Mrs. Pollifax on Safari Read Free Page B

allow it. But it won’t hurt to point out that there have been a number of assassinations in the past seven months that have never been solved. The most publicized were Malaga in Costa Rica and Messague in France.”
    She nodded.
    “According to the particular netherworld we’re in touch with—made up of criminals, spies, informants and hangers-on—they were accomplished by one man with the code name of Aristotle. We don’t know anything more about him but we’ve intercepted a message leading us to believe he’ll be on this safari Monday, and that’s all I can tell you.” He brightened. “But I
can
tell you what the computer announced this morning when we fed it a list of possibilities for the job. It seems an old friend of yours is in Zambia. He doesn’t work for us any more but you know him very well.”
    “I do?”
    Bishop grinned. “I’d assume that after sharing a cell together in Albania for two weeks you’d know each other pretty damn well.”
    “Farrell?” gasped Mrs. Pollifax. “John Sebastian Farrell?”
    “None other.”
    “But what’s he doing in Zambia, and why doesn’t he work for you any longer?”
    “We haven’t the foggiest idea what he’s doing in Zambia,” said Bishop, “and he isn’t working for us any more because he resigned three years ago. All we know is that his pension—”
    “His what?”
    “We do pay pensions,” Bishop said, amused by the look on her face, “and his payments are being sent to Farrell in care of Barclay’s Bank, Lusaka, Zambia. Better make a note of that. Carstairs suggests you look him up when you get to Lusaka and see if he’s missing us as much as we’ve missed him. He should be in the phone book if he’s settled down.”
    “Farrell,” said Mrs. Pollifax, her eyes shining. “That dear man. A scoundrel, of course, but I’d trust him with my life, you know. Although not,” she added thoughtfully, “with my daughter. No, definitely not with my daughter.”
    “Mothers always trust me with their daughters,” Bishop said wistfully, and then, pulling himself together, unzipped his attaché case. “There’s a lot to be done,” he said briskly. “I’ve already visited the Zambia National Tourist Bureau today, as well as the Zambian Embassy. Mercifully, the tourist bureau has room for you in next Monday’s safari. Kafue Park is opening only this week—the rainy season’s just ended, you see—so luck was with us. As for your visa, it took persuasion, but if you’ll let me carry your passport back to New York with me this afternoon they’ll issue you one immediately and return your passport to you by special delivery. That leaves your yellow-fever vaccination. Your doctor is being sent the vaccine and you’re to see him at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You leave Saturday night for London, andSunday night for Lusaka, and here are your plane tickets,” he said, placing them on the table. “Here are also booklets and pamphlets and brochures about Zambia—” He placed these on the growing pile and glanced up at her. “Are you still with me? Am I forgetting something?”
    “Clothes,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax.
    Bishop understood at once; it was why mothers trusted him. “Go to New York early on Saturday before your plane leaves, if you can’t make it sooner. Slacks, a bush jacket, a sweater, good walking shoes … Abercrombie’s will be just the place for you. And oh yes, here are anti-malarial tablets, good God I almost forgot them. Start taking them at
once.
” He glanced at his watch and sighed. “I hope that’s all because damn it I’m already an hour behind schedule and I’ve got to be running along.”
    “Oh Bishop, so soon?”
    He nodded. “It’s one of the deficiencies of my life with Carstairs that I never see anyone for more than half an hour, and always on the run. Beautiful chocolate eclairs,” he said fervently. “All five of them.” Collecting his attaché case, he arose. “Now I need your