“To make pictures. I shall want some pictures of the sea and of the ruins.”
“Of the goats, too?”
To please him, Ballantyne agreed. “Yes, and of the goats, too.”
The reply seemed to satisfy the goatherd on that score, but he still seemed restless and puzzled. Gravely, they exchanged introductions. The boy’s name was Rashid. Ballantyne waited, aware of the boy’s curiosity, and aware that in some way he himself was undergoing examination.
There was something here the goatherd failed to comprehend. He broached the subject to Ballantyne as one gentleman to another. “You make pictures of the sea, the sky, and the ruins. Of the goats, too. Why do you do this?”
“To catch their beauty, and to hold it. Then I can look whenever I like.”
“But why a picture? They are here! You can see them without a picture.”
“For you they are here, for you they will remain, but I shall go away and it is good to have something with which to remember. I shall look many times at the picture and will see all this as I knew it today.”
“You need a picture for this?” The boy was astonished. “I remember without a machine. I can remember the goats, each one of them.” He considered the problem, and suddenly his expression brightened. “Ah, then! The machine is your memory! It is very strange to remember with a machine.”
Neither of them spoke for several minutes, each in his own way marveling at the wonders of the world. “I have heard men speak of this,” the boy said, “that you have machines for everything. I should not like that.”
Ballantyne watched the changing light on the sea and the shore. If the Maserati had come and gone it was not his plan to remain longer, but the conversation left him dissatisfied. He had an amusing feeling that he had, somehow, been bested.
He offered the boy a cigarette, which was accepted gravely.
“You have been here before,” the boy said.
“Several times.”
“Not many come to the ruins. Most who do merely look and go away.” The boy lit his cigarette and puffed shrewdly, cupping it in his hand as do those who smoke much in the wind. “I think you come for a reason, and I do not think it is because of the machine or the pictures.”
The kid was observant and he had something to say that he hadn’t gotten around to yet. Ballantyne watched the white puffballs of cloud over the far, wooded shore.
“You have a woman?” the boy asked, finally.
“No.”
“No woman? It is good for a man to have a woman.”
“No doubt.” It was a conclusion Ballantyne had no wish to debate. “And you? Do you have a woman?” He asked the question in all seriousness.
It was accepted in the same manner. “No, I am young for a woman and they can be much trouble.”
The comment seemed to explain much. The boy smoked in silence and Ballantyne waited for him to speak.
“Do you have goats at home?”
“No,” Ballantyne confessed, “I have no goats.”
“A camel, perhaps?” Rashid was giving him every chance to prove himself a man of substance.
“No, I have no camel.” Inspiration came to him. “Once I owned two horses.”
Rashid pondered the matter. “It is good to have horses, but a horse is like a woman. It is unproductive. If you have a horse or a woman you must also have goats.”
“I think you come here for a reason and I do not think it is because of the machine.” Rashid repeated himself. Ballantyne said nothing but the boy seemed to be arriving at a decision. “There is a woman who comes to this hillside,” Rashid said. Then glancing at Ballantyne as if to challenge his disbelief, he added, “A woman with a rug.”
When the quarry is sighted the hunter moves with caution. Ballantyne waited for several moments before he asked, “She sits on a rug?”
“She looks at a rug. She sits on the grass, or sometimes on the stones. She is very beautiful,” he added, “and not old.” Then reluctantly, “She is more beautiful than the goats.”
It was a compliment of the highest order. “That cannot be,” Ballantyne said positively. “How could a woman be more beautiful than goats?”
“It is difficult to believe,” Rashid admitted.
A dead weaver…a woman with a rug. A pattern was emerging.
“She comes often?”
“She is here now.” Rashid got to his feet. “She has much trouble, this woman, and she has no man.”
“You protected her from the men in the gray car,” Ballantyne suggested. “I know them, and they are evil men.”
Rashid looked at Ballantyne with interest. “You speak Turkish then?”
“I am a man of many tongues.” Ballantyne paused, and then he took the plunge, knowing what icy depths lay before him. “I will help her if I can.”
“Come, I will show you.”
The woman was Villette Mallory.
The magazines called her “The Incomparable Villette,” and whether it was modeling the latest design from Christian Dior or Jacques Fath or dropping a playful wink while presenting a cut-glass bottle of perfume, the term suited her.
On this day she wore a gray suit and a blouse of pale blue, and her hair, a dark auburn, was tied with a scarf of the same shade as the blouse. Her eyes were green and her cheekbones high, the bone structure of her face delicate yet strong.
This moment was what Ballantyne had come for. And, he feared, so had the old man on the beach.
“My friend Rashid has come to me with the story of a beautiful woman who sits among the ruins and looks at a rug. Being a romanticist, naturally, I came.”
“A romanticist?”
“A romanticist when I think of women, Madame, a realist when I deal with them.”
She measured him with cool eyes. He was a tall, athletic-looking man, something more than thirty. He was tailored well, if casually, but there was something indefinably down-at-heel about him, the sense that his fortunes had ebbed and flowed like the tides.
“Who are you?”
Rashid squatted upon his thin, bare heels and looked upon Ballantyne with dispassionate eyes, as if to say, “You know nothing of goats, let us see how you do with a woman.”
“It is a question I have often asked of myself, Madame, but who can reply to such a question? Born of woman, I am a man…possessing no fortune and no family; it has been left to me to live by knowing, and if I have no wit, Madame, I have at least wits, and I live by them.”
She wore no makeup today and was even more beautiful than he remembered, but it was not a cool classical beauty. There was some humor that showed in her eyes, but there was sadness too.
“One more thing I have, that is curiosity, and curiosity opens windows upon the world. And…I know something of rugs.”
Something happened then, for her eyes were suddenly no longer green, but hazel, almost yellow, like the eyes of a leopard in the jungle.
“Do you know me, then?”
“Let us say that I have seen you several times before this….Madame was in Honfleur, at the Auberge du Cheval Blanc. You were motoring along the coast and you had stopped for lunch. The food there is quite good.”
“And there have been other times?”
“Twice in the Mouski marketplace in Cairo. The first time I sat at an adjoining table listening to your voice and enjoying your profile. The Marquis was quite annoyed.”
“And the second?”
“I sold you an antique ring…a lovely green stone.”
Her eyes were cold. “I remember the stone. It was fake.”
“It was, Madame, and I regret it, but at the moment I had nothing else to sell. I would make it up to you if you would let me.”
“I think you are a thief, if not worse.”
“One lives as one can.”
Ballantyne seated himself on the wall facing her. He was, she reflected, a graceful man for one so lean and tall. He handled himself like a fencer or a boxer.
“For example,” he said, “by
this time Madame has guessed that my being here is no accident. I came to meet you.”
“That’s absurd. How could you know I would be here? Or that having been here, I would come again?”
“It was a slight gamble, but there are few secrets in the East, Madame, and as I have said, I am a curious man.
“For example, your husband, the late Maharajah of Kasur, was an ardent sportsman. Suddenly, on the eve of an important polo match, he withdraws. His withdrawal was a serious blow to the chances of his team, and he was known as an honorable man. Nothing but a matter of life and death could cause such a last-minute withdrawal.
“Then came the news of his death in a plane crash while en route to Istanbul. Why the sudden flight? Why Istanbul?
“These questions sharpened my curiosity, and as I have said, there are no secrets in the East. I heard rumors, made discreet inquiries.
“Your late husband, like many others, had lost his estates when India and Pakistan were divided. He settled large sums of money on old family retainers…he was forced to modify his way of living…and still he owed many debts.
“Then a most curious thing. This Maharajah who had only a small income by his former standards recently assured his creditors that all would be paid…within a month.”
“So?”
“So one could only assume that he expected, somehow, to come into a quite large sum of money from some hitherto undisclosed source. Then the unexplained flight to Istanbul, so I asked myself…was the money here?
“There was also a disturbing story. That in deciding to fly here the Maharajah knew that he caused his own death. The whisper was that had he not died in the plane crash he would have died in another way, and soon.”
“Why would anyone wish to kill him?”
“That was what I asked myself. But behind many murders there is a matter of money. Somehow, in some way, he was coming into money and somebody else wanted it. It is as simple as that.”
She was thoughtful, but finally she asked, “Do you have a name?”
“I am called Ballantyne.”
“Merely Ballantyne? Nothing else?”
“If you must have more, I am Michael Surendranath Ballantyne. My mother was of a Rajput family of an ancient line. She named me for a great teacher, a scholar. I fear I have not lived up to her hopes.”
“My husband was a Rajput.”
“I know….That is among the reasons I am here today, along with the ring.” He paused. “Ballantyne is enough. Throughout Asia they know that name.”
“I am impressed.”
“You need not be. I am a dealer in chance, a liaison man, a go-between, an arranger of meetings. I said that I live by my wits, but it is equally true that I live by whom, and what, I know.”
Her handbag, a large one, lay open on the rock before her, the open side within easy reach of her hand.
“For example, you have a gun in your bag. You will not need that for me, but keep it close. Today you lunched with Leon Decebilus.”
“So?”
“He is a thief, and a master of thieves.”
“I doubt if he would spy on me so obviously as you have done.”
Ballantyne turned to the goatherd. “A gray car came along the track a short time ago. What did they wish to know?”
“They asked if I had seen a blue car with a woman driving it.”
“You see? The men in that Renault were Mustafa Bem and Barbaro, and where they are, Decebilus is. They are his men.”
Her eyes were cold. “I am sure you are mistaken. We have mutual friends. Mr. Decebilus is a financier, a respected man.”
“If you said ‘feared’ rather than ‘respected’ I would accept that.” He nodded toward the cliffs. “Walk down to the shore and you will find a tall old man in shabby clothes lying dead upon the sand. He was killed by Mustafa Bem. You are in greater danger than you realize.”
She looked startled. “A dead man? Down there?”
“Do you know this old man?”
“With a scarred jaw?” She was thoughtful. “About sixty? In a worn black suit?
“He came to my hotel the day I arrived and wished to buy a rug from me. He said it was for sentimental reasons, that an ancestor of his was the weaver.”
He looked at her seriously. “Madame? How many rugs have you sold in your lifetime?”
“Rugs? Why, none of course.”
“You do not think it strange that immediately after you arrive in town a man comes to your hotel room and wishes to buy a rug from you?”
“Strange? Of course I thought it strange. But my husband—everyone wants something and many think he is still wealthy.”
“You did not agree to sell the rug?”
“I refused. He started to argue so I closed the door in his face.”
“But you did see him again?”
“He must have followed me. He was outside the Abdullah where we went for dinner.”
“And you mentioned it to Decebilus?”
“I may have. In fact, I am sure that I did. After all, the man had followed me. Decebilus was amused.”
“No doubt. But now the man is dead. You see no coincidence in all this?”
She was silent, and Ballantyne glanced at the ridge and the cypresses at Hannibal’s tomb. From the track they were hidden, but an observer up there on the ridge, especially if he had field glasses, could see anyone here. In fact, he could see the three of them even without glasses…and no doubt the blue car was close by.
“Whatever it is,” Ballantyne continued, “that your husband knew, you may be sure Decebilus knows also, or some of it. And you may also be sure that the knowledge concerns money, for Decebilus is interested in little else.”
Villette looked away from him toward a wedge of blue sea visible through a notch in the ruined wall. Her husband’s sudden trip…without explanation…it was so unlike him. And the rug? It was possible that Ballantyne was right, but what, then, of Leon?
She had known the name of Leon Decebilus for years, it seemed. Friends returning from Monte Carlo, St. Tropez, and Paris had mentioned his name as they mentioned the names of Onassis, Pignatelli, or King Farouk.
When they met…quite by accident…they had talked briefly. Then they had lunched together, and last evening there had been dinner.
He was a brute. Instinctively, she knew that, but a fascinating brute. He dressed with extreme care…with too much care. His manners were perfect, too perfect again…as they are apt to be when acquired late in life and not from childhood. Yet there was also a bizarre touch: the rings on his fingers, one huge one on his left hand, two slightly smaller rings on his right.
He had been gracious. He had offered his car, even a chauffeur, anything she might require. He offered his sympathy for her loss; he had not known the Maharajah, but had known of him.
Who had not heard of Dhyan Jai Rathore? She had known of him for several years before they met. Their pictures were often in the same magazines, he gambling in Monte Carlo…attending the movie festival at Cannes…fishing in the Bahamas. He was exotic, a Rajput, educated at Cambridge, a man with a gift for friendships and for sports. If “Jay,” as his friends called him, was known for something in particular, it was making the most demanding feats like climbing mountains, blazing across the finish line at Le Mans, or leading a champion polo team look easy and fun. After her first year in New York it was almost fated they would meet.
Her success had been spectacular. A farm girl from Oklahoma, she had started modeling for Neiman Marcus in Dallas but quickly moved into the world of New York and Paris fashion. She photographed well from any angle and wore clothes with an easy grace. The ready wit for which she had become famous was rather a gift for quick, deft characterizations, a quality inherited from her father. Though never an actress, her ability to banter and poke fun at herself had made her a favorite on TV variety programs.
She had never been sure whether she really loved Jay. From the first they had fitted into each other’s lives easily a
nd naturally. They liked each other and liked many of the same things, and he was at home anywhere. She had been happy with him, he seemed to love her, and when he had proposed she accepted.
Ballantyne interrupted her thoughts. “Your husband gave you no clue to his secret? Could it have something to do with the rug?”
“The rug that the man wanted to buy? It is a prayer rug…but what could a rug mean? I think it was just a talisman, a good-luck piece. I know it had been in Jay’s family for years.”
“A prayer rug, a rare one, can be worth as much as a valuable painting. And, believe me, I’d rather have one. I could talk for a year on the subject of rugs. But…”
Ballantyne was thoughtful. All he had said of rugs was true, yet somehow it did not make the kind of sense he was seeking. If Decebilus wanted something it would be worth millions, not thousands. Was it then the prayer rug of some religious leader? Something of importance in the Moslem world? He could think of no story of that sort, but such a rug might exist.
“Do you have the rug with you?”
She paused, still suspicious. “Not today. Jay asked me to keep it for him in Paris. When he wired me to meet him in Istanbul, he asked me to bring the rug…not under any circumstances to forget it.”
Villette turned to him suddenly. “What do you expect to get out of this, Ballantyne? You have admitted you sold me a stone that was not genuine—why should I trust you?”
“You need not trust me. Go to the police. Ask for Hamid Yalcinkaya, only him. Tell him what has happened, tell him of me, of the man on the beach, then get on the first plane and fly back to the United States.”
All Ballantyne could do was make his play. “Or you can see this through,” he said. “See it through with me…or with Decebilus. You will choose one of us, because he will give you no alternative and I will try to take it from him…whatever it is. I, however, will accept any deal you think is fair—a bargain, if you ask me.”
She arose suddenly. “I must go.” She extended her hand.
He took it, touching the fingers lightly with his lips. “Do you know the Pandeli?” he asked. “In the old town? Lunch with me there tomorrow…at twelve?”
She studied him coolly, then assented. “Very well, Ballantyne. At twelve.”
Volume 1: Unfinished Manuscripts, Mysterious Stories, and Lost Notes from One of the World's Most Popular Novelists Page 17
