“And if Sam didn’t kill Ducasse, you think he’d stick his neck out, moving the body?”
“For enough money, Sam Sabazian would do anything. He threatened to kill me, when he learned I’d appraised the rug they sold Dykstra.”
“I grew up with Sam Sabazian,” I said. “I knew him.”
“Before the war, you knew him. He saw a lot of action.”
“It doesn’t add up,” I said. “It’s crazy.”
“Is it? There are still some rugs in Sabazian’s store that Sam and Ducasse owned together. Maybe he wasn’t so unhappy about his partner’s death.”
“You’ve lied so much to me,” I said, “it’s hard to — ”
“You can check everything I’ve told you this afternoon. Through Waldorf, and through the elder Sabazian. Have I asked you for proof for what you told me?”
I took out the telegram, and handed it to him.
He must have read it a couple times before he handed it back. “Well — ?” he said.
“Some allies, an Armenian and a Turk,” I answered.
He shrugged. “Consider this, too. After this Sam delivered the body, he not only tried to implicate Dykstra by trying to get this Berjouhi to say she’d seen Dykstra’s car in front that night, he brought you up there on some trumped-up story. He didn’t worry about you, did he? I think I’d make a better ally than he would have, and he was one of your people.”
“You’re still willing to go to thirty thousand for the rug?”
He smiled. “I want the rug. How about tonight? How about a little conference? You could phone Miss Lynne. It would be an excuse to phone her.”
What didn’t he miss? He didn’t miss anything. No wonder he could make a cult pay off. “Allies,” I said. “Temporary allies.”
I didn’t phone Claire. I drove over there. I took the rug along.
When she opened the door, her face was strained, the eyes were red-rimmed. Oh, she loved me, that much was certain.
“You,” she said. “You God damned — ”
“Don’t you think I want to believe in you? There isn’t anything in the world I want more. INCLUDING MONEY. But damn it, kid, what chance have you given me?”
“You called me a murderer,” she said.
“I didn’t call you anything.” I handed her the telegram.
She read it, and stared at me, and now fright took possession of her face.
“You’ve always been scared, haven’t you? Of poverty and getting old, of any man who seemed invulnerable.” I came in, and closed the door. I put the rug down, and took her in my arms. “Honey, I’m with you, not against you. This guy is different, believe me.”
She was crying, again, and her taut body trembled. “Lee, you don’t know how hard — You can’t guess how — ”
“You’re sure a sucker for a false front,” I said. “Put some music on. Bathe your face in cold water. And then we’ll sit on the davenport and hold hands.”
“Oh, Lee, Lee, LEE-Who do you think you are? What kind of complex is this? First Dykstra and — ”
“Go bathe your face,” I said. “And then come back and tell me about your part in it.”
“I didn’t have any part in it,” she said. “I wasn’t even here. I was out. I didn’t even realize until you talked about the blot on the Bokhara just — ”
“Go bathe your face,” I said. “Get control of yourself. You’ve an ally, now. And we’ve got another, temporarily. Ismet Bey.”
“Bey? Are you insane? He hates me, Lee. He wanted me to marry him, and I laughed at him.”
“I’d laugh, too,” I said. “But I don’t blame him for wanting to marry you. Who doesn’t?”
She stared at me. “Do you?”
I nodded.
Abruptly she turned and went to the bathroom. I heard the sound of running water, and went over to put the Gayne Suite on. When she came back, she seemed under better control.
She told me about Palm Springs, then, and about Los Angeles, and about coming here. She told me about Sam. Outside, the sound of the going-home traffic grew on Prospect, and I went to the phone.
When I came back, she said, “He’s coming?”
I nodded. “I’m hungry, aren’t you?”
“I can eat, I guess. Lee, do you know what you’re doing?”
“Cleaning up the past,” I told her. “All we’ll have left is future. Is there something besides eggs? I’m getting tired of eggs.”
“Don’t be so casual. You’re as scared as I am.”
“We won’t fight. Let’s get to the icebox.”
I wasn’t scared. I should have been, but I wasn’t. Some guys just don’t scare me, for some silly reason. I should have been better prepared.
We had toasted cheese sandwiches and cocoa. We had some sweet talk and some Goodman and a kiss or two, and then the doorbell rang, the one which was wired to the button in the hall, up here.
“It could be that Selak,” she said. “Be careful, Lee.”
I went to the door, and it was Ismet Bey. He smiled at me, and bowed to Claire. “It’s about time we did business, Miss Lynne,” he said. “It’s been a long trail from Palm Springs.”
She said nothing. She sat on the love seat nearest the record player, staring out across the room.
“Drink?” I suggested. “We could probably all use one.”
“You mix them,” Claire said. “You know where everything is.”
I was in the kitchen when the bell rang again. I came out of the kitchen in time to see Ismet Bey open the door to Carl Lieder.
Carl looked something like Kaiser Wilhelm, at the moment. He said stiffly, “What sort of — ridiculous — ”
“Come in, Carl,” I said, “and get out of the draft. Men your age have to be careful.”
He came in and closed the door. And suddenly, a touch of fear came to me. Because he was poised, and he moved with a kraut precision that reminded me how careful he’d always been, how sure of himself.
Carl wouldn’t come into a situation like this unprepared.
“Drink — ?” I suggested, holding a glass up.
“I won’t be here that long,” he said. “What is the purpose of this?”
“I thought it was time to sell the rug to Bey,” I said. I came in, and handed Claire her drink, and took the other to Bey.
I was going back to the kitchen for mine, when Carl said, “You haven’t the touch for all this theatre, Kaprelian. The rug is not for sale right now.”
“That’s what we want to determine,” I said. I’d turned to face him. “We want to determine ownership first, though.”
Carl’s cold, blue eyes went to Claire and came back to me. He was wary, now; his face tightened.
“You see,” I went on, “I’ve just had a telegram from Los Angeles. I thought your story about buying it at auction was phoney, because you were in Europe when the auction was held. Ducasse bought it at the auction.” I nodded toward a chair. “Sit down, Carl, before you fall down.”
Again, he looked at Claire. Then he looked at the door and back at me.
“Sit down,” I said. “Hear me out, Carl. It’s an interesting story.”
He went over to sit down in a chair facing us all. His arms were along the arms of the chair, and his thin body was erectly held. He’d never looked more mummified or more deadly.
I sat in the chair nearest the door. I said, “Claire heard about Ducasse getting the rug, and coming here. She came here and tried to make a deal with Ducasse.”
Carl’s eyes burned at Claire.
“She didn’t tell me,” I lied. “Sam tried to tell me it was Ducasse’s rug, originally. Sam was leary of you. You came here with some of those St. Louis rugs, because you heard about the piece Ducasse had, and Bey tried to get you to deal with Claire for him. He thought she had picked up the rug in Los Angeles, and lied about getting there too late. But she hadn’t. Well, you all got together, and even got Egan into it.”
Bey coughed. Claire’s drink rattled as she set
it down on the coffee table. Carl looked over at the drink, up at her, and back at me.
“You wanted that rug Ducasse had. You knew what Bey would pay for it. You knew, too, that though Sam and Ducasse were partners, more or less, Ducasse had never told Sam about the prayer rug. You told him, though. You and Sam met Ducasse here one night. And you killed him.”
Claire seemed to be in a trance, staring at her drink on the coffee table. The bird-eyes of Ismet Bey were fixed on Carl.
Carl said, “What a stupid story and a baseless accusation.”
“We’ll see,” I said, and tried a lie. “The police have the wash water from that Bokhara. They’ve probably analyzed it, by now, and we’ll know if it’s Ducasse’s blood. At least we’ll know if it’s his blood type. And they may learn more.”
Carl shook his head, and stood up. “What a — I’ve no time for your gauche theatricals, Kaprelian. Why haven’t you taken this to the police, if you’re so sure of yourself?”
I stood up, too. “I’ll call them, now. We’ll thresh it out. Claire and I want to start clean.”
His laugh was malicious. “Oh, Lord — Love — Call whom you want. I’ve more important business.” He took a step toward the door.
I moved over to stand in front of it. “You’re not going anywhere, Carl. Call the police, Bey.”
He looked at Bey, and at me.
Claire said, “Lee, let him go. You can’t — He’s — Lee, let him go!”
I shook my head. “Don’t be afraid of this geranium, kid. He’s — ”
I’d glanced at her as I said this, and a movement of his caught my eye, and I glanced back at him. And saw the gun in his hand. An automatic. Not too big, but big enough to kill.
“Get away from the door,” he said. “You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to walk into this spider web unprepared, do you? Get away from that door.”
His eyes were blank as marble, inhuman as a snake’s.
Behind him, Claire stood up and came over to stand in front of me, shielding me with her body.
“Carl,” she said. “Carl, in the name of — Lee, move, move over.”
Bey said quietly, “I think, Lee, it would be wisest, under the circumstances.”
He knew the rug was here, and he’d be glad to see Carl leave. I started to move away from the door, and the gun followed me. But Claire kept her body between us.
I said, “Honey, get away. Move away from me. The bastard can get both of us, don’t you see? Get — ”
And the door started to open. All of us looked that way, but Carl’s gun stayed trained on us.
Now the door was fully open, and Selak stood there. He looked like a drowned grizzly bear. His face was black with beard, his rough hair was matted, his dull eyes glared at Carl.
The sound that came from his big throat was nothing that could be human, a rough, threatening grunt.
The gun, you see, was pointing at his Claire.
He started toward Carl, his long arms hanging, his massive shoulders hunched. Claire whimpered, and I said in Armenian, “He’ll shoot, Selak. Stay back!”
Closer, Selak came, and Carl’s eyes flared, and his gun hand trembled, and then there was a deafening reverberation, and the gun had jumped in Carl’s hand.
Selak trembled as the slug hit him, but he kept coming. I started for him as he reached for Carl. I twisted the gun from Carl’s hand, as Selak lifted him off the floor.
I grabbed at Selak, but a twist of his shoulders sent me sprawling to the floor. I heard Claire scream and scrambled up, as Selak lifted Carl high in the air, above his head in both big hands.
I saw Carl kick, and reached out for Selak’s neck from behind. He was heading for the terrace.
I rode him, as he kicked the doors open. Both of us he was carrying now, right up to the edge.
I reached for his windpipe, shouting in Armenian and then I felt him tremble and I thought he’d crash, there. But his great body seemed to stiffen, and then I heard a scream.
I heard Carl Lieder scream as Selak tossed him over the edge. I’ll hear that scream the rest of my life.
Waldorf rubbed his eyes and his temples, and the back of his neck. “It could add up. With what we’ve got and him carrying the gun and all — I — ”
The light in the small room was bright, and my eyes ached, and I could hear the scream. “And if it adds up?”
He belched, and closed his eyes a second. “What do you mean, if it adds up?”
“If Lieder killed Ducasse, and Miss Lynne suspected it, and didn’t tell the police what she suspected, withheld information that could be important — ”
His eyes were dull on mine. “Three to five years, if she gets a break. I’d go to bat for both of you as much as I could. Because, you see, I was satisfied with Dykstra’s boys. And you didn’t have to be a noble citizen. You could have shut your mouth and gone on sticking suckers on those rugs. You kind of redeemed yourself, tonight. And she is your girl, isn’t she?”
“She’s my girl, Sergeant,” I said. “Three to five years, huh?”
He nodded.
• • •
Papa says I’m foolish. He says all young men have experiences of one kind or another and the thing to do is forget them. He says even Selak’s forgotten her. He says there’s no sense in writing to her every week, up there, and going up, once a month. Papa says four years is a long time for a young man to wait, an awful long time.
As though I don’t know it.
If you liked The Bloody Bokhara check out:
Murder in the Raw
1
THERE IS AN OLD GRIDIRON WHEEZE that states a guard is only a fullback with his brains knocked out. I have met some rather bright guards and some extremely stupid fullbacks, but what is a fact measured against the generality?
I’d played a few years of guard, myself, the more prominent years with the Rams and made a lot of friends in Los Angeles. So it figured that when the boys began to clobber me, Los Angeles was the logical place to open up a business.
Beverly Hills is not Los Angeles, however. Beverly Hills is the most vigorously policed area in the nation and opening up an investigative agency in that smug little suburb is really carrying coal to Newcastle. So that supports the generality.
But I had friends in the town and three years in the O.S.S. My old man had been a cop and I knew every Ram fan on the L.A.P.D. There are a hell of a lot of them. And in Beverly Hills, on South Beverly Drive, I found the “neatest little pine-paneled office you ever saw at a shamefully low rental.” That description is the realtor’s and almost accurate, so I gave him the first month’s shameful rental, and bought some furniture.
And I sat and waited.
Sitting and waiting, I imagined who my first client would be. A banker, gray at the temples, with a wife twenty years younger and fifty pounds lighter? Some luscious young widow who was beginning to have doubts about an oily and debonair suitor? Some millionaire sportsman whose son was in trouble?
Who would walk in?
Juan Mira walked in.
If you live in this area, you will remember Juan Mira. He won more fights than he lost, but he lost a lot of them. The marks of all the fights are on the broad, flat face of Juan Mira.
At the Olympic, he had always been a crowd pleaser. And outside of the ring, his reputation was that he was also a woman pleaser. Most Filipinos try to be; it is a serious business with them.
Juan stood about five-four and would now weigh about a hundred and thirty. He wore a neat and creamy tropical weave suit and white buck shoes and a big-brimmed leghorn hat with an extremely colorful band. There are not many Miras in Beverly Hills; Juan was really out of his element.
“I know your name,” he said. “I see you play.”
“With the Rams?” I asked, a stupid question.
He nodded. “With the Rams. Best damn guard in the business.”
“Thank you, Juan,” I said. “I’ve seen you fight.” I searched my memory. “You looked mighty good
against Carmine Padro.”
Juan nodded, and his eyes were reminiscent. “I could always handle Carmine. Which Padro fight you see?”
“The one where you knocked him out in the sixth,” I said. “At the Olympic.”
He nodded, and sighed. He took a gold cigarette case out of an inside jacket pocket and offered me an ivory-tipped cigarette, which I refused.
I gestured toward a chair. “You didn’t come here to talk football or fights, Juan. Sit down and tell me your troubles.”
He sat down and lighted the cigarette with a slim, platinum lighter. He blew sweet-smelling smoke out into the room and said, “It’s about my girl. Rosa is her name. She’s gone.”
“Gone — ? How do you mean, gone?”
“From her place, where she lives.” He snapped his fingers. “One day she is there. Next day, no Rosa.”
“Does she work? Did you check her place of employment?”
“She works. Sing a little, dance a little. Not working lately.” He shook his head. “Night clubs — slow.”
“Not all over,” I suggested. “Maybe she got a job in another town. Say — Las Vegas?”
He shook his head. “Not Rosa. Small clubs for Rosa. She is no big-time operator.”
Small, cheap clubs. A stripper, probably. I said, “Were you so close you’d expect her to tell you if she left town?”
“We are engaged,” Juan said with dignity.
“How long, Juan?” I asked.
He looked at me doubtfully. “Two years.”
“And she never went out with another man in those two years?”
His eyes were hard and shiny. “So — ? What kind of question is that?”
“Maybe she went off with another man, now,” I said.
“Easy, Mr. Callahan,” he said.
“You don’t know that she didn’t, do you?”
Bloody Bokhara Page 19
