Mrs. Pollifax on Safari Read Free Page A

watched her eyes subtly shift focus as if she gazed at something unseen to him and very far away. She looked, in fact, as if she were experiencing a beatificvision, and understanding the processes of her mind, be shook his head. “No, Mrs. Pollifax,” he said firmly, “they don’t wear cork helmets in Africa any more.”
    She forgave him this underhanded remark but not without an indignant glance. She said with dignity, “I would be
delighted
to go on safari, cork hat or no. But why? Surely there’s more?”
    “Naturally. It’s a very specific safari starting out next Monday in Kafue National Park in Zambia. That’s in Central Africa, and if you’re not up on your African countries, it was called Northern Rhodesia before it gained its independence in 1964. You can read all about it because I’ve brought you lots of pamphlets. It’s good safari country, not as well-known, perhaps, as Kenya or Tanzania just to the north, but it’s rapidly getting discovered. Less touristy, more relaxed and unspoiled … Actually, Kafue Park is one of the larger game parks in the world—half the size of Switzerland—and of course the Victoria Falls are in Zambia too.”
    “Of course,” said Mrs. Pollifax, “and the President of Zambia, Kenneth Kaunda, recently visited Washington.”
    He looked impressed. “I’d forgotten that. Well, we’d like you to hurry over there, join the safari, get acquainted with your companions and take pictures of them—every one of them—either openly or surreptitiously.”
    “Is that all?” asked Mrs. Pollifax, puzzled.
    “Believe me, it’s frightfully important,” he told her. “We want everyone on safari observed and recorded, and for this we need someone who has always dreamed of a safari, someone utterly charmed by a lioness in the bush, fond of birds and flowers, and of course given to compulsive picture-taking. In fact,” he said with a smile,“I’d urge you to carry along a stupefying number of snapshots of your grandchildren, and if you don’t have any, rent some. You know how to operate a camera?”
    She nodded, and he slit open the mysterious package he’d brought with him. “Here’s a very good normal camera,” he said, handing it over to her. “Nothing fancy, you can buy it in any drugstore, easy to operate, small enough to tuck into your pocket. And here,” he added, bringing out a jeweler’s box, “is a different sort of camera, in case one of the group is camera-shy.”
    “This is a camera?” said Mrs. Pollifax opening the box and staring at a brooch inside. “It can’t be, surely.”
    “A bit vulgar, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “But you have to admit it doesn’t look like a camera.”
    “It certainly doesn’t.” She lifted the lapel pin out of the box and examined it. It had been designed as a miniature clock with a pendulum, its total length about three inches, which included the pendulum from which hung two small gold balls. The face was a sunflower with gold petals surrounding it, and two glittering eyes were set into the center with a curved smile below them.
    “Lacks only a cuckoo,” pointed out Bishop. “You pull on the chain to take a snapshot. Just a slight tug will do it, and then you touch the hands of the clock to move the film along for the next shot. The lenses are in the eyes. Takes forty snapshots, and then you bring it back to us and we smash it and remove the film.”
    “Very ingenious,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax, and then with a thoughtful glance, “Just who is going to be on this safari, Bishop?”
    “It’s purest intelligence-gathering,” he assured her blithely. “Someone of interest to us may be popping upthere. You know how it is, a rumor, a whisper … all in the name of the game.”
    Mrs. Pollifax’s smile was gentle. “I’ve never heard you lean so heavily on clichés before, Bishop. In the name of the
game
?”
    “Well, I can’t tell you
much
more,” he said candidly, “because Carstairs won’t