your share to do too. I don’t suppose he told you anything?”
    “Not a thing, except it’s Africa.”
    “He wants you to go on safari.”
    “On safari!” Mrs. Pollifax stared at him in astonishment.
“Safari?”
she repeated incredulously.
    Bishop