Bloody Bokhara

by William Campbell Gault

  The phone might still be connected. I lifted it, and heard the dial tone. I dialed her number.

  No answer.

  I pulled the rollaway bed out of the closet and unpacked my clothes. Above me, the baby cried, the same one I’d heard the day we’d found Ducasse.

  After I’d put the clothes away, it was still early. I sat there, thinking of Claire, and wondering where she was, tonight. There wasn’t any sense in my acting like the village virgin; I loved the girl and I would take her the way she was. Even without the pile of rugs.

  Again, I called and nobody answered. I looked up Carl Lieder in the phone book, and had more success with his number.

  I told him, “Had a little fight with Claire, today, Carl. I suppose that cuts me out of the corporation?”

  He chuckled. “I certainly hope not, Lee. Not a man who can get seventy-one hundred dollars out of Mrs. Cooke. What was the fight about?”

  I paused, and remembered his own phrasing. “I — got emotionally involved.”

  Another chuckle. “That’s easy, with Claire. She’s a beautiful woman. Well, I’ll talk to her, Lee. I’ll call her right now, if you want.”

  “She’s not home,” I said. “I’ve already tried her twice. I’ve — moved, Carl.” I gave him the number of this phone. “Nobody’s thought to have it disconnected. It’s Ducasse’s old place I’m living in, now.”

  “Good Lord, why?”

  “I’ll ask my psychiatrist. Call me, if you should hear from Claire, and let me know her attitude, won’t you?”

  “I certainly will. You’ll be at the store, tomorrow?”

  “No. I’ll be here.”

  “Lee, you’ve quarreled with your dad?”

  “Nothing serious,” I lied. “I’d rather not talk about it, tonight.”

  “I understand.” A silence. “How about that — rug in the safe?”

  “I can get it any time you want it — or any time Bey wants it.”

  Another silence, and then, “Any time he really wants to dig for our price. Okay, Lee, I’ll phone you, probably in the morning.”

  When I replaced the phone in its cradle, there was a picture in my mind. A picture of Carl, in his apartment, talking to me, and Claire sitting there, in his apartment, waiting for him to finish. They were both smiling, in the picture.

  I had such a nice, clean mind.

  I took a bath. Soaked and soaked and soaked, seeking peace. To no avail. I saw Papa’s angry face and Ma’s placid one. I saw Selak with the violets and Ismet Bey with his derby in his hand. I saw Sam sitting on the bed, his brown eyes hostile. I heard Claire’s mocking laugh, and saw her tanned legs.

  In the big room where Ducasse had died, I sat on the davenport, smoking. I didn’t see him in my mind; my initial uneasiness was gone.

  I thought of Mr. Egan, Mr. Alan Egan. Three blocks from here, he lived, a man who’d learned a way to invest his wife’s money. What a gentleman I’d always thought him, the genuine quality article. And where had he met Claire? Not at the Old Settler’s Club, that was for sure.

  He had probably met her through Carl Lieder. And where had Carl met her? Carl knew everybody; knowing people was his business. And Claire’s business, too, probably. Claire and Carl, the glad hand twins, the big buck duo, the smoothies.

  In March, Carl had come home from a three-month tour of Europe. Had Claire been along, I wondered? And if she had, why? Carl was an old man. Carl was as old as Mr. Egan. But maybe a man never gets too old to want a blonde along on a trip. I couldn’t imagine being so old Claire wouldn’t stir me.

  No, Claire had been in Palm Springs. Unless she’d lied about that. She’d lied about so many things. I wondered if she’d lied about the Bokhara. I wondered if she knew about the blood.

  For the third time, I dialed her number. I waited through a dozen rings, this time.

  I turned out the lights and pulled out the bed, and tried to sleep. It must have been after two when I finally achieved it.

  In the morning, I looked out at a new fall of snow, and this time it wasn’t melting. The wind was from the northeast, whipping across the frozen lake, drifting the snow into ridges on the porch that fronted my windows.

  The room was warm and I could hear the whirring grind of the stoker in the basement. I turned on the small radio I’d brought along, and went into the bathroom to shave.

  I was drying the razor before the first weather report came through. It was nine above, at the city hall. It would be a degree or two colder on the west side, despite its distance from the lake. Or rather, because of it. The lake was a great moderator, keeping us at a toasty nine above.

  A cold front, moving out of Canada, a freak storm for this late in April. Spring would be delayed a few days.

  Above me, the baby I’d heard cry twice was now banging on the floor with something metallic. From somewhere came the smell of bacon and coffee.

  My phone rang. Let it be Claire, please.

  It was Carl Lieder. His tone was light. “Our lady friend isn’t being co-operative at all, Lee. What in the world did you two squabble about? She’s very indignant.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for calling, and for calling her.” I hung up.

  I was putting on my storm coat when the phone rang, again. I didn’t answer it. I drove over to Downer for breakfast. I read the morning paper with my coffee, and it was nearly ten o’clock when I came out again, and headed for the Egans’.

  The cold was sharp enough to bite the nostrils, and the snow was dry and powdery underfoot. In the five blocks to the Egans’, I saw three cars with steaming radiators.

  Mr. Egan came to the door in answer to my ring. His smile was friendly. “Quite a change, isn’t it?” he asked.

  I nodded. “There’s been one, Mr. Egan.”

  His eyes grew grave. He looked quickly back over his shoulder, as though to see if anyone were within hearing. “Did you come to see me about the — other rugs, Lee?”

  I nodded.

  “And the change?”

  “I’m no longer in the deal. Miss Lynne and I had a little quarrel.”

  “Oh.” He shook his head irritably. “I’ll talk to her. Don’t worry about that. I’ve some stake in this, too, and I’ll insist that you be included.”

  Inside, I smiled. Outside, I frowned. “I don’t think you should do that, Mr. Egan. If she — ”

  From somewhere behind him, his wife’s complaining voice. “Alan Egan, for heavens sakes, will you close that front door? Isn’t our fuel bill staggering enough without trying to heat the entire east side?”

  He closed his eyes. He said, “I’ll get in touch with you, Lee. I’m — sorry — Wait for me to call you.”

  “All right,” I said, and smiled at him, understanding in the smile.

  I drove downtown from there, and parked in Sabazian’s lot. Sarkis was in back, helping their washer with some rugs. Sam was in the store, staring moodily out the window where the Chinese rug had been displayed.

  He nodded as I came in. His eyes met mine, and moved away.

  “It was her idea, not mine,” I said. “She only drove me home.”

  “So?” His eyes came back to me. “Is that what you dropped in for, just to tell me that?”

  “Mostly. And I wondered if you’d seen Ismet Bey, lately.”

  He shook his head.

  “And I wondered why you didn’t tell Sergeant Waldorf you knew Ismet Bey when he questioned us.”

  “You do a lot of wondering, don’t you?” He was rubbing his right knee with palm of his right hand. “You’re developing a lot of nose, lately, Lee.”

  I smiled at him. “You don’t confide in me like you used to, Sam. So if I want to know, I’ve got to ask questions.”

  Both hands were on his knees, now, and his big shoulders were hunched as he leaned forward in his chair. “You can ask all the questions you want, but don’t ask them of me. So long, Lee. I’ll see you around.”

  “For Christ’s sakes,” I said, “what’s come over
you, Sam? You’re acting like the heavy in a B picture. Is it all because of Berjouhi?”

  “Most of it, maybe. So long, Lee.”

  I stared at him for seconds, and there was nothing in his face to remind me of the old Sam. Well, maybe I looked changed to him, too. I went out without saying good-by.

  I was just climbing back into the Chev when someone called, “Mr. Kaprelian.”

  Ismet Bey stood on the sidewalk next to the lot, a black fedora where the derby used to be. He was wearing, also, a topcoat, and I shivered at its lightness. He looked frozen.

  “Could we go some place and talk?” he asked. “Some place out of this ridiculous weather?”

  “I guess so,” I said. “Climb into my chariot, Mr. Bey. The heater should still be warm.”

  He came over quickly, his teeth chattering, his lips colorless. He climbed in, and I snapped on the heater.

  “What a town,” he said. “Is this your standard winter weather?” He pulled out a handkerchief and applied it to his hooked nose. His hands were shaking.

  “This is our standard spring weather,” I told him. “It gets cold here, in winter. Something on your mind, this sunny morning?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Could we go some place where I could get a drink?”

  We went to the Red Room Bar in the Boardington Arcade. We sat in a booth without speaking until our drinks came. He’d ordered two, and he finished the first in a gulp. He still had his topcoat on.

  Then he expelled his breath and rubbed his hands.

  “You can take the coat off, now,” I said. “The place is heated.”

  “I’ll never be warm, again,” he said. But he stood up and took off the topcoat. His suit was something I’d never seen, looked like black gabardine, black silk gabardine.

  He shrugged the stiff muscles of his neck, and found a bleak smile to give me, as he sat down again. “You don’t share your father’s animosity for Turks?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not from the old country.”

  His black eyes regarded me thoughtfully. “You don’t look — Armenian.”

  “Don’t I? How do Armenians look?”

  “Servile.”

  “Easy,” I said. “Speak softly, little man. And with care.”

  The black eyes were faintly scornful. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to you about the rug.”

  “I’d be glad to hear about it,” I said. “I’ve heard so many stories on it, I’d welcome your version.”

  He sipped his second drink, and set it down carefully. “It was sold at auction to an unidentified man. That was in Los Angeles.”

  “And what led you here, in pursuit of it?”

  The black eyes moved slightly. “I don’t understand.”

  “Is this the logical place to look for an unidentified man?”

  “This is where Miss Lynne was, I learned through — mutual friends. I came here on a hunch.”

  “Miss Lynne — ?” I looked at him curiously.

  He nodded. “I met her in Palm Springs. I was — at the time, avoiding Los Angeles. I’d heard about the sale of my temple furnishings and I suggested to Miss Lynne that she go back to Los Angeles, bid on the rug, and return to Palm Springs. There, I would pay her a fifty percent profit for her trouble.” He put down his empty glass and signaled the waiter.

  “And she didn’t come back to Palm Springs,” I guessed. “So you assumed she’d discovered what a bargain she had.”

  He nodded. The waiter came, and he pointed at both of our glasses.

  The waiter went away, and he said, “That’s what I assumed. Her story was different. She claimed Carl Lieder bought the rug, and came here with it. She followed him here.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m prepared to offer thirty thousand dollars for it. In cash.”

  His face grew hazy in my vision, then sharpened. “Then you think it was — woven by Maksoud?”

  “What does it matter? My disciples believe it is; it’s the symbol of our faith. Who can price a symbol, Mr. Kaprelian?”

  The waiter brought our drinks. I waited until he’d left, before saying, “You must have some take in that cult. You must really make the hay on that gobbledegook.”

  His face was bland, his eyes reminiscent. “It’s a town where they beg to be taken. And I had the highest paying cult in the town. And I’ll have it again, when I get the rug. You tell Miss Lynne that’s my top offer. You tell her I know she’s working with Lieder.”

  “So am I,” I said.

  He sipped his drink.

  “And Dykstra?” I asked.

  He said nothing.

  “You told Dykstra Ducasse had hooked him on a rug. You probably caused Ducasse’s death.” I paused. “Why?”

  “You state it badly. Mr. Dykstra asked for an appraisal on a Kerman, a rug he’d bought locally. I told him what it was worth.”

  “What did you tell him it was worth?”

  “Three thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t think Dykstra asked you for an appraisal,” I said. “I think you offered the appraisal. Because, for some reason, you were out to get my — out to get Sam Sabazian.”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re lying,” I said. “How would Dykstra know you?”

  He frowned. “Mr. Kaprelian, I suggested this talk because I had an offer to make for a rug. I have made the offer, and I would appreciate your forwarding it to Miss Lynne. Or Mr. Lieder. You can reach me at the Vogel Hotel.”

  I stood up. “All right, I’ll tell her.” I took my coat off the hook at the end of the booth, and slid into it. “Did you tell Sergeant Waldorf you appraised that Kerman?”

  He looked at me sharply. “Why should I?”

  I put on my hat. “He’d be interested, I think. You should have told him.”

  His face was quiet, the eyes studying mine. He said nothing.

  I said, “Miss Lynne will let you know about the offer.”

  He nodded, and I left.

  He could have done it, I told myself. He could have killed Ducasse. And a million other assorted citizens could have killed that Frenchman, and I might never meet them.

  It seemed warmer, outside. The big thermometer in front of the Boardington Building read sixteen above. The breeze had died.

  In Palm Springs, he’d met her. That’s the kind of life you can lead when you get the right price for your merchandise, when you sell to the right kind of people.

  I drove out Prospect, toward the Towers. I suppose, in a way, it could be called crawling. I suppose I should have waited for her to call me, after Mr. Egan put the pressure on. But I wanted to see her. I just wanted to look at her.

  I didn’t buzz from downstairs, but went directly up. When I pressed the button next to her door, my heart started to hammer and my breath caught in my throat. New, this was to me, all new. Even as a high school punk, I couldn’t remember ever feeling like this about a girl.

  She was wearing a cashmere sweater of a deep blue and faille slacks. The shoes were laced saddle leather, open-toed, and her toenails were a deep maroon.

  A quick interest in her eyes, and an equally quick dulling. “Hello,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I’ve just talked to Ismet Bey,” I said evenly, “and he’s willing to go to thirty thousand for that prayer rug.”

  “Come in,” she said.

  I came in. The record player was on. “Strauss?” I asked, and smiled.

  “Sibelius,” she said, and didn’t smile. “How did you happen to talk to Ismet Bey?”

  “He stopped me — on the street.” She was sitting on the davenport now, and I stood near by. “I’ve had some trouble at home, so I won’t be at the shop or at that address. In case you wanted the rug from the safe, you might not be able to get me, so I dropped in.”

  She studied me for seconds. “Your lip is still swollen.”

  “Is it?”

  She nodded. “And I know where to ge
t you. Carl told me. And Alan phoned this morning, too. You’ve got friends, haven’t you?”

  “They’re more your friends than mine,” I said quietly.

  “I don’t think so. Men — stick together. What else did Mr. Bey tell you?”

  “Nothing of importance.”

  “Did he tell you about Palm Springs?”

  I nodded, my face composed, and looked away with a fine show of disinterest.

  “You — bastard,” she said softly. “You handsome conniver. You soft-talking — ” She took a deep breath.

  “Peddler?” I supplied. “Why don’t you hit me, again?”

  She rubbed the back of one forearm with the palm of the other hand, looking down at the floor.

  “Well — ?” I asked, “is thirty thousand what you want for the rug? Shall I bring it up?”

  “You’ll have to talk to Carl about it,” she said quietly. “It’s his rug. I have no interest in it.”

  “All right,” I said. “He can get in touch with Bey without me as middleman.” I smiled, then, the casual, well-meaning job without emotion. “Take care of yourself, Claire. Luck.”

  I turned toward the door, a man of steel that I am. Took two steps, waiting, hoping, burning for a word from her.

  Took another step, and heard her hoarse “Lee — ”

  I turned back, saying nothing. Turning back then was what committed me to all that was to follow.

  She was sitting forward on the davenport, her hands clenched, a bleak rigidity freezing her face. Her voice was almost a croak. “I don’t mean a damned thing to you, do I?”

  “No more than my life,” I told her honestly. “What do you want me to do — crawl?”

  “Lee,” she said brokenly. “Oh — Lee — ” she was trembling; she was putty. She was mine.

  And I was hers.

  After a while, we went in to check the other rugs in the pile. I wanted to get them fixed in my mind. There are rugs one customer will scorn that another will give an arm for. There are rugs it’s wise to hold for your top price and accept no chiseling on. There were three like this last in that pile, one of them a French Chinese I knew I could sell up-state.

  It was about twelve by eighteen and would sell on a competitive market for around two thousand, new. I was sure I could get ten for it in Marinette Falls. I knew a customer in that town who actually loved orientals so much, he bought them and stored them. And this wasn’t a rug he could match, today.