Palm for Mrs. Pollifax Read Online Free PDF Page A

slowly upward in the elevator she looked down and saw the boy standing just inside the door staring after her. His brief excitement had collapsed; his eyes were huge and filled with a haunting sadness. She was glad when the ascent cut her off from his view.
    Air and light was her first impression. As soon as Emil left, Mrs. Pollifax put down her jewelry case and crossed the room to open the door to her balcony. “Oh,
lovely
,” she whispered, moving to the railing. At this level she looked across the tops of high trees stirring in a light breeze. Beyond, and almost straight down, a toy steamer on the lake was disappearing between the treetops; it left behind it a V of tiny crepe paper wrinkles. Lake Geneva occupied the view almost to the horizon, like a pale blue, upside-down sky touched with glitter. A wash of insistent gray along the shores hinted at mountains still obscured by haze. Quiet morning sounds rose to her balcony: a tide-like rise and fall of traffic far away, birds calling, a muffled toot from the steamer, a church bell, all muted by distance and height.
    She looked down in search of the garden, and had to stand on tiptoe to see over the wide jut of gallery that ran from her balcony to the next and continued along the floor to the end of the building. The broad ledge cut off much of the view below but she could see thick, well-kept grass, a circle of bright flowers, a graveled path overhung with pink roses, and a gazebo. The hush was incredible.
    She turned and looked for her road and found it off to her left, just where Carstairs had said it would be, a narrow scar on the next hillside, unpaved and climbing at a precipitous angle. A flock of swallows interrupted her gaze. They dove in among the trees, almost encircling one tall Lombardy poplar, but they were the only sign of motionat Montbrison. Nothing seemed to move here, not even time.
    I could be happy here, she thought, and found that she had to wrench her attention back to the reasons behind her arrival. Remembering, her glance fell to the ledge beyond the railing and she found herself studying it with interest. It was nearly four feet wide and neatly graveled. “Like a path three floors above the garden,” she mused, and wondered if the other guests on her floor realized how accessible their rooms were. She thought it presented delightful possibilities for retreat or reconnaissance.
    A knock on the door of her room distracted her. Reluctantly she left the balcony and walked inside, calling. “Come in.”
    A waiter in a white jacket entered, tray in hand. With a flourish he placed it on the tray table in the corner and wheeled the table to the center of the room. “Madame wishes it here, or on the balcony?”
    “I think I’d fall asleep if I breakfasted on the balcony,” she told him, and they exchanged a long and interested glance. He was a short and stocky young man, quite swarthy, with bright blue eyes and black hair parted in the center like a Victorian bartender. In Bishop’s photograph he’d looked gloomy. He still looked gloomy but it was the sourness of a comedian who could fire off a string of ribald witticisms without a muscle quivering in his face. Marcel was something of a clown, she thought.
    “I’ll sit here,” she said, and promptly sat down.
    He wheeled the table beside her. “Madame has been sent the European
petit déjeuner
—very small,” he explained with a rueful shrug. “If Madame wishes more she may dial the room service and a waiter will bring whatever she desires. I may pour your coffee, madame?” Before she could protest he leaned over and said in a low voice, “There is one particular counterfeit among the guests, madame,name of Robin Burke-Jones, usually in the garden afternoons, following three o’clock. We are most curious: none of his credentials check out, all data he gave upon registering is false.”
    “Thank you,” said Mrs. Pollifax, smiling at him and nodding. “I think I have everything I need