Belshazzar's Daughter

by Barbara Nadel

  Rebuffed, Rosemary walked away from him and joined the small cluster of people around the coffee machine. She looked back at him once, but as she became more involved in the trite niceties of break time she soon stopped paying him attention. Briefly, but without real concern, he wondered whether her conversation was about him, but he decided that it wasn’t. They were all laughing, so it couldn’t possibly be. It was about sex, the latest staff conquests. He felt sorry for them. The fleeting ego-building one-nighters with foreigners young enough to be their sons or daughters. The last resort of the desperate middle-aged ex-pat.

  The thought resurfaced.

  In order to make the thing work, he had to go over to this Smits’s textile plant which was, she had said, somewhere in Üsküdar. Location was important and actually doing it there would lend the thing the credence that he felt it needed. In addition, he had to think himself into the role of a racist of death-dealing magnitude in which the police had cast him. That was not easy because it was so dreadful, so utterly unlike the person that he really was. But then for the purposes of the thought, which was to be the instrument of his continuance with Natalia, he had to put things like that to one side.

  He bent his mind to discovering what kind of words and beliefs someone associated with Smits might express. Silently, at first, he mouthed the word “Jew.” The strangeness of its resonance appalled him. Was it perhaps because they were such an ancient race or maybe because hatred of them, on account of the “death” of Christ, was so ingrained inside the European psyche that the word, now attended, made him feel so odd? Despite the already stifling heat, Robert shuddered. If just simply thinking of a word in a particular context could elicit such deep, if repellent, reactions, how much more might saying or writing or acting upon these feelings achieve? He thought about people, thin like sticks, starved beyond sanity. And then of others, their long medieval robes flapping in the crisp, Northern European wind as grave-faced men in black pushed them roughly into huge, devouring bonfires. Even playing around with such images appalled him, and yet … and yet he had to do it because she wanted and needed him to and what if the old man were guilty and … and …

  “Jew.” He said it this time. Not loudly, but audibly enough for a few heads to turn in his direction. For some reason, it made him laugh, although not for long because several other of his colleagues were watching now, their faces both puzzled and concerned.

  Under normal circumstances, whatever they were, he knew that he should have been grateful in some way for their concern. But he wasn’t. They were nothing, nobodies to him. His mind was filled only with her now and, emboldened by his obsession and in order to place the idea firmly in his mind, he said it again.

  “Jew.”

  Now they were all looking at him; looking and wondering and not knowing in any sense what he knew. Robert smiled. This secret was his and hers—this awful, repellent, death-defying deed.

  When he did finally rise from his seat, he did so slowly and without a word. I’m going to do it now, he said to himself, right now. Many eyes watched as he made his way to his little cupboard-like office and closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  Despite the gravity, not to mention the unpleasantness that underlined the occasion, Reinhold Smits did smile when he saw her. He couldn’t help it. Though so very much older than the woman that he remembered from all those years ago, she was still, unmistakably, herself. Still arrogant, still unsmiling, still marvelously regal.

  “Hello, Maria,” he said.

  She held her hand out to him, the knuckles glittering with diamonds. “Reinhold.”

  He took it and, bowing over the outstretched claw, brushed his lips lightly against the crumpled skin. “I don’t have to tell you why I have come.”

  “No,” she replied, “you do not. Please sit down.”

  He took the chair beside her bed, smoothing the legs of his trousers as he sat. “Whatever you may think,” he said, “I didn’t kill Leonid.”

  “You had ample reason to do so.”

  He nodded his head in assent. “Yes. But then he had reason to want me dead also.”

  Her short laugh came out like a cough. “I don’t think so! You took his job, which was nothing. As for me and my relationship with Leonid…”

  “Yes?”

  “You never got me, Reinhold, in either the romantic or the political sense. Leonid had no reason to want your death.”

  He smiled a small but nonetheless acknowledging smile. “Yes, I see.” Whether he did or not only Smits would know, but now he changed the subject. “And so how are you, Maria? How is what is left of your life?”

  “I am who I always was, Reinhold, and I remain, in that sense, as it were at your mercy. But for you, being in thrall to Leonid must have been extremely galling.”

  He sighed. “It was at first. But as the years passed…”

  “You must have given him a fortune during that time. Most of which he poured down his throat.” She slid her eyes upward to meet his. “Was it all worth it?”

  “In the beginning, yes.”

  “And later?”

  Unable or unwilling to meet her gaze for any longer, Reinhold Smits shifted his attention to the floor. “As far as I am aware, all those who could or would substantiate Leonid’s stories either disappeared or died many years ago.”

  “But you kept on paying?”

  He shrugged. “What else could I do? He still possessed the photographs and besides he couldn’t work again after I dismissed him. I provided him with no references and his escalating drunkenness precluded even illegitimate work. We were both, if you like, in thrall to each other, a situation which suited us, and anyway, without the paltry little amounts from my ample coffers, he would have starved.”

  “How very humane of you.”

  He turned back to face her, but this time his expression was filled with disgust. “Well, somebody had to do it! And even though it wasn’t me who put him in that position in the first place and even though he hurt and frightened me beyond—”

  “You have only yourself to blame!” She stabbed one hard, unforgiving finger dangerously close to his eyes. “If you hadn’t been such a monstrous pervert, Leonid would not have had cause to do what he did!”

  “In order to protect you!”

  “Yes.” Although seated she pulled her neck up to its full height and raised her eyebrows so that she was looking down upon him. “Back then my life was at stake, Reinhold. My life! What you wanted to do would have exposed me to all manner of dangers, not from one, but from many quarters. That my use of Leonid to prevent you from doing that caused you both so much discomfort is very sad, but I’m afraid that from my point of view, it was very well worth doing!”

  A long silence followed her outburst. Time during which both of them reflected, for their own reasons, upon things that had been, things that were far from edifying. But when the conversation did resume the subject, for the time being, was changed.

  “You look very well,” she said.

  He smiled. “Chemotherapy is a marvelous preservative.”

  “Oh.” For the first time during their meeting she looked both confused and at a disadvantage. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s really no need,” he said. “I’ve done everything that I ever wanted to do, plus more. I have no complaints—bar one, of course.”

  “And what is that?”

  He looked up at her, but this time he did not smile. “I should like to be left alone by the police. Should like to die with my reputation intact.”

  “I see.” She reached across to her bedside table, took a cigarette out of one of her packets and lit up.

  “In part,” he continued, “I suppose that it was my own fault really. Had I not written to offer my condolences to you on the death of Leonid, you might have quite forgotten about me altogether—”

  “I doubt that!”

  “But then to mention my name to the police was, even for you, Madam Maria, a little spiteful, don
’t you think?”

  “If, as you say, Reinhold, you had nothing to do with Leonid’s death, then surely whatever information I may or may not have given to the police is irrelevant.”

  It was so like her to push the argument back on to his shoulders. She was, and always had been, so dreadfully sly. How little the years had changed her. Quite suddenly, Reinhold Smits lost all patience with niceties and became, for such an old man, fiercely animated. “As I believe I said to you on the telephone, I will not tolerate your groundless and, to my mind, unbalanced spite!”

  She laughed at him. “This, from a Nazi! Really, Reinhold, I—”

  “My beliefs have nothing to do with it! There—”

  “Listen, Reinhold, the police already knew that Leonid had worked for you at some time. And, to be fair, your opinions were not unknown at the time. Besides…” Here she paused. She took a long deep-lunged drag upon her cigarette and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “Besides what?” he said, his eyes still flaming with too long pent-up rage.

  “Besides, whether you killed Leonid or not, you were in his apartment on the day that he died, weren’t you?”

  “No, I…” His words denied it, but his face, which was now the color of ashes, told a different story.

  Maria Gulcu smiled. “Remember when you telephoned me just after the police had been to visit you?”

  “Yes, it was—”

  “Remember what was said? The conversation we had about when and how Leonid died?”

  Something, maybe even, he thought, his poor, tired old heart, tightened in his chest. “Yes?”

  “Remember how we wondered how someone could batter an old man so savagely and how you said that even despite your beliefs you thought it was absolutely dreadful that the murderer had then drawn a large swastika in Leonid’s blood just above his head?”

  “I do recall it, yes. What is your point?”

  “The point, Reinhold”—she smiled again, this time revealing all of her yellowing teeth—“is that, try as I might, I cannot find any reference to such an occurrence in any of the newspaper reports I have read about the incident.”

  Without moving his head, he slid his eyes away from hers. “Well, then, I suppose … Well, the police must have told me, it…”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Reinhold.” Her voice was soft now, honeyed, almost seductive. “They certainly didn’t tell me about it. And if you consider the thing logically, that does make sense.”

  “How?”

  “Well, if you were a policeman who was confronted with a bizarre and possibly racially motivated crime, would you want to let every madman in the vicinity know about such a thing? Crazy people have been known to copy such acts. I’m not saying that you are lying, Reinhold, but I think that the likelihood of Inspector Ikmen furnishing you with such information is very slight.”

  He wrapped his arms protectively about his thin body and put his head down. “But he must have! He did! How could he not have?”

  “I don’t know,” she said and then, grinding her cigarette out in her ashtray, she posed him a question. “You tell me, Reinhold. You tell me?”

  * * *

  “So what time, approximately, was it when you saw old Smits?”

  “It must have been about nine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Suleyman shrugged. “Fairly.”

  Ikmen smiled, one of his evil I-know-something-that-you-don’t grins. “His butler told me he’d already gone when I called at eight-fifteen.” He sat down and put his feet up on the top of the desk. “I get the impression that Mr. Smits doesn’t want to talk to us anymore. I don’t suppose you saw where he went?”

  “He turned off at Dolmabahçe, toward Taksim.”

  “Mmm.” Ikmen took time out to light up a cigarette and then look at, if not attend to, a rather large lump of dirt beneath his fingernails. “I need to do a bit of historical research concerning Mr. Smits today, Suleyman.”

  The younger man moved just fractionally in the direction of the ever-closed window, but came to a somewhat embarrassed halt when he saw the expression on his superior’s face.

  Rather more diplomatically than usual, Ikmen made no reference to what had occurred and continued smoothly along his train of thought. “My dear father informed me in the early hours of this morning that he remembers Smits and, furthermore, recalls him as a known Nazi sympathizer.”

  Suleyman sat down. “Interesting.”

  “Yes, I thought so too, although confronting Smits with information received from my elderly father is hardly professional, even though I happen to believe every word of it.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Suleyman asked.

  Ikmen took a small notebook out of his trouser pocket and thumbed through its pages until he reached the relevant place. “I’m going to see a Professor Mazmoulian, modern history expert up at the university. He has, so Timür tells me, encyclopedic knowledge of the social history of this city. It is something of a passion with him.”

  “So when are you doing this then, sir?”

  “The good professor said that he’d see me at midday. If my luck really has deserted me, he may even treat me to lunch in the canteen which, if memory serves me right, is to good food what impotence is to good sex.”

  Suleyman smiled. “I see.”

  “But then if the professor has any information on old Smits it will all have been worth it—I suppose.”

  “Yes.” Suleyman, for want of anything else to do, briefly fiddled with the few neat items on his desk. “So am I coming with you, or…”

  “No. No, I’d like you to do something else today, Suleyman.” Ikmen looked up and smiled before speaking again. It was, he had always thought, important to accompany unpleasant news with a cheerful countenance. “I’d like you to do a bit of surveillance today.”

  “Oh.” Suleyman felt his face fall, even though he didn’t really want to show his feelings in this way. Surveillance was notoriously stressful, time-consuming and dull. But Ikmen chose to ignore his feelings anyway. “Yes, Robert Cornelius, the Englishman. I’d like you, at a discreet distance of course, to see where he goes, what he does, who he talks to.”

  “All right, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But I didn’t think we had a lot on him and—”

  “We don’t,” Ikmen said, “not really. But that he seems to figure in just about all of the possible scenarios we’ve identified so far I can’t help thinking is of significance.”

  “He does?”

  Ikmen looked at him quizzically and then, identifying his mistake, he apologized. “Oh yes, of course, I haven’t let you in on my recent musings, have I? Right, well, look, Suleyman, I think I’m going to be pretty tied up today, as are you. What do you think about having a case conference at my apartment tomorrow? I mean, I know it’s our day off and—”

  “That would not be a problem, sir.”

  “Oh, good. We should also, hopefully, be able to review Dr. Sarkissian’s latest findings by then.”

  Suleyman stood up, took his car keys off his desk and put them in his pocket. “I thought Dr. Sarkissian had completed his work on this case.”

  “He had, but then he found something else that … Look, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Get over to the Londra Language School now and see what you can see. Chart his whole day and don’t let him see you. Be aware too that if he decides to go off to a club or something, you’ll be on until the small hours…”

  “That’s perfectly all right with me, sir.”

  Strangely for Suleyman, or so Ikmen thought, he appeared to be almost relishing the prospect of being out all night. But then if that was what he wanted to do …

  “All right then, Suleyman, I’ll see you tomorrow then—unless, of course, something dramatic happens.”

  “See you tomorrow, sir.”

  After Suleyman had gone, Ikmen closed his eyes for a few moments and tried to imagine what Mr. Smits might be thinking at th
at moment in time. The images this conjured up were rather strange.

  Chapter 13

  A tall, thin individual sauntered into the reception area and smiled very expansively at the man who was his visitor. “Hello, Arto, how are you?”

  “Faud!” Arto got up and took the man’s hand warmly. “I hope I wasn’t—”

  “No! I was just having a break, as it happens.” Faud Ismail smiled. His was a handsome face in a casual, vaguely dissolute sort of way. He patted Arto’s broad back warmly. “What can I do for you?”

  Arto picked up his briefcase. “I want you to have a look at some photographs for me, Faud. I want your professional opinion. It’s Çetin Ikmen’s Balat murder victim.” Ismail looked confused and put his hand up to his head. “I wasn’t aware there was ballistic involvement in that case?”

  “There’s not, at least not as regards the murder itself.” Arto clicked his tongue impatiently. It wasn’t easy to explain. “Look, Faud, can we go through to your office?”

  “Of course.”

  Ismail turned and led the way out into a long, cigarette-butt-strewn corridor.

  At the end of the corridor he pushed open the door directly ahead of them and went into his office. It was a strange place, to Arto’s way of thinking. Large color posters of handguns lined the walls, some complete, others in section, showing their inner chambers and mechanisms. Gun manuals the size of computer instruction books littered the desk, sitting on portions of probably unread newspaper. Faud didn’t have time for current affairs, what with his job and, so it was rumored, a very demanding elderly mother. As he sat down, Arto noticed that a rifle was propped up against the wall behind him. He hadn’t been to Ballistics for a while. He’d forgotten what an unnerving experience it could be.