When he looked at them again, the two women appeared to him like witches, smiling, amused at what they saw as his weakness. The matriarchy. The family had always been one, despite everything. Even the old stories were full of it, what the wife did, the mother. The sainted, hallowed mother. He’d often wondered why they didn’t just castrate their men after they’d had enough babies. All the power traditionally associated with manhood was obviously theirs.
Her cigarette lit up and colored Maria’s glittering eyes yellow. “You can go now, Nicky. I will talk to Natalia alone.”
No apology, not even the slightest flicker of concern that she may have put out his eye. But then it was no surprise really. It was, had always been the girls, the women—
“Get out, Nicky!”
With four long strides he was out of the room. He’d made no attempt to staunch the bleeding from his cut. As he had passed those bitches, the blood had run down his face and into the collar of his tight red tunic. That was good. He wanted that because he knew that one of them would eventually have to wash it. Anya or Natalia, it didn’t matter which.
As he started to descend the stairs he heard the sound of the women’s laughter. They both had coarse laughs, Natalia and Maria. What they claimed to be was one thing, but they laughed like alley cats. But then one of them really was an alley cat. He thought about Mr. Robert, whatever his name was, and his letter. He pitied him almost as much as he pitied himself.
* * *
The kitchen was not tidy, but as the only room in the house not currently infested with children it proved the perfect place for Ikmen to take Suleyman when the young man finally arrived. That Fatma had not been given the chance to do the washing up was, to him, neither here nor there.
Once the preliminaries of providing his guest with a glass of tea, asking after his health and getting him settled were over, Ikmen made a start.
“So, Suleyman,” he said, “having followed Mr. Cornelius over to Üsküdar and seen him post a letter, what then?”
Suleyman took a small sip from his glass and then put it down on the table. “Then I had to made a decision about whether to follow him to wherever he was going next or wait around for a postman to arrive.”
“And so?”
“And so I did both. Or rather I instructed a local beat constable to wait around for the postman and then radio his findings to me later. I then followed Cornelius, who went back to his apartment for the night.”
Ikmen smiled. He’d trained this perfumed upper-class boy well. “And so what did the beat cop find?”
This time, Suleyman smiled. “The box contained five items, including two picture postcards. Two of the remaining three letters were addressed to people in the east and the third”—here he paused for what Ikmen could only imagine was dramatic effect—“the third was addressed, typewritten, to you at the station.”
“To me?” Ikmen frowned. “Why to me?”
“I have no idea, but I suppose that when it arrives, all will be revealed.”
Ikmen sighed. “And you say that he spent a lot of time outside Şeker Textiles?”
“Yes, once he’d found it. Not that he seemed to know its name. I spoke to several people he approached for directions and all he ever asked for was an unspecified textile plant.”
Ikmen shook his head as if trying to shake something loose inside there. “This is all very odd. I mean I can’t, as yet, see any real connection between Cornelius and Smits. But then to stand outside his plant for so long … Not, however, that he went to see Smits—or maybe he did and then … But then this letter, to me, from him in Üsküdar…”
“We should know more,” Suleyman said, “when the letter arrives tomorrow.”
Ikmen scowled. “It’s a pity that constable couldn’t have intercepted it then and there!”
“Now, sir,” Suleyman replied with a grin, “you know as well as I do that he wouldn’t have had the authority to do that.”
Ikmen threw him an acid glance. Suleyman’s slavish adherence to “good procedure” was sometimes really rather galling.
Noting his expression and knowing exactly what it meant, Suleyman quickly changed the subject. “So, how did you get on at the university then, sir?”
Ikmen lit a cigarette and, as he exhaled, launched into his own exposition. “Professor Mazmoulian was very well aware of the existence of Smits. Back in the 1960s he had actually interviewed him.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, for his 1968 book Turkey and Germany: The Uneasy Marriage. Although mainly about our alliance with the Germans in the 1914–18 war, there was a chapter at the end devoted to Nazi activity in Turkey during the 1939-45 conflict. It contained quotes from Smits and others like him. He was, apparently, quite proud of the fact that he’d dismissed all his Jewish workers. And, at least in 1968, he expressed absolutely no remorse with regard to this.”
“So he was definitely lying to us during his interview?”
“Oh, yes.” Ikmen cleared his throat of thick, morning-time mucus. “And I, for one, can see no other reason for this than to conceal his involvement with Meyer, can you?”
“No. Although…”
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, it’s just that this anti-Semitic thing with regard to Smits hardly holds up if he and Meyer had been out of contact since 1940.”
“Ah, but they had been in contact, hadn’t they? Meyer had few enough friends as it was without carrying about a completely defunct set of details in his address book.”
Suleyman nodded his assent. “Yes, but I can’t help feeling that if Smits were involved, there would have to be something more at work than just plain racism. Like Meyer had something on Smits, something recent and—”
“Oh, yes. I think that that is a real possibility which could also explain all the money that Meyer seemed to have.”
“Yes.”
For a few seconds afterward the two men sat in silence as each attempted to absorb and evaluate what had just been discussed. On the face of it, Smits seemed to be digging a very deep and dangerous hole for himself—both with the police and, unaccountably, with Robert Cornelius.
When Ikmen finally spoke again, he had decided how to proceed. “I think that we should pay Mr. Smits another visit sometime tomorrow—or rather you should.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I think we now need to confront Smits with all of this. Because I think you need the practice and because”—Ikmen lit a fresh cigarette from the dying embers of the old one—“I have another appointment at the university tomorrow lunchtime.”
“You’re going to see the professor again?”
“No.” He smiled. “No, I’m going to accompany Dr. Ikmen to the European History section of the library.”
“Dr. Ikmen is…”
“My father, yes, although if he heard me refer to him as doctor, he’d probably hit me. Timür says that only insecure people use titles, which is why, of course, he is Timür and not ‘Father’—just in case you were interested.”
Suleyman smiled. Even from his scant knowledge of the old man, that sounded about right. “So, might I ask why you are going to the library then?”
“I’m going to look for a name or names, if possible. With Timür’s help I’m going to see what I can find out from actual Russian text-books about the Revolution.”
“This, I take it, is going back to Meyer’s past involvement?”
“Just so. And from what Dr. Sarkissian tells me, it seems that Meyer’s involvement in Bolshevik killings may have been of an officially countenanced nature.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Sarkissian found some old wounds, or rather scars, on Meyer’s hand and arm which Dr. Ismail over at Ballistics thinks may indicate that he was part of a firing squad.”
“Oh?”
“Now,” Ikmen continued, “I don’t know how he came to that conclusion, but I think that it’s a line of investigation wort
h pursuing. Right from the beginning, the Bolsheviks were very keen on keeping records of all these things and so if we can discover whom he killed we may be able to deduce something about his own death.”
Suleyman looked doubtful. “You still think that this old crime may have some relevance?”
“Yes I do. The method by which he died was so illogical and bizarre that I can only think that someone was making a point. He was so old just stabbing him or smothering him would have finished him off in a second. So why the acid and why the swastika drawn in his own blood?”
“Oh, but surely the swastika indicates—”
Ikmen held up a warning finger. “Not necessarily, Suleyman. Symbols like the swastika are far older than you might think. I don’t know anything about its origins, but perhaps the swastika could mean something other than ‘look at me, I’m a Nazi.’ And looked at in that context, the manner and motive for Meyer’s death could take on an entirely different meaning.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so, but…”
“But, you’re thinking, where does that now leave us in relation to Smits and Cornelius?”
Suleyman sighed. “You have to admit that there is some evidence to connect both of them, in various ways, to Meyer.”
Ikmen smiled. “And to Mrs. Maria Gulcu too, remember? Lest we forget, she knew him during the Revolution and, despite her denials, there is a possibility that she witnessed Meyer’s old crime. If I could find out what that was then I may be able to confront her yet again. The name under which our Gulcu friends rent their telephone may have been the old woman’s maiden name and that could be significant, possibly.”
“Doesn’t mean that she murdered Meyer though, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t. But then just because Smits is a Nazi and Cornelius was in the vicinity of the apartment and also knows Natalia Gulcu doesn’t mean that they are murderers either.”
Suleyman eyed his boss obliquely and then put his head down, sighing deeply. “Despite all this evidence mounting up, we’re still not really any further forward now, are we?”
“Oh, we are,” said Ikmen brightly. “If you look upon this case as being like a shattered mirror, you’ll see what I mean.”
“A shattered mirror?”
“Yes. When Meyer died the mirror was broken and all the pieces flew off in many different directions. What we’ve been doing since is collecting those pieces. It is my belief that we have all, or nearly all of them now. The problem that remains, however, is, without having any idea about its size or shape, we have to fit all those pieces back together again to produce one whole mirror.”
“Oh.”
Ikmen got up and, as he walked around Suleyman’s chair in order to get to the cooker, or rather the kettle on top of the cooker, he patted the younger man on the back. “Look upon it as a challenge, Suleyman. Some people would kill for the chance to do a job with a challenge.”
Chapter 15
Choosing what to wear when she felt good was harder than trying to make a decision when she felt bad. The only option under the influence of depression was black. Not much black, only skimpy things. On even, balanced days she covered up; it was the extremes that made her court danger. But this morning her spirits were lighter and she required red. The black skirt and blouse she had worn in Yıldız Park on Saturday evening stared out at her, but she ignored them. Natalia didn’t usually dwell on past triumphs for long—although that had been a particularly wicked little interlude. She smiled. One young soldier at least would have something to think about for a while. How stupid male pride was! She wondered how he’d twisted the story round when he told his friends. She wondered how much she had damaged him—at least mentally—and hoped that it was a great deal.
It had, of course, been a shame about the canceled date with the silversmith, but then the events in Yıldız Park had given her so much more pleasure. However good the silversmith might have been he certainly wouldn’t have matched her anonymous soldier. What would he have put in her mouth—a bracelet? She’d catch up with him and his valuable trinkets another time, when she felt less sexy and more materially acquisitive.
She pulled a very short red lycra dress out of the wardrobe and held it up to her naked body. It was eye-catching; it would certainly attract looks at the very least. It would do. She put on a pair of white silk panties and slipped the dress over her head. Her hair crackled with electricity.
In retrospect she’d been right to keep Robert stringing along for all those dreary months. A regular boyfriend, if besotted, could be an asset. He would do anything to keep her. His puppy-dog devotion was, of course, intensely irritating, but it was also useful. He was acting on her behalf now, protecting her. That was good. It was going to work too. The police already half suspected that old Leonid’s murder may have been racial. They’d actually told Robert. And even if the letter were traced back to him, it was nothing to do with her. It would look bad for Robert though. Not that that mattered much.
Natalia sat in front of her dressing table and rubbed foundation cream into her face. She was pleased with what she saw in the mirror, even before she applied the thick make-up of which she was so fond. It wasn’t a nice face though. It was more hungry, sexual. But who wants to be nice!
Her mother and her Uncle Nicky were nice. Her uncle disapproved of her “use” of Robert Cornelius. It was, he said, dangerous, and her mother had even used the word “cruel.” It was her mother’s opinion that Robert was in love with her, as if that changed anything. Anya was becoming nervous. She wanted everything to be right so that they could go as soon as possible, with no loose ends. Natalia thought about her mother sitting in front of her mirror talking to nobody and she felt sick. Her grandmama had understood, of course, but then she had to. She’d done a few things herself to get out of situations in the past. Grandmama knew that everyone and everything had its price. Nothing was so precious that it couldn’t be bought in one way or another.
Natalia outlined her eyes with black kohl. Large, open eyes excited most men, they looked so innocent. Grandmama always maintained that it was her big blue eyes that had really saved her. He’d been enchanted by them before, but, widened still further by terror, they must have been bewitching. The stupid vulnerability of men again. Even men with guns—especially men with guns.
She stroked some black mascara on her already thick lashes and then reddened her mouth with lipstick. Her big, fleshy mouth. Natalia smiled inside. She felt lucky.
Work was going to be good today; poor, soft Robert had taken care of the police, so soon she could dispense with him, which was excellent. Life was good.
* * *
“Right.” Ikmen sat down and viewed Suleyman very seriously across the top of one of his file tower-blocks. “What are you going to say to old Smits?”
“I’m going to confront him with the fact that documentary evidence exists which proves, beyond doubt, that he was a Nazi and that he was responsible for dismissing Jewish workers.”
Ikmen surveyed the small pile of post on his desk, took the top envelope, looked at it and then threw it straight into the bin. “You’ll have to be careful though,” he said. “If you really go for him, he could have a coronary.”
“I will,” said Suleyman, in absolute seriousness, “be my usual, controlled and polite self.”
“Good.” Ikmen opened the second envelope before depositing its contents into the bin. However, the third letter was quite a different story. “Well, well,” he said, “let it never be said that the Turkish postal service is not an efficient, well-organized machine.”
Suleyman looked up. “Sir?”
“I think I’ve just received my little note from Robert Cornelius.”
“Oh!” Ignoring the usual niceties pertaining to others’ personal mail, Suleyman stood up and scuttled quickly round to the rear of Ikmen’s desk. “Well, open it then!”
Ikmen shot him a look.
“Please, er, sir.”
Ikmen slid his finger under the gummed fla
p and pulled out a piece of paper which they both read simultaneously. When they had finished reading, they turned to look at one another, their faces bearing the same quizzical expression.
“I get the feeling, Suleyman,” said Ikmen once he had fully absorbed everything that was in the letter, “that our Mr. Cornelius has somewhat lost the plot.”
“Yes.”
Just at that moment, the door swung open and a very red-faced Commissioner Ardiç entered. As usual, he launched into his subject without any preliminary niceties. “Well, Ikmen,” he boomed, “how is it going with this Meyer thing?”
Now both standing in response to their superior’s appearance, Ikmen and Suleyman looked at each other and then at the letter in Ikmen’s hand.
“Ah…”
Ardiç, following their gaze, stabbed his fat Havana cigar in the direction of the letter.
“What have you got there?”
“Ah…”
Infuriated by their joint lack of response, Ardiç strode up to the two men and ripped the letter out of Ikmen’s fingers. “What’s this?”
“It is a letter from someone,” Ikmen replied, “who is obviously not thinking as clearly as he might, sir.”
Ardiç ignored entirely what had just been said and slowly, his lips moving throughout, read the letter for himself. As he came to the end of the missive, Ikmen whispered to Suleyman, “I have a very bad feeling about this.”
Ardiç looked up when he had finished, his face uncharacteristically smiling. “Well, there’s some most fascinating information here about our man Smits! He and Meyer arguing over a woman and then Smits getting rid of Meyer from his job and—”
“With respect, sir…” Ikmen started.
“Yes?” Ardiç waved the letter at him like a weapon. “What is it, Ikmen? What’s the problem now?”
“With respect, sir, we know who wrote this letter and it was not an associate of Smits.”
“No?” He looked briefly at the letter again and shrugged. “So?”
Belshazzar's Daughter: A Novel of Istanbul (Inspector Ikmen series Book 1) Page 25