City of Whispering Stone

by George C. Chesbro

  “Zahedi’s hot air may have been resented enough to have him killed.”

  Darius looked at me strangely. “Why do you say that?”

  “Zahedi himself has been missing since the last week in February. When Ali’s group hired a private detective to find him, the detective got his back broken for his trouble.”

  Darius was flipping through the pages of Khordad’s notebook again. It wasn’t warm in the office, but I noticed that the edge of his collar was damp. “I still find it hard to believe that Mehdi would be taken seriously,” Darius said tightly. “But then, revolution is not a game for children.”

  From the tone of Darius’ voice, I suspected that Ali’s contempt carried more sting than Darius cared to admit. “There’s nothing else you can tell me?”

  “I can only repeat myself,” Darius said, suddenly fixing me hard with his eyes. “The best advice I can give you is to drop this matter immediately. Iranian politics is a rough, dirty business; whatever your client is paying you, it’s not worth your life. A man like Hassan Khordad will kill you with no more thought than he would give to crossing the street. And he’s protected by your own countrymen. Don’t expect your murderer to be punished.”

  I felt a chill as I thought of John Simpson. It was true that nobody, with the exception of Phil Statler, seemed to want Khordad found, and that included the police. And Statler’s reasons were strictly personal, considerations of honor and pride that many would argue belonged to another, more innocent age. I had a number of easy outs, but wasn’t inclined to take any of them. I had a case. Rather, the case had me; a familiar, dark spider inside my psyche was weaving an insidious, invisible web spun from my own very special needs.

  Darius rose and placed his hand on my shoulder. “No good can come of this, my friend. Believe me when I say the cards are stacked against you.”

  I thanked Darius for his concern and left. At my office I checked with my answering service and was told that Neptune had called and wanted me to call her back as soon as possible. There was also a hand-delivered letter from Walter Manning, the chairman of my department. It was typed on official university stationery, with a handwritten note at the top.

  Dear Bob,

  Problems. Here’s a draft of a letter I’m supposed to send you.

  Dear Dr. Frederickson:

  It has been brought to my attention that you are dividing your time between your contracted teaching duties and your well-known nonacademic pursuits. Specifically, it has been reported to me that you are spending an inordinate amount of time as a private investigator. After careful consideration, the Chancellor and I must conclude that this type of activity is not conducive to the pursuit of academic excellence.

  I would appreciate it if you would call my secretary for an appointment at your earliest possible convenience to discuss this matter. In the meantime, may I take the liberty of suggesting that your chances for contract renewal would be enhanced if you were to devote full time to your teaching duties.

  Sorry. What can I say?

  Walt

  I crumpled the letter and made the wastebasket on the first toss. I found it interesting that someone who wanted me off the case had taken the trouble to talk to the Chancellor. The power play had drifted down to Walt Manning. I dismissed the letter from my mind and called the number Neptune had left. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hi, beautiful. It’s Mongo.”

  “Precious. Where have you been? I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Never to worry, m’dear. Everyone who knows me will tell you I’m indestructible.”

  “Lucky is what Garth calls you. Listen, I can’t understand how Garth could have let you spend a night in jail. He’s a policeman, isn’t he?”

  I laughed. “He couldn’t have gotten me out of that jam if he were the District Attorney.”

  “Well, I’m really interested in your investigation. I mean, here you’re looking for an Iranian, and I’m Iranian. I’d like to help you in any way I can.”

  She’d called at a bad time; actually, it was a good time made bad by the fact that I was tempted. I cradled the receiver under my chin, took out my notebook and flipped open to the address I’d copied from the business card that had been found on John Simpson’s body. It was the Iranian Import-Export Company, located in a commercial area on the Lower East Side. “Garth wouldn’t like the drift of this conversation,” I said.

  “Garth won’t know about this conversation. Come on, Precious.”

  “It’s a heavy case, Neptune.”

  “But there must be something I can do that’s safe. After all, I speak the language and you don’t.” She paused, and I was too slow to fill in the silence. “Come on,” she continued urgently. “I can tell by your voice that you can use my help.”

  I drummed my fingers on the desk, then said, “I have to check out something calling itself the Iranian Import-Export Company. Give me an idea of something I can talk about besides rugs.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll come with you.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Precious, there are thousands of things you could talk about, but they’ll know you’re a phony in two minutes. I can talk all afternoon—and believe me, Iranians love to talk with other Iranians. You’ll do much better with me along. Now, I’ll expect you to pick me up in fifteen minutes. And if you don’t, I’ll be very upset. See you in a few minutes. Bye-bye.”

  7

  I’d had no intention of picking up Neptune when I’d hung up the phone, but slightly less than a half hour later I was buzzing her apartment. For one thing, Neptune was a hard woman to say no to, and she was obviously intrigued by the disappearance of Hassan Khordad: none of which would have made any difference if not for the fact that she probably could be very helpful on this particular errand, and I didn’t see how a quick look-see at an import-export company in the middle of the day could be forbiddingly dangerous. I could always come back for any serious business.

  I began regretting my decision the moment I rang the buzzer, and my unease increased when I saw the seediness of the area in which the company was located; it wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where you’d bother with a showroom. Neptune seemed uncomfortable too; she laughed and joked as always, but her good humor seemed forced, a bubbling exterior masking tension. Once I stopped and suggested she take a cab back, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I didn’t feel like arguing, and decided I’d get the business out of the way as quickly as possible. Eventually we both fell into silence.

  The address I was looking for turned out to be a ramshackle seven-story building crowding the East River. I placed its date of construction at around the time of Columbus; its red brick facade was turning to blood-colored sand before the onslaught of the city’s corrosive air. In the rear was a parking lot strewn with litter and separated from the river by a rusted iron fence.

  The directory in the lobby indicated that the Iranian Import-Export Company was on the fourth floor. There was a choice between a sick-looking elevator and a dimly lighted stairway that might have been copied from an illustration in a gothic novel. Feeling lucky, I decided we’d take our chances with the elevator.

  The building might be falling apart, but business was brisk on the fourth floor; a coffee cart pushed by its consumptive-looking attendant rumbled through the halls. I found the administrative offices at the end of the corridor, knocked once on the frosted glass door and walked in.

  A pretty, braless blond looked up and smiled. “May I help you?”

  “My name’s Frederickson, and this is my assistant, Miss—uh—Hafez.”

  The secretary raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Like the poet?”

  “Right.” I knew I’d gotten the name from somewhere.

  “May I ask the nature of your business?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. We might be interested in a large consignment of Persian rugs.”

  “And ghandeils,” Neptune added. “If they’re the right price, of course.”

  The w
oman picked up the telephone on her desk and pushed a red button. “Mr. Bannon? A Mr. Frederickson and Miss Hafez here to see you.”

  “Time for you to leave,” I said, turning quickly to Neptune. I took a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and held it out to her. “I’ve decided I want to handle this deal by myself.”

  Neptune understandably looked bewildered. “But I don’t—”

  “Take a cab. I’ll call you later.”

  “Mongo,” she said imploringly, hurt in her eyes, “what’s the matter?”

  “Get out!” I said sharply, shoving the bill into her palm and closing her fingers around it. “I’ll explain when I call you!”

  To my great relief, Neptune—stunned but compliant—turned and went out the door. The embarrassed secretary ushered me into the inner sanctum.

  Orrin Bannon looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. I recovered first; the hand he shoved toward me was wet, and the smile on his face might have been lifted from a cheap makeup kit. “Fancy meeting you here,” I said easily.

  “Frederickson,” Bannon said tightly. “It’s nice to see you again. I forgot to tell you how much Soussan and I enjoyed your company the other evening.”

  “You fooled me completely.”

  “Soussan scolded me severely when we got home.”

  I went to the window and looked down; the parking lot was below me, slightly blurred by the smoke-colored air. A rutted dirt road led from the lot to a dump directly beside the dark, sluggish waters of the river.

  “I was told there were two of you,” Bannon said softly.

  “My assistant had to go home.”

  “I didn’t know you were a Persian-carpet fancier, Mr. Frederickson.”

  “Did John Simpson like Persian rugs?” I turned in time to watch the changes take place on Bannon’s face; he ended wearing the expression of a man who’s just been kicked in the groin. I tried to keep it that way. “He was here, wasn’t he? John Simpson was right here in this room!”

  Bannon swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s this John Simpson?”

  Aside from a tic that had suddenly appeared in the right corner of his mouth, Bannon seemed to be regaining his composure. I went after him again. “You know goddamn well who John Simpson is—or was. He’s the man who got himself killed trying to track down a young man who’s been calling himself Mehdi Zahedi.” I paused for effect. “Zahedi’s real name is probably Nasser Razvan,” I continued, invoking the name Simpson had circled on the Iran Air passenger list.

  Bannon blanched, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a broken yo-yo. “You must be crazy,” he said unconvincingly. “We meet once and here you are in my office talking nonsense. If I remember right, you were looking for some missing circus performer.”

  “Hassan Khordad. Was he one of your imports?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His nose and the area around his sideburns had turned a flame-colored red.

  “You know Hassan Khordad. You may even have gone to The Santur with him once or twice. You were afraid the dancer would remember, so you slipped her a hundred dollars not to talk to me. You should have been more generous; two hundred more loosened her right up.”

  “Who’re you working for, Frederickson?”

  “The Hassan Khordad fan club.”

  “Well, freak, I say you’re a smart-ass. And I don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

  “You’re somehow tied in with Hassan Khordad and Mehdi Zahedi. That means you probably had something to do with the murder of John Simpson.” I pointed out the window toward the water. “There’s the river where Simpson was found; right on your doorstep. A very convenient place to dispose of an unwanted body. Why Simpson, Bannon? What was it he found out? And where the hell is Hassan Khordad?”

  Bannon was trying to appear calm, but the panicky glitter in his eyes betrayed him. His knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of his desk. “An import-export company would make a convenient cover for an espionage ring,” I continued. “It would be easy as hell to shuttle information back and forth with whatever legitimate goodies you handle. Somehow, Simpson found that out when he connected you with Mehdi Zahedi; maybe you’d been keeping an eye on Zahedi for your friend Khordad. Whatever Simpson found out was enough to get him killed. I don’t know who’s protecting you, and I can’t prove anything yet, but you’d better believe I’m sure as hell going to try. I’ll begin by writing a few letters to Senators and Congressmen. I think we may already have enough to warrant a Congressional investigation. What do you think?”

  “That’s enough, Frederickson.”

  My initial reaction to the sight of the gun in his hand was elation that I’d apparently struck a moving target dead center. Then the fear came. “Don’t be more of an idiot than you already are, Bannon. You shoot off that forty-four and you’ll deafen the whole floor. You’ll have one hell of a time explaining why there’s a dead dwarf bleeding all over your expensive carpet.”

  “The room’s soundproofed,” Bannon said with a touch of pride. “No one will hear.” He picked up the phone on his desk and pushed a button. He mumbled something in Farsi, just slowly enough for me to catch my name.

  “It still means you’ll have another body to dispose of,” I said, staring into the single eye of the gun. Loaded guns pointed in my direction make me say silly things: they hadn’t had any trouble getting rid of Simpson, and I was considerably smaller. I started to maneuver for position. The gun followed; I stood still. “If you’re going to kill me, the least you can do is tell me what this is all about. What happened to Khordad and Zahedi?”

  Bannon said nothing as he sat back down in his chair and leaned on the desk. The gun didn’t waver, and that was enough to convince me he knew how to use it. I might have tried a quick roll up against the desk, but that could have brought things to a head: my head. I didn’t want to rush things. For the moment, Bannon didn’t seem in any hurry to kill me.

  “Were you recruited from the beginning, or did you just kind of fall into this line of work?”

  “This country could learn a lot from Iran,” he said, nervously tugging at a sideburn. “There’s order there; niggers don’t riot and kikes don’t run things.”

  “God save us from the screwball amateurs,” I said.

  Bannon flushed and rose from his chair. He looked as if he wanted to come around from behind the desk and hit me with the gun. I’d have liked that; I was sure I could take him at close range. But the problem became academic when the door opened and two Iranians entered the office.

  One was tall and frail-looking; the ravages of smallpox had left his face looking like a map of the moon. His partner, on the other hand, had somehow found room for what I estimated to be upwards of two hundred and fifty pounds on a five-foot-six frame. His face was puffy and jaundiced, lined with broken veins. He was constantly belching and breaking wind; I doubted he was invited to many social functions. They were a decidedly unmatched pair.

  I was surprised to see that their presence had done nothing to tranquilize Bannon; if anything, Bannon’s face was even paler, and his hands had begun to tremble. I wondered what he was afraid of.

  I laid on one of the Persian insults Darius had taught me. My pronunciation must have left something to be desired; the fat man farted, while his partner began to circle to my left. I shifted my feet, knowing that if they both got close enough to me at the same time, I might be able to make a move. What they didn’t know about this dwarf could kill them.

  Fatty said something to Bannon in Farsi and took the gun. I planted my right foot, ready to pivot, but it was too late. The other man had already stepped behind me and had one of his bony forearms across my windpipe. The edges of my vision immediately began to blur. I drove my elbow back, aiming for his groin, and missed. By this time he had a chloroformed rag over my nose and mouth. He eased the pressure on my windpipe and I involuntarily sucked in the sickly-sweet fumes. I rode a long, screami
ng siren down into a spongy pit that smelled like a hospital.

  8

  “Wake up, dwarf.”

  Hassan Khordad’s voice was soft, almost gentle, with a thick regional accent. However, his face was even uglier than his publicity photos indicated, and I told him so. He smiled without mirth and stepped closer to me. His right arm dangled lifelessly at his side, as though it were on vacation from the rest of his body.

  “I’m not going to waste words, dwarf,” Khordad said in the same soft tone. “Who sent you after me?”

  “Local One-Twelve of the Weight Lifters’ Union. It seems you haven’t paid your dues.”

  His left hand flicked out and caught me across the mouth; it had been a casual, easy swing, but it rattled my teeth and made my ears ring. For a moment I thought I’d lose consciousness. A few blows like that in the right places could kill a man; I’d have to try to watch my mouth.

  I was bound to a chair, my arms stretched painfully around the back of the chair and my ankles lashed to the legs. I feigned dizziness while I tested the ropes. Whoever had tied me had done a fairly competent job, but I was confident that with a little muscle control, I could get out. If I had the time. The trouble was that Hassan Khordad acted like a man in a hurry, and he had company. The two Iranians who’d done a number on me in Bannon’s office were standing against the wall to my left. The emaciated one had his arms crossed, while his obese partner continued to belch, covering his mouth alternately with one hand, then the other. Still, even with one arm dangling useless at his side, Hassan Khordad was obviously the man in charge.

  The furnishings and paintings on the walls of the room I was in spelled money. The door to the room was closed, so I couldn’t see into the rest of the house, but I judged from the oaken beams in the ceiling that it was old.

  Khordad snapped his fingers and the man with the scarred face went to a dresser in the corner, opened a drawer and produced a large yellow oilcloth. It appeared that Khordad had certain sensibilities; he didn’t want to get blood on the carpets. But I was wrong. The thin man took the cloth into another room, then returned, grabbed himself between the legs and whispered something into the fat man’s ear. Both men laughed; they were making me very nervous.