Bloody Bokhara

by William Campbell Gault

  By the time we got back to the shop, it was nearly noon, and I saw Sarkis’ truck in the lot next to the store. Sam was leaning next to the door that led to the lot, reading. A cigarette hung from his full lips and his swarthy face gave the impression he didn’t like what he was reading. It was a newspaper.

  He folded the paper and put it into his back pocket as we started to unload the rugs we’d picked up. He gave us a lift with them.

  Then, when I went out to close the truck doors in back, he came along. The truck was a three-quarter panel.

  “Lee, have you got that Kashan prayer rug?”

  I turned to stare at him. “What do you know about that?”

  “You got it?”

  “Why, Sam?”

  “Because I’ve got the customer for it. The gent who used to own it.”

  “What’s the deal, Sam? Why all the short talk?”

  “Let’s see him, first. He’ll explain it. Henri Ducasse, Lee.”

  “It’s Henri’s rug?”

  “It was. He claims it still is. It’s a screwy deal.”

  “I wouldn’t believe anything Ducasse told me.”

  “Let’s go and talk to him. He said he’d be home, around noon.”

  “Why can’t he come here?”

  “Your dad’s hot at him about something. You know they never get along.”

  I looked at him for seconds. “I’ll see how much time I’ve got for lunch.”

  Papa said to take all the time I wanted. I was with Sam, and he didn’t care how much time I took. I was with one of our people.

  We took the station wagon, because it’s permitted to travel on streets where a panel truck isn’t. Don’t ask me why.

  Henri Ducasse lived in an apartment near the beach, on Terrace and Bradford, another converted mansion. We parked on Terrace, and went up the brick steps to the front porch. The door was open, here, and we went into a storm hall, and then through that to an entrance hall.

  To our left were some French doors, curtained for privacy. Sam knocked. There was no response.

  “He told me to wait, if he wasn’t here,” Sam said, and pushed the right-hand door open.

  The room was dim, an immense, high-ceilinged room with a high fireplace on the west wall. Kermans on the floor, and some rather voluptuous Nordic nudes in oil on the walls. And something else.

  Henri Ducasse, who’d been described by Claire as smart and rich and mummified, was now something else. He was dead.

  Chapter Three

  HE HAD to be dead. There was clotted blood snarled in his hair, and his forehead was crushed above his left eye. The eyes were open, blankly considering us.

  “Geeee-zuzzz,” Sam said, and his hand gripped my shoulder.

  Henri was lying in front of an immense davenport flanking the fireplace. The back of this davenport was toward the French doors and would screen the body from the casual eyes of any passer-by who might see through the curtains on the doors.

  “Somebody got to him, but good,” Sam said quietly. “Let’s blow, kid.”

  I don’t know what I planned to do, though I turned toward the door. I know I was thinking of Claire, and all those rugs we still had to sell. Maybe I meant to blow, and maybe I intended to phone the police.

  But when I turned, there was a man standing in the doorway.

  He had a thin face and a nose like a parrot’s beak. He had the small, round eyes of a bird, too, jet black and shiny. He was wearing a black derby. A small, dark man, looking — predatory.

  “Something is wrong?” he asked. He couldn’t see the body from where he stood.

  “Come and look,” I said, and went to the phone in one corner of the room.

  I dialed operator, and asked for the police. When I’d finished, I turned back to the room, and only Sam still stood there.

  “What happened to hook-nose?” I asked.

  Sam’s thumb indicated the doors. “And fast. I don’t blame him. That’s what we should have done.”

  “For all I knew, he might have been the landlord,” I said. “You’re not afraid of cops, are you, Sam?”

  “Not if you aren’t,” he said. “Let’s wait on the porch, huh?”

  We waited on the porch, A squad car came first, screaming around the corner from Bradford, and two uniformed officers got out and came up the brick steps. Across the street, a maid was shaking out a dust mop; she paused to stare at all of us.

  Sam said, “We never will get any lunch, now.”

  One cop went in, after we told him where the apartment was. The other stayed out on the porch with us. Until Sergeant Waldorf came.

  He was a big man, in a shiny brown gabardine suit. He had a lined, pugnacious face, the bridge of the nose flattened; the tip slightly broadened and flaring.

  From Homicide, Sergeant Waldorf. He made each question a personal taunt. His pugnacity was more than professional; he was that kind of gent.

  We stayed on the porch. Neighbors all around were out on their porches now and we were practically on a stage.

  Sam’s story was that Ducasse had lined up some customers up-state, and needed some first-grade rugs. Sam had come over here, with me, to see if we couldn’t both contribute some rugs on consignment. Sam didn’t mention the prayer rug.

  Waldorf said, “Do you usually invite your competitor to share your business, like this?”

  “He’s my cousin,” Sam said, “and besides, I didn’t want to take a chance on Ducasse, alone. It would be on consignment, remember.”

  “The second reason’s better than the first,” Waldorf said, and turned to me. “What’s your story?”

  “You’ve just heard it, Sergeant.”

  “I’d like your version of it.”

  I repeated Sam’s story.

  “And this character in the doorway, you don’t know who he is, this gent with the derby?”

  “Never saw him, before,” I said.

  He looked at Sam.

  “Don’t know him,” Sam said. “I saw him, in front of the shop, yesterday, but only remembered that because of the derby.”

  The black wagon was in front, and the covered stretcher was coming through the front door. Now, the neighbors really started to yak. Upstairs, a baby cried.

  “All right, boys,” Waldorf said. “I’ll see you, later. You can go, now.”

  We were a block away, in the station wagon, when I said to Sam, “Why didn’t you tell him about the prayer rug? Why the story?”

  “Because I think the rug’s got a story. And you’ve got the rug. And you’re my cousin, Lee, one of my favorite cousins.”

  “Cut the corn, Sam,” I said. “You know something about this Ducasse, don’t you?”

  “I went along with him, on a couple deals. Old bags, trying to look young. One deal, she didn’t know, she just couldn’t make up her mind. Henri went up to her bedroom with her. They were gone an hour, while I sat in the living room, reading a magazine. He came down with a check. And you know he’s been in court often enough. You think I want my good-looking cousin mixed up with Ducasse?”

  “Not if there’s a buck in it for you. You’re sure full of horse deletion, today, aren’t you?”

  “Why, Lee — ! You know why that Waldorf’s breathing so heavy, don’t you?”

  “No, learned cousin. Enlighten me.”

  Sam chuckled. “Couple of those Syrian house-to-house peddlers. You know, orientals, hot off the boat, no duty. Got to sell cheap. And Waldorf bit.”

  “Cotton,” I said. “No wonder he’s flexing his muscles. You’d think a cop would have more sense.”

  “Who’s got less sense than a cop?”

  “You,” I said, “though you sure know what’s going on. Is there anything you don’t know?”

  “What Berjouhi sees in you. We didn’t have a good time, last night. I was lying about that. Lee, are you playing the girl for fish?”

  “Hell, no. I never even tried to get in there.”

  “Until you sail for her, don’t. Because, dear c
ousin, I’d break your little God-damned neck. See?”

  “I heard you,” I said. “Don’t breathe down my back, Muscles. The day never dawned that you scared me.” I turned right on Mason. “And lots of boys like Berjouhi; you probably rate about fifth, with her.”

  “I rate second,” he said. “Right after the champ, the Armenian Tyrone Power, right after you.”

  “Gee,” I said, “the competition is sure lousy.”

  Nothing from him. I had to make a left turn, now, and glanced in the mirror to see if it was clear behind. I saw his face, there, and was sorry I’d said what I had. His face was as sad as our history, as dead as my Uncle Rupen, massacred by the Turks.

  He wasn’t really my cousin; our fathers were cousins. But I’d always been a buddy of Sam’s. We’d grown up together. A very rough competitor. A sharp man around a dollar. But my friend.

  At the store, he didn’t go in, but climbed into his truck. “See you later, Lee.”

  I watched him drive out of the lot, and went into the store. Papa was helping Selak carry a rug upstairs, to the drying room.

  “You had a call,” he said. “The number’s next to the phone.”

  It was an east side number, and I called it. Claire. She said, “Where in the world have you been?”

  “Over to see Henri Ducasse.”

  A short pause, and, “Oh — ?”

  “He’s dead. He was murdered.”

  Silence. Then, her voice edgy. “What — how — ?” Another silence. “What did you want to see him about, Lee?”

  “That rug in the safe.”

  Her voice sharp. “Why? What sent you to Henri Ducasse about that rug in the safe? Lee, do the police know about that rug?”

  “Not yet. What’s cooking, Claire?”

  “I think you’d better come up here,” she said. “Right away.”

  “I’ve some calls to make this afternoon. I can’t do it, right away.”

  “Tonight, then. I’ve arranged an appointment for you, tonight, at eight-thirty. With Mrs. Harlan Cooke.”

  “Which rug?”

  “One of the Feraghans.”

  ‘I’ll try and make it,” I said. “I don’t think I’m busy.”

  “What’s got into you? Has something happened?”

  “A murder’s happened,” I said. “I’ll be there, at seven-thirty.” I hung up.

  “A murder — ?” I turned to see Papa in the doorway from the washroom. “A murder, you said on the phone, Levon.”

  I nodded. “Henri Ducasse was murdered. Sam and I found his body.”

  “Sam and you? What were you doing — How — ”

  “Sam had some deal with him, and I went along. We walked in and found him.”

  He clicked his teeth. He shook his head. “Levon, what goes on? What is happening?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Ask Sam. Ask Sarkis. I don’t know. I didn’t want to go up there with him. I don’t want any part of Henri Ducasse.”

  “Murdered — ,” he said, and sat down in the chair next to his desk. “Well, with him, it could happen, any time. The way he operated — ”

  I went over to stack some small mats that were on the floor.

  “Dykstra — ,” Papa said. “Just last week, Ducasse had trouble with that Dykstra. I’d bet — ”

  Dykstra was one of our new millionaires. When I’d been in the service, Dykstra had made his. Printing ration stamps, some said, though nobody had ever proven anything.

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  “Rug. It’s just something I heard. Twenty-three thousand, I heard, for an antique Kerman.”

  “Dykstra would be the wrong man to stick, if we can believe the papers,” I said. “Didn’t you sell him a rug, during the war?”

  “I sold him a rug. What are you suggesting?”

  I looked over to see his face grave. I chuckled. “I wasn’t suggesting you stuck him, Papa. I was just making conversation.” I finished stacking the mats. “Where did you hear about the twenty-three-thousand-dollar deal?”

  “From Sarkis. It was his rug.”

  I stared at him. “You mean that — that one he offered us for four thousand?”

  “That’s the one. He gave it to Ducasse for thirty-five hundred, on consignment.”

  I sat down on the piled mats. “Holy cow. And Ducasse makes almost twenty grand on the deal.” I pulled out a cigarette. “We’re in the wrong end of this business.”

  “We eat,” my father said. “And nights, we can sleep.”

  “We’d sleep better with more money in the bank, Papa.”

  “Honest money. Not Ducasse’s kind of money.”

  I’d heard the argument before and always from the boys who didn’t have it. How do they know what they’d do, if they had the opportunity? Honesty, like virginity, is a state not always arrived at by choice.

  The door opened, and the Egans came in. Mr. Egan was smiling.

  “You’re back,” Papa said, and his smile matched Mr. Egan’s. “You bought no carpeting?”

  Mr. Egan glanced at his wife, and said, “Not yet. I convinced my wife we should take up your offer, Mr. Kaprelian. We’ll try some rugs of your choosing for a week or two, and then she’ll realize carpeting is not for us.”

  Papa nodded. “I will go up, now, to look at your house, if you will be home. Tomorrow, my son will bring the rugs. Fair enough?”

  “Fine,” Mr. Egan said. ‘We’re on our way home, now. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  They left, and Papa took a deep breath. “She has the money, unfortunately. If he had it, Sarkis would never have sold them a dime’s worth of carpeting. The rugs I used to sell that man.” He shook his head. “You can lock up, Levon, when it’s time. I’ll go home from their house.”

  I nodded, and he picked up his hat and topcoat and went out.

  The wind was from the northwest and a cold draft of air swept past my feet as the door closed behind him. From the washroom, I heard the rotary brush machine start up. I put out my cigarette and sat in the chair next to the desk, seeing Henri Ducasse’s matted hair and staring eyes. Dykstra’s work? Is that the way a racketeer operates? I knew very little about them, but I didn’t think so.

  A slim dark girl was coming across the street from Charton’s Department Store. She was wearing a fingertip-length coat of tangerine, and a saucy hat, back on her dark, abundant hair. A short girl, and beautifully shaped. The shoes were alligator, the gleam in her eyes was fire.

  She came in, and stood there. The hydraulic door-closer jammed for a second, and I said, “Close the door, baby. It’s cold, outside.”

  She ignored the request. “You’re a dog, Lee Kaprelian. You’re a slob and a drip and — ”

  Berjouhi. Despite her slim, short figure, adequate in all the important measurements.

  I got up and said, “I’m a slob and a drip and last night I had a chance to make a million dollars, and it was enough to give me a five-minute lapse of memory.” I went past her, and closed the door.

  I came back to offer her a cigarette. She stared at it a second before taking it.

  “Sit down,” I said. “Honestly, Berj, I’m sorry as hell. Sam wasn’t, though.” I held a light for her.

  “Sam,” she said. “He’s the worst dancer in the world, do you know that?” She went over to sit in the desk chair.

  “He’s a great guy, Berj.”

  “He’s a wonderful guy. He is a prince among guys. What am I supposed to do? Who cares? What difference does it make?”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Oh, go to hell. I wish — oh, I wish — ” She was tapping with one alligator-clad toe.

  “No, you don’t. Did I ever stand you up before? Simmer down, sister. It was business.”

  “So what? You could have phoned. I’ll bet it was business. With some blonde, it was business.”

  “You’re not far off,” I said. “It was a blonde. A blonde with a roomful of rugs, antiques and near-antiques. Stuff you couldn’t
buy, today.”

  “Don’t tell me about it. I just happened to be downtown, shopping, and I wanted to get this off my mind. Lee, don’t ever phone me again. Never. Understand?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Never, for any reason.”

  “Check.” I smiled at her.

  “You’re happy about it, aren’t you? It’s just what you want.”

  I shook my head.

  “Don’t lie to me. You’ve been waiting to hear it. Well, you’ve heard it.” She stood up, putting out her cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. She took a lot of time, doing that.

  I sighed heavily. “To think it would end like this. To think it hasn’t ended like this seven times in the last four months. Berj, don’t make it so final, just because it’s the eighth time.”

  She picked up her purse, which was alligator, to match the shoes. “Well, Lee, good-by.” Her face calm, her gaze steady. “I guess this is the big good-by, this time.”

  “I guess so,” I said gravely. “So long kid.” My shoulders drooped, and I wrung my hands. “Gee, to think — Oh, gosh — ”

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” she said. “This time, I’ll show you.”

  Past me, the heels clicking like tappets. Out the door, not looking back. The closer worked, this time, and the door came to rest with a sigh.

  Good-by, my beloved Berjouhi. Good-by forever — until tomorrow. Why didn’t she settle for Sam? Or any of the others who were panting after her all the time. Had I ever said I’d loved her? Well, yes, once or twice. But had I ever said it when I was completely sober? Why didn’t she get somebody worthy of her? She’s a sweetie.

  The big clock over the desk showed me it was five-thirty. Another half hour, and my day would be done. Outside, people hurried by, on foot and in cars and buses and in trucks.

  I thought of the old gag about business being rushing, rushing past the door. When I came home from the service, I’d wanted to add a line of carpeting. Papa had gone up in smoke. Why in the world, would I please tell him, should a firm like ours handle carpeting?

  There was only one answer, and I gave it to him, “Because that’s what people are buying.”

  “And how many shops are selling it? To say nothing of the department stores and maybe the drugstores, next. And how many people in this town are selling oriental rugs?”