Read Online Elusive Mrs. Pollifax by Dorothy Gilman - Free Book Online
Authors: Dorothy Gilman
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all?” asked Eastlake. “Above all, why a young American student? If they’re trying to provoke an incident …” His lips tightened. “Now that you’ve reported this, Debby, I want your promise to be on the morning plane out of Sofia.”
Debby sighed. “I already promised Mrs. Pollifax.”
“Then if you’ll wait in the corridor I’d like to speak to Mrs. Pollifax alone.”
When she had gone Eastlake shook his head and stood up. He walked to the window, stared out and then turned. “A damnable situation,” he growled. “That girl absolutely must be gotten out of Bulgaria tomorrow.”
“You think she’s in danger?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Danger? Not very likely. Why should she be?”
“I thought–”
“It has other ramifications,” he said curtly. “I wish like hell this girl had left with the others. The Bulgarians are very strait-laced about their young people. I’ve been trying all day–before I heard these new details–tofind out who on earth allowed these kids into this country.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Pollifax.
“They’re virtually hippies,” he said bluntly. “Oh, nice enough kids, of course, but not representative of our best American youth. The propaganda value of their appearance alone is enough to turn my hair white. I understand they were seen walking barefooted in Sofia–and not a one of the young men has had a haircut in months.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “I suppose it’s your job to consider things like this, but I would have thought you might be more concerned about–”
“Naturally I’m concerned,” he snapped. “But I happen to officially represent the United States here and this means thinking in terms of image.” He leaned forward. “I’m talking about publicity, Mrs. Pollifax, Photographs. Make sure that girl leaves tomorrow, and wearing shoes and a clean dress.”
“I’m not sure she has a dress,” said Mrs. Pollifax tartly. “She’s waiting outside, do you want to ask her?”
He looked at her. “Just get her out before the news story heats up.”
“In the meantime,” said Mrs. Pollifax, rising, “I assume that you’ll keep in mind that Philip Trenda, no matter what length his hair, is still an American citizen?”
Eastlake gave her a long, level scrutiny. “Oh yes, Mrs. Pollifax, we will,” he said dryly. “We do our best for distressed American citizens even if they turn out to be criminals or bona fide spies. But it would be infinitely simpler if it was someone like yourself who had been arrested yesterday.”
“Even if I turned out to be a spy?” asked Mrs. Pollifax with a pleasant smile.
He looked at her pityingly, as if the poverty of her humor overtaxed his patience, and Mrs. Pollifax left with the feeling that she had delivered the last word, even if her audience didn’t realize it.
At nine she and Debby dined together in the hotel restaurant. They had no sooner ordered when a waiter emerged who spoke primitive English–Mrs. Pollifax wondered where the management had been hiding him–and announced that Balkantourist was calling her on the telephone at the front desk.
“That will be Nevena,” she said with a sigh, and left Debby to follow the man upstairs to the lobby. “Mrs. Pollifax,” she said into the phone.
But it was not Balkantourist. “How do you do,” said a man’s voice, lightly accented. “This is the man from the shop you visited yesterday. About the brown sheepskin vest?”
“Oh–yes,” gasped Mrs. Pollifax. “Yes indeed.” She was aware of two desk clerks at her elbow and she inched unobtrusively away from them. “I’m very glad to hear,” she said, but of one thing she was certain: this was not the same man she had spoken with in the tailor shop–the voice and the accent were different.
“Our mutual friend has been called away,” continued the voice smoothly. “It is suggested you meet him in Tarnovo.”
“Where?”
“It is some distance. You
Debby sighed. “I already promised Mrs. Pollifax.”
“Then if you’ll wait in the corridor I’d like to speak to Mrs. Pollifax alone.”
When she had gone Eastlake shook his head and stood up. He walked to the window, stared out and then turned. “A damnable situation,” he growled. “That girl absolutely must be gotten out of Bulgaria tomorrow.”
“You think she’s in danger?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Danger? Not very likely. Why should she be?”
“I thought–”
“It has other ramifications,” he said curtly. “I wish like hell this girl had left with the others. The Bulgarians are very strait-laced about their young people. I’ve been trying all day–before I heard these new details–tofind out who on earth allowed these kids into this country.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Pollifax.
“They’re virtually hippies,” he said bluntly. “Oh, nice enough kids, of course, but not representative of our best American youth. The propaganda value of their appearance alone is enough to turn my hair white. I understand they were seen walking barefooted in Sofia–and not a one of the young men has had a haircut in months.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “I suppose it’s your job to consider things like this, but I would have thought you might be more concerned about–”
“Naturally I’m concerned,” he snapped. “But I happen to officially represent the United States here and this means thinking in terms of image.” He leaned forward. “I’m talking about publicity, Mrs. Pollifax, Photographs. Make sure that girl leaves tomorrow, and wearing shoes and a clean dress.”
“I’m not sure she has a dress,” said Mrs. Pollifax tartly. “She’s waiting outside, do you want to ask her?”
He looked at her. “Just get her out before the news story heats up.”
“In the meantime,” said Mrs. Pollifax, rising, “I assume that you’ll keep in mind that Philip Trenda, no matter what length his hair, is still an American citizen?”
Eastlake gave her a long, level scrutiny. “Oh yes, Mrs. Pollifax, we will,” he said dryly. “We do our best for distressed American citizens even if they turn out to be criminals or bona fide spies. But it would be infinitely simpler if it was someone like yourself who had been arrested yesterday.”
“Even if I turned out to be a spy?” asked Mrs. Pollifax with a pleasant smile.
He looked at her pityingly, as if the poverty of her humor overtaxed his patience, and Mrs. Pollifax left with the feeling that she had delivered the last word, even if her audience didn’t realize it.
At nine she and Debby dined together in the hotel restaurant. They had no sooner ordered when a waiter emerged who spoke primitive English–Mrs. Pollifax wondered where the management had been hiding him–and announced that Balkantourist was calling her on the telephone at the front desk.
“That will be Nevena,” she said with a sigh, and left Debby to follow the man upstairs to the lobby. “Mrs. Pollifax,” she said into the phone.
But it was not Balkantourist. “How do you do,” said a man’s voice, lightly accented. “This is the man from the shop you visited yesterday. About the brown sheepskin vest?”
“Oh–yes,” gasped Mrs. Pollifax. “Yes indeed.” She was aware of two desk clerks at her elbow and she inched unobtrusively away from them. “I’m very glad to hear,” she said, but of one thing she was certain: this was not the same man she had spoken with in the tailor shop–the voice and the accent were different.
“Our mutual friend has been called away,” continued the voice smoothly. “It is suggested you meet him in Tarnovo.”
“Where?”
“It is some distance. You
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