Amazing Mrs. Pollifax Read Online Free PDF

brother.
    “What a very nice idea, and it shouldn’t take long!” she exclaimed aloud, and at once felt a leap of interest and purpose. She dug the brother’s address out of her purse, noted that they were both in the old part of the city but decided nevertheless to take a taxi there and do her walking on the way back.
    Washing her face in very cold water she left the room without opening her suitcase, walked down the heavily carpeted stairs to the lobby, nodded cheerfully to the desk clerk and strolled out into the bustling life of the streets.
    According to her map Istanbul was a city divided by bridges, water and the geographical coincidence of existing upon two continents, Europe and Asia. Mrs. Pollifax assessed the character of it with a certain feminine casualness: the newer section, called Beyoglu, contained the Hilton Istanbul, andtherefore must also contain the newer residences, the higher priced hotels, and most of the tourists. The older section, called Stamboul, appeared to hold most of the minarets, mosques, bazaars, native hotels as well as herself and Mia Ramsey’s brother. With this settled she hailed a taxi. The driver greeted her effusively, swore by Allah that Zikzak was not far, that his taxi was the best in Stamboul, he was a fine driver and it was a beautiful evening, and they started out.
    Delighted by her resourcefulness and already reviving at the thought of exchanging words with an authentic resident of the city, Mrs. Pollifax sat back in anticipation. What struck her forcibly as she looked around her was the patina of antiquity everywhere that went beyond old age; there was a grandeur in the shabbiness of Stamboul’s flaking walls, peeling stucco, faded paint and eroded columns. It rested the eye: this city was thousands of years old. Istanbul also impressed her now as being a surprisingly gay place, and her ears began to sort out the sounds that had dismayed her earlier. A great deal of commerce appeared to be transacted from the sides and backs of donkeys, upon which were carried baskets of flowers, bread, tinware, bales of cloth, jugs of water, herbs and sweets, all of which had to be advertised incessantly and vocally, the louder the better. Children played and shouted. Strange weird music drifted out of shuttered windows and open doors. The light itself was purest Mediterranean—why had she assumed Istanbul would be gloomy?—and as they drove up and down unbelievably steep streets Mrs. Pollifax was reminded of San Francisco.
    But gradually the streets grew narrower, darker and less traveled, and Mrs. Pollifax began to experience a growing sense of alarm. After all, they were in search of a business called Ramsey Enterprises Ltd., which had a solid, respectable and undeniably British ring to it, whereas this was old Istanbul, and growing older and older at each turn. For the first time she remembered the two envelopes in her purse, each of them bulging with money, and when the taxi turned into a cul-de-sac, a dead end alley with a high wall running along one side, Mrs. Pollifax was certain that she was going to be held up and robbed. She was wondering if she dared try out her karate—and which blow to deliver—when the driver brought the cab to a stop, jerked his headtoward a ramshackle building on the left which leaned precariously to one side, and turning to her said, “Twenty-three Zikzak.”
    “Are you sure?” she asked doubtfully. She handed the printed address to the driver for verification.
    “Evet, evet,”
he said, nodding indignantly, and jumped out and opened the door for her.
    Mrs. Pollifax climbed out, paid the man—or over-paid him, she reflected wryly, having still no firm grasp of the country’s lira and kurush—and when she walked across the alley to the lopsided door experienced the small shock of relief at discovering all her suspicions unfounded. The man was reliable and she was indeed in the correct place. But what an astonishingly unprepossessing place it