You understand what I’ve got to do, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?” faltered Mrs. Pollifax.
“I mean that no one can hold out indefinitely against their methods of torture, and the general is considered an expert in the field. I mustn’t be taken alive into that building.”
As the meaning of his words penetrated Mrs. Pollifax became very still.
Farrell got to his feet and began pacing the floor. “For me it’s part of the job,” he said, “but I hate leaving you in the lurch. It’s not very gallant of me, but under the circumstances—”
Mrs. Pollifax said breathlessly, “You mustn’t concern yourself with me at all.
Please
. But what do you intend to do?”
He shrugged. “Whatever presents itself. Try to break away between here and the other building and hope they’ll shoot me. Throw a rock at somebody.” He shrugged again. “
Che sera, sera
, as they say—except I must not enter that building and meet General Perdido.”
“You can’t think of any other way?” she asked anxiously. “You don’t think the general…?”
He smiled cryptically. “Not on your life, Duchess, not on your life.”
She averted her eyes so that she need not embarrass him with her compassion. She thought of her son Roger and daughter Jane, of Miss Hartshorne in apartment 4-C, and of the simple life she herself had lived, and then she thought of men like Farrell who for years must have been dying in queer parts of the world without her ever knowing of their existence. Life was certainly very strange, she reflected, but in spite of its uncertainty she was extremely grateful to have known Farrell.
“I don’t know how to advise you,” he continued, pacing and frowning. “There’s no possibility of your getting away or being rescued. I hate deserting you. If I just didn’t know so much—but Carstairs would never approve of my staying alive, there’s too much at stake.” Hearing the guard at the door he stamped his cigarette out on the floor. “Take what’s left of them,” he said, handing her the flattened pack. “You never know who’s bribable in this world.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Pollifax, standing up, and as the door opened she and Farrell gravely shook hands.
This time the two guards were heavily armed. Major Vassovic had come as well to superintend Farrell’s removal. “It’s been so nice meeting you, Major,” said Farrell as he went out.
“God go with you,” whispered Mrs. Pollifax, staring after him.
Major Vassovic pointedly coughed. “The—uh—order has been received now. One aspirin for you, to be taken in my presence. Come.”
Mrs. Pollifax realized that her headache had returned doublefold. She humbly followed the man into the guardroom and stood patiently while he brought her a cup of water and the pill. As she placed the tablet on her tongue her gaze came to rest on the collection of weapons on the wall, a number of guns and knives beautifully decorated with carved-silver ornamentation. They were works of art belonging in a museum and she told the major so.
“The long guns are called
pushkas
,” he said gruffly. “The sabres we call
yataghans
in this country.”
There were also an assortment of undecorated and very lethal-looking pistols and revolvers but she ignored these, her glance falling to the three drawers set into the base of the gun rack. One of them held a key in its lock; a small brass key, really quite distinctive. She kept her glance riveted to this, every nerve in her body waiting. “I am admiring a brass key,” she told herself. “I am in Albania and presently Farrell will be killed and I mustn’t think about it.” She did not have long to wait. Her concentration was interrupted by harsh shouts from outside the building, and then by the sound of guns being fired. Mrs. Pollifax very carefully placed the cup of water on the major’s desk and was pleased to see that her hand was not trembling. “I mustn’t look,” she told herself. “I don’t
“What do you mean?” faltered Mrs. Pollifax.
“I mean that no one can hold out indefinitely against their methods of torture, and the general is considered an expert in the field. I mustn’t be taken alive into that building.”
As the meaning of his words penetrated Mrs. Pollifax became very still.
Farrell got to his feet and began pacing the floor. “For me it’s part of the job,” he said, “but I hate leaving you in the lurch. It’s not very gallant of me, but under the circumstances—”
Mrs. Pollifax said breathlessly, “You mustn’t concern yourself with me at all.
Please
. But what do you intend to do?”
He shrugged. “Whatever presents itself. Try to break away between here and the other building and hope they’ll shoot me. Throw a rock at somebody.” He shrugged again. “
Che sera, sera
, as they say—except I must not enter that building and meet General Perdido.”
“You can’t think of any other way?” she asked anxiously. “You don’t think the general…?”
He smiled cryptically. “Not on your life, Duchess, not on your life.”
She averted her eyes so that she need not embarrass him with her compassion. She thought of her son Roger and daughter Jane, of Miss Hartshorne in apartment 4-C, and of the simple life she herself had lived, and then she thought of men like Farrell who for years must have been dying in queer parts of the world without her ever knowing of their existence. Life was certainly very strange, she reflected, but in spite of its uncertainty she was extremely grateful to have known Farrell.
“I don’t know how to advise you,” he continued, pacing and frowning. “There’s no possibility of your getting away or being rescued. I hate deserting you. If I just didn’t know so much—but Carstairs would never approve of my staying alive, there’s too much at stake.” Hearing the guard at the door he stamped his cigarette out on the floor. “Take what’s left of them,” he said, handing her the flattened pack. “You never know who’s bribable in this world.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Pollifax, standing up, and as the door opened she and Farrell gravely shook hands.
This time the two guards were heavily armed. Major Vassovic had come as well to superintend Farrell’s removal. “It’s been so nice meeting you, Major,” said Farrell as he went out.
“God go with you,” whispered Mrs. Pollifax, staring after him.
Major Vassovic pointedly coughed. “The—uh—order has been received now. One aspirin for you, to be taken in my presence. Come.”
Mrs. Pollifax realized that her headache had returned doublefold. She humbly followed the man into the guardroom and stood patiently while he brought her a cup of water and the pill. As she placed the tablet on her tongue her gaze came to rest on the collection of weapons on the wall, a number of guns and knives beautifully decorated with carved-silver ornamentation. They were works of art belonging in a museum and she told the major so.
“The long guns are called
pushkas
,” he said gruffly. “The sabres we call
yataghans
in this country.”
There were also an assortment of undecorated and very lethal-looking pistols and revolvers but she ignored these, her glance falling to the three drawers set into the base of the gun rack. One of them held a key in its lock; a small brass key, really quite distinctive. She kept her glance riveted to this, every nerve in her body waiting. “I am admiring a brass key,” she told herself. “I am in Albania and presently Farrell will be killed and I mustn’t think about it.” She did not have long to wait. Her concentration was interrupted by harsh shouts from outside the building, and then by the sound of guns being fired. Mrs. Pollifax very carefully placed the cup of water on the major’s desk and was pleased to see that her hand was not trembling. “I mustn’t look,” she told herself. “I don’t
Similar Books
