Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled Read Online Free PDF

folds. Once both purchases were wrapped in brown paper and string they walked on until it was Farrell who stopped. “Good-looking sharp knives,” he said, fingering one. “How much?
Addaish?”
    “Just in case?” she said dryly.
    “Gives one a bit of confidence,” was all that he would say, pocketing it.
    The narrow street of booths grew brighter, they saw light ahead and emerged in a broad square dominated by a large sand-colored building of intricately cut stones, surrounded by scaffolding.
    “The Citadel,” breathed Farrell, pointing to a sign that identified it and explained in Arabic, French, and English that it was being restored. “So—we’ve found it,” said Farrell.
    Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Yes, but it’s barely eleven o’clock and we can’t stand here for an hour.”
    “Take a picture while I consult the guidebook,” said Farrell, and brought out his copy. “There’s a Street Called Straight recommended—that seems to really be its name, and—What’s the matter?”
    “My camera, it’s jammed. Do you know anything about cameras?”
    He thrust the guidebook at her. “Look up how we get to the Street Called Straight, I’ll see what I can do.”
    Mrs. Pollifax traced lines on the tiny map and announced, “We walk to the Great Mosque and turn down whatever street we find across from it. It says the Street Called Straight proceeds all the way to the East Gate, where it ends. If it really is straight, Farrell, we shouldn’t get lost.”
    “How old is this camera?” demanded Farrell.
    Mrs. Pollifax made a face. “Quite old.”
    He returned it to her with a shake of his head. “If it has gears, they’re worn out. If it doesn’t have gears I don’t know what else is wrong but Cyrus is going to have to settle for postcards. Let’s go, Duchess. On our way back to the Citadel—he’s still wandering around behind us, isn’t he?—we can detour into these smaller alleys and lose him.”
    “Which we must,” she said, nodding, and regretfully put away the camera.
    Once on the Street Called Straight she began to wish that she were a true tourist, for they passed exquisite silks, antique Turkish swords, Persian rugs, and tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “The Park Avenue of old Damascus,” she said, but at 11:20 they left the street to shake off their surveillant, turning into narrow alleyways with interesting twists and turns. Quickening their steps they ducked into an alley crowded with people, took a quick left turn and then a right, and found refuge behind a rug hanging seductively outside a shop, where they had the pleasure of seeing their surveillant pass them. A minute later they ducked out and retraced their steps. Once the Citadel was in sight they hung back until five minutes to the hour, and then strolled out into the square to stand conspicuously in front of the Citadel while Farrell ostentatiously examined their guidebook.
    “No watchdog in sight,” she reported uneasily. “I believe we lost him. Not many people here either.”
    A small group of tourists, not far away, surrounded a guide, listening to his lecture. A pair of women in dark robes and headscarves walked past them. With a glance at her watch Mrs. Pollifax dropped the map to the ground. A boy of nine or ten in a bright red sweater passed the tourists, and as he strolled toward them glanced down at the map. Before shecould stop him he politely bent over to pick it up, fumbled with it for a moment and handed it to her.
“Khud
, madam,” he said with a smile and a small bow.
    But he had returned to her not only the map but a slip of paper with the printed words: FOLLOW BOY, NOT FAST .
    Mrs. Pollifax reached into her pocket for a coin—an American fifty-cent piece—and gave it to him.
“Shukren,”
she said gravely and handed Farrell both the map and the note. “We go,” she said. “But slowly.”
    “Thank heaven,” said Farrell.
    Casually they strolled toward the same alley down which the boy had gone,