Belshazzar's Daughter: A Novel of Istanbul (Inspector Ikmen series Book 1)

by Barbara Nadel

  “You lost contact with Mr. Meyer after his dismissal?”

  To tell the truth was probably not that wise but then flying in the face of the evidence in Leonid’s address book probably wasn’t that wise either. “I still used to see Leonid from time to time,” he said. “I was sorry for what he became in later years.”

  “You blame yourself for his alcoholism?”

  “In part.”

  The young man frowned. “Only in part?”

  What Smits said next came about via a conscious decision—a decision, furthermore, informed by his anger over this position he was in now: the one Maria had put him in. “Leonid Meyer had a past, Sergeant. I don’t know what it was, but I do know that even before he entered Turkey, he was already a broken man.”

  “Do you know why that was?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Do you know anything about how Leonid Meyer met Maria Gulcu?”

  This was a question he had not, foolishly, anticipated. Smits felt, or fancied he felt, his heart flutter and, just briefly, he held his hand ready over the barrel of his chest. “No, I know nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.”

  The young man eyed Smits narrowly. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Smits’s voice was small now, unsure and sadly so very like that of the old man he knew he was but so desperately didn’t want to be.

  And then, quite suddenly, the attack began in earnest. “Did you kill Leonid Meyer, Mr. Smits?”

  “No! What reason would—”

  “I don’t know what reason you would have had for doing it, Mr. Smits, that’s what I’m asking you.”

  “But…”

  “It occurs to me that perhaps all this talk of your being a reformed character is as much a lie as all of the other falsehoods you have told us.”

  Only now did Smits feel really afraid. Only now did the liberty that attended what was left of his life seem to be in real danger. It was an emotion that made Smits turn even more fiercely in the path of his own spite. “If you want truth, Sergeant, then you might try speaking to one who knows what that is!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you should speak to Mrs. Maria Gulcu, very soon, and that your questioning of her should show as little mercy as you have shown me!”

  “And why might that be, Mr. Smits?”

  “Because she had something on him, I—”

  “What? What did she have on him?”

  “I…”

  “Where were you on the day that Leonid Meyer died, Mr. Smits?”

  “I was … I was at my home, it…”

  The sergeant was leaning forward now, peering right into his face. “A large black car, just like yours, was seen in the vicinity of the apartment. Was it yours, Mr. Smits?”

  “No!”

  “You’re lying. Now what is this thing that Mrs. Gulcu had on Leonid Meyer? Where were you on the day of Meyer’s murder?”

  “I…”

  “Come along, Mr. Smits, I do not have all day! What are you talking about? You are making very little sense!”

  He watched, and to him it seemed as if the act were in slow motion, the young man brought his fist down hard upon the table. The impact was loud and, as it reverberated through his head, Smits felt his hold upon events slip rapidly away—like water going down into a drain. And then suddenly there was nothing—just blackness. Like a little death.

  * * *

  The old man moved his finger slowly down the list of names as he read: “Simonoff, Bagratid, Popov, Irimishvili.”

  Ikmen raised one heavy, bored hand up in front of his face. “Who killed…?”

  “Does it matter if your man’s name isn’t here?”

  “Not especially.” Then, seeing the tired look on his father’s face as he turned to yet another tome, Ikmen softened his tone. “I’m sorry, Timür, you must be bored too.”

  The old man scowled. “Yes, well…” He picked up another book from across the desk and gave it to his son. “This one’s in English, why don’t you look through that while I carry on with the rest?”

  Ikmen sighed. “All right.”

  The book, which was called The Demise of the Tsarist Order, was, in his opinion, rather thin when one considered the immensity of the subject area. Turning first to the index and discovering, unsurprisingly, that Meyer’s name was not listed, he flicked randomly until he came to a chapter which, gruesomely he thought, was entitled “Executions.”

  Like the material his father had read out before, this consisted of lists of murders of various prominent people, plus the names of those responsible. The most comprehensively documented case was, naturally, that of the last Romanov Tsar Nicholas II and his family—the perpetrators of which the two men had already come across in the literature several times. Had Meyer been involved in that incident, they would have a real story on their hands. But that event had been so thoroughly documented, and everybody concerned had been investigated so minutely, that Meyer’s involvement with it was totally impossible. Besides, as Timür had said some time before, a lot of the killing that went on at the time was of very minor Tsarist officials and had been carried out by what amounted to roving bands of vigilantes. An uneducated and, probably, politically naïve little Jew like Meyer would, it had to be admitted, most likely have been a member of one of those.

  Ikmen turned the page and scanned once again for familiar names. That the one which did finally catch his eye, which leaped from the page at him as if self-propelled, was one that had only been at the periphery of his consciousness made the experience, if anything, even more shocking. For here, suddenly, was a connection that was real, a link between the present and a past so dramatic and so violent that he hardly dared breathe, much less think about what it signified. Demidova, a name from a telephone directory; Demidova here again in this book, the name of the Tsarina Alexandra’s maid—the woman who died in that long-ago hail of bullets with her imperial mistress. One and the same, maybe, this name? It wasn’t really possible, was it?

  But as he read on further and as he took in fully details about how the last Russian monarchs had been killed, by firing squad, Ikmen couldn’t shake the image of Leonid Meyer the Bolshevik from his mind. Could it be…? But then the names of all the men involved in that action were listed here in this book, as in so many others, and Meyer’s was not among them. And anyway the whole notion was absurd, just because this maid and Maria Gulcu shared a surname …

  But he would have to ask the old woman anyway. His interest was piqued now and—

  “Excuse me, but are you Dr. Ikmen’s son?” A small individual sporting an alarming pair of bottle-bottom glasses was suddenly at his elbow.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “There’s a telephone call for you,” he said softly, “in the office.”

  Annoyed that his train of thought should be broken like this, Ikmen replied tetchily, “Who is it? What do they want?”

  “It’s someone called Suleyman. He says it’s rather urgent.”

  “Damn!” He turned and tapped his father on the shoulder. “Keep all these books for me will you, Timür? I’ll be back.”

  “All right.”

  Ikmen got up from his seat and followed the strange little man as he padded gently across the library.

  Chapter 16

  The sun had only just risen when they arrived at Karadeniz Sokak. They were, however, both extremely wide awake and, in Ikmen’s case, rather grave also.

  As they entered her apartment, Maria Gulcu waved a greeting and then, smiling, added, “So here you are again, Inspector. And your pretty friend.”

  “Perhaps I just covet your fine ikons, Mrs. Gulcu,” Ikmen replied.

  She hauled herself painfully toward the headboard. “You must excuse my nearly always being in this bed when you come, but age is so … limiting. Serge?”

  She held her hand out to a small twisted man who sat in the chair beside her bed. Ikmen thought he looked about sixty, although it wasn’t easy to t
ell. Whatever his condition was it had so warped his body that getting a clear view of his face was not easy. He took the old woman’s hand in both of his and kissed it. “Mama?”

  “Serge, these two gentlemen are from the police. We will speak English while they are here and you will be nice.” She fixed him with a stern gaze and then turned to Ikmen. “Gentlemen, my younger son, Sergei.”

  Ikmen inclined his head. “Mr. Gulcu.”

  He muttered something in reply, but Ikmen couldn’t hear what it was.

  She lit a cigarette. “Please sit down, gentlemen.”

  Ikmen smiled and lowered himself on to the edge of her bed. Suleyman, as usual, remained standing. He liked to have a clear view of the door in this house. It made him feel more comfortable.

  “Well, Inspector, what can we do for you this time? I feel we are quite old friends, you and I.”

  The door opened and the granddaughter Natalia tiptoed quietly across the room and then sank into one of the chairs over by the curtained window. No servant today. For a few seconds she shuffled, getting her long bare legs comfortable. She crossed one over the other in a movement that could only be described as pornographic. But once settled she was silent.

  Ikmen knitted his fingers together under his chin and turned to the old woman. “Just a couple more questions, Mrs. Gulcu, nothing painful.”

  She smiled and licked her dry lips. “Good. Painless is good. I do not like pain, Inspector, I am too old for it.”

  “It is not one of my particular pleasures either, madam.”

  She laughed. “I like you,” she said. “You are little, you dress badly and you’re ugly, but I like you.”

  “A compliment policemen very rarely get, madam, thank you.”

  The little cripple Sergei shifted painfully in his seat. His feet dangled uselessly before him, the toes turned inward and back, a helix. Ikmen noticed that Suleyman could hardly take his eyes off them.

  He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Gulcu, I need to ask you about your background.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “If you could just answer my questions, madam, I will make clear the reasons behind this later.”

  She sniffed. “If I must.”

  “Good. Now.” Ikmen brought his hands up to his cheeks and pouted. “I understand, Mrs. Gulcu, that you also go under the name of Demidova, is that right?”

  “My maiden name, yes.” Although she didn’t flinch or register any discomfort, the little man beside her bed turned away. “How did you discover that, Inspector?”

  He smiled. “We will talk of that later, if we may, Mrs. Gulcu. What I am interested in at the moment is where the name Demidova comes from.”

  “Well, my father—”

  “No, no, let me rephrase that, madam. What I am looking for here is a specific Demidova; one in fact I discovered in a very interesting book about your country’s history yesterday. One who was, I understand, a maid in the employ of the Tsarina Alexandra.”

  “Oh.”

  For a moment there was pure silence in that room. A silence, however, during which Ikmen felt all eyes present fall upon him.

  The old woman cleared her throat before replying. “No, Inspector, quite a different family, I can assure you.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  Her eyes narrowed and Ikmen felt she was just about to reply when the little cripple suddenly started laughing. “Inspector, my mother you cannot expect to—”

  “Serge!” Her voice was raised but quite cold, as if she were talking to a recalcitrant child. She turned her eyes onto Ikmen’s face. He looked away and lit a cigarette.

  “I may be missing something here, Inspector, but what bearing does this have upon your investigation?”

  “It is of significance, or so I believe, madam,” he said. “So can you prove whether or not you are related to this maid?”

  “No, I cannot,” she replied and then looking up defiantly, “but you can take my word for the fact that this lady’s family and my own are not one and the same.”

  Ikmen drew deeply on his cigarette. “And why should I do that?”

  She moved herself slightly in her bed, pulling her neck up to its full height. “Because I give you my word and because the lady of whom you speak, Anna Demidova, did not have any relatives when she died.”

  “You seem to know quite a bit about the subject, madam.”

  “Most old Russians do, Inspector. But if you do not believe me about Anna Demidova, then look it up yourself. You seem to be possessed of numerous sources on this subject.”

  “Oh, I am,” he smiled, “and believe me I will, Mrs. Gulcu; as soon as I get back to my car I will do just that. Thank you.”

  “And when you do indeed discover that Anna Demidova and myself are not related, perhaps, Inspector,” she said archly, “you will tell me what all this might be about.”

  “I will tell you that now, madam.” He ground his half-finished cigarette out in her ashtray and then instantly lit another. “Not, of course, that I am entirely sure about it myself, but … It seems to be becoming apparent that there is some sort of connection between what Leonid Meyer did back in Russia and what so recently happened here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. By your own admission he was a Bolshevik and, for those who were damaged or persecuted by that faction, there may, it occurs to me, be some sort of satisfaction to be gained by the death of one of their number.”

  She laughed. “At this distance in time, Inspector, surely…”

  “Without wishing to give offense, Mrs. Gulcu, if I were dealing perhaps with my own people, I would say not. But it is well known that Russians have long memories and—”

  “And you thought that if I were related to Anna Demidova I may have taken it into my head…” Here she paused, visibly scoffing at his suggestion. “But Leonid was a friend, Inspector Ikmen—a friend who, furthermore, helped to remove me from the horrors of that time.”

  “And himself from his own rather more criminal situation?”

  She moved awkwardly in her bed now, casting about impatiently as if imprisoned. “Oh, I know nothing of that, Inspector! As I have told you. And with Leonid dead and gone I would suggest that your chances of ever discovering the truth behind that are most slim.”

  “Maybe. Maybe. But from what my forensics experts tell me there is a possibility that our Mr. Meyer was involved in the composition of a firing squad. Perhaps like the one that killed your late Tsar, madam?”

  “Oh, really.” Her eyes were dead now, almost, he fancied studiedly so.

  “Yes, and if I find no evidence to suggest that Anna Demidova was indeed alone in the world I will come back and talk to you about this again.”

  She shrugged. “As you wish. If you want to spend your time chasing fanciful historical theories for the glory, no doubt, of your own career, that is up to you.”

  “Very well.” He looked briefly across at Suleyman before continuing and noticed that the young man looked very strained. Ikmen knew how he felt—this was not proving either easy or pleasant. When he spoke again, he changed the subject. “All right, Mrs. Gulcu,” he said, “so what about the illegal status of yourself and your relatives in this country?”

  “Illegal status?”

  “Yes. We discovered the name Demidova in connection with your telephone number when we were checking up on the background of Gulcu family members in this city. With the exception of your late husband, we found absolutely nothing. Can you explain that, please?”

  She let a moment pass before replying and when she did she spoke in such a logical and ordered fashion that Ikmen could, had he not known better, have been led to believe that what she was saying was quite reasonable.

  “When I first came to this country,” she said, “nobody knew or even cared whether one had ‘papers’ or not. It is like that after a war. Dear old Mehmet Gulcu looked after me and I, in return, gave him the children he so craved. But again nothing official happened—Christians and M
oslems didn’t marry back in those days, it was too complicated. And even when Mehmet died there was no trouble, he had no family and so his money and property became my own. It was like that then and it suited me and—”

  “But your children? What about them—and your granddaughter for that matter? They have right of Turkish citizenship through Mr. Gulcu. Why were they not registered?”

  She sighed. “For you to understand, Inspector, you would have to be Russian and so what I am about to say will sound ludicrous to you. But”—she paused to light a cigarette and, as she exhaled, she continued—“when the sacred blood of Mother Russia flows through your veins, you are inclined to view the world rather differently. I was born a Russian and I have always wished to die a Russian too. As for my family?” She smiled. “They do as I do. We live, inasmuch as we can, the lifestyle of Russians before the cataclysm in 1918. Mehmet understood and indulged all this and when he died he left me enough money to fund my eccentricities.”

  Suleyman, who had been quietly listening and observing all of this, suddenly had to speak. “But … but, I mean, do you all like to live like this?”

  Maria Gulcu turned to her son and raised an eyebrow. “Serge?”

  “We have always lived like this,” he said simply. “It is only Natalia who does not. She works for an old friend of my father’s, but that is her choice.”

  The old woman eyed Suleyman appreciatively. “I am no jailer, young man. All are free to follow their own paths. Natalia works and my son Nicholas can and does leave this house on occasion.”

  Ikmen cleared his throat, calling Maria Gulcu’s attention back to him.

  “Odd we may be and I am undoubtedly a breaker of your laws, but we are not wicked people. As I have told you before, Inspector,” she said, “there are others out there in the world who have or had reason to want Leonid dead.”

  Her great care in not actually naming anyone made him smile. “Oh yes, your old pursuer Reinhold Smits.”

  “Pursuer?”

  “Yes,” said Ikmen. “We have actually received information from another source which suggests that Meyer and Smits may have, at some time, argued over your favors.”