Black Amber

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  Then Miles’s arm was about her shoulders, drawing her back from what lay upon the floor, forcing her gently toward shelter at the rear of the room. When rain no longer washed over them in a torrent, he held her quietly and she dissolved into tears and trembling in his arms.

  She did not scream now. She clung to him and wept. He held her close and let her cry.

  Against his shoulder she wept out her terror and anguish. He soothed her and dried her wet face with his handkerchief. When at length he kissed her, she clung to him, returning the touch of his lips with something like fury. Around them the tumult died a little. The voice of the wind dropped a decibel and the house ceased its wild complaining. Lightning flashed more dimly and thunder rumbled farther away.

  “It’s stopping,” Miles said against her cheek. “We’d better go back to where it’s dry and warm. Then you can tell me all about this.”

  She flung out a hand in the direction of the water. “Yasemin!” she choked. “Anabel’s little cat.”

  “I know,” Miles said. “I saw.”

  Reason was returning a bit at a time. “I was meant to find it. Someone knew that I come here—as Anabel used to. It’s another warning. The first one was the disturbance of my work. Then a paragraph was marked in a book.” She blurted out the story of the underlining she had found in one of the volumes he had loaned her. That marking of a story about drowned harem ladies. If someone had wanted to frighten her, this was a way to manage it. If he had not been here—she broke off, and Miles held her tightly to still a new onslaught of shivering.

  Outdoors a trace of late sunshine touched the water to blue and brightened the wet garden.

  “We can go now,” he said.

  “Let’s bury her first,” Tracy pleaded.

  The earth of the garden was soft. Miles found a stick and a broken piece of tile and dug a grave beneath the rhododendron bushes. With gentle hands he freed the white cat from the ignoble sack and laid it into the hollow. Tracy helped him scrape earth over the small sodden body. She had recovered herself now, recovered the power to be angry.

  “They can’t frighten me like this!” she cried. “Such wickedness has to be exposed. Not just for Anabel’s sake. It’s a bigger thing than that.”

  She remembered then. Nursel’s words, the story of Sylvana’s party. As they stood there in the dripping garden beside the white cat’s grave, she told him all that Nursel had said. His mouth was tight as he listened, his eyes cold again and on guard. The look of his face began to frighten her and she ended piteously.

  “It’s not true, is it? It can’t be true? Nursel didn’t understand. Or else she was making it all up.”

  He shook his head. “She wasn’t making it up. It happened just as she says. It’s true. All of it.”

  “But—heroin? Then it must have been Anabel who was lying. You couldn’t have—” she choked again. “I don’t believe it!”

  For a moment he stood looking at her, his face haunted by memory. Then he spoke in the old, curt way.

  “It’s true. All of it. Come, we’ll go back now.”

  She went with him in silence while a new fear possessed her. The face of evil was one thing. It could even be accepted and confronted—if only there was someone nearby to be trusted. Someone who was good and sound and not given to the wicked harming of others. If there was not …

  He did not speak until they reached the gate to Erim property. “Now will you go home to New York?” he said. “Use the plane ticket. Sylvana consulted me, and I told her to go ahead with the arrangements.”

  She shook her head numbly. She could not answer him with words. There was no one to whom she could turn. Yet she must stay and see it through. She owed this to Anabel, to herself. And even to a small white cat. She was no longer certain of what she owed to Miles.

  Inside the gate he paused. “You’ll get back to the house all right by yourself? I’m not going in yet.”

  She nodded and went away from him, following the path to the yali. As she passed the kiosk she saw lighted windows on the laboratory floor. Above there were no lights in Sylvana’s windows. Tracy stole past silently and slipped into the house. Not even Ahmet watched her from the shadows. She reached her room without meeting anyone.

  The room awaited her undisturbed. There was no black amber warning, no marked pages in a book, no white cat lying asleep on the bed. Her throat tightened, but she would not give in again to useless tears. The terror was there and it must be dealt with. First, however, she must find the way to unmask its face.

  The room was a haunted place. There were two ghosts to inhabit it now. One a girl and one a little white cat. Tracy could see them both at every turn. She could see Anabel sitting before the dressing table with the mirrors that had once returned her image. Anabel sleeping in the huge bed where Tracy had slept. And Yasemin everywhere. They had not known what the Bosporus held for them—those two. Was a third ghost now intended to join their company? Another for whom Bosporus waters could mean cold, smothering death? This was the threat promised to Anabel’s sister if she did not leave Istanbul.

  She paced the big room from wall to wall and tried to shut such thoughts from her mind. She must think only of finding the answer. An answer that lay in what had happened to Anabel. Perhaps in the very marking of her arms with a needle that had brought her narcotic oblivion. By his own admission administered by Miles.

  But she could not accept this as a fact. Even though Miles himself had admitted the truth of Nursel’s words, she could not believe it to be the whole truth. There was more here—something that went deeper than seeming evidence indicated.

  She could endure the room no longer. She knew, as she had known before, that she must somehow recapture Anabel—find again the very essence of her sister’s spirit. Not the sad spirit that haunted this room, but the joy-giving girl she had once been. Perhaps the portrait would bring her back. If Miles had not yet returned to the house, this was her chance.

  She crossed the salon to the door of his study and knocked lightly. There was no answer and she went in, closing it softly behind her. The last light was fading beyond the hills of Thrace, and here on the land side of the house the room was dim with shadows. She fled them and slipped through the door to the bedroom. In the moment before she flicked on the light to face her sister, she tried to erase from her mind the picture Nursel had put there, the image of a desperate, hysterical girl displaying ugly marks on her arms, denouncing Miles. It was the Anabel of Tracy’s childhood who must help her now. The Anabel Miles had painted in the early years of their marriage.

  She touched her finger to the switch and faced the wall where the picture hung. The shock of surprise made her stand blinking for a moment. The portrait of Anabel was gone. In its place above his bed Miles had hung the unfinished portrait he was painting of Sylvana Erim. The substitution was in itself a disturbing thing, but Tracy had no interest in Sylvana’s picture and she would have turned from it if the samovar had not gleamed so brightly in the painting that it drew her attention.

  Instead of turning away, she went close to the canvas to study it in some astonishment. The portrait of Sylvana had progressed little since she had last seen it. Perhaps a bit more work had been done upon the dress, but the face was still an empty blur. Miles had given his time to the reflection in the samovar and he had portrayed it in full. The bulging copper sides had distorted Sylvana’s image and made a mocking caricature of it—this Tracy remembered. But a mocking caricature was not what Miles had painted. With deliberate intent he had created a miniature of something far worse. Line by line Sylvana’s face had been cunningly altered to reveal avarice, cruelty, deceit.

  The thing had been subtly accomplished—there was no flagrant distortion. At first glance the intent might have been missed. But it was there—an implication of all the evil of which the human soul might be capable, all reflected in a face that was still Sylvana’s.

  Once she had looked, Tracy could not withdraw her fascinated gaze. She stood shoc
ked and wondering, not a little frightened. The miniature was a revelation, not only of Sylvana, but also of Miles Radburn himself.

  When she heard the outer door of the study open, she did not move from her place before the picture. She was beyond caring if he found her here. There was nothing she could say to him at this moment, but perhaps it was best that he know what she had discovered.

  She heard steps approach the bedroom door she had left ajar. There was a light tap upon it, and Sylvana’s voice called out sharply, “Miles? I may see you, please? There is an urgent matter—”

  She did not finish, because Tracy went swiftly to face her in the doorway. Sylvana was the one person who must not be put on guard by seeing the picture before Miles intended her to see it. Tracy tried to block the opening, but Sylvana pushed past her into the room. At once she saw the portrait on the wall. Its presence did not seem to delight her, as might have been expected.

  “But this is amusing!” she exclaimed tartly. “He has taken down the picture of his wife and set mine in its place.”

  “You’re not supposed to see it until it’s finished,” Tracy warned. She could only hope that Sylvana would miss the reflection in the samovar.

  “Then we will not tell him I have seen it,” said Sylvana. “You do not expect me to turn away when I have this opportunity to discover exactly what your sister’s husband has painted.”

  There was left only the possibility of distraction. “I found the cat,” said Tracy abruptly, her gaze fixed upon Sylvana’s face.

  The woman gave no sign that she understood. Much of the time she had absolute control over her own reactions. Now, if she knew about the cat, she was well prepared to conceal the fact.

  “The animal was missing?” she asked carelessly, and stepped closer to the wall, the better to examine the portrait.

  “Someone put Anabel’s cat into a sack weighted with stones and hung it by a rope over the balcony of the Sultan Valide’s palace. Yasemin was drowned. And her body was left there for me to find. Do you know why?”

  Sylvana had stiffened, and there was a glitter to the blue surface of her eyes. But it was the portrait upon which her attention was fixed. She had seen what Miles had painted there and now she saw nothing else.

  Watching her, Tracy half expected the woman’s face to change before her eyes, to take on the ugly revelation of Miles’s portrait. Sylvana stared coldly at the picture, her eyes hard and bright, yet still without emotion. If she had ever known an infatuation for Miles Radburn, it was over. Perhaps it had ended long before, when she had found him a dangerous enemy within her household.

  Sylvana stared for a long moment without speaking. Then she turned and went out of the room. The sound of her high heels upon the floor of the salon had a sharply purposeful ring. There was no telling what the woman now intended. Tracy knew she must find Miles at once, warn him, let him know all that had happened.

  But when she ran downstairs she found that the garage where he kept his car stood empty. Both car and man were gone, and she had no idea where. The thought that he might have left the yali for good came uneasily to her mind. But surely he would not go away and leave her here alone. Not after the way he had held and soothed her after Yasemin’s death. Not after the gentle way he had kissed her. As Anabel had said, he was accountable. Yet later Anabel believed she had been wrong, and he was a man whom Tracy, after all, did not really know. It would be better for him if he forgot everything except his own safety and left Istanbul for good. In which case she ought to do the same.

  Her heart had no interest in listening to reason. It told her that he would return, and she knew that she could not leave the yali herself and have him walk unwarned into some trap of Sylvana’s making.

  Since the only safe haven seemed to be that of her room, Tracy went back to it. There she locked herself in, drawing the draperies across the balcony doors, shutting out the last daylight. When she had packed her suitcase and was ready to leave, she sat down to wait. If Miles returned to this floor, she would hear him.

  Time had never passed more slowly.

  During the evening a tap on her door startled her. She called through the panel before she drew the bolt. Nursel answered, and after a moment’s hesitation Tracy let her in.

  “I have brought you something to eat,” the girl said, setting down the tray. “My brother is most disturbed. It is best if you avoid him. Please—I may stay a little?”

  Tracy wanted no company, least of all Nursel’s, but to reveal the fact might make her seem afraid.

  “Of course,” she said. “Thank you for remembering me.”

  She sat down to onion soup and forced herself to eat, deliberately silent, while Nursel watched in concern.

  “It is a terrible thing about the small cat,” the other girl said at last. “Sylvana has told us.”

  So—in spite of the portrait—Sylvana had heard Tracy’s words very well.

  Nursel stirred uneasily in her chair in the face of Tracy’s silence. “What does this terrible happening with the small cat mean to you?”

  From beneath the table, Tracy drew the book Miles had loaned her and opened it to the passage where a black amber tespih still marked the place.

  “This was left in my room,” said Tracy, holding up the beads. “And a passage in this book has been underlined.”

  Nursel shivered at sight of the tespih and would not touch it. The beads seemed to mean more to her than the words in the book.

  “It is as before,” she murmured. “This is what your sister called the ‘black warning.’ It has come again. Someone wishes you ill. Someone wishes you to go away.”

  “I’ve begun to suspect as much,” said Tracy. “In fact, I can even guess the connection between the marking in the book and what was done to Yasemin. I suppose the next logical step will be me.”

  Nursel stared at her. “You do not mean—”

  “Of course I mean. Me—in a sack weighted with rocks and tied about the throat. Isn’t that what is being threatened? Only it would be harder to manage in my case. Because I would fight.”

  Nursel bent her head and covered her face with her hands. “You must leave this place at once. You must leave Istanbul.”

  “Who do you think is behind this?” Tracy persisted. “Is it your brother who has behaved in such a monstrous fashion? Or perhaps Ahmet? Or Sylvana perhaps? Or was it you?”

  Nursel did not raise her head. “It is better if you do not risk any more anger against you in this house.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tracy said. “I’ve already packed my suitcase. I’m ready to leave. I’ll lock myself in tonight, and tomorrow Miles will come to take me to the airport.”

  “This is the best way,” Nursel murmured faintly. She sat up, drawing her hands from before her face.

  Tracy studied her curiously. “Don’t you ever blame yourself, Nursel?” she asked. “Don’t you ever suffer qualms because of what happened to Anabel, or what might happen to me?”

  “I—I do not understand,” Nursel faltered.

  Tracy went on without pity. “I’ve said it before. I’ll make it stronger now. You let your brother dominate you. You lower your eyes if Sylvana scolds. You run their errands. You probably do exactly as Hasan tells you to do, except when you’re sure he won’t find you out. You don’t like Miles, yet you never stand up to him. You don’t even stand up to me!”

  There was shock in Nursel’s face.

  “You do not appreciate!” she cried. “I have been your friend—as I was Anabel’s friend, and you do not—”

  “But never a good enough friend. Never a good enough friend to either of us. Perhaps if you’d been a little braver, Anabel would not have died. Perhaps if you were just a little braver now, nothing dreadful would happen to me.”

  Nursel left her chair in agitation and ran to the door. “You do not understand! I cannot speak—I cannot! All would be destroyed. But soon, soon the matter will be ended. This I know. Perhaps by tomorrow. But it is best if you do not stay
for the ending. You are not involved. It is not your affair.”

  “You forget,” said Tracy. “Because of Anabel, it has always been my affair.”

  Nursel pulled open the door with a despairing gesture and rushed through it. Tracy locked it after her and sat again in her chair.

  The encounter left her drained and limp, as reaction set in. She was a fine one to taunt Nursel, to criticize her for not acting, when blame lay so heavily on Tracy Hubbard for that very fault.

  Oh, where was Miles? Why didn’t he come?

  Once she tried to read to pass the time, but found it impossible. Always the underlining of words about drowning and weighted sacks interposed themselves upon the page, and she saw again the stiff, sodden body of a white cat. Now and then she paced the floor of Anabel’s room and looked into Anabel’s mirror at her own pale face. And she waited for Miles.

  She did not undress to go to bed, but at one o’clock she lay down and, at some time or other, with her clothes on and covered by a quilt, she fell asleep. She heard nothing until the soft tapping on her door began. Her light was still on and her watch said three-thirty. She flew up from the bed and ran to the door.

  “It’s Miles,” his voice said softly.

  As she opened the door a wave of relief that had nothing to do with reason flooded through her. It did not matter that he had marked Anabel’s arms with a needle, painted that hideous picture of Sylvana. Nothing mattered except that he was here and she loved and trusted him with all her heart. But when she would have clung to him, he smiled wearily and held her away.

  “I waited till now so they’d give up expecting me. If anyone is watching, it will be for me to come by car on the land side. But I’ve left the car on the opposite shore. I’ve hired a small boat. Come quickly—I’m taking you across.”

  “I’m ready,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He picked up her suitcase. The house was still except for its usual creakings. They stepped lightly on the stairs and there was no Ahmet waiting for them in the marble corridor below. Miles hurried her toward the boat landing, where a man sat waiting in a hired boat. Miles helped Tracy into it and followed her. Their boatman used the oars at first, rowing strongly out upon the black current. It was not wholly dark. Above the fortress of Rumeli Hisar hung a widening crescent of moon, brightening the towers and spreading a ladder of light across the water. They headed toward the fortress and did not start the motor until they were well out upon the strait. Among fishing boats and other night traffic, the sound of the motor was lost in the voices of the Bosporus.