Free Elusive Mrs. Pollifax by Dorothy Gilman Page B

we’re not, we’re going to Tarnovo.”
    “For Pete’s sake why?”
    “Because I’ve never had any intention of going anywhere else,” said Mrs. Pollifax reasonably. “Debby, look at the map and see if there’s a gas station at Zlatica, will you? You’ll find tiny red automobiles printed on the map wherever one can buy gas.”
    Debby rustled the map. “Yes, there’s one at Zlatica. Isn’t it weird? There aren’t many in the whole country. Or cars either.”
    Mrs. Pollifax said without expression, “There’s been a black Renault behind us on the road for some time. I think we’ll have the gas tank filled and let it pass us.” She’d first noted the car as far back as Elin Pelin, because of the clouds of dust it had raised behind them on that particular stretch of dusty countryside. Now, some miles later, it was still there and the coincidence made her uneasy.
    Near Zlatica she pulled into the neat cement and grass compound decorated with flower beds and Nempon signs, and two husky women in blue overalls emerged.
    “Oh, wow,” said Debby, collapsing into giggles.
    “Sssh,” said Mrs. Pollifax, sternly, and after a clumsy exchange of sign language and a great number of titters and smiles, the gas tank was filled, the oil checked and bills counted. More important, the black Renault passed them and disappeared ahead.
    The road carried them along the floor of the valley, the mountains on either side growing sharper as the haze cleared. They passed tiny thatch-roofed farmhouses, each with its yard neatly enclosed by fences made of woven twigs. Sometimes an old woman sat on a bench by the door, a spindle in one hand, a bundle of flax in the other. Once they saw a shepherd standing at a distance on a hill, his watchtower behind him, a marvelous leather cape across his shoulders. “He actually carries a
crook
,” Debby said in awe.
    And then the fields turned into acre after acre of roses, entire hillsides dotted with extravagant pinks and yellows and scarlets. “This must be the Valley of Roses,” Debby announced after a look at the map.
    “Debby, I’m thinking about that horrid man with the knife last night,” said Mrs. Pollifax abruptly. “Where did you learn to tackle like that, by the way? You were marvelous.”
    “Oh that was nothing,” Debby said eagerly. “You should see me on the parallel bars and the ropes. I adore phys. ed., it’s the only subject I pass in school. What about that man? Do you think he had anything to do with Phil’s arrest?”
    “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Pollifax honestly. “Debby, have you any idea at all why it should have been Philip who was arrested?”
    “Of course not,” said Debby. “I wish we could stop at one of those rose places. Want a grape from the basket?”
    “No, and you answered my question much too quickly,” she said. “Of course the answer wouldn’t be obvious. Tell me what you know about him.”
    “About Phil?” Debby was smiling. “Nothing much except I think he’s just great. He digs Simon and Garfunkel–and Leonard Cohen–and he’s gentle and he
listens
.”
    “Debby.”
    “Hmm?”
    “I didn’t ask how you
feel
about him, I’m trying to find out why he was arrested for espionage an hour after he arrived in Bulgaria. Facts.”
    “Facts?” echoed Debby blankly.
    “Yes, for instance, where does Philip come from? Where does he live? What do his parents do?” Mrs. Pollifax glanced into the rearview mirror at Debby’s face and saw its bewilderment.
    “Oh. Well …” Debby began, and floundered. “I only met him three weeks ago,” she said indignantly. “
Those
things don’t matter.”
    “They matter now,” said Mrs. Pollifax firmly. “Think. Concentrate.”
    “If you want
labels
,” Debby said scornfully, “he’s a sophomore at the University of Illinois.”
    “Good! An excellent beginning.” She realized that she was asking Debby to violate an unspoken code and she added very gently, “It’s this sort of