Bloody Bokhara

by William Campbell Gault

  “Lord, it must be. There’s certainly no sensible reason to worry. Why did I ever walk into that store?”

  “Fate,” I said. I stood up and came around the table. I kissed the top of her head and her perfume rose to stir me. “Who’s the boss?” I asked quietly. “Let’s make it an Armenian marriage; I’ll be the boss.”

  “We’ll see,” she said softly, and looked up. “You certainly have a — a propensity for — dominance.”

  “We share the evil,” I said, “if it is an evil. But I’m stronger than you are.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Lee — oh, never mind — ”

  She didn’t come to the door with me. She stayed in the chair in her semi-sulk, looking out at the quiet lake. Even from the rear view, she’s beautiful.

  It must have been over sixty out. All traces of the snow were gone, except for the dampness of the litter which was piled around the drains on each corner. The cars traveling Prospect had their front windows down; a convertible went by with the top lowered. They can’t wait for spring, the convertible kids from eighteen to eighty.

  Dykstra, Dykstra, Dykstra…. I searched my memory for all I’d heard about him, as the Chev went murmuring down Prospect. Chicago operator, originally? No, Gary. That was it, Gary. Not that there was any difference; they’re all part of the Chicago crowd.

  And my town? Very well governed, from that angle. One of the local papers had just finished a John Doe inquiry into the police department, a very exhaustive search. One beat officer had been accused of accepting a paddle pop from a numbers operator in the Negro district; that had been the most startling revelation. It was doubtful, to me, that Dykstra could be operating anything here.

  But there’d been that talk of ration stamps, during the war.

  On Lake Drive, he lived, one of the older homes on the lake side of the street. A three-story place of gray stone, set back on a flat lawn studded with oaks and maples, now blackly stark against the blue spring sky.

  Gravel under the tires and moths in my stomach and the Chev’s loose tappets clacking. Papier-mâché spear, oh, yes. Well, I wasn’t a warrior; I was a peddler and would use the peddler approach.

  The front door was thick and tall and dark with overlaid varnish. I couldn’t hear, through that door, whether my pressure on the button rang a bell or not.

  A man came to the door, a very medium kind of man. Medium tall and medium wide and medium thick through the middle. The face could have been an artist’s conception of Mr. Average Man. He just didn’t have any distinguishing characteristics, at all.

  “My name,” I said, “is Lee Kaprelian. I’ve come to see Mr. Dykstra.”

  His eyes were a mild blue. “Peaceably, Mr. Kaprelian?”

  Chapter Eight

  I FROWNED, which was just part of the act. “Of course,” I said. “It’s about — a — Are you Mr. Dykstra?”

  He nodded, a faint smile on the undistinguished face.

  “It’s about a rug,” I went on, “a Kerman you have.”

  The faint smile remained. “If it’s the rug I think it is, I’d rather not discuss it. It’s a painful topic.”

  “I had a plan for making it less painful,” I said.

  He studied me for seconds, his face blank, the eyes not moving. I had a swift impression of a snake about to strike.

  Then he said, “Come in.”

  The entrance-hall floor was covered with an Ardebil runner; we went from that to the thick richness of a pale green Kerman which covered this end of the living room. There were two distinct furniture groupings in the living room, and two fairly well-matched Kermans.

  We sat at the end of the room farthest from the entry hall, on a huge davenport upholstered in French tapestry.

  He offered me a cigarette from a box, and I took it. He took one, himself, and I held a light for both of us.

  Then, he said, “The man who sold me the Kerman died yesterday.”

  I nodded. “I was with him when he died.”

  “And this morning you come here with some prepared story.”

  I was bringing my cigarette to my mouth when he said this. I brought it down, again, before it reached my lips.

  “You must think I’m stupid,” he went on quietly. He lifted one leg to hook it over the other. He sighed. “Ever since this — this Ducasse was killed, the police here have been bothering me. I thought I was beyond police annoyance at my age, but it seems I’m not. My reputation has followed me here from Gary, I suppose. I like this town. It’s conservative and well managed and within overnight plane reach of any place I might want to visit. I didn’t come here to create or expect a disturbance. Now, do you want to tell me, honestly, why you’re here?”

  “I told you, partly,” I said. “I think I can sell that rug for you. Not for twenty-three thousand, but enough so that you won’t be stuck too badly.”

  “And how did you know I paid twenty-three thousand for it?”

  “Sam,” I said slowly, “Sam Sabazian was a relative of mine. And a good friend. There isn’t anything he didn’t tell me.”

  No word from him. A great silence, and I wondered if we were alone in the house. Silence, and then a single word. “Anything — ?” He looked at me questioningly.

  I said, “We grew up together.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  I nodded.

  “And you pretend you’re here to see about selling the rug. Young man, I know more about people than that. You’re here because you think I know something about Sabazian’s death. Sergeant Waldorf had the same idea. You’re both wrong.” His voice had risen through this; the last sentence rang in the room. His legs were uncrossed, now; he sat forward on the davenport.

  “I’m not pretending anything,” I said. “Sorry you couldn’t see things my way.” I made a move as though to get up.

  He gestured for me to remain seated. He looked out across the room, toward the far end, and his voice was lower. “Your friend was beaten to death, the sergeant tells me. It’s not a way I’ve ever operated, anywhere. I was displeased about being overcharged on the Kerman, but not to a point where I contemplated any reciprocal action. And the rug is not for sale.”

  “All right,” I said, and started to rise, again.

  He looked at me coldly. “I’m not finished.”

  “Yes, you are,” I said. “All finished. You’re all words, now, words and worry. You didn’t get by in Gary just on words, did you?” I was standing, looking down at him, now. I felt ten feet tall.

  How had I sensed his defeat? How did I suddenly know he was no longer one of the big boys in the Chicago crowd? Mom says I’m psychic, that I was “born with the veil,” but Mom’s got the old country superstitions.

  He looked up at me and his medium, average, normal face was a hundred years old. Pleading in those blue eyes? No, something short of that and something with more malice.

  His voice had a touch of croak in it. “What did you come to sell me, Mr. Kaprelian?”

  I didn’t answer him. I stood there, making a point of not answering him.

  “I know your kind,” he said. “I’ve met a lot like you. All business, even the young ones. Do you think I’m frightened?”

  “You answer that,” I said. “You know more about it than I do.” I nodded at him, and turned my back to him, and went quickly toward the entry hall.

  I thought he’d call me. He was hooked, my peddler’s prescience told me, and he’d be coming to me. He was dying to buy.

  No signal from him came, no word stopped me. My hunch had been wrong? I didn’t think so. Nor did Waldorf, I’d bet, and Waldorf is in a business where evidence counts. Who else would have as much reason as Dykstra to kill Ducasse and Sam?

  Outside, it was still spring, a fact which shouldn’t have been surprising, but was. Because the house had been so-wintry.

  A thought came to me — the commonplace face of crime. He could have passed for Joe Blow, the man in the street. He was nothing and everything, nobody and everybody; he
was part of us all and all of no part of us.

  And the further thought came that the legal cater to our needs, the illegal to our wants. To the fortunes of chance, the dream world of narcotics, the communion of sex. And, lately again, to the escape of alcohol. It’s a market which has always existed and always will. So long as there is demand, there will be supply. And there will be demand so long as there are not adequate substitutes. Write your Congressman.

  The Chev crunched gravel and rattled her tappets and we left the gray stone of the Dykstra mausoleum, left the black winter trees of the flat lawn, left the quiet chill of the man awaiting the scythe, for the bustle of the Drive.

  I was just making the curve near Kensington when I happened to glance in the rear-vision mirror. A black Buick Roadmaster was coming out of Dykstra’s drive, and turning this way.

  A — propensity for dominance, Claire had called it. The mastery urge, latent or active in us all, and had they investigated its mingling with the sex drive? After all, in that act, usually, the man was on top, and did that symbolize more than convenience?

  The black Buick came around the bend near Kensington.

  I took the Drive all the way to Terrace and Terrace all the way to my new home. The Buick went by me as I pulled in toward the curb.

  Two men sat in the front seat but my glimpse of them as the Buick gunned past was too brief to distinguish their features.

  The apartment was hot and smelled of dust. I turned off the three radiators in the big room and sat in the chair near the bank of windows facing Terrace.

  Above me, the baby was thumping with something on something. Sounded like a spoon on a pan. At the end of Bradford, there was a glimpse of the lake. A coal boat was coming into the harbor from the north.

  Why had I gone to see Dykstra? Because of Sam? No, it probably wasn’t because of Sam. Claire, then? Was there, too deep in me to recognize, a belief that Dykstra was another of Claire’s men? She’d known about him; she’d warned me against him. She kept us all separate, Lieder and Bey and Egan. Was Dykstra another? And had Ducasse been another?

  The blot on the Bokhara swam in my consciousness. Ducasse’s blood? He hadn’t been killed here, the police believed, because of the lack of blood. And why did Henri Ducasse die? Because of the twenty-three-thousand-dollar sticking? I seemed to want to believe that; it didn’t involve Claire — not directly.

  I heard the front door close, and steps in the storm hall. Then they were outside my door — and someone rapped.

  I went to the window first. There was no sign of the Buick. I said, “Come in,” and my door opened.

  It was Ismet Bey. He came in, and closed the door behind him. “Another murder,” he said. His voice was quiet.

  “Another,” I agreed. “I suppose you’ve been talking to Dykstra, again.”

  He frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “You’re his finger man, aren’t you?” I said. “What did you want today, Swami?”

  He surveyed me without evident emotion. “You are in a mood. Miss Lynne does that to people.”

  “What did you want?” I asked.

  “The same. My rug. I had expected to hear from you, by now. Or from Mr. Lieder.”

  “I’ve been busy,” I said. “I’m not sure Carl wants to sell. Now, maybe you can get Dykstra to take care of him.”

  He came over to seat himself in a straight chair near the fireplace. His smile was cool. “Miss Lynne and you have fought. So you resent me. And Mr. Egan and Mr. Lieder? They, too, are friends of hers. You can’t hate all the men she has known.”

  “Quit needling me,” I said. “We haven’t fought, not today. And I don’t resent you. I merely repeated what Carl told me to tell you.”

  He shrugged. “Carl Lieder likes to think of himself as a smart man. He is likely to outsmart himself. You and Miss Lynne, now — ”

  “Divide and conquer,” I interrupted. “Save it, Swami. Carl and I understand each other perfectly. And so do Miss Lynne and I. I’ll try to get him to accept your offer on the rug but I’m not going to fight about it. Now, what about Dykstra?”

  He lighted a cigarette and the rich scent of Turkish tobacco filled the air. “What about Dykstra? Why do you always connect me with Dykstra?”

  “Because I know how you Turks play it. You hate to play it alone, when the going gets dirty.”

  His black eyes considered me impersonally. “I see you have inherited some of your father’s superstitions.”

  “Perhaps. You knew Ducasse lived here, didn’t you? You knew Henri pretty well?”

  He shook his head. The black eyes continued to appraise me. “A lamb among wolves,” he said, finally, and shook his head. “Lover boy. Why don’t you use your head? Why don’t you use your merchant’s instinct?” He stood up. “Get your money, and get out. But get out soon. You’re not fast enough for the company you keep.”

  “You must know them pretty well,” I said.

  “Well enough. I — felt as you do about Miss Lynne at one time. I’ll admit she didn’t encourage me — much. Think of this, Kaprelian — you’ve got the rug, down there in the safe. And I’m offering thirty thousand dollars for it.”

  I watched him walk out and then I went to the phone. It was still connected. I put in a call for Badger Junction, for the residence of L. R. Gendron, in Badger Junction.

  His voice was cheerful, this bright morning. “What are you trying to stick me with now, Lee?”

  “A French-Chinese,” I said. “An antique.”

  Silence, except for the meshing of gears in his mind. How he loved Chinese rugs.

  “How big?” he asked.

  “About twelve by eighteen.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to see it.”

  Another silence, and then, “How much?”

  “It’s not mine. I think I can get it for eleven thousand.”

  “You can probably get it for three. What you’re saying is I can get it for eleven.”

  “It’s not mine,” I repeated. “I’ll bring the owner along, if you want me to. You can deal with her.”

  A silence, again, and then, “Today?”

  “It’s a nice day for a drive. Unless you’ll be busy?”

  “Eleven thousand dollars,” he said. “My God, I’m crazy to even talk to you.”

  “You haven’t spent a nickel, yet,” I said. “She’s looking for a customer and you were the first one I thought of. She’s selling all her rugs, but this is the only real gem in the lot.”

  “And I’m your biggest sucker; is that it?”

  I chuckled. “Not quite. I’ve a lady in Monroe who buys Ispahans.”

  The longest silence of all, and then, “I’ll be home. It will be this afternoon?”

  “About three-thirty,” I said.

  Then I phoned Claire and told her about it. “We’ll take the Caddy,” I said. “I don’t think that Chinese would fit in my car and the Caddy might help the sale. That way, he’ll know you’re not hungry.”

  “But I am hungry,” she said. “Let’s have lunch here.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can change my clothes,” I told her. “Wear something — attractive, won’t you? The customer’s a man.”

  A pause — and a click. I don’t think she liked that last remark.

  When I got up there, she was cool. The dress was a colorful print, warm and properly accented. But her greeting was cool and flat.

  “Now, what?” I said.

  “Wear something attractive won’t you? The customer’s a man.” She glared at me. “Were you planning to use me for sucker bait — peddler?”

  I nodded, looking humble.

  “Oh, you — ” she said.

  She wanted me to be jealous, possessive. I said, “I’m all business, I guess, Claire. I’m sorry. You don’t have to go along.”

  “Don’t I? Have you got a girl up there, too?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I haven’t seen her for months.” She l
ooked at me quietly, and sighed. “I didn’t fix any lunch. I was — annoyed.”

  “We’ll eat on the way.”

  “All right. Lee, don’t — I mean, you could be nicer to me. You could — pretend I’m a lady.”

  “You’re no lady; you’re my girl,” I answered. “C’mon, get your coat and don’t sulk. It’s spring.”

  We ate at the Brownlee Brothers restaurant in Port Washington. Planked whitefish and French fries and the Brownlee Brown buns and the Brownlee super tartar sauce.

  Beautiful day and a beautiful girl and good food and the Caddy. Smug, I felt. And in the back, a French-Chinese of pale green, soft and hazy as a virgin’s dream. Expectant, I felt, in my merchant’s heart. Lee, boy, you’ve got it made. Oh, yes.

  The fields showing some green in the gray; the towns we went through looking prosperous and awake, the farms as vivid as a Grant Wood reproduction.

  “Pretty country,” Claire said. “Restful country. Isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “Pastoral,” she said. “Dairy country. I’ll bet it would wear thin, and soon.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s not for us, is it?”

  I shook my head.

  Her voice was sharper. “Why so mute? What great thoughts course through that handsome head?”

  “I’ve been wondering about the rug,” I said. “If I come down too much from the eleven thousand, he’ll think I’d been trying to stick him. But that’s a lot of money for that rug.”

  Silence from her, and then a chuckle, and I asked, “What’s funny?”

  “I was thinking of the seasons,” she said. “Your seasons. Spring sale, summer bargains, fall clearance and winter mark-downs. My lover boy, romantic darling.”

  “That’s what Bey called me this morning,” I said, “lover boy.”

  “Bey — ? You saw him, this morning?”

  “He dropped in. He’s burning for that rug. Carl should talk to him, at least. He’s not handling that deal right, not a bit right.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about how Carl Lieder handles any sale.”

  “Don’t I? All he’s ever sold is women, and he didn’t sell them rugs; he sold them a piece of himself. He couldn’t sell a starving man a ham sandwich.”