Palm for Mrs. Pollifax (15 page)

“Two quick karate chops to disable them,” she said to herself. “Hafez open the car doors and I snatch the suitcase—” She fastened her gaze on the back of Sabry’s neck and plotted the precise route of her karate strike while she tried not to think what would happen if she failed.

They reached Villeneuve and turned to the right along the waterfront, heading for Montreux. On their left Lake Geneva looked placid and washed of color in the late afternoon sun. Returning her glance to the back of Sabry’s neck she inadvertently caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and hastily looked away, her glance falling to the mirror attached to the side of the car. In it, to her astonishment,
she saw the reflection of a dark blue Mercedes convertible following behind them.

A dark blue Mercedes convertible …

Her heart began to beat faster. There was suddenly nowhere for her eyes to safely rest and she began to study the floor of the car and then the gun in Fouad’s lap, snatching quick furtive glances into the mirror before dropping her eyes. It was impossible to see the driver of the Mercedes, or to read its license plate. She told herself there must be thousands of dark blue Mercedes cars in Switzerland, and dozens of them on this shore of the lake. On the other hand, this car was definitely dark blue and it was allowing other cars to pass while it remained at exactly the same distance behind them.

It was a wide road, with increasing traffic. Glancing past Sabry she saw a castle up ahead on the other side of the road, and for a moment her attention was pleasantly distracted by the sight of turrets, ancient stone walls and pointed clay tile roofs. She was staring at it when Fouad suddenly cried,
“Ha-sib! Ookuff!”

Mrs. Pollifax turned her head and saw a flash of dark blue passing on their left. She caught a quick glimpse of a familiar profile—it was Robin—and saw his car surge ahead of the limousine. What followed happened all at once: the dark blue Mercedes cleared their car and slowed, Sabry leaned on his horn and cursed, the Mercedes braked and jerked to a stop and Sabry’s car rammed it from behind with a crash and a grinding of metal.

Robin had just sacrificed the rear of his Mercedes convertible. For him, she thought, there could be no greater sacrifice.

Furiously Sabry tried to start up the limousine again but there were only ugly rattling noises. “Out!” he shouted.
“Ukhruj!”

Doors opened and Mrs. Pollifax and Hafez were hustled outside to stand under the rock wall that rose almost
perpendicular to that side of the road. Fouad’s gun prodded her in the back. Mrs. Pollifax saw that the accident occupied most the the westbound lane to Montreux and that cars were coming to a standstill behind them. On the eastbound side the traffic moving toward Villeneuve was slowing to watch. The castle stood across the highway and an exodus had begun from the gates; several more hardy souls had already hurried to the center of the highway. Framed behind them stood a modest sign identifying the castle as the Castle de Chillon, open for tourists from 9 to 5.

Sabry cursed viciously. Turning to Fouad he snarled, “Get them out of here. Take them into the Castle—quickly, before a crowd gathers. Take this, too,” he said, thrusting the suitcase at Fouad. “Come back in forty-five minutes. Hurry!”

For just a moment Mrs. Pollifax weighed the possibilities of running, but although Fouad’s gun had been pocketed he held Hafez tightly by the arm. She and Hafez were thrust around the back of the car and out into the road where Robin and Sabry were confronting each other in fury. “You’re damned right I cut you off!” she heard Robin shout. “How could I do anything else when you swerved out and accelerated at the same time? Somebody call the police!” he called across the road.
“Gendarmes! Polizei!”

Good thinking, she thought.

Fouad hurried them across the highway, up the graveled walk and over a wooden bridge to the ticket booth where he shoved coins across the counter and held up three fingers. Just as the sound of a police siren rent the air they walked through the huge ancient gate and into an open, cobbled courtyard.

“The rock on which Chillon stands,”
said the guide, “was occupied by men of the Bronze Age and later by the Romans. The ancient road from Italy over Great St. Bernard was widened at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Chillon was built to guard the narrow defile between the lake and the mountains and to collect taxes on all merchandise that passed.”

“I hope there are dungeons,” said Hafez.

They stood in the courtyard at the edge of a tour group, and at Hafez’s words Mrs. Pollifax turned to look at Fouad. Her impression was that he was angry and bored at the necessity of guarding a boy and an old woman. He gripped the suitcase with one hand while his right hand remained in his pocket curled around the butt of the gun but he looked cross and shifted frequently from one foot to the other.

“Are
there dungeons?” Hafez asked Fouad.

With a martyred air Fouad handed each of them the printed map and leaflet that had been distributed at the gate without cost. She could sympathize with his predicament; he had hoped they might enter and sit somewhere for forty-five minutes, but it was Sunday, and the few benches in the courtyard were filled with people. There could be no entrusting Hafez to so intimate and lively a scene. It was necessary to keep them separated from the tourists and he had shrewdly guessed that the only way to accomplish this was to join the tourists. They were to remain
just behind the tour group and speak to no one, he had told Hafez, and Hafez had obligingly translated his words to Mrs. Pollifax.

“There
are
dungeons,” said Hafez, consulting the diagram, “but not yet. Not until we finish with the underground vaults.” He lifted innocent eyes to Mrs. Pollifax. “Isn’t it tremendous that there are dungeons?”

“Tremendous,” she said gravely and wondered if he was receiving signals from her as clearly as she was receiving them from him. Yes but
wait
, she tried to tell with her eyes.

They passed under the windows of the caretaker’s apartments and into the basement chamber of the castle, into a dim and medieval world of vaulted ceilings, ancient pillars and a floor of earth worn smooth by centuries. It was cool and dark in here; an arsenal, Hafez read aloud from his leaflet. The outside walls were striped with loopholes and through them Mrs. Pollifax could look out, almost at water level, and see Lake Geneva stretching flat and pale to the horizon, its waters gently lapping against the walls. “The dungeons are next,” Hafez said, ignoring Fouad and speaking directly to her.

“Bonivard’s Prison,” said the guide in English after completing his first recitation in French.

“Dungeons,”
added Hafez triumphantly.

“This room dates from before the thirteenth century, when it was transformed and vaulted. It is here, in the fourteenth century, that Bonivard, Prior of St. Victor’s in Geneva, remained chained to this fifth pillar for four years.”

“Four years!” A murmur of incredulity swept through the group but Fouad took this moment to yawn. The pocket of his thin sports jacket sagged with the weight of the gun but his hand remained welded to it. The yawn was deceptive, she thought, stealing a quick glance at his face. He was stolid and gave every evidence of stupidity but he would be intelligent about his job, which was all that interested
him. His dark eyes were alert and aware of every movement in the room. He knew she was watching him now and he turned and gave her a level, expressionless stare. She smiled vaguely and leaned nearer to hear the guide.

“… because he was favorable to the Reformation, you see, which he wished to introduce to Geneva. He was freed in 1536 by the Bernese, and was immortalized by the English poet Byron, who has scrawled his name on this third pillar.”

The group swerved toward the third pillar and Hafez started to go with them but Fouad reached out and pulled him back.
“La!”
he said flatly.

Certainly this was a grim place to spend four years, thought Mrs. Pollifax: a cold earthen floor, a low ceiling—he couldn’t even have seen the water from the pillar to which he’d been chained. Recalling the equally grim circumstances that might await her and Hafez she glanced at her watch: it was 4:25 and they had been in the castle for twelve minutes. Fouad would return them to the highway at five o’clock—but that was the closing hour, she remembered soberly. She glanced at Hafez, who said quickly, “Next we go through the second courtyard and then into the Grand Hall of the High Bailiff.”

He was offering her possibilities, she realized, but all of them were limited while they dogged the steps of the tour group. She knew what Hafez had not yet learned, that groups were unwieldy, slow to react to sudden jolts and frequently composed of people who did not appreciate having their peace disturbed. Fouad already knew this. There was no appeal that either of them could make to a group. As to separating themselves from it Hafez could outrun Fouad but Mrs. Pollifax could not. Fouad, for the moment, held all the cards: a gun and a crowd of tourists.

Hafez was looking disappointed in her. She, on the other hand, had begun to feel hopeful. A small miracle had occurred, their trip to a distasteful unknown had been
interrupted and she saw no reason to be led back to Sabry like a lamb to the slaughter. No rational alternative presented itself but waiting did not bother her: it would give Fouad more time in which to grow bored. And so, having a gift for enjoying the moment, she gave herself over to medieval history and the enchantment of the castle. And it really was enchanting … They moved up a narrow wooden staircase to the next level and into the Grand Hall of the High Bailiff.

“Savoy period,” Hafez read aloud. “In 1536 the Bernese divided the hall into three, their ‘Grand Kirchen’ being to the north. The separating walls were removed in 1836.”

Again Fouad yawned.

They moved on, through the Coat-of-Arms Hall, the Duke’s Chamber, several apartments and then a chapel, where they lingered before they filed through a passageway up into the Grand Hall of the Count. “Now called the Hall of Justice,” recited Hafez, consulting the leaflet. “In the Middle Ages used for receptions and banquets. The tapestry hangings are all thirteenth century, the fireplace and ceiling are fifteenth century.”

The hall was large, high-ceilinged and uncluttered but what impressed Mrs. Pollifax more than its history was its immediacy to the lake. Casement windows stood open to the sun and to the breeze from the water, and window seats had been built under each window so that she could imagine the lords and ladies of the castle contemplating the sun’s rising and setting with a tranquil heedlessness of time. The windows were the real furnishings of the room, which was empty except for the ancient tapestries on the wall and huge carved, wooden chests placed here and there in corners.

Chests … Mrs. Pollifax felt a quickening of interest. Pausing beside one she ran her hand over its carving, noting the interstices in its serpentine design, and then casually placed one hand under the lid and discovered that it
opened without resistance. It was empty except for a coil of thick rope, and she quickly closed it. Standing next to Fouad, Hafez had followed her investigation and he tactfully glanced away. Turning to Fouad he said, “It’s like the old castle at home, is it not, Fouad? Look, madame, next comes the torture chamber and then what they call here a
Latrinehaus
, and then—” Fouad gave him a bored glance that silenced him.

It was now fifteen minutes to the hour. Lingering in the torture chamber, which Fouad seemed to regard with relish, she heard someone up ahead call out in English, “Latrines! Oh, do look!” Fouad pulled himself out of his reverie and signaled them to follow the group out of the torture chamber and into the high-ceilinged room adjoining it. The group pushed into one corner before it dispersed but when Fouad beckoned her on, Mrs. Pollifax firmly shook her head. “I want to look, too,” she told him. “I’ve never felt that history books satisfactorily explained the hygienic arrangements of the past.”

Reluctantly, with a martyred sigh, Fouad led her and Hafez to the corner and Mrs. Pollifax lifted a heavy wooden cover. She found herself looking straight down a cobblestoned, chimney-like chute, long since sanitized, to the shallow water of the lake below. “Why—how astonishing,” she said. It was almost dizzying to look down from this height at water lapping against the rocks. “And how ingenious,” she murmured.

She stood without moving, suddenly alert as she realized that the tour group had moved on to the next room—she could hear their voices grow fainter—leaving her and Hafez alone with Fouad. It was now or never, she reflected, and tentatively, hopefully, flattened her right hand, waiting.

“We go now,” said Fouad, and moving up behind her he tapped her on the shoulder.

Mrs. Pollifax turned. With the velocity of a coiled
spring her hand struck Fouad in the stomach. He gasped, dropping the suitcase. As he doubled over clutching his middle she stepped back and delivered a karate chop to the base of his skull. He staggered to his knees, lingered a moment and then slowly fell to the floor unconscious.

“Mon Dieu!”
gasped Hafez. “That was karate!”

“I don’t think I killed him,” Mrs. Pollifax said earnestly. “Quickly, Hafez, that chest in the corner over there, Hurry—before anyone comes.”

He sprang into action with joy, propping open the chest and running back to help. “But he is big, he is heavy, madame!”

“He certainly is,” she gasped as they dragged him across the stone floor. Lifting and pushing they succeeded in rolling him over the side until the rest of him fell in, too.

“Will he still breathe?” asked Hafez.

“If this chest is like the ones in the other room—yes, it is, see? There are holes among the carved decorations for ventilation.”

“So there are. Don’t forget his gun,” pointed out Hafez, and retrieved it from Fouad’s pocket and handed it to her. They closed the lid of the chest just as the next tour group entered the adjoining torture chamber, and, by the time they crossed the threshold of the room, Mrs. Pollifax and Hafez were sitting on the chest talking amiably, the suitcase between them.