by Graham Marks
“I’ve just about had it up to here with this!”
Trey had never heard his father get in such a lather, even after the unfortunate incident involving him and a rather ugly piece of porcelain – a family heirloom, no less – in which the statuette had come out distinctly the worse for wear.
“I told you, Mr. Paklov – I do not know WHAT you are talking about!”
“We shall see,” the man said in a heavy accent.
Behind the chesterfield, his heart in his mouth, Trey found that he could see everything that was happening reflected in the glass panels of a corner cabinet opposite him; worryingly, he realized, that meant he could also be seen. But, thankfully, his father and the unwelcome guest were too busy yelling at each other to notice.
“Get out, now, or I’ll have you thrown out!”
“You will regret...”
As the man turned to leave the suite, without finishing his threat, Trey caught a fleeting glimpse of him jabbing an accusing finger. He was a stocky, balding individual with steel-rimmed glasses and dressed in a creased suit which, as he swung round, flapped open to reveal a brown leather shoulder holster. Complete with gun...
In the silence which followed first the slamming of the suite’s door, and then the study’s, Trey sat on the floor behind the sofa, stunned. What was a man – with a gun! – doing arguing with his father? What he’d just witnessed was like a scene straight out of one of Black Ace’s novelettes, although they didn’t regularly feature people hiding behind chesterfields wondering what to do next.
Trey started to get up, then sat down again. A little voice was telling him that to make an appearance too soon would be a bad move (how would he explain his sudden appearance to his father?); so he stared at his watch, waiting as the seconds ticked by and built up into what he considered to be enough minutes so that he could arrive home and not have seen or heard anything he shouldn’t have.
Luckily, his father stayed in his study so Trey was able to tiptoe back out into the corridor, turn right around, take a deep breath and come straight back in again (doing his own bit of door-slamming) as if nothing untoward had happened. On the outside he tried to look the way he imagined he should after spending the day with the likes of Arthur Stanhope-Leigh, while on the inside he nervously waited to put his foot in it and say the wrong thing.
He needn’t have worried as his father’s mind was plainly elsewhere and dinner that evening was a pretty silent affair, which ordinarily Trey would have tried to do something about. But, as it meant that he didn’t have to recount every last detail of his loathsome day, this time he let it go and spent the time trying to think about what he’d seen from behind the chesterfield. He really needed to talk everything through with someone, but the only person who would understand was Ahmet. And so, while part of him was dreading the next day, the rest could hardly wait.
12 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COIN
“Could you park up for a minute, Ahmet? I really need to have a talk with you.”
“Surely can do.” Ahmet abruptly swerved left across the road in front of a horse-drawn cart piled high with bales of cloth, jamming on the brakes and screeching to a halt; turning round he looked expectantly over the seat at Trey, who felt like a shuttlecock in a badminton match. “Yes? What you say?”
“Right...” Trey rearranged himself, got out the notes he’d written before turning his bedside light out and proceeded to tell Ahmet about what had happened when he’d got back to the suite the day before, describing everything in as much detail as he could. Especially the gun.
“This is quite odd.”
“And how! Did you see a balding man with those kind of metal-rimmed glasses yesterday?” Ahmet shook his head. “Well, keep an eye out for him today, okay? It sounded like he had unfinished business with my father.”
“I keep both eye out for him, you should not worry!”
“My pop called the guy ‘Mr. Paklov’...that’s a Russian name, right?”
Ahmet made a half-nod, half-shrug, as if what Trey had said was probably true.
“There a lot of Russians in Constantinople?”
“I think a lot of everyone, all looking at each other from over the top of newspapers...” Ahmet mimed the scene he was describing, his eyes swivelling left and right. “Like a game...”
Trey found it difficult to get what had happened out of his head – who was this mysterious (and armed) Mr. Paklov, and what had he been accusing his father of? It was a real stumper and he didn’t see how he was going to be able to find any answers, as he could hardly question his father about what had happened, and was now being driven away from the scene of the crime. Sometimes, in his opinion, life was less than fair.
But, despite himself, Trey had quite enjoyed the day. Because Christina was off spending time with a friend, Miss Renyard had taken him and Arthur first to the Naval Museum and then, after lunch, across town to the Military Museum; here, amongst so much else, they’d seen the famous Janissary Band perform, resplendent in red and gold uniforms with swords stuck into their sashes.
After a day spent closely examining guns and ships, cannon and swords, an uneasy truce came into existence between the two boys, and while it could not be said that they were in any way friends, they had got along well enough to make them really quite late in getting back to the house. Ahmet was waiting to pick Trey up, and by the time they shook hands at the front door, watched by a beaming Miss Renyard, for whom this event was a major triumph, their mutual disrespect had lessened somewhat.
“Well?” enquired Trey the moment he was inside the car.
“Excuse?”
“Did anything happen? Did you see anyone, like the bald guy in the glasses? Were you followed?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.” Ahmet started the car, shifted into first and drove away.
“What d’you mean, Ahmet?”
“All of it happen.”
Trey almost took a bite out of the seat in front of him he was so frustrated. “So tell me what happened, Ahmet...like I told you this morning about what went on last night...”
“There was not so much excitement.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t want me to say now?”
“Pull over will you, Ahmet? I’m going to come sit up front and we are going to sort this out...”
He had, finally, managed to get the whole story out of Ahmet, who was right about it not being very exciting, although it was quite worrying. A car had followed them – a different one from the day before – and Ahmet had spotted a person trying too hard not to be noticed (who pretty much fitted the description of the balding, gun-toting gentleman Trey had seen storming out of his father’s study), but that was about it.
By the time they got back to the Pera Palas they were considerably behind schedule, which Trey was sure would not go down all that well; except, if he got in first with how terrifically he was now getting on with Arthur Stanhope-Leigh, and described in detail all the things they’d done. That might do the trick.
“Okeedokey, Ahmet...” Trey slammed the car door shut, hoping that his father would be in a better mood at dinner as he wouldn’t mind a meal that wasn’t spent mainly in silence. “See you tomorrow morning, thanks for the ride.”
Walking into the hotel lobby, Trey stopped for a moment as the seriousness of the situation hit him: whatever his father’s mood tonight, there were no two ways about it, he was going to have to bite the bullet and tell him about the people following him. His father was too much at risk to keep it a secret any longer.
Five minutes later he was standing outside his suite, staring at the door, which, once again, was ajar. His mouth drier than a whole packet of cheese crackers, Trey poked his head through the gap and listened.
Nothing.
It was only as he strained to hear if the suite really was as quiet as it seemed to be that he noticed the chair. He could see the back of it, tipped over and lying on the carpet...and then
he thought he could see what looked like broken glass. For a moment Trey almost turned and rushed back to the lift to get help, but a vivid picture of his father, collapsed on the floor, flashed in his mind’s eye and he knew that what he should do was go in and ring down to reception for help.
He pushed the door open and ran into the sitting room...which was empty. Empty, in that his father wasn’t there, collapsed on the floor and in dire need of assistance, although it was full of all the signs of a very hasty and untidy exit indeed.
“Pops?”
Trey’s call got no response and a sense of dread slowly crawled over him as he attempted to figure out what had occurred; and then, standing alone in the middle of the room he suddenly became aware that he could hear something, but had no idea what it was. A little voice in his head told him that he’d never find out if he didn’t shake a leg and go and take a look, and a swift tour of the suite provided him with four facts:
1.
The noise was the phone in the study, off its hook.
2.
His father was nowhere in the suite.
3.
This was not a robbery as he’d found his father’s money clip by his bed.
4.
There was what looked very much like blood on the study carpet.
So, he thought, sitting down on the edge of the chesterfield, the money clip still clutched in his hands, it looked like there had been “an incident”...his eyes wandered round the room, taking in exactly what kind of a state it was in...an incident during which someone had gotten hurt bad enough for there to have been some blood spilled; whose, he did not know, or want to think about, because his father was missing!
This appalling thought was echoing round his brain when he heard people talking, outside in the corridor, before he remembered that he hadn’t closed the door behind him when he’d rushed in. It took precious seconds for him to realize that he couldn’t understand a word of what the people were saying, and a second or two more before he recognized one of the voices. As he heard the door being pushed open, it hit him – it was the bald man (the bald man with the gun!) from the night before. Like a March hare he leaped up and without thinking ran for the nearest bedroom – his father’s – some ancient survival reflex kicking him into action so he didn’t simply sit and wait to be caught. What his next move was going to be he hadn’t really worked out, but there had to be something he could do.
If this was New York, and he was Trent Gripp, he’d no doubt have been out the window, down the zigzag fire escape and on the street before you could say “Black Ace”. But this was him, in Constantinople, and he had no idea if there was a fire escape to make for.
Closing the door behind him as quietly as he could his eyes darted round the room. He could, he thought as he stuffed the money clip in his jacket pocket, hide inside one of the massive wardrobes, although they’d have to be pretty stupid not to find him there. Or, if he pulled one of the chairs over, he might just be able to get up on top of a wardrobe before the men came to look in the room...but then the chair would be way too much of a giveaway.
Trey was just considering the possibilities offered by getting right under his father’s massive double bed when he saw the door. Or rather, another door. The bedroom had a second door! Which, if he was right, led out directly into the corridor...he ran across, heart in mouth...to find it was locked! He stopped breathing. Then he noticed the key was in the lock, just below the handle, and let out a huge sigh.
In the other room he could hear growled conversation, doors slamming and the sound of something delicate breaking. He had seconds before one of the men came into the bedroom...he turned the key...which stuck. He broke out into a sweat, gripped and turned as hard as he could until the mechanism, stiff from underuse, creaked and finally unlocked. Trey took a deep breath and opened the door. If the man with the gun had left someone outside in the corridor he was done for, but one swift look was enough to tell him that the coast was clear, and as he was about to close the door behind him he had what he thought was a pretty neat idea. Reaching back he took the key and locked the door from the outside, and as he did so he was sure he heard someone come into the bedroom. Just made it!
Running back down towards the suite’s main door he reached into his trouser pocket and brought out his own key to the suite. The one he’d taken with him in the morning, in case his father was still out when he got back from the Stanhope-Leighs’. As he ran he heard the unmistakeable sound of a door being rattled as someone tried to open it; he speeded up, skidding to a halt in front of the double doors, which were still slightly open. As the rattling turned to hefty thumping, accompanied by loud shouting, he heard another voice coming his way. Trey yanked the door shut, inserted the key and twisted it to the right; the well-oiled deadbolt slid into place seconds before whoever was on the other side grabbed the handle.
Just made it, again.
Streaking off down the corridor, pleased, and not a little amazed that the plan had worked, Trey did wonder quite how much longer his luck could hold.
The question was answered moments later by the crack and splinter of a shoulder, or possibly a foot, being put through one of the doors and a heavily accented voice bellowing “STOP THIEF!” after him.
Trey almost did stop in his tracks he was so shocked. Thief? Him?
The racket was obviously having the desired effect as up ahead he saw a door to another suite open, a quizzical face appearing round it.
“STOP HIM!”
Without waiting to see if this person would do as he was being asked, Trey sped past him and, instead of carrying on towards the elevators and stairs, rounded a corner and took the first available turning. Where it went he had no idea, but at least he figured he’d be out of sight.
Out of sight, and trapped in a dead end.
The narrow service corridor went nowhere, ending in a curtained window. Horrified, Trey was just about to make as swift an exit as possible, back the way he’d come (by now sure he’d blown any chance he’d ever had of finding an actual escape route) when he saw what, for all he knew, was a cupboard, but desperation made him carry on; reaching the door he flung it open and was relieved to see not a storeroom full of sheets and soap, but a staircase. It wasn’t as luxuriously appointed as the one the guests used, having bare walls and no carpet, but it went down, and that, thought Trey, was all that counted.
His feelings of relief lasted a total of about two and a half flights, which was when he heard the clatter of footsteps – which unfortunately did not in any way sound like those of a maid – coming after him.
With four more floors to go Trey knew he didn’t have a cat’s chance of getting out of the hotel before he was caught and...well, he didn’t know what these men would do to, or with, him but what he did know was that he had no desire to find out. It was as he went from leaping three steps to five steps at a time that he noticed the chute cover set into the stairwell wall. It was like the ones in their duplex apartment back home in Chicago. Into which garbage was flung, and down which it hurtled, direct to the basement.
Trey slid to a halt by the next chute he came to and pulled the bottom-hinged cover open, half expecting the rank odour of leftovers to assault his nostrils. It didn’t, and breathing a sigh of relief he hauled himself up and into the dark, vertical shaft, which he figured must be used by the staff to send sheets and stuff to the laundry. The chute’s cover, which was weighted, shut behind him with a soft clunk...
13 WHERE TO NOW?
Wedged in the laundry chute, which had sides not much wider than his shoulders, Trey waited, listening for the sound of his pursuer going past. He didn’t have to wait for long, and soon all he could hear was the dull echo of the man’s stampeding footsteps coming back up the shaft.
He was so relieved that he let out a deep breath and allowed himself to relax for the first time since he’d heard the men outside his suite. This had the unfortunate side-effect of making him lose his grip in the chute and he’d plummeted
a good ten, twelve feet before he managed to stop himself. Now he was twelve feet from the way he’d gotten in (and had hoped to get out), and more than likely the same distance from the chute entrance on the next floor. This situation was bad enough in itself, but then he heard footsteps coming back up the stairs, stopping on the floor below.
Trey looked down between his legs...what was going on? Four floors below he could see the pale, grey square that had to be the end of the chute; it was a long, long way away. Then light spilled into the shaft as someone opened the cover one floor down and poked their head in, checking up and down the chute. Trey froze. This was it, the chase was over and he was about to get caught!
But maybe not...at least not yet.
Below him the man swore and slammed the cover shut, his footsteps disappearing back down the service staircase. Once again Trey let out a sigh of relief, but this time he didn’t relax; he realized he hadn’t been caught because, suspended above the man in the pitch black of the laundry chute, he’d been invisible!
All he had to do now was shimmy down to the next floor, maybe the one below, get out of the chute and go find the Manager’s Office. He would surely be safe there, and the Manager could call the police or the Embassy and do all that official stuff – in fact, it now occurred to him, whatever had happened to his dad might have nothing to do with those men turning up...his dad might’ve had a minor accident or something and gone to hospital. It was possible. And if that was the case (you had to look on the bright side) the Manager would know all about it. But then, as he cautiously edged his way down the shaft, Trey had a worrying thought: if his father had been kidnapped from their suite – in broad daylight, no less! – maybe the Manager might not, in fact, be the best person to go to. He could be in on the whole thing, or being bribed or blackmailed or...or not. Trey wouldn’t know until it was too late.
As Trey slid past the third-floor chute entrance, it crossed his mind that if this was all an inside job, it would likely be someone below the Manager – like in the detective stories set in English country houses where it was the butler who’d always done it. Or like the yarn he’d read called The Inside Out Job, where the bank’s security guard had been in on the heist. Deep in thought, and assuming that the two men chasing him had gone elsewhere to look, Trey wasn’t trying to be particularly quiet so he was quite unprepared when the chute door he’d just gone past opened and a hand reached in to grab him by the arm.
