‘My boss tells me. It is an order.’
‘You don’t know why?’
‘No.’
‘And who is your boss.’
‘Gaspard Cardin.’
‘Is he the young man who dined with you tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘He is only a small boss. Who is his boss?’
‘I am . . . not . . . very . . . sure.’ Her voice became uncertain and Grant gave her a few more drops of Pentothal.
‘Try again, Monique. The name of Gaspard’s boss?’
The girl drew a few deep breaths. ‘He talks about a big man called Goodenough. Mark Goodenough. Gaspard is afraid of him.’
‘Where does Gaspard live?’
This time there was no hesitation. ‘We have a room in Hotel Taz.’
‘Where does Mr. Goodenough live?’
‘He has a room in Pierre Loti.’
‘Has Gaspard any other friends in Turkey?’
The girl’s eyes became blank and Grant was frightened to give any more dope. He tried another question to reassure her. ‘Do you love Gaspard?’
The eyes cleared slightly. ‘No.’
‘Then why do you have the same room?’
‘Because I am his woman.’
‘The only one?’
‘No.’
‘Has he any other woman in Istanbul?’
‘No.’
Grant tried a long shot. ‘Have you heard the name Marius Brandt?’
‘No.’
‘What did Gaspard mean to do when you left the hotel with Harry?’
‘Knife him.’
‘What will he do if you do not bring Harry out to him?’
‘He will be angry.’
‘Will he look for you?’
‘I think so.’
‘How long will he wait?’
Grant gave a few more drops as he saw the girl become restless. ‘Maybe an hour,’ she said at last.
‘Have you done this work before?’
‘Yes.’
‘And has he waited for an hour before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because some men won’t go out with me for a walk until I have pleased them.’
‘And you have sometimes taken men from their rooms knowing that Gaspard would kill them?’
‘Or sometimes not kill. Just take money.’
Grant plunged the rest of the Pentothal into the girl’s vein and pulled out the needle. ‘So now Gaspard,’ he said to Frank. ‘Might as well try to get him up here. He’s around. Young man with very cold blue eyes and a mop of untidy fair hair.’
Frank hesitated. ‘No chance of him being covered?’
‘Well! Any better ideas?’
Frank stretched himself comfortably. ‘That doll’s not big. I got a cabin trunk. And a car outside. I figure we’ll check out. Me, I mean, and put her on the roof rack while you collect blue eyes and work something out with Harry. Okay?’
‘Then move. Rendezvous near the snake column in the Hippodrome at 0130 hours and keep an eye on the girl. Pentothal doesn’t act for long.’
Frank opened a smallish box of first-aid kit which Grant always carried and had put together in Amsterdam. A roll of adhesive tape applied over a plug of cotton wool forced into her mouth took care of the gag angle and two evening scarves with thin nylon rope from Frank’s room trussed the girl like a turkey. ‘She’ll fit. And I’ll pad the sides with cushions or something in case she wriggles.’ Frank was operating with the slick efficiency of a man who knows exactly what he is doing.
‘And we’ll forget Kemal’s place for tonight,’ said Grant as an afterthought. ‘Maybe this could be a better break.’ He returned to the corridor and pointed first for the staircase in the opposite direction from Harry’s suite. The place was still empty and the foyer below almost deserted.
Harry was reading his paper-back when Grant joined him, but his eyes were guarded. ‘Tell me. Put me in the picture, because I don’t like it.’
‘Don’t like what?’
‘You’ve got that tight look again. And I’d appreciate knowing why? You try sitting on your fanny for over an hour waiting for a hi-jacker that doesn’t turn up and see how you feel.’
Grant was almost amused. It was the first time he had ever seen Harry register an off-beat. ‘So that’s it,’ he ended, ‘and now you can collect the blue-eyed boy-friend. He should be around.’
Harry nodded briefly. ‘You figure the girl can go into that trunk?’
‘Frank says so.’
‘Then she’s smaller than I reckoned. I figured fifty-eight kilos and around a metre sixty-five. Sounds more like she must be less.’ He slipped into his favourite arm-pit holster and checked his gun. ‘You wander out, David, and lift a buggy with keys in the ignition. Give you ten minutes maximum, failing which use your own. Take the run-in to the Hilton and have engine trouble near the second corner. Okay?’
Grant adjusted his cheek plug and began to chew a wad of gum. He liked the Divan partly because it was a quiet, efficiently run place, and it was a relief to find that there were still few people about. He filled in a postcard as a matter of form, bought a stamp and had a word with Reception, strolled through the bar and finally sauntered to the entrance. The night was deeply black with a magnificently star-studded sky and he lit a cigar before ambling past the car-park. A Skoda with the driver’s door slightly open caught his eye. It had a German number-plate and was thick with dust. With less than a minute to go he switched on the engine and reversed into the exit. No one seemed to have noticed, and he stopped, but with the engine running, exactly where Harry had ordered. The hood cut part of his field of vision but Harry had stepped out from the brilliant lights of the Arcade in less than two minutes. One arm was wrapped, affectionately, and in Turkish style, round the waist of a younger man whose face was etched almost white in the semi-darkness.
‘Gaspard,’ said Harry. ‘Let’s move. He’s not so clever! Knocking raki back in the café instead of sticking to essentials. Man, David, if ordinary hoods like Gaspard would operate with the care the boss-men usually show they wouldn’t get into trouble. Where now?’
Grant was threading his way across Taksim Square. ‘On second thoughts we’ll go to Kemal after all. Need privacy and the police should be looking for this car before long.’ He completed a circle of the square and took the fast road along towards the Bosporus.
Kemal’s club was slam by the water’s edge but the old man had a house slightly uphill and Grant sighed contentedly when he turned through a tall iron gate into a small courtyard.
Turks remember their friends and Mustafa Kemal rated Grant high in his own inner circle. He also had the Turkish respect for another man’s private affairs and the instinct when to ask questions. He welcomed his guest with a kiss on either cheek and studied him thoughtfully. ‘You have changed a little. And you are being polite, as you always are. But you have business. Yes?’
‘I’ll tell you about it before sunrise, but there’s a colleague with a prisoner in my car. We need some privacy. A matter of getting information.’
This was a situation the old man could understand and he smiled with appreciation. ‘Like the old days. People were always asking people questions. But you said the man in the car is a “colleague.” You didn’t say “friend”.’
Grant was amused. Turks never missed a trick. ‘He is mixed up in my work. But he isn’t exactly a friend. Though if you treat him as one life might be more simple. He is dangerous.’
Mustafa fiddled with his worry beads. ‘I have known many dangerous men. But I’ve got a room inside. Simple but private. What else can I do?’
‘Get rid of the car. I took it only for this job, but we’ll need another one in about half an hour. After that we can perhaps come back when the club is closed and discuss business.’
Mustafa walked towards the Skoda. ‘You will come when you come and there will be a car.’
Harry nodded abruptly as he heard Grant�
��s voice and saw Mustafa open the door. ‘Harry. Meet my friend Mustafa Kemal.’
‘Fine, Mustafa. Now move, you silly pinhead. Tried to make a break,’ he explained. ‘Forgot I was a big boy.’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Kemal as Harry ushered the young Frenchman towards the house. ‘But your colleague seems to have given him a karate chop across the neck. Look how he holds his head.’
Grant had decided to waste no time. The Pentothal was ready to mix and Harry had been briefed on drill. Mustafa was also seated near the door to a room empty of almost all furnishings except an ancient divan. Grant knew that he would be armed with both knife and gun. He also heard the noise of an engine revving up as someone prepared to remove the Skoda. All in all, he thought, as he lifted a needle from its pre-sterilised pack, Mustafa was one of the most thorough men he had ever met. Nor did he believe in wasting time during emergencies. The Frenchman gave no trouble because he had learned the hard way that trouble meant sorrow. He probably believed that he was only going to be drugged. Chances were that he would never think of how the drug used might winkle out truth.
‘Fine,’ said Grant at last. ‘He’s just under and no more. Watch he doesn’t move his arm.’
Harry was interested. ‘Never watched this stuff before, David. Quacks usually make me want to yuk. But this looks like good.’
Grant paid no attention but concentrated upon the unconscious man. ‘Your name?’
‘Gaspard Cardin.’
‘Who is Monique?’ It was a test question, but important to check.
‘I use her.’
‘Your address?’
‘Taz Hotel.’
‘Address in France?’
‘Got none. Live with friends or in hotels.’
‘Who is Goodenough?’
‘A man.’ There was a long pause as though the half-asleep Frenchman was forcing himself to speak. ‘He pays me.’
‘To do what?’
‘To do what I am told?’
Grant slightly increased the dose. ‘Who is Marius Brandt?’
This time the voice was more slurred. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Why were you with Monique in the Divan Hotel?’
‘To do a job.’
‘What was the job?’ Grant had long ago learned how questions had to be fed kindergarten style during a Pentothal session and the routine taxed his patience.
‘Kill a man.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Harry.’
‘And what was Harry’s second name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did Goodenough tell you to kill Harry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say why Harry was to be killed?’
‘No.’
‘For crissake, David, hurry it up will you,’ said Harry suddenly. ‘I could make him squeal in half the time without this crap.’
Mustafa Kemal seemed to glide across the room in the same second. ‘Harry, my friend. David is in charge. May I order tea? Or would you like a cup of Turkish coffee?’
Harry smiled in spite of himself. ‘Coffee, Mr. Kemal. Medium sweet. And I’ll shut up. But time is important.’
Grant paid little attention. Almost every sense was focussed on the man beside him. Everything depended on estimating precisely the correct dose. ‘Did Goodenough want you to kill any other man in Istanbul?’
‘No.’
‘Or woman?’
‘No.’
‘And did you help Goodenough with the lorry smash-up in Brussels which killed an old man and an old woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why were they killed?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you kill a man in Paris by giving poison?’
‘No.’
‘Did Goodenough do that job?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why was he killed?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you heard of David Grant?’
‘No.’
‘How much are you paid?’
‘A thousand dollars for every job.’
‘How much is Monique paid?’
‘Two hundred for one job.’
Grant turned to Harry for the first time. ‘Any other points? It looks as though he’s only a hired gun. Not important.’
‘You’re slipping up, man. Where is Goodenough right now?’ said Harry. ‘I figure we should collect him.’
Gaspard was again restless and reacted badly to the question. ‘We meet . . .’ he hesitated and Grant shot in a few more minims of the drug. ‘At . . .’ Harry again became restless and pushed the unconscious man impatiently. ‘At where,’ he snapped. ‘Speak up, you . . .’
Mustafa Kemal was old but he could still move fast and he drew Harry almost forcibly away from Grant and Gaspard. A small curved knife lay against Harry’s neck and the old man’s voice was very soft. ‘I told you once that this is my house. David Grant is my guest. You will sit on my chair by the door and drink your coffee. I was told that you are dangerous, but I think you are just nervous. Even so, don’t disturb the doctor again.’
Harry’s eyes were hooded and Grant could feel the hostility which seemed suddenly to fill the room. ‘I take the point, Mr. Kemal.’ He watched Kemal return the knife to a sheath below his cloak and then pointed to Gaspard. ‘Any more questions? The guy looks dead to me.’
Grant stared blankly at his syringe. It was impossible that he could have given an overdose, yet Gaspard was dead.
‘What happened?’ Harry sounded indifferent.
‘Maybe a heart attack or something,’ said Grant at last. ‘We’ll never know.’
‘And what do you aim to do now?’
Grant lit a cigarette almost subconsciously and sipped the coffee which Kemal had slipped into his hand. ‘Tell you what,’ he said at last. ‘You go to Hotel Pierre Loti and keep an eye open for Goodenough. He should be around some time. I’ll meet Frank and get rid of the body.’
‘So I meet Goodenough. What next?’
‘Keep him taped until we arrive, or you can phone a message to the Divan.’
‘And this guy Brandt? You were going to have a heart to heart with Kemal here. Remember? How do we get into the house?’
‘That can come later.’ Grant turned to the older man. ‘How about a meeting about ten-ish tomorrow morning?’
‘As you wish?’
‘And you have a car?’
‘Outside.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps Mr. Harry will use a second car which could go towards Pierre Loti and drop him in the grounds.’
‘Suits me.’ Harry finished his coffee and glanced towards Grant. Anything else?’
‘Just keep an eye on Goodenough if you can locate him, and we meet here in the morning. Mustafa will give you a card with the address.’
‘Then ciao!’ Mustafa pressed a bell and two men arrived to carry out the body while Harry entered a chauffeur-driven car standing close by the entrance.
‘Before I go,’ said Grant, ‘do you know this address?’
Kemal looked at a hastily written scrap of paper and thought for the length of one full cigarette. ‘In the old days it was used by a few important people from Topkapi. The police raided it some time ago and there were rumours. I heard that a man had gone inside and disappeared.’
‘Now think carefully, Mustafa. I know that you were just a child when you worked in Topkapi, but did you ever hear rumours about a secret passage to that house? How did the men or women who used to get out of the palace operate without being seen?’
Kemal lit a hubble-bubble with unusual care and spoke only when the pipe was drawing freely. ‘No man or woman could do anything in Topkapi without being seen. It was only a question of who saw who. It was possible to bribe key men like the Kislar Agha, and the last Chief Black Eunuch, whom I knew well, was willing to take money from almost anyone. Let me tell you just a little about the old days and then you will understand.
‘I am now seventy-five, but I was taken as a ch
ild to Topkapi Palace when only six year old. I don’t even remember my parents, but I do know that until I was eleven I was brought up in the women’s quarters. So I remember the harēm quite well. However, at eleven the good times became less good and I was taken over by a kogia or tutor appointed by the Chief Black Eunuch as representative of the sultan, and lived in the quarters of the Black Eunuchs. I suppose, in a way, that I was lucky, because most boys had different treatment. In fact I was brought up rather like the little princes, of whom there were always so many, a century or so earlier. But only because the Kislar Agha himself wanted me as one of his personal servants. Slaves you might say. He was a fat, corrupt and ignorant man. But he was powerful. He held the rank of pasha with three tails, he was confidential middle-man between the sultan and the Grand Vizier, he commanded one section of the household army and he was the only official who could approach the sultan at any hour of the day or night. He was also the only official entitled to use both girls and boys as slaves, and later, during the revolution, most of them sang as he was hanged by a gypsy from Galata Bridge. He was the most bribed and deeply corrupted personage in the Ottoman empire, and I was fortunate that he happened to like me. I had a good deal of freedom and I do know that he accepted bribes to allow certain people freedom to pass into several secret exits.’
Kemal was enjoying re-living the past and Grant knew better than to interrupt or try to speed up the story. ‘You have probably been in Topkapi many times,’ he continued. ‘And I know that you often visited it before they “restored” the quarters of the Black Eunuchs and the harēm. But even now there are many parts of the palace complex which are either filled with rubbish, packing cases, old clothes, broken candelabra, pieces of weaponry or else with floors so rotten with wood-worm and dry rot that it is dangerous to explore. Now follow me carefully. Think of the Second Court and of the far left corner as you enter. A small gate open into corridors which link with the restored harēm, the quarters of the Black Eunuchs and beyond that with the suites of the sultan himself. Even more important, they connect with the apartments of the sultan’s mother, and the Validé Sultana was even more important than her son. But if you enter this Carriage Gate, as it was called, you pass into a noble room before again turning left into a long corridor at the end of which the Shawl Gate leads into gardens. Now that corridor separates the former cells of the halberdiers from the harem. But on the left, towards the far end, it is next to the Privy Stables and Coach Houses which have also been restored.’ His voice became very soft and almost smugly self-satisfied. ‘Well I have remembered. There was a tunnel from below the Coach House and it could be reached from a secret entrance in the wall almost beside the Shawl Gate. Which meant that it was very convenient for either harem women willing to risk their lives, or for favourites of the Kislar Agha enjoying a secret romance outside the palace. I have also remembered two other underground passages, but one has been destroyed by road building and the other is far from the address you have in mind. So if there is any tunnel left you will find it starting at the wall of the Coach House just outside the Shawl Gate. You must find the entrance, and it may have been sealed. Then you must discover if it leads to the place you wish.’
Paradise Spells Danger Page 14
