Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  They began to bargain again, but nothing was concluded on that day, for Gregorios had got what he wanted, and was anxious to reach home and to see me.

  Patoff and I, as usual on Thursday, had made a trip up the Bosphorus, and it was on this occasion that he first pointed out to me the hideous negro. He proved to be the same man I had seen once before, on our very first excursion. To-day he looked more ugly than ever, as he went ashore at Yeni Köj. There was a malignity in his face such as I have never seen equaled in the expression of any human being.

  “I wonder what we shall find out,” said Paul thoughtfully. “I have a very strong belief that he is the fellow who sold the watch. If he is, poor Alexander can have had but small chance of escape. Did you ever see such a diabolical face? Of course it may be a mere fancy, but I cannot rid myself of the thought.”

  “Balsamides will find out,” I replied. “He can handle those fellows in the bazaar as only an Oriental can.”

  It was not long before I heard the story of the morning’s adventure from Gregorios. I found him waiting for me and very impatient. He told his tale triumphantly, dwelling on the fact that Marchetto himself had never suspected that he was interested in the matter.

  “And who is Laleli Khanum Effendi?” I inquired when he had finished. “And how are we to get into her house?”

  “You never heard of Laleli? You Franks think you know Constantinople, but you know very little in reality. Laleli means ‘a tulip.’ A pretty name, Tulip. Why not ‘cabbage rose,’ or ‘artichoke,’ or ‘asparagus’? Laleli is an extraordinary woman, my friend, and has been in the habit of doing extraordinary things, ever since she poisoned her husband. She is the sister of a very high and mighty personage, who has been dead some time. She was married to an important officer in the government. She was concerned in the conspiracy against Abdul Azis; she is said to have poisoned her husband; she fell in her turn a victim to the conspiracy against Murad, and, though not banished, lost all favor. She managed to keep her fortune, however, which is very large, and she has lived for many years in Yeni Köj. There are all sorts of legends about her. Some say she is old and hideous, others declare that she has preserved her beauty by witchcraft. There is nothing absurd which has not been said of her. She certainly at one time exercised considerable influence in politics. That is all I know of her except this, which I have never believed: it has been said that more than one person has been seen to enter her house, but has never been seen to leave it.”

  “How can one believe that?” I asked skeptically. “If it were really known, her house would have been searched, especially as she is out of favor.”

  “It is curious, however,” said Gregorios, without contradicting me, “that we should have traced Alexander Patoff’s personal possessions to her house.”

  “What shall we do next?” I asked.

  “There are only two courses open. In the first place, we can easily catch the Lala who sold the watch, and take him to a quiet place.”

  “Well, do you suppose he will tell us what he knows?”

  “We will torture him,” said Balsamides, coolly. I confess that I was rather startled by the calm way in which he made the proposition. I inwardly determined that we should do nothing of the kind.

  “What is the other alternative?” I inquired, without showing any surprise.

  “To break into the house and make a search, I suppose,” answered my friend, still quite unmoved, and speaking as though he were proposing a picnic on the Bosphorus.

  “That is not an easy matter,” I remarked, “besides being slightly illegal.”

  “Whatever we do must be illegal,” answered Gregorios. “If we begin to use the law, the Khanum will have timely warning. If Alexander is still alive and imprisoned in her house, it would be the work of a moment to drop him into the Bosphorus. If he is dead already, we should have less chance of getting evidence of the fact by using legal means than by extracting a confession by bribery or violence.”

  “In other words, you think it is indispensable that we should undertake a burglary?”

  “Unless we succeed in persuading the Lala to confess,” said Balsamides.

  “This is a very unpleasant business,” I remarked, with a pardonable hesitation. “I do not quite see where it will end. If we break into the house and find nothing, we shall be amenable to the law. I object to that.”

  “Very well. What do you propose?”

  “I cannot say what would be best. In my opinion, Paul should consult with his ambassador, and take his advice. But before all else it is necessary to find out whether Alexander is dead or alive.”

  “Of course. That is precisely what I want to find out,” answered Balsamides, rather impatiently. “The person who can best answer the question is Selim, the Lala.”

  “I object to using violence,” I said, boldly. “I fancy he might be bribed. Those fellows will do anything for money.”

  “You do not know them. They will commit any baseness for money, except betraying their masters. It has been tried a hundred times. We may avoid using violence, as you call it, but the man must be frightened with the show of it. The people who can be bribed are the women slaves of the harem. But they are not easily reached.”

  “It is not impossible, though,” I answered. “Nevertheless, if I were acting alone, I would put the matter in the hands of the Russian embassy.”

  “Do you think they would hesitate at any means of getting information, any more than I would?” inquired Gregorios, scornfully.

  “We shall see,” I said. “We must discuss the matter thoroughly before doing anything more. I have no experience of affairs of this sort; your knowledge of them is very great. On the other hand, I am more prudent than you are, and I do not like to risk everything on one throw of the dice.”

  “We might set fire to the house and burn them out,” said Gregorios, thoughtfully. “The danger would be that we might burn Alexander alive.”

  My friend did not stick at trifles. Under his cold exterior lurked the desperate rashness of the true Oriental, ready to blaze out at any moment.

  “No,” I said, laughing; “that would not do, either. Is it not possible to send a spy into the house? It seems to me that the thing might be done. What sort of women are they who gain access to the harems?”

  “Women who sell finery and sweetmeats; women who amuse the Khanums by dressing their hair, when they have any, in the Frank style; women who tell stories” ——

  “A story-teller would do,” I said. “They are often admitted, are they not? It is almost the only amusement those poor creatures have. I fancy that one who could interest them might be admitted again and again.”

  Balsamides was silent, and smoked meditatively for some minutes.

  “That is an idea,” he said at last. “I know of such a woman, and I dare say she could get in. But if she did, she might go to the house twenty times, and get no information worth having.”

  “Never mind. It would be a great step to establish a means of communication with the interior of the house. You could easily force the Lala to recommend the story-teller to his Khanum. She could tell us about the internal arrangement of the place, at all events, which would make it easier for us to search the house, if we ever got a chance.”

  “If one could get as far as that, it would be a wise precaution and a benefit to the human race to convey a little strychnine to the Khanum in a sweetmeat,” said Gregorios, with a laugh.

  “How horribly bloodthirsty you are!” I answered, laughing in my turn. “I believe you would massacre half of Stamboul to find a man who may be dead already.”

  “It is our way of looking at things, I suppose,” returned Balsamides. “I will see the story-teller, and explain as much as possible of the situation. What I most fear is that we may have to take somebody else into our confidence.”

  “Do none of the ladies in the embassies know this Laleli, as you call her?” I asked.

  “Yes. Many Frank ladies have been to see her. But the
ir visits are merely the satisfaction of curiosity on the one side, and of formality on the other.”

  “I was wondering whether one of them would not be the best person in whom to confide.”

  “Not yet,” said Balsamides.

  And so our interview ended. When I saw Paul and told him the news, he seemed to think that the search was already at an end. I found it hard to persuade him that a week or two might elapse before anything definite was known. In his enthusiasm he insisted that I should answer John Carvel’s letter by begging him to come at once. As he was the person most concerned, I yielded, and wrote.

  “It is strange,” said Paul, “that we should have accomplished more in a single month than has been done by all the official searching in a year and a half.”

  “The reason is very simple,” I answered. “The Lala did not chance to be in want of money until lately. Everything we have discovered has been found out by means of that watch.”

  “Griggs,” said Paul, “Balsamides is a very clever fellow, but he has not thought of asking one question. Why was the Lala never in want of money before?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Because, in some way or other, he is out of favor with his Khanum. If that is the case, this is the time to bribe him.”

  “Very true,” I said. “In any case, if he is trying to get money, it is a sign that he needs it, in spite of our friend’s declaration that he and his kind cannot be bribed.”

  XIV.

  IT OFTEN HAPPENS, when our hopes are raised to the highest pitch of expectation, and when we think we are on the eve of realizing our well-considered plans, that an unexpected obstacle arises in our path, like the impenetrable wall which so often in our dreams suddenly interposes itself between us and the enemy we are pursuing. At such moments we are apt to despair of ourselves, and it is the inability to rise above this dejection at the important crisis which too often causes failure. After we had discovered the watch, and after Balsamides had traced it to the house of Laleli Khanum Effendi, it seemed to me that the end could not be far. It could not be an operation of superhuman difficulty to bribe some one in the harem to tell us what we wanted to know. In a few days this might be accomplished, and we should learn the fate of Alexander Patoff.

  It was at this point, however, that failure awaited us. The house of Laleli was impenetrable. The scheme to establish communication by means of the story-teller did not succeed. The old woman was received once, but saw nothing, and never succeeded in gaining admittance again. Selim, the Lala, ceased at that time to pay regular visits to Stamboul on Thursday, and Balsamides realized that he had perhaps not done wisely in letting him go free from the bazaar. We paid several visits to Yeni Köj, and contemplated the dismal exterior of the Khanum’s villa. High walls of mud and stone surrounded it on all sides except the front, and there the long, low wooden facade exhibited only its double row of latticed windows, overlooking the water, while two small doors, which were always closed, constituted the entrance from the narrow stone quay. Nothing could penetrate those lattices, nor surmount the blank steepness of those walls. Our only means of reaching the interior of the dwelling and the secrets which perhaps were hidden there lay in our power over Selim; but the Lala had no difficulty in eluding us, and either kept resolutely within doors, or sallied out in company with his mistress. It was remarkable, however, that we had never met him in charge of the ladies of the harem, as Paul had so often met him during the summer when Alexander had made his visit to his brother. We went to every place where Turkish ladies are wont to resort in their carriages during the winter, but we never saw Selim nor the lady with the thick veil.

  Meanwhile, Paul grew nervous, and his anxiety for the result of our operations began to show itself in his face. I had written to John Carvel, and he had replied that he was making his preparations, and would soon join us. Then Macaulay Carvel arrived, and, having found Paul, came with him to see me. The young man’s delight at being at last appointed to Constantinople knew no bounds, and he almost became enthusiastic in his praises of the city and the scenery. He smiled perpetually, and was smoother than ever in speech and manner. Balsamides conceived a strong dislike for him, but condescended to treat him with civility in consideration of the fact that he was Paul’s cousin and the son of my old friend.

  Indeed, Macaulay had every reason to be happy. He had succeeded in getting transferred to the East, where he could see his cousin every day; he was under one of the most agreeable and kind-hearted chiefs in the service; and now his whole family had determined to spend the summer with him. What more could the heart of a good boy desire? It was rather odd that Paul should like him so much, I thought. It seemed as though Patoff, who was inclined to repel all attempts at intimacy, and who at four-and-thirty years of age was comparatively friendless, was touched by the admiration of his younger cousin, and had for him a sort of half-paternal affection, which was quite enough to satisfy the modest expectations of the quiet young man. Yet Macaulay was far from being a match for Paul in any respect. Where Paul exhibited the force of his determination by intelligent hard work, Macaulay showed his desire for excellence by doggedly memorizing in a parrot-like way everything which he wished to know. Where Paul was enthusiastic, Macaulay was conscientious. Where Paul was original, Macaulay was a studious but dull imitator of the originality of others. Instead of Paul’s indescribable air of good-breeding, Macaulay possessed what might be called a well-bred respectability. Where Paul was bold, Macaulay exhibited a laudable desire to do his duty.

  Yet Macaulay Carvel was not to be despised on account of his high-class mediocrity. He did his best, according to his lights. He endeavored to improve the shining hour, and admired the busy little bee, as he had been taught to do in the nursery. If he had not the air of a thoroughbred, he had none of the plebeian clumsiness of the cart-horse. Though he was not the man to lead a forlorn hope, he was no coward; and though he had not invented gunpowder, he had the requisite intelligence to make use of already existing inventions under the direction of others. He had a way of remembering what he had learned laboriously which his brilliant chief found to be very convenient, and he was a useful secretary. His admiration for Paul was the honest admiration which many a young man feels for those qualities which he does not possess, but which he believes he can create in himself by closely imitating the actions of others.

  It is unnecessary to add that Macaulay was discreet, and that in the course of a few days he was put in possession of the details of what had occurred. I had feared at first that his presence might irritate Paul, in the present state of affairs, but I soon found out that the younger man’s uniformly cheerful, if rather colorless, disposition seemed to act like a sort of calming medicine upon his cousin’s anxious moods.

  “That fellow Carvel,” Balsamides would say, “is the ultimate expression of your Western civilization, which tends to make all men alike. I cannot understand why you are both so fond of him. To me he is insipid as boiled cucumber. He ought to be a banker’s clerk instead of a diplomatist. The idea of his serving his country is about as absurd as hunting bears with toy spaniels.”

  “You do not do him justice,” I always answered. “You forget that the days of original and personal diplomacy are over, or very nearly over. Plenipotentiaries now are merely persons who have an unlimited credit at the telegraph office. The clever ones complain that they can do nothing without authority; the painstaking ones, like Macaulay Carvel, congratulate themselves that they need not use their own judgment in any case whatever. They make the best government servants, after all.”

  “When servants begin to think, they are dangerous. That is quite true,” was Gregorios’ scornful retort; and I knew how useless it was to attempt to convince him. Nevertheless, I believe that as time proceeded he began to respect Macaulay on account of his extreme calmness. The young man had made up his mind that he would not be astonished in life, and had therefore systematically deadened his mental organs of astonishment, or the capacity of his menta
l organs for being astonished. As no one has the least idea what a mental organ is, one phrase is about as good as another.

  We had not advanced another step in our investigations, in spite of all our efforts, when we received news that the Carvels, accompanied by Madame Patoff and Chrysophrasia Dabstreak, were on their way to Constantinople. We had looked at several houses which we thought might suit them, but as the season was advancing we supposed that John would prefer to spend the remainder of the spring in a hotel, and then engage a villa on the Bosphorus, at Therapia or Buyukdere. At last the day came for their arrival, and Macaulay took the kaváss of his embassy with him to facilitate the operations of the custom-house. Paul did not go with him, thinking it best not to meet his mother, for the first time since her recovery, in the hubbub of landing. I, however, went with Macaulay Carvel on board the Varna boat. In a few minutes we were exchanging happy greetings on the deck of the steamer, and in the midst of the confusion I was presented to Madame Patoff.

  She was not changed since I had seen her last, except that she now looked quietly at me and offered her hand. Her fine features were perhaps a little less pale, her dark eyes were a little less cold, and her small traveling-bonnet concealed most of her thick gray hair. She was dressed in a simple costume of some neutral tint which I cannot remember, and she wore those long loose gauntlets commonly known as Biarritz gloves. I thought her less tall and less imposing than when I had seen her in the black velvet which it was her caprice to wear during the period of her insanity; but she looked more natural, too, and at first sight one would have merely said that she was a woman of sixty, who had once been beautiful, and who had not lost the youthful proportions of her figure. As I observed her more closely in the broad daylight, on the deck of the steamer, however, I began to see that her face was marked by innumerable small lines, which followed the shape of her features like the carefully traced shadows of an engraving; they crossed her forehead, they made labyrinths of infinitesimal wrinkles about her eyes, they curved along the high cheek-bones and the somewhat sunken cheeks, and they surrounded the mouth and made shadings on her chin. They were not like ordinary wrinkles. They looked as though they had been drawn with infinite precision and care by the hand of a cunning workman. To me they betrayed an abnormally nervous temperament, such as I had not suspected that Madame Patoff possessed, when in the yellow lamp-light of her apartment her white skin had seemed so smooth and even. But she was evidently in her right mind, and very quiet, as she gave me her hand, with the conventional smile which we use to convey the idea of an equally conventional satisfaction when a stranger is introduced to us.