The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  She was smiling. “I’ve been admiring that rug in the window.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said. I hadn’t moved since coming through the door. I just stood there, like some oaf, staring.

  “It certainly is. It’s a Sarouk, isn’t it?”

  I came forward, now. We lived on the same plane for the moment. “It’s a Sarouk,” I agreed.

  “I’m not sure it would go with my furnishings, though,” she said doubtfully. “The place is almost too modern, if you know what I mean.”

  “Perhaps a Bokhara, or a Fereghan, then,” I suggested. “They work in very well with modern decoration.”

  “Perhaps—” she said. “I’ve got a Bokhara now. I mean a real one. There’s so much confusion about Bokharas, isn’t there? The real ones are called Khiva, sometimes, or Afghanistan. This was really made in Bokhara.”

  “You’ve been reading a book,” I said.

  Her laugh was music. “I have. For the past two weeks. You see, up until a year ago, I had no interest in orientals, at all. But a friend of mine died and left me these rugs. I kept them in storage until a month ago. But you’re not interested in all this, are you?”

  I wanted to tell her I was interested in anything she said. I said: “It’s very interesting. It’s possible you might have some very valuable rugs in the group.”

  Which was bad business, but I wasn’t thinking about business.

  “There’s one,” she said, “that could be valuable. It’s an antique, I’m sure. I’d like you to have a look at it.”

  “I’d be glad to,” I said.

  “This afternoon?” she asked, and handed me a card.

  There was no reason why my legs should feel weak at that. She wanted an appraisal. Whatever I’d read into those two simple words hadn’t been intentional on her part, I was sure.

  “This afternoon,” I agreed. “Would two-thirty be all right?”

  “Two-thirty would be fine,” she said. The smile again, and she was gone.

  At the curb, there was a Caddy convertible, and I watched her climb into that. I watched it until it disappeared up the street.

  Papa would be unhappy, I knew. A girl with a Caddy convertible admiring the Sarouk and I hadn’t sold her a thing. But I didn’t care; I was looking forward to two-thirty.

  When Papa came back and I told him about our visitor, he didn’t look unhappy. He put his head on one side and studied me.

  “You will stick to business, Levon. Maybe, it’s because you look so much like Tryon Power?” He smiled slyly.

  “It’s Tyrone, not Tryon, Papa,” I said patiently. “And there’s no resemblance, none at all.”

  “Does the mirror lie? In the washroom there’s a mirror. Why don’t you look?”

  “Don’t kid me, Papa,” I said. “She was driving a Caddy, a new one, a convertible.”

  He shrugged. “You might as well take the station wagon. Then you can take the Sarouk along. How can she tell it won’t go with modern unless she tries? Take the Sarouk along, Levon. Selak will go with you, to carry it up.”

  “I don’t think she wants the Sarouk,” I answered.

  “It’s time for your lunch,” he said. “We will talk of it after lunch.”

  I went out to lunch. I still had her card in my hand. The name was engraved Claire Lynne. The address was penciled on the card, and I recognized it; the Prospect Towers. That meant money.

  And the fact that the address was already penciled on the card indicated that she’d planned the appraisal before she entered the shop. Which dimmed the day only a little.

  I don’t remember what I had for lunch. I don’t even remember everything Papa told me before I left for the Prospect Towers. But I took the station wagon. I took Selak along, and the Sarouk.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CONSIGNMENT ON MURDER

  The Prospect Towers was only about ten years old, a towering, modern apartment building of glass and white glazed brick.

  The apartment of Claire Lynne was on the top floor, a studio apartment, a story and a half high. This would be the most expensive floor in the building with a terrace overlooking the bay.

  It was modern, all right, but not obnoxiously so. Soft colors and bleached woods. The immense living room was carpeted; there were no orientals in here.

  Claire Lynne was wearing black lounging slacks, and a white blouse. The blouse was low-necked, and I felt that weakness in the legs again.

  “The Bokhara’s in here,” she said, “in the dining room.”

  I followed her across the carpeted expanse to the L at one end of the room. Here, separated from the living room by a low wall, at right angles to the living room, was the dining room. Here was the so-called Bokhara.

  Finely spun wool, compactly woven. Octagons on a background of Turanian red. A beautiful, finely finished piece, with a sheen that comes only from wear.

  “Well?” she said.

  “A lovely rug, and fine for modern furniture,” I answered. “Any dealer would call it a Royal Bokhara, because that’s the name they go by, in the trade. It’s from the Turcoman group. It’s a Tekke. The real Bokhara is called Beshir in this country.”

  She didn’t seem surprised. “That’s what I was told,” she agreed. “The man I got it from told me just what you have.”

  I bent down again. There was a stain running through the red, darkening it. “It should be cleaned,” I said.

  She didn’t seem to be listening. “I think you’re qualified,” she said, “to look at another rug I have.” She seemed thoughtful.

  I rose and smiled at her. “This was a test, Miss Lynne? You wanted to get my reaction to this one first?”

  She smiled right back at me. “That’s right. The other rugs are in here.”

  I followed her back into the living room and through that to the entrance hall. From there, she led me to a fairly large room that seemed to be an unfurnished guest room. There was a flat pile of rugs on the floor in here.

  I went through them, one by one, identifying them as well as I could. There were some antiques and semi-antiques in this pile. There was a lot of money on the floor in here, all in wool.

  When I’d finished, I said: “You said ‘another.’ That would mean one. Which one were you referring to, Miss Lynne?”

  She opened the door to a closet. “In here.”

  I reached in and brought it out. I unfolded it, and stared.

  I’d seen some fine pieces through the years, silk and wool and metallic. But this was far beyond any of those. This was the kind the old timers talked about—the inspired work of a master weaver, an antique prayer-rug.

  It wasn’t big, but it could easily be priceless.

  She said: “Name it.”

  “An antique. A Persian, could have come from Kashan, but I wouldn’t be sure. I wish my father could see this.”

  “That’s why I had you come up,” she answered. “You can show it to him. I want you to put it in your safe, if you would. You have a safe for your fine pieces, haven’t you?”

  I nodded. “For our silks. This—do you know what this is?”

  “I think I do,” she said. “You’ve heard of Maksoud of Kashan?”

  I nodded. “He lived about four hundred years ago. The finest of the Persian weavers.”

  “That’s right. His masterpiece is in the South Kensington Museum in London. It’s called the Ardebil Carpet. His name is woven in the corner of the rug, in Arabic.”

  I nodded and looked down at the Arabic inscription on this rug. I looked up to meet her smile.

  I said: “I understand he spent the better part of his life weaving that one in London. Thirty-three million knots. He wouldn’t have much time for anything else.”

  “But if he had?”

  I shook my head. I realized I’d been holding my breath and I expelled it, now.

  “I think we ought to have a drink,” she said, “don’t you?”

  “I could use it,” I said.

  We went back into the
living room. I kept seeing that rug, I kept hearing the words, Maksoud of Kashan. And, for some reason, I kept remembering the blot on the dining room Bokhara.

  I had Scotch with water. She drank rye. She sat on an armless love seat. I sat straight across from her, on its twin.

  I couldn’t quite understand her. I had the impression she’d been coached for her role this afternoon. Her information was too glib and detailed, too “bookish.” We get customers like that once in a while, who spout information verbatim from one or the other books on the subject.

  While I was thinking these thoughts, I was looking at her, and that was an unmixed pleasure.

  “You clean rugs at your place, Mr. Kaprelian?”

  “We do. I’ve a man waiting downstairs. I’ll have him come and get that Bokhara.”

  She nodded.

  “I brought the Sarouk along,” I said, “but it would be too big for the dining room. I can have him put one of your other rugs down in there.”

  “Fine,” she said, and studied her drink.

  She was still looking thoughtful. She still hadn’t said what was on her mind, I felt sure.

  Finally, she said: “I’m not buying any rugs. I’m selling.”

  “The market’s not too good,” I said, “but of course, for rugs like those in that room …” I shrugged.

  “The market’s as good as the customers,” she said. “I’d like you to sell those rugs for me on commission. I’ll give you the leads.”

  “We’ll be glad to try.”

  “I want you to sell them, not the firm. You see, the customers will be mainly women.”

  I frowned. “I don’t follow you, Miss Lynne.”

  “Don’t be modest,” she said, and chuckled. “Oh, Lee, there’s a mirror right down there at the end of the room. You can’t be that blind. No one could be that naive.”

  I must have blushed like the village virgin, for my face was hot, my collar tight. In my discomfiture, the fact that she’d known my first name and used it didn’t register right away.

  I said: “We do some wholesale business, Miss Lynne. We have a few dealers who sell rugs that way. I don’t think I’d want to be—”

  “You’ve sold Henri Ducasse some rugs. Rather, you’ve given them to him on consignment, haven’t you? And he’s paid you after he sold them?”

  Ducasse was a Frenchman who specialized in the widow trade. I nodded slowly.

  “Do you realize the kind of money he was getting for your merchandise?”

  “I’ve heard of a few deals.”

  “Well, Henri’s aging. He’s beginning to get that mummified look. He’s not the man he was.”

  “And you think his shoes would fit me? You’d like me to become one of those—” I shook my head. “I don’t know what to call him.”

  “Call him smart,” she said quietly. “And call him rich. Because he’s both of those.”

  What she was asking me wasn’t exactly dishonest, though it might be considered unethical. I looked at her, and realized I’d be spending some time with her, if I accepted the offer.

  I said: “I’ll get the man up here to pick up the Bokhara.”

  “You haven’t answered me, Lee.”

  “I want some time.” I rose.

  “Get the man up,” she said. “Take the Bokhara along. Perhaps you’d better wrap up that prayer-rug inside of it. It’s not the kind of piece to show just everybody, is it? It’s too valuable to be advertising indiscriminately.”

  I went down and got Selak, and brought him up the back way. I helped him move the furniture in the dining room. Selak couldn’t seem to get his eyes off Miss Lynne. When he first entered, he stared at her. All the time we were working, he continued to glance at her almost hungrily.

  I brought the prayer-rug out, and laid it in the center of the so-called Bokhara.

  Selak’s attention wasn’t divided any more. He knelt, to feel its velvet texture. In Armenian, he said: “One of the old ones. No rugs like this today. One of the old ones.”

  “One of the old ones,” I agreed. “What kind, Selak?”

  He started to answer, and then his eyes got crafty. I might be buying this rug. He wasn’t going to build it up in front of the seller. He shrugged, but he couldn’t take the admiration out of his eyes as he looked at it again.

  “Kashan,” he said.

  Maksoud had lived in Kashan. It was like calling a Rembrandt an Amsterdam.

  When he’d shouldered the rugs, and left, Claire said: “Why did he stare at me like that? He gave me the shivers.”

  “Selak admires two things,” I told her. “Beauty and quality.”

  Her smile was mocking. “In that case, it would be my beauty.”

  “Now, you’re being modest,” I said. I wanted to reach out and pull her close. I wanted to do a lot of things that wouldn’t be good business or good manners. “I’ll let you know about—about the deal,” I said.

  She put a hand on my arm. “Come back tonight. There’ll be somebody here I want you to meet.”

  “I’ve a date,” I said.

  “It’ll be worth your while,” she said. “After tonight, you can decide. I think you’ll decide in my favor.”

  I could smell her perfume and her face was close as she looked up. I like to think there’s no hay in my hair, but I felt like Selak at the moment.

  “All right,” I said. “About eight?”

  “About eight.”

  The door closed and I was walking down the carpeted hall to the elevator. Her perfume was still with me, but it might have been only in my mind.

  In the station wagon, Selak waited. “Keghetsig,” he said, which is as close as I can come to the American spelling. In any event, it means beautiful.

  “Beautiful,” I agreed. “Both the rug and the girl.”

  He nodded.

  I was no child, despite the way Papa treated me. I was no child, but I had a child’s sense of guilt as we drove back to the store.

  Papa was busy with a customer as we drove around in back to unload the rugs. Selak kept the Bokhara in the washroom; I brought the smaller rug into the store.

  I opened the safe, and then decided to let Papa see the rug first. He would see it eventually, anyway; there was no reason to try to hide it from him. Nor was there any reason I should feel involved in whatever history it might have. It was just that damned unreasonable sense of guilt.

  Selak came through from the back, carrying the Sarouk as the customer left.

  “So she didn’t want it?” Papa said.

  I shook my head.

  He started to say something, and then he saw the rug near the safe. He came over to stare at it. He knelt to study, to finger it, to turn it over. He was murmuring in Armenian too low for me to hear.

  Then he looked up. “Levon, where did you get this?”

  “She had it. The customer. She wants to keep it in our safe.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a rug like this, outside a museum, outside a private collection. Where did she get it, Levon?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  He was looking at me sharply. “Who is this woman? You think I wouldn’t know if there was a rug like this in town? How long has she been here? Who is she?”

  “You know as much as I do, Papa,” I said. “Her name is Claire Lynne and she lives in the Prospect Towers.” I told him about some of the other rugs I’d seen, the antiques and semi-antiques.

  He shook his head, and looked down again at the rug. “Silk warp and weft. Wool pile. Kashan, antique. But these Arabian letters?”

  “Why don’t we ask Sarkis,” I suggested. “Sarkis can read Arabic.”

  He nodded. “Sarkis can read Arabian. But I don’t want him to know we have this rug. Levon, I don’t want anyone to know we have this rug in the safe. The Marines we should have, to guard this rug.”

  Reverently, Papa put the rug away while I went over to get down a couple of books from the shelf above his desk.

  In one I read
: The Ardebil Carpet was the lifetime work of the greatest of all Persian weavers, Maksoud …

  In the other: It is estimated that it took ten weavers more than three years to weave the famed “Ardebil Carpet,” credit for which goes to Maksoud, the weave master, who supervised …

  Both books were considered authentic. There was no reason to think he hadn’t woven the one now in our safe. There aren’t more than three or four rugs in the world signed by their creator. If this one was genuine …

  “Books,” Papa said. “What are you going to learn about this business from books?” He tapped his head and breast. “Don’t you know—here and here—when you see a masterpiece? Do you have to look everything up?”

  “I was looking up the Ardebil Carpet,” I said.

  “Ardebil—from the mosque, you mean.” He stared at me. “You think Maksoud?”

  Selak came in from the washroom, then, looking troubled. I heard the word “Bokhara” and “blood” but the rest was too garbled for me.

  Papa nodded, “A Bokhara will bleed. They must be washed carefully, Selak. Careful, you must be.”

  Some more I couldn’t understand, and then Papa went back to the washroom with Selak.

  It was quiet in the shop. Outside, on the street, people went by, traffic went by. But it seemed unusually quiet in the store.

  When Papa came back in, his eyes were questioning. “A Bokhara will bleed, but not blood it won’t bleed, Levon.” He looked tired. “What has happened, today? This woman, this rug—” He extended his hands, palms up. “What are you hiding from me?”

  “I’ll know more after tonight,” I said. “I’m going back there tonight.”

  His face was grave. “The dance is tonight. The Junior League of the A.G.B.U is having their spring dance tonight, Levon. You aren’t going with Berjouhi?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe I can get there, later. Sam will take Berjouhi, and I can meet them there, later, maybe.”

  Sam was Sarkis’ boy. Sam was my rival. And Berjouhi? She’s a lovely, quiet girl. I’d been going with her, more or less, for three years. If Papa had had his way, we’d be married, right now.

  “You promised you would take her? You are going to break your promise to her?”