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

by Unknown

  “We cannot help but admire it,” Papa said. “We are not using it. If you will pardon me, sir, it is a busy morning.… If there is something else, I can show you—”

  “There is nothing else you can show me. But you can tell me the name of the one who owns this rug?” A pause. “I can deal directly with him.”

  Sarkis said something to Papa in Armenian, and Papa’s face was suddenly stone. Papa said: “You are—Turkish?” There was no “sir” this time. Papa had spent his youth under the Turks.

  The man looked at Sarkis and Papa. If he felt any fear, he didn’t show it. But he must have felt it; they were related to me, and still I felt the gooseflesh form on my arms and neck. The two men who stood there near the safe were no longer rug dealers in an American city. They were no longer rational.

  “What does it matter?” the man said.

  All of Sarkis’ family had been massacred by the Turks. Papa’s sister had been killed by the Turks. What does it matter? the man had asked.

  “Answer me, damn you!” Papa’s voice was hoarse; it was a voice I had never heard before. His face was white. “You come into my store in this free country. You speak of my religion with contempt. You interfere in my business. You—”

  Now, the man was frightened as Papa stepped toward him.

  I was up quickly standing between them. I had my hands on Papa’s shoulders. “Please, Papa, no trouble—” I put an arm around him. “Your heart, Papa.”

  Sarkis said to the little man: “You had better go. You had better get the hell out of here quick.”

  The man surveyed us all. “I will be back,” he said. “You will see me again.” He turned abruptly and went out the door.

  Papa expelled his breath and sat down on a pile of rugs, gasping. His eyes were reminiscent. His mind, I would guess, was back in Sivas, under the Turks.

  Sarkis said: “I’m late, now. I must get back to the store. Be calm, Nishan. Do not think about the man.”

  Papa didn’t answer. His face was still white; he seemed to be having some difficulty getting his breath.

  I went to the washroom and got him a glass of water. Sarkis had left when I came back with it. Papa drank it slowly, his eyes watering.

  “You’re in America, now, Papa,” I said quietly. “You must forget the old country and the people you hated.”

  He nodded and looked up at me. “I am in America. Levon, one thing you must always, always be thankful for. One thing you must thank God for, every night. You are an American.”

  “It’s for me,” I agreed. “How do you feel, now?”

  “All right. Better.” He wiped his eyes. “Levon, what kind of business is this you’re in? What kind of people are these you’re dealing with?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I told him. “I’m being careful. Don’t worry about that. George Herro’s in the deal, too.”

  “Oh.” His glance traveled to my face. “George is getting old. You are going to be the new George Herro?”

  “Not if I can help it. The rugs I’m going to sell are worth anything I can get, Papa. Nobody has to be ashamed of asking big money for rugs like those.”

  “But you will sell to women?”

  “Some of them, I suppose.”

  “You’ve told Berjouhi this?”

  “No,” I said impatiently. “I’m not married to her, Papa. We’re not even engaged.”

  “So? All right. But you haven’t told me about everybody, Levon. You haven’t told me about Mr. Egan.”

  I stared at him. “Egan? What about him?”

  “I remembered this morning who I sold that Bokhara to, Levon. It was Mr. Egan. Twenty years ago I sold him that rug for his study.”

  I remembered Claire saying: “It would involve someone I don’t want involved.” I said: “I didn’t know Mr. Egan was involved, Papa. And maybe he isn’t. He might have sold that rug years ago.”

  Papa nodded. “Maybe. But I am going to ask around, Levon. Next time the Pinochle Club meets, I’m going to ask the dealers.”

  I thought of Herro saying: “They were bought through the years by a man of breeding and taste and discernment.” Mr. Egan was a man who could fit that description. Mr. Egan had a wife who controlled the purse strings. But I couldn’t see him as an accomplice to anything questionable.

  A little later, Papa went out to deliver a rug and I was alone in the store. I phoned Claire.

  I told her about the little man who’d been in.

  “He’s after it,” she said, “and that’s why he came to the store. He must have seen you take the other rug yesterday. He wants it pretty badly, Lee. He means to get it, one way or another. Our job is to see that he pays for it.”

  “It will be a pleasure,” I said. “Anything lined up?”

  “Yes. This afternoon. I’ve a customer I wanted you to show that Feraghan to.”

  “Good-looking customer?”

  “She’s lovely. She’s well over sixty—or I wouldn’t let you even talk to her, smarty. I’m changing the strategy, Lee. I think Herro will handle all the trade under sixty.”

  “We’ll talk about that when I see you,” I told her. “And I’ll probably see you about one-thirty. Will that be all right?”

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  When I turned from the phone, there was a man standing near the doorway just inside the store. He was a big man in a worn brown suit. He had a broad, pugnacious face and he didn’t look like a customer.

  “Mr. Kaprelian?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Lee Kaprelian. My father is out, just now.”

  He displayed a shield in his wallet. “Sergeant Waldorf,” he said, “out of Homicide, Mr. Kaprelian. I’m checking on an Henri Ducasse.”

  My breath was a little short. I said: “I read about him in the paper yesterday.”

  He nodded. “Knew him, did you?”

  “He’s handled some rugs for us. Or not exactly that. We’ve let him have some rugs on consignment and if he sold them, he’d pay us our price.”

  Waldorf seemed to be studying me. “Your price. But his price could be about anything, couldn’t it?”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said. “This is a strange business, Sergeant.”

  “I’m beginning to find that out. And I’ve heard of buyer’s strikes, too. But I can’t quite see murder as a means of combating inflation, can you?”

  “It would depend upon the customer,” I said, and managed to smile. “Is that your theory, Sergeant?”

  “No. But it’s Vartanian’s and Bogosian’s and Herro’s. They all told me about Dykstra. There seems to be a rug dealer’s agreement that Ducasse tried to stick Dykstra and Dykstra bumped him.”

  I breathed easier. This was a routine check. I said: “I’ve heard that, too. I don’t know much about Dykstra. My dad sold him a few pieces during the war, but I was in the army then, so I never met him.”

  He lighted a cigarette and watched the smoke for a moment. “And there’s another gent walking through this case, too. Little guy in a derby hat. He’s been hanging around all the dealers, but he didn’t leave any name, with any of them. Seen him?”

  “About a half an hour ago,” I said. “But he didn’t stay long. Papa found out he was a Turk. You almost had another homicide on your hands, Sergeant.”

  He smiled. “He doesn’t like Turks, huh?”

  “He came to this country to get away from them,” I said. “He spent his boyhood in Armenia.”

  “What do you think he was after? This little gent with the black derby, I mean.”

  I hesitated. I said: “He was very much interested in a rug we have in the safe. He wanted to buy it.”

  Now, there was interest in the sergeant’s eyes. He looked at me steadily. “Price?”

  “No—it wasn’t ours to sell. We’re just holding it for a customer.”

  “Valuable rug?”

  “Very.”

  “Who’s the customer?”

  Again, I hesitated. “I don’t like to say, Sergeant. I
don’t like to involve our customers in this kind of investigation.”

  “He won’t be involved,” the sergeant said, “unless he should be.”

  For the third time, I hesitated. But I’d opened the door to this line of questioning; it was too late to shut it. I said: “It’s a woman. A Miss Claire Lynne, who lives on the top floor of the Prospect Towers.”

  He put it down in a notebook he had. Then: “I suppose I’d better look at the rug. Not that it will mean anything to me. But I might have to identify it later.”

  I opened the safe and brought it out.

  He studied it for seconds, some awe in his eyes. He nodded and I put it away.

  “Anything else that might help, Mr. Kaprelian?”

  I thought of the Bokhara. I said: “That’s all, Sergeant.”

  “O.K. I think I’ll check this Miss Lynne before I go up against Dykstra. I’ll need all the ammunition I can get before I hit him.” He looked at me closely a moment. “Thanks.”

  I nodded, saying nothing.

  I watched him leave the store and climb into a car out at the curb. There was another detective behind the wheel of the car. When it pulled away, I went to the phone.

  Claire answered almost immediately.

  I said, “A detective was here, checking on Henri Ducasse. I told him about the rug, Claire.”

  A silence. Then in a low voice: “Which rug, Lee?”

  “The one in the safe. He’s on his way up to see you, now.”

  Something like relief in her voice. “O.K. I’m glad you called. Don’t forget—one-thirty.”

  I went back to repairing the Serapi. Which rug, Lee … It would involve someone I don’t want involved, Lee.… I remembered who I sold that Bokhara to, Levon. It was Mr. Egan.… But his wife, you know. His wife has the money, and …

  Mr. Egan had been described as a man of breeding and taste and discernment, if Herro had been talking about him. Maybe, all the rugs were Mr. Egan’s. That St. Louis story was too glib; one of the finest collections in the world was in St. Louis, and Herro would think of that town if he was looking for a fast answer.

  The clock above the safe read twelve o’clock, and I went back into the rear shop.

  “Time to eat, Selak,” I said.

  He didn’t look at me today. He didn’t smile as he had yesterday. He nodded, sulkily, and turned off the rotary-brush machine. I’d never expected to see Selak jealous of me.

  When I went back into the store again, I heard the machine start. Evidently, he didn’t have any appetite, today. Or maybe he didn’t want to leave a rug half done and full of soap.

  About twelve-thirty, Papa came in, and I told him about the deal I had for the afternoon.

  He looked unhappy. “You’re working on commission on this, Levon?”

  “That’s right. We’ll split the commission, Papa.”

  He waved that away. “No. Not those kind of sales.”

  “It’s an antique Fereghan,” I said. “You think I should sell it cheap?”

  He looked interested. “Green in the border?”

  “All Fereghans have that. It’s like velvet. Yellow, rose, blue, purple, violet, red. And they all blend. It’s an odd size, narrower than most.”

  He nodded. “Mr. Egan’s?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “It sounds,” Papa said, “like a rug he bought from Bogosian, years ago.”

  “Well, maybe it is, then. Maybe he sold it years ago.”

  “Maybe,” Papa agreed. “I took some rugs over to Grace to be repaired.”

  Grace was Selak’s sister, and she did our finer repairing. I didn’t say anything.

  Papa said: “She told me Selak was with you last night. You brought him home.”

  “That’s right.”

  Papa put a hand on my arm. “I’m glad he was with you. I was worried about you, Levon.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’m a big boy now.” I didn’t feel any more like Judas than Judas must have felt. “I think I’ll take Selak this afternoon if he’s finished the cleaning. This is a high-class sale, and I don’t want to be lugging the rug like some peddler.”

  “Sure,” Papa said. “Take the station wagon, too.”

  I went back to the washing room, where Selak was running the big squeegee over the rug, taking out the surplus water. “Don’t start another one, Selak,” I said. “I’ll need you after lunch.”

  He nodded, not looking at me.

  When I came back from lunch, he was sitting in the station wagon. He’d changed from the sweatshirt he wears for washing to a semi-clean white shirt. His hair was plastered in a crooked part.

  “Did you eat lunch?” I asked, as I climbed behind the wheel.

  He nodded, looking straight ahead. I cut out of the alley, and over to the Avenue, up the Avenue to Prospect.

  Using the station wagon, we didn’t need to stick to the streets designated for trucks. And it looked better than a truck for this business.

  The false summer weather still held. Most of the traffic along Prospect was toward the beach and the picnic grounds in the park. When I stopped in front of the Towers, I could see Claire up on the top-floor terrace. She waved, and I waved back.

  I told Selak: “You can come along. I’m going to pick up a rug.”

  He was still staring up at Claire.

  She met us at the elevator. She said: “I didn’t expect you’d bring a chaperone.”

  “I thought I might need one. Have you made the appointment?”

  She nodded. “For two o’clock. It’s Mrs. Harlan Cooke. Do you know her?”

  Mrs. Harlan Cooke was a woman of sixty who tried to look forty and looked eighty. “I’ve sold her a rug or two,” I said.

  We went into the apartment. Claire asked: “What do you think we could get for that Feraghan?” She paused. “George thought about six thousand—”

  “Maybe. And maybe more. I’ll get her reaction to the higher figure first.”

  She was looking uneasily at Selak. Selak’s heart was in his eyes. I took him into the room that held the rugs and helped him pull the rug from the pile.

  “Wait for me in the car,” I said. “I’ll be right down.”

  When he’d left, carrying the rug, Claire asked: “What’s the matter with him? Why does he stare at me like that?”

  “It’s spring,” I said. “It’s been a long winter.”

  She studied me. “It’s not spring for you, is it? You’re all business, today.”

  “That’s my training. The days for business, the nights for romance.”

  Annoyance was on her face. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? You’re different from—from last night.”

  “Maybe. Last night I hadn’t met the Turk with the derby nor Sergeant Waldorf. Last night, I didn’t know that was Mr. Egan’s Bokhara.”

  She was quiet. She was chewing her lower lip vexedly and thoughtfully.

  “I thought I was a partner,” I said quietly, “not a stooge.”

  “Lee—” She looked up pleadingly. “You’re not that. You know you’re not.” She took one of my hands in both of hers. “After you’ve seen Mrs. Cooke, come back. There isn’t time to explain it all now, but I will when you come back.”

  “All right,” I said. “But one thing before I go. How did you make out with Waldorf?”

  “How should I make out with him? He was investigating Henri Ducasse’s death, and I had nothing to do with that. As for the rug, I told him I’d had it for years. Which is a lie, but I didn’t think it was any of his business.”

  “We’ll talk about that, too, later,” I said. “Good-bye for now.”

  She was looking up expectantly. I kissed her and my legs got rubbery again, and I had a hunger I knew pilaff wouldn’t satiate.

  “O.K.,” I said, “it’s spring. But I’ll want the story just the same, Claire, when I come back. I’ll want it straight.”

  “You’ll get the whole story,” she said.

  CHAPTER THREE


  SOUL FOR SALE

  Mrs. Harlan Cooke lived in River Hills, the gold coast of this town of mine. She was a very careful woman with a dollar unless the dollar was to be spent for oriental rugs or male companionship. For these two, she would unlatch the roll. She was canny enough to try for both in the same deal. Henri Ducasse had been her boy, there.

  A maid opened the door and led the way into a mammoth living room, expensively and ornately furnished.

  Mrs. Harlan Cooke was waiting for us in here, posed graciously in a wing-back tapestry chair, smoking a cigarette through a long, ebony and gold holder.

  The room was dim; the illusion was almost complete at this distance. But it needed distance. As I came closer, the make-up was too obvious, the sag in her thin figure too evident. Ducasse, I was beginning to realize, had earned his money.

  “Back from the wars?” she said in a high voice. “It’s been a long time, Lee.” She came forward to greet me.

  “You haven’t changed,” I said. “Nor has this beautiful house. You’ve the most delicate and artistic taste in this town, Mrs. Cooke.”

  After that, the chiseling started.

  It was a battle. The old girl knew how to dicker, and she held the upper hand, being the buyer. But when Selak spread out the Feraghan, I saw the expression in her eyes as she looked at it and I knew it was just a matter of time. She wanted that rug.

  She got it, finally. For seventy-one hundred dollars, which was just four hundred under my opening price and eleven hundred higher than her opening offer.

  As she wrote out the check, she said: “I’d expected Mr. Herro to bring the rug. He’s still in town, isn’t he?”

  “I think so,” I said. “He was last night. He certainly—admires your taste, Mrs. Cooke. He insisted there was only one customer in town who had the background to appreciate that Feraghan. I would have waited for him to come back this afternoon, but Miss Lynne had another customer who wanted the rug badly, and I wanted you to have the first chance at it.” I smiled. “Regular customers first.”

  “Thank you, Lee,” she said, and tried a smile herself. But the makeup threatened to crack, and she killed it half-born. “I wish you would tell Mr. Herro that I’m still in the market for anything worthwhile, though.”