And he immediately began his investigation, “If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . now, let me see, on the last night of his life, the murder victim slept in which room?”
Dear Uncle and Shamsali Mirza, virtually in chorus, objected, “Murder victim?! . . . Dustali Khan?”
In the voice of someone who catches a man red-handed, the detective shouted, “When I said ‘murder victim,’ how did you know I meant Dustali Khan? Let us continue . . .” and he immediately turned to Aziz al-Saltaneh, “Show me the murder victim’s room.”
Dear Uncle wanted to object again, “Sir . . .”
But the detective didn’t let him interrupt. “Silence! Every form of interruption of the investigation is forbidden!”
With a show of grief Aziz al-Saltaneh said, “God bless you, sir, how should a poor woman like me know which room they put my late husband to sleep in . . . if I’d known I wouldn’t be in this mess now. Perhaps Mash Qasem . . .”
The detective asked, “Who is Mash Qasem?”
Mash Qasem, with his head bowed, said, “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I’m Mash Qasem, your humble servant.”
The detective scrutinized him suspiciously.
“If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . who told you to tell lies . . . so you really want to tell lies, do you? Answer! Answer! Speak, speak! They’ve taught you to tell lies, have they? Now, quick, immediately!”
“Well now, why should I lie? You haven’t asked me anythin’ yet!”
“Then why did you say ‘lie’?”
“Why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . it’s just four fingers to the grave . . . when did I say a lie?”
“I’m not saying why did you say a lie. I’m saying why did you say ‘lie’?”
Aziz al-Saltaneh interrupted, “Mr. Deputy, sir, forgive him . . . it’s his habit, whatever anyone asks, he says ‘why should I lie’.”
“Well, Mr. Mash Qasem, where did the murder victim sleep on his last night?”
“Well now, why should I lie? In this room the murder victim . . .”
The detective stared at Mash Qasem over the top of his pince-nez and shouted, “Then you admit there is a murder victim? That a murder occurred?”
Dear Uncle Napoleon angrily shouted, “Sir, are you putting words in my servant’s mouth?”
“You, be silent! Even if this man is under normal circumstances your servant, he is now a witness!”
“But you are making this poor devil . . .”
“Silence! Mash Qasem, take me to the murder victim’s room!”
Mash Qasem gave Dear Uncle a helpless look and set off toward one of the rooms. The detective and Aziz al-Saltaneh, Dear Uncle and Shamsali Mirza, who was on tenterhooks, and Qamar and I set off after them. As soon as we entered the room Deputy Taymur raised his arms, signalling everyone to stop and be silent. “If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . let me see! Where are the murder victim’s bedclothes?”
Mash Qasem answered, “Well now, why should I lie? That mornin’, when I saw that Dustali Khan wasn’t there, I collected ’em up.”
The detective was silent for a few moments. Suddenly he grabbed Mash Qasem’s chin with two fingers and shouted, “Who ordered you to collect the murder victim’s bedclothes? Eh? Eh? Who? Who? Answer quickly! Quickly!”
Mash Qasem, who was utterly confused, said, “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave . . .”
“Lies again, eh? Who told you to tell lies? Eh? Eh? Answer, answer, quick, quick, immediately, now!”
Red in the face, Shamsali Mirza said, “Officer, this is a completely new method of investigation. By confusing people you’re trying to put words in their mouths.”
“If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . please do not interfere . . . tomorrow simply ask here and there what kind of a man Deputy Taymur is! No murderer has been able to withstand my international system of surprise attack. Now you, Mr. Mash Qasem, you haven’t answered my question! Who ordered you to collect the murder victim’s bedclothes?”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . in the mornin’s me and old Naneh Bilqis collects up all the bedclothes. Yesterday we collected up Mr. Dustali Khan’s, too.”
“The murder victim’s bedclothes?”
“Yes, that’s right . . .”
“Aha! If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . for the second time you’ve confessed that Dustali Khan is this murder victim . . . if you’ll permit me to suggest . . . we’ve made a lot of progress, we’ve made a lot of progress: the fact of a murder has been established, but the murderer . . .”
Dear Uncle objected, “Officer, this is meaningless chatter, you . . .”
“If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . you, be silent! Mr. Mash Qasem, you said that in the mornings you collect the bedclothes? Who gave you this order? Your master? His wife? This man? That man? Who? Silence! It’s not at all necessary for you to answer! Who was the last person to see the murder victim? You, Mash Qasem? Answer! Quick! Quick! Did you see Dustali Khan before he was murdered? It’s not necessary for you to answer. If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . why did Dustali Khan sleep here? Didn’t he have a house and a life of his own?”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave . . .”
Dear Uncle Napoleon jumped into the conversation, “The night before last, Dustali Khan till very late . . .”
“You, be silent! Mash Qasem, answer my question!”
Mash Qasem’s mind was in a complete tangle. “What did you ask?”
“I asked why the murder victim slept here instead of going to his own house. Answer! Quick, quick, quick! Eh? Why?”
“Why should I lie? Everyone was here. Mr. Asadollah Mirza was here, Mr. . . .”
“And who might Mr. Asadollah Mirza be? Answer! Quick, quick.”
“Asadollah Mirza’s one of the Master’s relatives . . .”
“Is he related to the murder victim?”
“Yes, he’s also a relative of the murder victim.”
Dear Uncle Napoleon ground his teeth in fury. “God damn you and your murder victim! Idiot! Blockhead! Have you any idea what you’re saying?”
In a miserable voice Mash Qasem said, “Sir, it’s not my fault, this detective’s got me all confused. I wanted to say that Mr. Asadollah Mirza’s . . .”
Staring fixedly at Mash Qasem’s eyes, the detective cut him short, “Tell me a little about Asadollah Mirza!”
“Well sir, as God’s my witness, poor Asadollah Mirza’s not done nothin’ wrong!”
“If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . when a murder occurs I suspect the whole world . . . anyone could be the murderer . . . the Master . . . this gentleman . . . that gentleman . . . this boy . . . even you! It’s possible you killed Dustali Khan! . . . Yes, you, you . . . confess! Come clean! I promise that we’ll be lenient in your punishment . . . quick, quick, eh?”
Mash Qasem was terrified and furious at the same time; he shouted, “Me, a murderer! God in heaven, why me and not them?”
Deputy Taymur brought his huge face close to Mash Qasem’s and shouted, “Aha! ‘Them,’ you say . . . and who are this ‘them’? Speak! Speak!”
“Well now, sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I . . . I mean to say that I . . . I just kind of said it! You was talkin’ about Mr. Asadollah Mirza, so how all of a sudden . . .”
The detective once again cut him short, “Yes, yes, Asadollah Mirza . . . what kind of a man is he?”
Shamsali Mirza, who could hardly speak with rage, said in a strangled voice, “I ought to bring it your esteemed attention that Asadollah Mirza is my brother.”
“If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . so he’s your brother, sir! And can’t a brother of yours be a murderer? Couldn’t this As
adollah Mirza of yours have killed Dustali Khan? And just why are you interfering in my investigations? Eh? Answer, answer! Quick! Quick!”
Shamsali Mirza was so furious he was on the point of fainting. He opened his mouth to say something but the noise of the garden door and the loud sound of Asadollah Mirza’s voice gave him no opportunity.
“Moment, moment, what’s going on here? Are we talking about Dustali Khan’s noble member again?”
Everyone present said under their breath and virtually together, “Asadollah Mirza.”
Deputy Taymur gave a little jump. Then he stood still in one place. By raising his arms he signalled everyone to be quiet and muttered, “Well, well! Well, well! Asadollah Mirza; the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime. Silence! Absolute silence! It is forbidden to breathe!”
SIX
SINCE ASADOLLAH MIRZA couldn’t hear any sound from within the house, he stood for a few moments waiting on the threshold of the main entrance. Then he called, “Hey! Anybody home? Is my brother Shamsali here?”
Deputy Taymur, keeping his hands up to indicate absolute silence, went quietly toward the door of the room and said in a loud voice, “Yes, he’s here . . . everyone’s here. Please come this way, sir.”
Dear Uncle Napoleon had previously told everyone except Asadollah Mirza about the detective’s arrival. Asadollah Mirza had gone to his office and so he knew nothing about the detective’s coming. When he saw an unfamiliar face in the doorway he said, while with both hands he adjusted the knot of his bow tie, “Moment, are you the Master’s new servant?”
And before hearing an answer he went on, “That poor Mash Qasem, he was a good man. I suppose he’s been sacrificed to Dustali’s noble member, too!”
Deputy Taymur ground his teeth together in indignation, but said mildly, “Please do come in . . . please come this way.”
Somewhat surprised, Asadollah Mirza came over to the room and entered it. “Well, well, hello, hello . . . let me guess, another family council’s been called? So why are you all standing here? Let’s all go through to the other room and sit down.” And then he said to Taymur, “And you run along and tell them to make tea.”
Shamsali Mirza said in a strangled voice, “The gentleman isn’t a servant . . . he’s Deputy Taymur, a detective from the police.”
Asadollah Mirza, who had been on his way to the next room, stopped and said, “I do apologize! Perhaps the gentleman’s come about the disappearance of Dustali! By the way, Mrs. al-Saltaneh, hasn’t Dustali been found? Where can the poor wretch be?”
Before Aziz al-Saltaneh had the opportunity to answer, Deputy Taymur began his attack, “Yes, yes, this is the question: where can he be? You, my dear sir, don’t happen to have any news? You don’t know where he could be?”
“Moment, moment . . . now I remember . . . yes, yes, I do know one thing.”
The detective brought his huge face close to Asadollah Mirza and shouted, “Quick, quick, immediately, now, say where, where?”
Dear Uncle Napoleon and Shamsali Mirza tried, in such a way that the detective wouldn’t notice, to signal to him to stay silent, but Asadollah Mirza was in his own world. With a mysterious face he said, “Is there a reward involved?”
“Perhaps, perhaps, quick, now, immediately answer; tell me quickly!”
“If you really promise to give me the reward for finding Dustali Khan, I think I can say that fortunately he’s very nearby . . .”
As he was saying these words he started searching through his pockets. “That’s strange! Which pocket did I put him in . . . moment, moment, I thought I’d put him in this pocket! Perhaps he’s in my inside pocket!”
Deputy Taymur turned red as a tomato with rage. Through gritted teeth he said, “So that’s how it is! I see . . . murder . . . concealing the corpse . . . insulting a representative of the state while executing his duty . . . hindering the course of a legal investigation . . . instead of that bow tie, I’m very soon going to see a hangman’s rope around the gentleman’s neck!”
Asadollah Mirza was somewhat taken aback and stared in astonishment at Deputy Taymur’s huge face. During these moments both Dear Uncle Napoleon and Shamsali Mirza were signalling to him from behind the detective’s back. By bringing the right hand down like a blade on the left wrist and then by immediately raising both hands they were telling him to say nothing. Even I realized very well that they meant Asadollah Mirza was to say nothing about Aziz al-Saltaneh’s attempt on her husband or about the rest of the affair, but Asadollah Mirza didn’t pay much attention to their signals and kept on staring in astonishment at the detective. Deputy Taymur, who was well aware of the effect of his threats, added, “The sooner you confess the better it’ll be for you! Answer, quick, now, immediately, how did it happen? Quick, immediately, answer!”
“Moment, moment, now really moment! I’m to confess? What have I done that I should confess? Ask his wife, she’s the one who was about to cut it off!”
Deputy Taymur suddenly gave a little jump. He raised his hands and shouted, “What? How? Cut it? When was she cutting it? What was being cut? What was his wife cutting? Madam, were you cutting? What were you cutting? Quick, quick, immediately, now, answer!”
Everyone was struck dumb and stared at everyone else. At this moment Qamar, Aziz al-Saltaneh’s simple daughter, who was staring at her doll, gave an idiotic giggle and said, “Dustali daddy’s little flower.”
Deputy Taymur jumped over to Qamar and took her by the chin and shook it, “Speak! Quick, now, immediately, answer!”
Shamsali Mirza interrupted him, “Be careful, this girl’s a bit simple.”
His sentence wasn’t finished before Aziz al-Saltaneh screamed out, “A bit simple yourself! And your brother! And your father! So you’ll finally get round to ruining this poor orphan’s chances of getting married with your language, will you?”
But the detective paid no attention to this argument. Holding Qamar’s chin in his hand, he shouted, “Answer, what’s the flower? Where’s the flower? Did someone pick the flower? Quick, now, immediately, at the double. If you answer immediately, your sentence . . .”
But he couldn’t finish his own sentence; from the depths of his being he gave an anguished scream. Qamar had bitten his finger with all her strength; she was gripping it between her teeth. With difficulty they managed to pry Qamar’s jaws apart, and when the detective’s finger was freed, blood flowed from the wound like a fountain.
Aziz al-Saltaneh began beating herself on the head. “God help me now!”
“Rabid bitch! Murderer! Killer! Quick, now, immediately, bring a piece of cloth, bring tincture of iodine, quick, now! A plot . . . hindering the course of a legal investigation! Wounding a representative of the state during the execution of his duty! Three years correctional imprisonment!”
During all the confusion and shouting and profound grovelling apologies, the detective’s hand was bandaged up and relative peace was restored. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Deputy Taymur, who was pacing up and down the room. Finally the police detective opened his mouth; an extraordinary rage was apparent in his voice. “Complicity in the crime of murder . . . concealing the corpse . . . insulting a representative of the state during the execution of his duties . . . hindering a legal investigation . . . wounding a representative of the law . . . I’ll see your daughter, too, in the same state with a rope round her neck. From now on you are under arrest for complicity in the commission of a crime . . . but let us return to the principal criminal!”
And he suddenly stopped in front of Asadollah Mirza. “If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . you were saying, sir . . . who was doing the cutting? What was being cut? At what time was this cutting going on?”
Dear Uncle Napoleon interrupted, “Officer . . . with your permission, the children should go out . . . I mean this child . . .” and he pointed at me.
The detective cut him off, “Why should the child go? And anyway this person is not a child, he’s taller than I am. Why should he go? Eh? Well? Answer, quick, immediately, now! Perhaps his presence disturbs you! Perhaps you’re afraid he’ll speak? Eh? Well? Answer, quick, immediately . . . it’s not necessary for you to answer! If there’s another child let him come, too! We must always listen to the truth, out of the mouths of babes and sucklings! Do you have another child in the house? Well? Quick, now, immediately, answer!”
Dear Uncle was boiling with rage inside but he tried to appear unconcerned; he shrugged his shoulders and said, “No, officer . . . there are no other children here!”
Without thinking I said, “Yes, there are! There’s Layli!”
The detective turned toward me and attacked, “Where is she? Who is Layli? Where is Layli? Answer, quick, immediately, now!”
In my confusion I answered, “Layli is uncle’s daughter.”
And I immediately glanced at Dear Uncle. I was appalled at the glint of rage I saw in his eyes. Dear Uncle had wanted to be free of this spy from hostile territory and now he was getting even more tangled up with him.
In a calm voice the detective said, “Call Layli!”
“It’s in conformity with no ethical or legal principles that a child of ten years old . . .”
Without knowing what I was saying, or realizing how I was digging the ditch between myself and Dear Uncle ever deeper, but just out of a desire to see Layli, I shouted out, “Layli’s fourteen years old!”
And I didn’t dare look at Dear Uncle. I just heard his voice, “He’s talking rubbish, officer! My daughter is twelve, thirteen years old and I’m not giving permission for . . .”
The detective cut him off, “Murder . . . concealing the corpse . . . insulting a representative of the state during the execution of his duties . . . hindering a legal investigation . . . wounding a representative of the state . . . refusing to carrying out an order given by a representative of the state . . . your situation doesn’t look too good to me either, sir!”
My Uncle Napoleon Page 13