Palm for Mrs. Pollifax Read Free

rather good with people and you simply don’t act or react like a professional agent.” He added abruptly: “What we are looking for—aside from stolen plutonium, Mrs. Pollifax—is evil in its purest form.”
    “Evil,” she mused. “That’s an old-fashioned word.”
    “Positively Biblical,” he agreed, “but you have to remember that stolen plutonium is not quite the same as stolen money, Mrs. Pollifax. The uses to which illicit plutonium can be put are very limited but one of its uses is hideous to contemplate.”
    “Hideous,” she said, nodding.
    He leaned over his slides again. “I think you’d bettersee what was inside that crate. It’s quite unlikely you’ll discover any of these items sitting about on someone’s desk as a paperweight but one never knows. Here we are—exhibit number one.”
    Mrs. Pollifax studied the innocent-looking object projected on the wall. “
That’s
plutonium?”
    “Yes, shaped into a metal button weighing about two kilograms. Not very prepossessing, is it?” He switched to another slide. “Each button was then individually packed into a plastic bag—there’s your plastic bag—and then,” he added, changing slides, “the bag was placed in a can filled with inert gas, which in turn was placed inside this odd-looking contraption they call a birdcage, probably because—”
    “Because it looks like a birdcage,” finished Mrs. Pollifax.
    “Yes. Five pounds of plutonium were in the crate stolen from England. If you come across any of these items, don’t touch. If you have to touch, use surgeon’s gloves.” He shook his head. “
If
you find anything.
If
it’s there.
If
more should be sent. If, if, it.” He sighed and returned to the projector. “Now I want to show you a diagram of the Hotel-Clinic Montbrison before we conclude this. You recall it’s room 113 that’s been reserved for you.”
    “Any special reason?”
    “Oh, yes. From the balcony of room 113 you’ll have a marvelous view of Lake Geneva. You will also be able to see from your balcony, on your left, a narrow, very primitive dirt road, incredibly steep, that winds and circles up the next mountain. From any other floor it’s screened by the trees.” He flicked on a new slide, a larger diagram that showed the terrain surrounding the Clinic. Standing up he pointed to a small X. “There’s your road, off on this mountain here. Every night at ten o’clock—it’s quite dark by then—there’ll be a car parked at a point on the road that you can see from your room. You’ll signal from yourbalcony with a flashlight. That will be your contact with the outside world.”
    She frowned. “Won’t anyone else see me signaling?”
    He shook his head. “Room 113 is quite high. Actually it’s on the third floor because the Clinic’s built into the mountainside. The massage and treatment rooms are on the ground level, the reception and dining rooms are on the next level, and the patients’ rooms begin above that. As soon as you’ve signaled each evening the car will turn on its lights—you’ll be able to see that—and proceed down the hill. You’ll flash your light twice if all’s well but if you’ve something urgent to report you’ll blink your light four times.”
    “And what will happen then?” she asked with interest.
    “Then you can expect an incoming phone call within the half hour. Since it will come through the Clinic’s switchboard we’ll work out some kind of simple code for you, based on your health.” He unplugged the projector and carried it back to its case. “Other than this,” he said, “your job will be to mingle with the guests, do as much judicious exploring of the building as possible, watch, eavesdrop, listen, and don’t admire any sunrises at the edge of a one-hundred-foot drop.”
    “I won’t,” she promised.
    “We’ve booked you for a flight to Geneva on Thursday—the day after tomorrow. The letter confirming your arrival at the Clinic will be received