Volume 1: Unfinished Manuscripts, Mysterious Stories, and Lost Notes from One of the World's Most Popular Novelists

by Louis L'Amour

  “And in the meantime…be careful.”

  She started away, then hesitated. “Do not forget that I have a pistol.”

  “Your eyes, Madame, are the greater danger.” He bowed, smiling a little.

  She laughed. “Ballantyne, I think you’re a nineteen-karat phony. You would lie in your teeth for money or a woman.”

  “Madame…let me assure you. Your money is safe with me. Until tomorrow, then?”

  The blue Maserati had been hidden in an angle of the wall. She pulled the car from its place of concealment and, with a rasp of exhaust, started slowly back toward the track.

  Rashid moved up beside Ballantyne, and there was no childishness in his face. “Treat her well. She is my friend. If not”—he drew a dagger from among his rags—“I shall have your heart.”

  The words were theatrical, the gesture boyish, borrowed no doubt from some story heard in the marketplace. But some stories are not to be taken lightly, for they form the instruction and discipline of a people, and the goatherd, boy though he was, meant what he said.

  “And do you take care,” Ballantyne warned, “if you are questioned, to know neither of us.”

  —

  A man could walk almost as fast as a car could be driven along the goat track, so he reached the village only a few minutes behind the Maserati. His battered Land Rover awaited him, hidden in a ruined camel shed.

  The Maharajah…or Jay, as Villette called him…was dead. And it appeared the only one who might keep Decebilus from attaining what he wanted was Villette herself.

  Nor had she taken Ballantyne’s warning seriously enough. There are some who will believe nothing ill of those they meet socially…and there are many who will accept anyone who has the money to put up a good appearance and be introduced by the right people. Leon Decebilus appeared to be what he wished people to see him as: the operator of a number of freighters and tankers, of a small airline, and, through various associations, several nightclubs and restaurants in Cairo, Alexandria, Athens, and Aleppo.

  That Villette knew and understood men, Ballantyne had no doubt. A beautiful woman becomes habituated to using her beauty, learns subconsciously, at least, that men are not only willing but eager to serve her. Her smile, her frown, her graciousness—all these can be used, almost without thinking, on all ages and types of men. None of this would have any effect on Decebilus.

  Prostitution had long been one of the sources of his income…the first stable source. Refugees were his stock in trade and with the shifting of borders, wars and civil wars, supply was never an issue. His orders shipped women, like so many head of cattle, from Marseilles to Genoa, Cairo to Tangier, Alexandria. He had no desire that could not be satisfied merely for the promise, or the threat, of a transfer from one better or worse brothel to another. There was no experience he could not have, or had not already had, for safe passage for a family or one more dose of heroin or hashish. Villette Mallory was a beautiful woman, but she would need to rely on other qualities if she was to defeat Decebilus.

  —

  Ballantyne drove swiftly and with the knowledge of many roads, and as he drove he worried over the problem as a dog worries a bone. He had too little, all too little with which to work.

  The sudden, unexplained flight of the Maharajah and his subsequent crash. The arrival of Villette in Istanbul, and the quickly arranged meeting with Decebilus. The man who came to Villette to buy a rug and was immediately murdered. It all meant something, yet what it was he could not guess.

  To put a period to the matter, Mustafa Bem and Barbaro had followed Villette to the ruin, inquired about her. Had they followed her to kill? Or merely to watch?

  Until he knew more, Ballantyne would assume that Villette’s rug was the joker in the deck. He had to get a look at it, one way or another.

  —

  By the time the outskirts of Istanbul were reached, Ballantyne was close behind the Maserati. Or rather, he was close behind the car that followed the Maserati.

  The battered Volkswagen had appeared from nowhere in the vicinity of Kartal, falling in behind the blue car, but clinging too close for a man experienced at his job.

  Ballantyne had been watching for the Renault, not a Volkswagen, and when he realized it was following Villette, he drew up during a crush of traffic and studied the driver.

  He was a stranger, yet hauntingly familiar. A narrow face, badly pocked, with a pointed beard and a trimmed mustache. The man’s shirt collar was greasy, the upholstering of the car torn and old. At the instant Ballantyne came abreast of him, the man’s coat gaped somewhat, revealing the butt of a heavy pistol.

  Falling back to a discreet distance, Ballantyne watched the Volkswagen trail Villette into the sweeping drive that led up to the looming modernist rectangle of the Istanbul Hilton.

  The stranger locked the Volkswagen, then almost ran to catch up as Villette went through the doors.

  Parking alongside the car, Ballantyne took time for a quick glance inside. An ancient cardboard valise, a few old newspapers, and a paperbacked American novel. Whoever the man was, he apparently could read English.

  Walking swiftly toward the hotel, Ballantyne stopped just in time to keep from being run down by the gray Renault. Behind the wheel was Barbaro, beside him Mustafa Bem.

  They drew up, and Mustafa Bem darted for the doors. Neither had paid any attention to Ballantyne.

  CHAPTER II

  Following Mustafa Bem inside, it became immediately obvious that although Bem knew the stranger, the stranger did not know him.

  The driver of the Volkswagen turned to glance back toward the entrance at the moment Mustafa Bem stepped through, and although the latter turned sharply away, the Volkswagen driver paid him no attention. In turning away, Mustafa Bem came face-to-face with Ballantyne.

  “So!” His eyes flared. “The wolves gather!”

  Indicating the driver of the Volkswagen, Ballantyne replied, “Decebilus must be hard up to bother with such as that.”

  “He is no business of yours! Stay out of this!”

  “Tell Dice that I’m in town, will you? He will be pleased, I am sure.”

  “He wishes nothing to do with you, Ballantyne, and consider yourself fortunate, for the next time he gives the word I shall kill you.” And then he added, “And do not call him Dice. You know he doesn’t like it.”

  Ballantyne strolled away and going to a booth, bought a newspaper. The dark-eyed girl who took his money scarcely moved her lips as she said, “Leon Decebilus is staying here.”

  Ballantyne’s face revealed nothing, but he was startled. For years Decebilus had stayed nowhere but at the Parc Oteli, formerly the town’s leading hostelry. Could the sudden change mean that he wished to be near Villette?

  “No,” the girl whispered when he asked if Decebilus’ arrival was unexpected, “he reserved a suite just one week ago today.”

  The same day the Maharajah of Kasur reserved his rooms. “Thanks.” He glanced at the paper. “Tell Johann I wish to see him.”

  “He expected you. He is in the barbershop.”

  The fact that Decebilus had reserved his suite on the same day as the Maharajah might be pure coincidence, but Ballantyne did not believe it for a moment. It was another small link in the chain of evidence tying Decebilus to the visit of the Maharajah and Villette.

  Suddenly a man was beside him, a slender blond man with a saturnine expression, neatly dressed in a dark suit and a snap brim hat. The man paused to light a cigarette, but as he lifted the match it served to cover the words he spoke from the corner of his mouth. “The Scylax is lying in the port of Galata.”

  “Thanks, Johann.”

  “Arrived last night…in ballast.”

  The blond man walked away and Ballantyne stared at his newspaper with unseeing eyes. The Scylax, named for an ancient Greek navigator of the Indian Ocean, was a freighter of Decebilus’ Green Star Line. To bring the freighter in ballast to Istanbul represented a contradiction for a shipping man as shrewd as Dec
ebilus; it would not pay to sail empty unless some very valuable cargo was expected.

  There were many pieces of the jigsaw, but fit them together as he might, they refused to represent any intelligible picture. And here in the lobby of the Istanbul Hilton were several of the pieces.

  Obviously the man in the Volkswagen wanted to watch or speak to Villette Mallory…and just as obviously, Mustafa Bem was here to watch for her…or for the Volkswagen man.

  Ballantyne had a theory that the way to defeat a careful enemy was to keep his plans from developing, and Leon Decebilus was a planner, a conniver. Shrewd, careful, and unemotional during the early stages of planning, Decebilus left little to chance. Yet if his plans became disturbed or frustrated, he was inclined to become enraged. And when aroused he gave way to fits of fury and brutality that could be shocking, a fact known to but few of those who now surrounded him. Ballantyne knew it, of old, and it was a gap in Decebilus’ armor that could be exploited. It was a very dangerous gap, however.

  Ballantyne had succeeded in outmaneuvering Decebilus on two previous occasions, each time by forcing him to move before he was ready. When such men move hastily they make mistakes, and the mistakes of others belong to the man prepared to seize what opportunity has offered.

  Now Ballantyne made such a move. Crossing the room, he walked directly up to the driver of the Volkswagen, and as he did so, he saw Mustafa Bem turn sharply toward him, a hand half-lifted as though to prevent the meeting.

  “My friend,” Ballantyne said quietly, “you are in great danger. Unless you are very careful you will be killed as was”—suddenly Ballantyne knew he was right—“as was your brother.”

  “Brother?” The Volkswagen man stared blankly at Ballantyne. “I have no brother.”

  “Perhaps your father, then? A tall old man in a black suit?”

  The man grabbed his sleeve. “What are you saying? Where is he?” The voice echoed in the glass and marble lobby.

  Heads turned. Mustafa Bem, his face pale with shock, had headed toward the exit. He had, however, to pass them in reaching it.

  “He lies dead on the sands below Eski Hissar,” Ballantyne said, speaking so only the Volkswagen man could hear, “of three knife thrusts in the back.”

  The man’s face was yellow and sick. “You are lying!” he gasped hoarsely. “It cannot be true!”

  “You may see for yourself.”

  “The woman! That foul—!”

  “She had nothing to do with it. He was killed by a man sent by Decebilus.”

  “Decebilus!” Again people turned to look.

  “It was he who gave the order,” Ballantyne said. Then, turning, he pointed at Mustafa Bem, who had just edged past them, and said, “But there is the man who actually killed your father!”

  Mustafa Bem sprang for the entrance and the Volkswagen man leaped after him.

  There was a wild scramble at the door as people rushed to either get out of the way or to see what was happening. Ballantyne stepped back, watching.

  Behind him a cool voice said, “You are a fool, Ballantyne, a pitiful fool.”

  Turning, Ballantyne looked into the eyes of the one man he really had reason to fear.

  It was Leon Decebilus.

  He was three inches over six feet with black hair and intensely black, piercing eyes. His cheekbones were high, the bone structure of his face massive. He wore a dark suit of excellent tailoring and material.

  “You could stay out of this,” Decebilus suggested, “and we could forget the past.”

  “You might forget it, Dice. I would not.”

  Ballantyne saw a dark flush of anger under the swarthy skin at Ballantyne’s use of the old nickname.

  “I never liked you, Ballantyne. You interfere with me and I shall have you killed.”

  “Again?”

  “You were lucky before. I could have you taken away, then drowned or burned.”

  “Aboard the Scylax?”

  Ballantyne saw the jump of fury in Decebilus’ eyes, and for an instant he thought the man would strike him. Instead, Decebilus hissed, “Stay out of this!” and turned sharply away.

  —

  Ballantyne went out into the night, stopping under the portico, the roof of which was the architect’s interpretation of a flying carpet. He shook a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket.

  Suddenly he saw the Volkswagen man coming back up the drive. He was perspiring freely and Ballantyne stopped him before he could reenter the hotel.

  “I would stay out of there if I were you. They will have you arrested.”

  The man stared at him from great, anguished eyes. “You are my friend, I think….Why?”

  “You have given me no cause to be otherwise, and Decebilus is my enemy. It is as simple as that.” He paused, then added, “Look, you are in trouble. Your father died because of the rug.”

  The man showed no surprise at the mention of a rug, accepting the connection without comment. “You are sure he is dead?”

  “Three stab wounds in the back. It is the method of Mustafa Bem.”

  “I shall kill them all,” the man said gloomily. “My father was a good man.” He looked up at Ballantyne. “He knew nothing of the rug until I told him. But for me he would still be alive.”

  “Do not blame yourself—we are all in God’s hands.” After an instant and keeping his manner casual, Ballantyne said, “Tell me about it.”

  He held his breath, expecting anger, suspicion, or that the man would walk away from him, but the Volkswagen driver was preoccupied with his own grief. “It was a dream. An impossible dream.” He turned large, sad eyes upon Ballantyne. “Ours is a poor family; it has always been a poor family.

  “We are weavers, and weavers have their own tales, whispered among themselves, stories half-real, half-fantasy, stories of rugs and magic and legend. To tell a tale comes naturally to a weaver, you understand?”

  “It was the story of a rug?”

  “Yes, and a story of my family and a knot, a knot that only we know how to use.”

  “A knot? You mean a weaver’s knot for a rug?”

  The man started to speak, then stopped abruptly, seeming to realize what he was about to do. He turned sharply and stared at Ballantyne, his eyes hard with suspicion. “You are not my friend! You want the secret for yourself!”

  “I can tell what you wish Madame to know. I can speak to her for you.”

  “No! I will tell nobody!”

  “Decebilus knows.”

  “It is impossible! Only a weaver could know! Only a weaver from—!”

  He broke off and strode away, his skinny legs covering the ground in long strides.

  Ballantyne swore softly. He had been close, very close…to what he had no idea, but it might have supplied him with part of what he needed to know.

  The sun had gone down beyond the Sea of Marmara, beyond the crumbled ruins of ancient Troy. He stood where he was, enjoying the cool air and the pleasant evening, trying to imagine what the story might be. He thought of the storytellers in the Old City, not far from where he himself lived. Which would be most likely to know and which the most likely to tell a foreigner if he did?

  He must move with extreme caution, for every step he took now was a danger. Leon Decebilus had never liked him, but for the past few years he had actively hated Ballantyne, hated him because of all the men Decebilus had known, Ballantyne was the only one ever to have seen him weak and frightened. Had it not been for Ballantyne, Decebilus would now lie dead under the searing desert sun.

  “Ah, Mr. Ballantyne!”

  Ballantyne turned to face Hamid Yalcinkaya. He was a man of medium height, extremely well built, with fine shoulders and a strongly made face. An officer of the police, he was also much more than that, for he acted as a liaison man between the highest powers in the government and the police. Whenever he took an interest in a case, it was sure to have international or political overtones.

  “Hello, Hamid. Late for you to be out, isn’t it? I mea
n, a growing boy and all that.”

  “I could go to sleep earlier, Ballantyne, if I was sure of just what you were doing. Not that I enjoy being suspicious of an old friend, but I know you too well.”

  Ballantyne hesitated. Hamid might have just the information he needed, but the man was shrewd and from anything Ballantyne might say he could construct some idea of what was involved. Ballantyne had no wish to cause an old friend trouble; nor did he wish to be troubled by him.

  At this stage he was not altogether sure whether he was thinking of Villette first, or of himself. To protect her from harm was a debt he owed: The few dollars he had bilked from her in Egypt had literally saved his life…but when it came to a treasure or a new source of profit, if such existed, he would have to do some thinking.

  “Now how do I keep you from sleep? I am out here only for a bit of fresh air.”

  “You should have found the air at Eski Hissar invigorating enough.”

  Ballantyne straightened his tie. So they knew about that? A little frankness then…just a little.

  “Well, she didn’t say no.”

  “Did she say yes?”

  “No.”

  Hamid chuckled. “The lady is very beautiful, and very expensive, no doubt. I mean no disrespect in saying that, only her friends spend freely, I believe.”

  “You mean Leon Decebilus?”

  “Old friends, aren’t you? You and Decebilus?”

  “Neither of us would use the term.”

  “And yet, you carried him out of the Empty Quarter. Three days, I believe, on your back.”

  “I should have left him there.”

  “You should have been a Turk. A Turk would have left him right where he was.”

  Hamid glanced at the tip of his cigarette. “What was all that inside just now? That business with Mustafa Bem?”

  “Keep the enemy worried, keep them afraid of what you know, of what you might do.”

  “It is a philosophy of which we Turks approve, though perhaps not in our best hotels….But why Decebilus? And just at this moment? Is it only because of the beautiful lady from America? Or is there something more? Something of which I should know?” Hamid paused. “How, for example, does it connect with a certain plane crash in Iran and the death of the lady’s husband?”