Free Mrs. Pollifax on Safari by Dorothy Gilman Page B

startled. “You’re quite certain it’s me he wants to see?”
    “Oh yes,” said Julian simply, “he has driven all the way from Lusaka to see you.”
    “That’s a long drive.”
    “Anything wrong?” asked Cyrus Reed.
    Mrs. Pollifax realized that she had been the first person off the boat and now the others had arrived behind her and were listening. She smiled, shook her head and followed Julian to the appointed place, which was indeed private, being nearly encircled by palms. A slender young man in a dark-blue uniform rose. He looked self-contained and very polite, his black face thin and intelligent. “Mrs. Pollifax?”
    She assured him that she was Mrs. Pollifax and sat down.
    A small table had been placed in front of him on which rested a half-finished Coke and a notebook. He now placed the notebook on his lap and drew out a pen.
    “I have come, madam,” he said, pronouncing the word m’domm, “to inquire about your advertisement in this morning’s
Times of Zambia.
A most curious advertisement, surely?”
    “My adver—oh,” she said, comprehension dawning, “it’s been published today? I’m so glad. The young man said it would be, of course, but I’ve completely lost track of time, and—” She stopped, aware that her interrogator was waiting patiently for her to finish. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope I didn’t break any law?”
    He looked as if he were seated at a garden party balancing a cup of tea on his knees instead of a notebook but his eyes were very watchful. “This man John Sebastian Farrell.” He pronounced the name precisely and carefully. “You know this person?”
    She nodded. “Yes, of course, or rather I used to. I’m trying to find him. You haven’t—haven’t come to tell me where he is, have you?”
    “No, madam.”
    “For that matter,” she added thoughtfully, “my name wasn’t mentioned in the advertisement at all.”
    “The
Times
office gave me your name, madam, after which I contacted the tourist bureau to learn your itinerary. Now this man,” he continued, courteous but resolute. “What causes you to believe he is in Zambia?”
    Mrs. Pollifax started to reply and then stopped, suddenly anxious. “Is there something wrong? I don’t understand—”
    “If you will just answer—”
    “Yes, of course,” she said. “A mutual friend told me that he’s living in Zambia and that he receives his mail in care of Barclay’s Bank in Lusaka. I looked first in the telephone directory, but since his name wasn’t listed I went to Barclay’s Bank, where they told me his mail is collected very seldom and they had no forwarding address for him. So I thought of advertising.” She paused, waiting, while he wrote this down. “Why?” she asked. “You surely haven’t driven all the way from Lusaka to—”
    “May I ask the name of your friend?”
    “Friend?” she repeated blankly. “You can’t possibly mean—”
    “The mutual friend who told you this man lives in Zambia.”
    This sounded serious indeed. She said after a moment’s hesitation, “Bishop. William Bishop.”
    “His address, please?”
    “
Bishop’s
address?” She was astonished but struggled gamely to remember where she sent Bishop’s Christmas card. “Georgetown, in the District of Columbia,” shesaid at last. “The Laurel Apartments, I believe. In the United States.”
    “Thank you,” he said.
    “And now that I’ve told you all this,” she said firmly, “you will tell me, please, why it’s so important?”
    He put down his pen and folded away his notebook. “You are aware, madam, that you register and show your passport everywhere you go, so that no one may enter this country illegally.”
    “But I didn’t enter—” She stopped in dismay. “You mean Mr. Farrell may be in your country illegally?”
    “I did not say that, madam,” he said politely. “I am checking into this matter.”
    “I see,” she said, and then added accusingly, “Farrell is a very fine man,