want to look. There was nothing else for him to do.”
At the sound of firing Major Vassovic uttered an explosive oath. After one glance from the window he said, “Back—back,” and roughly pushed Mrs. Pollifax down the hall to her cell and slammed the door upon her. The firing had not continued beyond that one frenzied burst. There was only silence now in the building. Mrs. Pollifax sat down on Farrell’s cot and said in a quiet voice, “I didn’t look.” For some reason this was very important to her. “I didn’t look,” she repeated in a louder voice, and fumbling in her purse she brought out a handkerchief and angrily blew her nose. Then she resolutely shuffled her deck of cards and laid them out for a game of Spider.
Mrs. Pollifax had played for several minutes, the silence like a shroud in the stone cell—like Farrell’s shroud, she thought bitterly—when slowly her thoughts became diverted by a small sound emanating from the wall behind her. She turned her head to hear it better. It was not a metallic noise, it was more like a clenched fist rhythmically striking the stone wall. Recalling the second iron door set into the hall outside, Mrs. Pollifax frowned. Kneeling on Farrell’s cot she tapped with both hands. Immediately the sound stopped, as if in astonishment, and just when Mrs. Pollifax decided it must be someone repairing a drain, the fist beat an excited staccato reply. This fist had a personality all its own, thought Mrs. Pollifax in surprise; at first it had seemed to be hitting the wall in a monotonous rhythm of despair, then finding itself answered the Fist had panicked and stopped, afraid. But perhaps the Fist had remembered that another cell stood between it and Major Vassovic, for after its hesitation it had replied with joy.
“Yes with joy,” repeated Mrs. Pollifax firmly, and reflected that if this were anything but real life they would now exchange urgent messages in Morse code. Unfortunately Mrs. Pollifax knew no Morse. She tapped again once more and received a reply, but it was a little like communicating with a newly born infant or someone who spoke Swahili; once the initial greeting had been made there was really not much more to manage. Besides, her mind was on Farrell and she returned sadly to her game of solitaire.
It seemed a long time later when the building filled with noise again. A number of booted feet tramped down the hall and Mrs. Pollifax heard Major Vassovic issuing orders in an irritable voice. He sounded like a frustrated and angry man. Mrs. Pollifax placed a black ace on a red two and waited for the inevitablegrating of the key in the lock—it was a sound she was beginning to dread. The door swung open. Mrs. Pollifax looked up and the cards slipped from her hand to the floor.
“Farrell!”
she gasped.
He was propped between two guards, one leg dangling uselessly, his clothes smeared with blood. At her cry he lifted his head and opened one eye. “Goofed again, Duchess,” he said, and as the men lowered him none too gently to the cot he added peevishly, “Damn cliff. If
you
jumped from a hundred-foot cliff wouldn’t
you
bloody well expect to be killed?” Having delivered himself of this diatribe he fell back unconscious on the bed.
CHAPTER 10
The two slits in the wall of the cell gradually darkened as night fell. Mrs. Pollifax sat beside Farrell and listened to his ravings as he slipped in and out of feverish dreams. She knew his leg was broken in two places and she had neither water nor bandages for him. There was a great deal of blood all over him, but as far as she could see only one bullet had entered his body and this was embedded in his right arm above the elbow. She had staunched the bleeding by removing the coarse blanket from her cot and using it as a tourniquet. When General Perdido arrived she had worked herself into a cold fury over the cruelty of the situation and her own helplessness. “Good evening,” she said icily.
The guard
At the sound of firing Major Vassovic uttered an explosive oath. After one glance from the window he said, “Back—back,” and roughly pushed Mrs. Pollifax down the hall to her cell and slammed the door upon her. The firing had not continued beyond that one frenzied burst. There was only silence now in the building. Mrs. Pollifax sat down on Farrell’s cot and said in a quiet voice, “I didn’t look.” For some reason this was very important to her. “I didn’t look,” she repeated in a louder voice, and fumbling in her purse she brought out a handkerchief and angrily blew her nose. Then she resolutely shuffled her deck of cards and laid them out for a game of Spider.
Mrs. Pollifax had played for several minutes, the silence like a shroud in the stone cell—like Farrell’s shroud, she thought bitterly—when slowly her thoughts became diverted by a small sound emanating from the wall behind her. She turned her head to hear it better. It was not a metallic noise, it was more like a clenched fist rhythmically striking the stone wall. Recalling the second iron door set into the hall outside, Mrs. Pollifax frowned. Kneeling on Farrell’s cot she tapped with both hands. Immediately the sound stopped, as if in astonishment, and just when Mrs. Pollifax decided it must be someone repairing a drain, the fist beat an excited staccato reply. This fist had a personality all its own, thought Mrs. Pollifax in surprise; at first it had seemed to be hitting the wall in a monotonous rhythm of despair, then finding itself answered the Fist had panicked and stopped, afraid. But perhaps the Fist had remembered that another cell stood between it and Major Vassovic, for after its hesitation it had replied with joy.
“Yes with joy,” repeated Mrs. Pollifax firmly, and reflected that if this were anything but real life they would now exchange urgent messages in Morse code. Unfortunately Mrs. Pollifax knew no Morse. She tapped again once more and received a reply, but it was a little like communicating with a newly born infant or someone who spoke Swahili; once the initial greeting had been made there was really not much more to manage. Besides, her mind was on Farrell and she returned sadly to her game of solitaire.
It seemed a long time later when the building filled with noise again. A number of booted feet tramped down the hall and Mrs. Pollifax heard Major Vassovic issuing orders in an irritable voice. He sounded like a frustrated and angry man. Mrs. Pollifax placed a black ace on a red two and waited for the inevitablegrating of the key in the lock—it was a sound she was beginning to dread. The door swung open. Mrs. Pollifax looked up and the cards slipped from her hand to the floor.
“Farrell!”
she gasped.
He was propped between two guards, one leg dangling uselessly, his clothes smeared with blood. At her cry he lifted his head and opened one eye. “Goofed again, Duchess,” he said, and as the men lowered him none too gently to the cot he added peevishly, “Damn cliff. If
you
jumped from a hundred-foot cliff wouldn’t
you
bloody well expect to be killed?” Having delivered himself of this diatribe he fell back unconscious on the bed.
CHAPTER 10
The two slits in the wall of the cell gradually darkened as night fell. Mrs. Pollifax sat beside Farrell and listened to his ravings as he slipped in and out of feverish dreams. She knew his leg was broken in two places and she had neither water nor bandages for him. There was a great deal of blood all over him, but as far as she could see only one bullet had entered his body and this was embedded in his right arm above the elbow. She had staunched the bleeding by removing the coarse blanket from her cot and using it as a tourniquet. When General Perdido arrived she had worked herself into a cold fury over the cruelty of the situation and her own helplessness. “Good evening,” she said icily.
The guard
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