Evidently, Papa’s curiosity was greater than his temporary annoyance with Sarkis. For Sarkis was at the store when I got there, and my father was getting the prayer rug out of the safe.
Sarkis looked at it in awe, and some ejaculation escaped his throat. He knelt beside it.
“Maksoud of Kashan,” he read, “and the year is 940.” He frowned. “That would not be our calendar. That would be about 1560, or ‘61.” He turned it over. “Where did you get this treasure?”
“It is a — customer’s,” Papa said. “I wonder — genuine?”
Sarkis shrugged. “It’s no doubt an antique. But that rug from the mosque. It’s an Ispahan, isn’t it?”
“Ask Levon,” Papa said. “He reads the books.”
“Not enough of them,” I said. “None of them agree on the Ardebil Carpet.”
Sarkis shook his head and turned the nap up, again. His fingers stroked it. “What does it matter? There are none like it, today. A rug like this, if you owned it, you could ask anything.” His voice was softer. “Anything the customer would pay. What other limit could there be?”
“Ethics,” I chided him.
He looked at me blankly. “Ethics? Across from me is a picture store. Modern art. In the window, something you couldn’t call a picture. Two weeks I’ve been seeing that picture every day and yet I don’t know what it is. Only the price tag is plain. That, anybody can read. Twenty-five hundred dollars. Ethics?”
“All right,” I argued, “how much would you pay for that rug, Sarkis?”
“I’m a poor man,” he answered. “My money is all in merchandise. I am a dealer, not a collector.”
“You’re a wolf, not a lamb, you mean,” I told him, with a grin.
Sarkis sighed, and looked at my father. “These young ones — ”
My father said sharply, “You will remember, Levon, that Sarkis is my cousin.”
Yesterday, Sarkis had been his ‘contemptorary’. Today, he was his cousin and they shared a reverence for fine craftsmanship.
I said no more. I got out a Serapi that needed repairing, and took it over to the light near the work table. I was tacking it on a pole, when I saw hook-nose, outside.
He stood on the sidewalk, his derby black against the grayness of the day. He was looking in at the rug in front of the safe. Now he came to the door, and opened it, and came over to within a few feet of the two men.
“That rug, gentlemen — ” he said quickly. “It is — ” He reached into an inner pocket, as he said this.
With one motion, Papa tossed the rug into the safe, and clanged the door shut. There had been something so malevolent about that gesture, Papa had reacted instinctively.
But the man had a handkerchief in his hand, now. His derby was off, and he was wiping the sweat from a bald and high ridged head. “It is for sale — of course?”
Papa shook his head. He was standing, now. “It is not ours, sir. We are keeping it for a customer.”
“I may see it? I — believe I once owned it.”
Papa’s head shook again. “It is not ours to show.”
The black bird’s eyes went from Papa to Sarkis and back. “It is a secret? Or you do not trust me?”
Papa said, “It is a very valuable rug. It is not ours. I am sorry, sir.”
Silence.
The man looked at Sarkis and papa and then at me, as though sizing up his adversaries before an attack. Finally, “You gentlemen are — Christians?” Contempt in the voice.
We all nodded.
“You would not know, then, the value of that rug. In the mosque at Ardebil it was woven by the slave, Maksoud. To Allah it was dedicated and to his Prophet, Mohammed. It was never intended for Christian use nor Christian admiration.”
“We can not help but admire it,” Papa said. “We are not using it. If you will pardon me, sir, it is a busy morning. Unless 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. I will deal directly with him.”
Sarkis said something to Papa in Armenian, and Papa’s face was suddenly stone. “You are Turkish?” There was no ‘sir’ this time.
Ismet Bey’s glance went between us, again. If he felt any fear, it was not visible. But he must have felt some, for they were related to me, and still the gooseflesh crawled on my neck and forearms. The two men who stood there near the safe were no longer rug dealers in an American city.
“What does it matter?” Bey asked.
All of Sarkis’ family had been massacred by the Turks. Papa’s sister had been carried off 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. His face was gray-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.
Quickly, I stepped between them, my arms wrapped around Papa’s shoulders. “Please, no trouble — Your heart, Papa — ”
Sarkis said to Bey, “You had better go. You had better get the hell out of here quick.”
The man surveyed us all. “I will be back. 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.
Sarkis said, “I’m late, now. I must get back to the store. Be calm, Nazar. Do not think about the man.”
My father didn’t answer. He seemed to have difficulty getting his breath, and I went into the washroom to get him a glass of water. Sarkis had left by the time I got back with it.
My father drank slowly and put the glass down on the work table. “Levon, what kind of business is this? What kind of people are you dealing with?”
“I don’t know for sure,” I said. “I’m being careful. Carl Lieder’s in the business, too.”
“Oh. And Carl is getting old.” His eyes were sad on mine. “And you’re going to be the new Carl Lieder?”
“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 to ask big money for rugs like those.”
“But you will sell to women?”
“Some.”
“Berjouhi knows this?”
“No,” I said impatiently. “I’m not married to her. Nor engaged.”
“All right, all right,” he said. “All right.” He went over to his desk, and sat down. He pulled his ledger to him, and made some checks on the inventory sheet.
Over his shoulder, he said, “The rugs for the Egans are in the truck, already. You and Selak can deliver them, now.”
“Okay. This afternoon, can I use the station wagon? I have a customer out beyond River Hills.”
He nodded, not looking around.
Selak was just coming down from the drying room when I went out in back. I said, “Take your boots off. We’re going to deliver those rugs to the Egans.”
He nodded, and sat on the step to take off the knee-length rubber boots he wore when he washed rugs. He was humming to himself.
The Egan home was on Terrace, about three blocks beyond the place where Sam and I had found Ducasse. It was an old place, of weathered Lannon stone, masked from the street by a six-foot stucco fence. The drive was concrete, leading to a portico that served both the front and the rear doors.
Mrs. Egan was waiting at the side door when I went up to ring. Her hair was in curlers and her thin, dry-skinned face was innocent of make-up.
“This was my husband’s idea, I hope you’ll remember,” she said acidly. “And I’m the one who’ll decide what finally goes on the floors.”
Beyond her, in the hallway, I could see Mr. Egan. Whenever I heard the word “gentleman” in its outdated sense, I’d thought of him. A quiet, refined and elegant man. He smiled at me, over his wife’s shoulder.
Well, she had the money. Maybe that was it.
The rugs w
ere mostly Kermans, soft colors, good weaves. Papa had never studied art, but he knew what would clash and what wouldn’t. The rooms seemed to come to life as we covered each floor.
Even Mrs. Egan looked less acid when we’d finished.
“A week or two with those,” I told her, “and carpeting is going to look mighty dull to you, Mrs. Egan.”
“Maybe. But not expensive. We’ll see, well see — ” She was still looking at the pale green rug in the living room when we left.
Mr. Egan came along with us, and halfway to the truck, he put a hand on my arm. I stopped, as Selak went ahead.
Mr. Egan looked nervous. “Lee, there was a — a Carl Lieder who has some rugs of mine to sell on consignment. I — believe you know something about them.”
I looked at him and remembered Carl’s — ’a man of breeding and taste and discernment’. I said, “You mean those antiques were — are yours, Mr. Egan?”
“Some — a few — ” He chewed his lower lip. “I don’t trust Carl Lieder, Lee. Do you?”
I shrugged. “He can get the last dollar out of a rug.”
“That’s what I mean. And how will I know if I’m getting my share?”
“I’m in it, too, now,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”
His sigh sounded like relief. “You are? Good. Fine.” His grip tightened on my arm. “I’ve a lot of faith in you, Lee. I’m glad you’re in — volved.”
I was getting more involved by the minute. With Sam and Carl and Claire and now — Mr. Egan.
And another one. He was waiting, in a department car in our parking lot when I got back to the store.
The man with the pugnacious face, Sergeant Waldorf. He beckoned me over as I climbed out of the truck.
I told Selak, “Tell my father I’m back, and out here in the lot.”
Waldorf leaned over to open the door on my side, as I approached. “Take the weight off your feet,” he said.
I got in, and closed the door. “We could talk in the store.”
“That’s your dad in there?”
I nodded.
“He said he didn’t know anything about your business. He said he didn’t want to hear about it. What’s up, Kaprelian?”
“He’s kind of unhappy, today. That man was in the store this morning, the man with the derby. His name is Ismet Bey, I learned.”
The sergeant nodded. “I know. He came in, to report the murder, while I was still up there on Terrace. What’d he want with you this morning?”
I paused, thinking of the prayer rug and of Claire.
“I’ll give you some advice,” he said. “Don’t plan on protecting anybody. You could wind up in the clink, playing like that. Just unburden your heart.”
I said carefully, “I have a prayer rug in the safe that belongs to a customer of ours. My father and his cousin had it out on the floor, this morning, admiring it, and Bey came in. He claims he once owned it.”
“So. And did he?”
“I don’t know.”
“And the customer’s name?”
I hesitated only a second before saying, “Miss Claire Lynne, Prospect Towers.”
He pulled out a notebook and wrote it down. “That Lynne’s a ‘y’ with two ‘n’s’ and an ‘e’ at the end, I suppose. With a first name like that, it would be.” He put the book away.
“Your father had some trouble with this Bey?”
“Bey’s a turk,” I said. “My father spent his youth under the Turks. He came to this country to get away from them.”
He was silent, his fingers drumming on the rim of the steering wheel. “I’ve been checking some of the other dealers in town, this morning. All of them mentioned that this Ducasse had stuck a man named Dykstra in a deal. Know the name?”
“I’ve heard it. And I heard the rumor.”
“That’s what they all say — it’s a rumor they heard.”
I smiled, “I hear you got stuck on a rug, too, Sergeant.”
“You heard right. That’s going the rounds, too, huh?” His voice was rough.
“You wouldn’t get stuck like that from any of the regular dealers in town, Sergeant,” I said. “It’s the — peddlers, like Henri Ducasse who do the sticking. The regular dealers are working too close to cost in this town to even eat right. That’s straight, Sergeant.”
“All right,” he said. “Maybe, maybe — How about this Sam Sabazian, this lad who was with you? He worked with Ducasse. One story I got, he was in on that deal with Dykstra.”
“I didn’t hear that,” I said.
“And if you did, you wouldn’t be likely to admit it. But Sabazian or his father originally owned the rug that Dykstra bought, didn’t they?”
“I don’t know.”
His voice was quiet. “Would you have heard a rumor about that?”
This time, it was a direct lie. I said, “No, I wouldn’t.”
“Okay, Kaprelian. Claire Lynne, Prospect Towers, eh? We’ll see what she knows, if anything.”
He was reaching for the starter button, and I got out. As I closed the car door, he said, “I’ll probably see you again. I’ll probably see a lot of you before this is over.”
In the store, Papa was working on the Serapi I’d started. He looked up, and back at his work, pointedly saying nothing.
Just malice, I suppose, but I said, “I wonder if Sarkis had any part of that twenty-three-thousand-dollar sticking that was hung on Dykstra?”
That brought his head up. His voice had ice in it. “Sarkis is a legitimate dealer, and my cousin.”
“That’s what I tried to tell the sergeant,” I agreed. “He said you didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t know — ” I shrugged.
His eyes were wide. “Levon — that’s what the policeman wanted?”
I nodded. “You see, he got stuck with a cotton rug, once, and he’s not exactly fond of oriental dealers.”
He put the rug aside, and stood up abruptly. “I’m going to lunch. It might take some time.”
Outside, though, he didn’t head toward the restaurant in the Silverstone Building. He turned east, Sarkis’ store was east of us.
As soon as he was out of sight, I went to the phone.
Claire answered almost immediately, and I said, “A Sergeant Waldorf is on his way to see you. He was tracing that prayer rug, and I had to tell him you owned it.”
“Oh — You — had to tell him?”
“If I wanted to stay on the right side of the law. And I do.”
“All right. I’ll see you about one-thirty?”
“As close to it as I can make it. That Feraghan is small enough for me to handle alone, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Well, otherwise I could bring Selak along.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it alone,” she said.
When my father came back, his face was troubled. “Sarkis tells me he thinks Sam was in with Ducasse on that deal. It was Sam that convinced Sarkis they should let Henri have the rug.”
I said nothing.
My father said, “You can go now, on this business of your own.”
“Thanks.” I paused. “Papa, Selak was with me, again, last night.”
He nodded, and ignored me.
The day was warmer than yesterday had been, but there was no brightness to it, no promise. As I went past the store of Sabazian and Son, I could see Sam and Sarkis through the huge, plate-glass window. They seemed to be arguing.
A half block from the Prospect Towers, there was a drugstore and I had a sandwich and a malted there. Maybe I was hungry, or maybe it was the sight of the department car, parked in front.
When I’d finished eating, the car was gone.
Claire was a lady, today. A trim suit of some ribbed material, black and tailored, and a frothy-necked blouse. Shining and bright, her face, the eyes clear as winter stars.
“Waldorf was here,” I said.
She nodded.
“And — ?”
“What cou
ld I tell him? I’m so-o-o innocent. Do we kiss?”
“Not during business hours. You’re beautiful enough to tell anybody anything. And anybody male would probably believe you.”
“With a single and singular exception, now facing me.”
“Maybe I’m in love,” I said. “I am unreasonable, I guess.”
“Maybe we’re both in love,” she said. “Which could be another of my lies. Let’s look at the Feraghan, Lee, and then decide if any price is too high.”
Yellow, rose, blue, purple, violet, red. With a green in the border. Clash? All the colors blended. A narrow rug, wider than a runner, but needing a spot if we wanted our price.
We looked down at it, and Claire said, “Six thousand? Sixty-five hundred?”
“I’ll see. Carl been — intimate with this Mrs. Harlan Cooke, has he?”
Her smile was dim. “I don’t know. I — suppose. Why?”
“I wondered how much service she required for her money.”
Her voice was a chill breeze. “It won’t be necessary for you to — service her. Lee, what’s come over you?”
“An accumulation of bad angles,” I said. “Cops, Dykstra, my cousin Sam, Ducasse’s death — and Mr. Egan.”
“Alan — ?” She seemed to go rigid.
“Mr. Alan Egan, that’s it. You’re first-name friends, are you?”
“Of course. I’ve known Alan for years. Is there something wrong with that?”
“I don’t know. Is there? Maybe he isn’t so old.”
Her hand flashed out and caught me right below the ear. “Get out,” she said. “Don’t ever come back.”
I rubbed the cheek. “Even after I apologize? I had that coming.”
“Alan Egan is a gentleman, I hope you realize.”
“That’s the way I always pictured him,” I agreed. “What are we fighting about, Claire?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know — We couldn’t keep it clean and hot; we had to fall in love, I guess. Lovers always fight. In the movies, anyway.”
Her taut body shook, and she took a blind half-step toward me, and I gathered her in. Quietly, she cried, with very little tremor. But with a great deal of moisture. I sort of half-cried, myself.
She dried her eyes, finally, and blew her nose and managed a partial smile. “Isn’t it a mess, this love? If that’s what it is.”
Bloody Bokhara Page 6