Free The Pigeon Project by Irving Wallace Page B

taken aback, Jordan was immediately apologetic. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I assumed Dr. Edwards was a man. Professor MacDonald’s message didn’t give your first name.”
    “Did you say Professor MacDonald?”
    “Yes, I have a message from him for you. You do know Professor MacDonald?”
    “Certainly. I work for him. I’m his research associate. Did you see him in Russia?”
    “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” said Jordan hastily. “I’m calling from Venice, from Italy. I’ve never set eyes on Professor MacDonald. But I do have a message from him—or I think I do—I’m not sure.”
    There was a tinge of impatience in Dr. Edward’s voice. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr… Her voice dropped off.
    “My name is Timothy Jordan,” he said quickly. “It is a little complicated. I think I’d better explain. By accident—today—fifteen minutes ago—I got a message, signed Professor Davis MacDonald, asking the finder of the message to get in touch with Dr. Edwards at the Plaza Athénée in Paris.”
    “Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Jordan? It makes no sense at all.”
    “It will or it won’t, once I tell you what happened. You’ll have to be the judge. Now, here is what happened. I’m an American living and working in Venice. I’m the press officer for the Venice Must Live Committee—”
    “The what?” she interrupted.
    “An organization that is trying to save Venice from sinking, being destroyed. This noon, on my way to work, I stopped in a café to have some tea, and I started feeding the pigeons—”
    “Mr. Jordan or whoever you are, is this some kind of joke? If so, I don’t have time—”
    “Please listen to me, will you?” he said with a flare of annoyance. “This could be deadly serious. Your Professor MacDonald could be in trouble. Now, please, listen.” There was a silence on the other end. Jordan resumed. “I was feeding some pigeons—yes, Venice is filled with pigeons—that’s part of what happened—and one pigeon fell over dead in front of me. When I examined it, I found a note tied to one of its legs. The note was signed Professor Davis MacDonald. You say you work for him?”
    “I do. He is one of the most eminent scientists in the world. But all you are telling me—pigeons—a note from him—in Venice… I mean, I can’t—”
    “It’s true, Dr. Edwards. It just happened to me exactly as I’m telling you. I read the note, and—look, I have it right in front of me on my desk. I’ll read it to you.”
    “Please,” she said with bewilderment.
    Receiver to his ear, he bent closer to the strip of paper. “It is written in ink, and it reads—these are the exact words—‘Am British scientist illegally imprisoned on San Lazzaro by Communists.’”
    “Illegally imprisoned by Communists? On—what? San Lazzaro? What’s that?”
    “A little island with a monastery just a few minutes outside the city of Venice. Here, let me read the rest of it. I’m reading ‘Planning to send me to USSR in 2 days. Save me. Call Dr. Edwards Plaza Athénée Paris to tell world.’ It is signed, ‘Prof. Davis MacDonald. Aug. 18.’ Then—”
    “But it still doesn’t make sense. Professor MacDonald is in the U.S.S.R. I heard from him just before coming to Paris. I’m terribly confused.”
    “Wait, Dr. Edwards. There’s more to the note. Two more sentences. Let me read them. He writes—or someone writes—‘Have discovered Ft. of Youth. Reds want it.’” Jordan paused. “That’s the entire note I found. That’s why I called you.”
    “Fountain of Youth,” she said in a hushed voice. “Read that to me again, that line.”
    “‘Have discovered the Fountain of Youth.’”
    “My God, if this isn’t a hoax, he’s trying to say—he’s made the discovery.”
    “What discovery? Now I’m the one who’s in the dark.”
    “The secret to the prolongation of human life, to human longevity. He’s a renowned gerontologist. You mean you’ve