The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  She was gathering her courage. I waited patiently.

  “Like I said,” she continued, “I suspect the news killed poor Sabiha Hanım. My husband wouldn’t talk about it. He knows best, I suppose. It’ll become clear enough a week from now, when the corpse stinks to high heaven.”

  Her self-assurance was mind-boggling.

  “So what do you suggest?”

  She lowered her voice: “I happen to have a spare key. Sabiha gave it to me for emergencies. But I didn’t dare go into her flat alone. I couldn’t face the sight of a body. I’d go all funny.”

  My efforts had paid off. The stout, apple-cheeked lady had turned out to be a real diamond in the rough.

  “But if you don’t mind, we could go in together . . .”

  Bingo. The opportunity I’d been hoping for had landed right in my lap.

  Chapter 14

  Chubby Cheeks leading the way, we arrived in front of the neighbor’s door in no time. My companion raised her index finger to her lips, in a Shhh sign. We were, after all, on a covert mission. I slowly opened and closed my eyes, to signal my assent.

  Her mundane life had been enriched to no end. She fully intended to live it to the hilt. The key in her hand, she glanced to her right and left, then placed it in the keyhole. I watched her, smiling to myself. She looked at me like a heroine in a film hesitating about whether or not to launch a nuclear war. I gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, the last bit of encouragement she needed.

  She turned the key. Suddenly, the door sprang open on its own. Visible through the slightly ajar door was a stern man in a lead-gray suit. He was at most thirty, but his suit made him look older. He looked at us, expressionless. The impassive face was nevertheless threatening. We stared back, dumbfounded.

  “I’m the neighbor from across the hall. I’ve come to see Sabiha Hanım.”

  For the first time, her pink cheeks were pale. But though her face may have been drained of color, the strident voice still maintained a sense of authority and purpose.

  The face turned to me. The blank look only made him seem more menacing. I settled on a weak grin. I didn’t expect an invitation to be immediately forthcoming. Whoever this gorilla was, he was no friend. I could have flattened him with two chops, but the hand concealed behind the door most likely held a gun. There was also no way of knowing if anyone else was inside. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  “I called on her last night. When she didn’t answer, I got worried. Maybe she needs something . . .”

  Chubby Cheeks’s voice was wilting under the staring eyes. She was most definitely frightened. Taking a step back, she leaned against me.

  “She’s resting.”

  Out of the immobile face came an incredibly muffled, but unmistakably countertenor, voice. Despite the obvious effort to speak as gruffly as possible, it was a reedy, comical sound. He had succeeded admirably in balancing the funny voice with an icy gaze. The door was shutting in our faces. I reached out and blocked it. For the first time, the face assumed a meaningful expression: Who do you think you are?

  “We’d like to see her,” I insisted.

  “She’s resting.”

  And the door shut. I listened carefully. Not a sound came from inside. No footsteps or voices. He was still at the door, listening to us.

  We were stunned into momentary silence.

  “But who is that man?” asked Apple Cheeks. “I’ve never seen him. I know all her relatives. He’s never been here before.”

  That the man looked out of place in that house was undeniable. But she couldn’t have expected me to answer her question.

  “If you don’t know him, how am I supposed to?”

  She made a quick decision, and pressed the bell. Because we were being observed through the keyhole, the door opened immediately. We saw the same expressionless stare.

  “I . . . Excuse me, but who are you? I’ve never seen you before.” It was exactly the sort of question you’d expect from the ever-curious Chubby Cheeks.

  “A relative.”

  And the door shut again. We remained outside. Astonished and disappointed, we returned to her flat.

  The obnoxious girl greeted us at the door. She had seen everything.

  “Mummy, who was that man?”

  “I’ll give you such a smack! Like I know who it is. And didn’t I tell you to wait inside?”

  Letting loose a series of mutinous “Yahhh’s,” she clickety-clacked her slippered feet into the flat. We returned to the living room and took our former seats. The disappointing failure to find Sabiha Hanım, to learn anything about her whereabouts, had taken its toll. We sat, deflated and silent. In our emotions and situation, Apple Cheeks and I had much in common.

  “A relative. That’s a lie. Definitely a lie. I’d know who he was, wouldn’t I? I’ve seen everyone who comes and goes. And it’s not like she has many relatives. There are just a few who visit. We’ve been neighbors for all these years. I swear that’s the first time I’ve laid eyes on him.”

  I believed her.

  “So he’s definitely not a relative,” I said.

  “I wonder how Sabiha Teyze is. Now I’m getting worried.”

  This from the woman who only moments ago had declared the old lady paralyzed at best, dead at worst. Now she’s concerned?

  “So what are we going to do now?”

  I wasn’t thrilled with the cloying, proprietary use of the word “we.”

  “Should we tell the police?”

  “Definitely not,” I objected. “What would we tell them? That there’s someone in a neighbor’s house claiming to be a relative, and that they should come verify it? They wouldn’t even bother coming.”

  “That’s true . . .”

  We sat thinking. Chubby Cheeks toyed with the neighbor’s key. It was attached with a single ring to a plastic coffee-colored key chain.

  “I may as well make some tea. It’ll help us concentrate.” She strode off to the kitchen, key in hand.

  Events had taken a strange turn. A bodyguard of some sort had been stationed in Sabiha’s house. I didn’t know who he was working for, but he most certainly was not there on his own initiative. Whether or not Sabiha was alive or dead was no longer of critical importance. The photos and letters had been found, or were about to be. My part in all of this was over. The identity of whoever had killed Buse, and the motive for doing so, would remain a mystery. Perhaps the death of the upstairs neighbor, Hamiyet Hanım, really was unrelated.

  My hostess carried in the tea tray and began serving cake, speaking all the while. I can’t say she was making sense. It was more like thinking aloud. Her busy mind was spinning its wheels over the relatives and acquaintances of Sabiha Hanım and Fevzi, their exact blood connections, what they did, where they lived, and even what they looked like. I was drowning in a long list of names, places, professions, and descriptions. Her audible thoughts succeeded only in muddling up my decidedly more quiet and systematic thought process. I fixed a pleasant smile onto my face, the classic sort you see in photographs, and closed my ears.

  “But you aren’t even listening to me!”

  She was right, if overly demanding. I hadn’t been listening.

  “I’m sorry, I was lost in thought.”

  “Well, why weren’t you talking, then? Tell me what you were thinking.”

  If I had wanted her to know everything that was running through my head, I would have been talking, not thinking. There was no sense in trying to explain this philosophical point to her. She knew nothing about the blackmail. There was no need for her to know. I couldn’t decide whether or not to tell her about the photos. Perhaps I could jog her memory; she might recall one of Fevzi’s youthful adventures.

  Every single one of our girls has a close female friend. They are generally of the sort referred to as “ladies”: unmarried and sweet, but not at all attractive. They’re reasonably well dressed and well maintained, and while not contenders in the femme fatale category, they tend to have respectable car
eers. A broker or bank administrator, or perhaps a deputy manager. An executive secretary, accountant. At most, an attorney or small business owner. When it comes to practical matters, to the stuff of daily life, these ladies know no rival. Their private lives, however, are disastrous at best; nonexistent at worst. Our girls confide in their lady friends. Every detail is shared, including length, girth, and position. The ladies listen transfixed, making the vicarious experiences their own. I don’t believe these ladies ever have the chance to relate stirring, intense stories of their own, however.

  Buse/Fevzi may have enjoyed such a friendship with Apple Cheeks, relating to her girlhood friend the explicit details of her most private and passionate encounters. The neighborhood girl, cheery but ugly, with repressed feelings and limited experience, would have been the ideal confidante for someone like Fevzi.

  “Look,” I said, “there are a few things I haven’t told you. I didn’t want to frighten you.”

  She held her breath, all ears. I summarized the events for her.

  “So that’s what happened. They snuffed out Sabiha, too. Ayol, if you’d only told me we were face to face with a killer. Now we’re just sitting here. My God! Oh, my God . . .”

  She clasped her hand over her mouth to suppress a scream.

  “I’ve got to find those letters and photos,” I continued. “There’s no other way to find out who killed Buse. That is, if they haven’t already found the photos . . .”

  “I’m terrified. The killers are right next door. I’ve got a little girl. What if something happened to her!”

  As she remembered her daughter and the potential danger, she jumped out of her chair. There was no sign of color on those cheeks; nor a hint of a smile. Even that shred of appeal was gone.

  “Sevgi! Baby, come here quick! Where are you? Come here right now . . .”

  The “baby” appeared and was duly clasped to her breast, shielded from harm. You’d have thought a pathological killer was in the same room.

  “I’ve got to call my husband. And we must inform the police.”

  The detective adventure was rather short-lived, abandoned at the first sign of real trouble. Faced with such panic, there was nothing I could do. I decided to let matters take their course, and simply looked on as she dialed the police.

  Chapter 15

  She was unable to reach her husband. It was the busiest time of day for the law courts. We waited together for the police to arrive. She didn’t have the courage to wait alone with her baby. She frenziedly, but rhythmically, bounced her naked feet inside her slippers. I noticed that her fleshy heels were well cared for. As is always the case when waiting for something, time seemed to slow down, nearly stopping altogether. She twisted a lock of her daughter’s short, curly hair. Then, once she had succeeded in tangling it into a fleecy mess, used her fingers to comb it out. As the hair was pulled tight, the small face grew increasingly tense. Just as baby reached breaking point and was preparing to bellow, the lock of hair would be released, and a pointless and proud smile would spread across her face.

  I occupied myself with trying to decide what and how much to tell the police when they arrived. The involvement of the law might be useful, at least in terms of locating Sabiha Hanım. What’s more, we could learn the identity of Stone Face, if he was still there.

  What Chubby Cheeks would reveal to the police was an entirely different matter. I regretted having told her about the possibility of blackmail over the letters and photos, even revealing my theories about the situation. But now there was no taking it back. By remaining there with her, I would at least know exactly what she told the police, their reaction to the information, and whether or not they planned to start an investigation. Beginning with the thumb of my left hand, I began pulling back my cuticles, a finger at a time.

  Finally, the doorbell rang. My hostess released her daughter’s head.

  “The police!” she cried out, breath rushing out as she hopped to her feet. In her mind, at least, the arrival of the police meant the end of all our troubles. She clearly believed her churned-up life would return to its former stillness and simplicity, bringing her peace of mind.

  It was indeed the police. A pair of them. The short potbellied one wasn’t much to look at, but his young partner was a thing of beauty. He had light brown hair, and he fastened his deep hazel eyes on me, looking me up and down. Had me sized up in a split second. The corner of his mouth curled into a half smile.

  Aynur summarized events for the short, old one; the handsome Casanova and I continued giving each other the once-over. Height, weight, lips, nose, expression, hands—I couldn’t detect a single flaw. His chin was strong, his nose a promise of better things to come. A tuft of chest hair peeked out from his short-sleeved, open-necked shirt. As he swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple rose and fell. His hands were large and clean. Now, if only he hadn’t been wearing a uniform, I would have been ready to go. I don’t like uniforms, and I have a particular distaste for police uniforms.

  Chubby Cheeks slowly explained everything, relishing every last detail. Her cheeks flushed with excitement, she looked like her old self.

  “There’s a murderer in the flat across the hall,” she was saying. When she finished, the policeman turned to me. I was forced to abandon my flirting with the partner. The old one seemed to be expecting some sort of clarification.

  “I came to visit Sabiha Hanım. When she wasn’t at home, I came here.”

  I underscored the validity of my explanation by thrusting the bottle of cologne in the direction of his eye.

  They asked who I was. I was more than willing to cooperate, and told the favored one my name, my telephone number, and my address, slowly spelling out each and every figure and letter.

  “Her son is a friend of mine,” I added. “I’m a bit worried about her.”

  “We’ll have a look,” said the potbellied one. “Would you like to register a complaint?”

  I wasn’t sure. Should I lodge a formal complaint or not? Ignoring the face of Apple Cheeks, whose jowls seemed to sag in astonishment, I elected not to.

  We went out into the corridor together. Their radio receivers crackling nonstop, the policemen led the way to the opposite flat, where they rang the bell. Naturally, it didn’t open.

  They pressed the bell again. Still nothing. I had a sense of déjà vu as I recalled ringing the bell of the upstairs neighbor the previous night.

  “Wait a minute, I’ve got a key,” said Aynur as she raced back to her flat. The police and I were left on our own, exchanging glances. Potbelly really could have kept his eyes to himself. And he reeked of sweat. My guy, on the other hand, smelled of soap and aftershave lotion.

  When the key arrived, “This means we have to fill out an official form,” Potbelly explained.

  “But she’s my neighbor. She’s the one who gave me the key. Just make sure it’s safe; I’ll open the door for you. And if anything happens, remember that my husband works at the court.”

  Filet Mignon Face silenced both the policemen with this little speech. She stretched out her hand, offering Potbelly the key.

  “Here you go . . .” When he hesitated, she added, “Go on, now, open it . . .”

  The fact that the police didn’t even bother to withdraw their revolvers was an indication of how seriously they took us. They’d arrived at a flat in which, over half-empty cups of tea and crumb-filled plates, a housewife and a pansy had notified them of a possible murder. If it hadn’t been for the dead neighbor upstairs they probably wouldn’t have bothered coming at all.

  The door opened. Inside, everything was still. But a mess. Even a blind woman wouldn’t have lived in such disorder. For the first time, the police looked somewhat sober. They finally raised their guns.

  The one in front called out, “Police! Put up your hands!”

  There was no response. Neither a human voice nor an answering gunshot.

  The police searched every room. Even the contents of the refrigerator had been spilled ou
t onto the floor. The room that must have been Buse’s as a teenage boy, posters of heartthrobs still on the walls, had been ransacked. Whatever these people had been looking for, they must have found it. I couldn’t have done a more thorough job myself. Some of the posters had even been torn from the wall.

  Strangest of all was the absence of Sabiha Hanım, either alive or dead. If she had been killed, there would surely be some evidence of it on the scene. The two cops were busily trampling any such evidence. My guy was called Kenan. Every time he bent over the fabric of his trousers stretched even more snugly over his backside. I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. A thick notebook of some kind was clearly outlined in his right back pocket. I wished it wasn’t there. Still, one must make do at times like these.