Black Amber

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “What terrible thing?” Tracy asked, once more baffled and annoyed by Nursel’s hinting.

  The other girl shook her head gently. “Please—it is better to allow all this to be forgotten. I do not wish to speak of it. If you wish to know, ask him.”

  Tracy let it go for the moment. “I went to that place this afternoon, after Miles told me about Anabel,” she said. “Your brother was there.”

  Nursel glanced at her quickly. “You did not tell him of the time when I met Hasan there—when Ahmet Effendi saw us?”

  “No, of course not. I’ve never mentioned that to him.”

  “I am afraid he is suspicious.” Nursel sighed. “If he wished, he could make much trouble for Hasan.”

  “I don’t think he was there looking for you,” Tracy said. “He told me he thought Anabel might have hidden something in those ruins. He said there was a time before her death when she began taking things that did not belong to her. Do you know if this is true?”

  Nursel did not look at her. She toyed with the food on her plate, studying it with grave concentration before she answered.

  “You must not concern yourself,” she said finally. “Anabel was not well. There was much to disturb and frighten her. The small articles she took perhaps made her briefly happy. She could be like a child in her wish to possess what was pretty and shiny and bright.”

  “Like black amber beads,” said Tracy, half to herself. “What is there to know about black amber?”

  “It is only that such beads were a part of Anabel’s derangement toward the end. She behaved as though she believed in magic and spells. Black was the color of magic, she said, and the black amber was a stone for the working of black magic. For a little while in this house it was the way it must have been in the old days in Turkey, when everyone was governed by superstitious beliefs.”

  “I suppose it was more of the same thing with the cat?” Tracy said. “Your brother told me Anabel said that if harm came to her she would return and watch this house through Yasemin’s eyes.”

  Nursel’s faint smile was rueful. “Yes—but she did not use the name you have given the cat. She said she would come back and watch us all through Bunny’s eyes. That foolish name by which she called the animal. She would hold the small white thing up to her cheek and stroke it and threaten any who might injure her with this promise of what would happen after her death.”

  Through Bunny’s eyes.

  Tracy found herself no longer hungry. She could swallow nothing past the tightness in her throat. Now she understood the secret little game Anabel had been playing with the cat. Anabel had been saying in effect, “If anything happens to me, my sister will come and she will watch you. She will find out what drove me to my death and she will punish you for it.” How like Anabel to comfort herself with such a fantasy.

  Nursel saw her face and reached out to touch Tracy’s hand across the table. “Please—you must not be frightened. There is no harm in this cat. I have no fear of it. The men drive it away to show they are brave and not superstitious, though you can see that they are remembering and are disturbed. Even my brother, who is an intelligent man, dedicated to his work and with nothing to fear, becomes uneasy when the white cat is present. Women are not so foolish.”

  Tracy was glad when she could leave the table and slip away to her room. She took with her scraps of uneaten food on a plate for Yasemin, and the cat awaited her with confidence as though she knew she would be fed.

  In her room Tracy watched Yasemin eat with her delicate, tidy manners. She sat in the chair by the veranda doors and thought about Anabel, who had at the end trusted only one person in the world—her faraway younger sister. Yet even in her cry for help, she had thought of possible danger for Tracy. If her warning had only been more coherent, if only she had named a name. Now someone in this house recognized Tracy as an enemy and was embarked on an effort to frighten her away. With mischief and with the warning sign of black amber. Perhaps with nothing more if it stopped there. Yet Anabel had said, “It is the end of everything.” Would it mean the end of everything, the tumbling of the last bridge for Anabel’s sister as well?

  No—that wouldn’t work with Tracy Hubbard. It must not be allowed to work. The pattern of following Anabel must not continue.

  During the evening she did not venture from her room. Yasemin at length tired of her company and went to the balcony doors. When Tracy let her out she ran along the veranda with a flick of her plumy tail, past the empty room next door that had once been Miles’s, and on around the corner, on her own nocturnal pursuits. Tracy closed the door against the cold and got into bed. For a time she sat up, trying to absorb herself in Turkish history—though not from the book with the marked passage. It was impossible to concentrate, however. Her thoughts went round their endless circling, and somehow always returned to Miles.

  How foolish if Sylvana Erim thought she could win this man for herself. Or for any other woman to think she might win him, for that matter. Foolish indeed the woman who came to love him.

  Unbidden, the memory of Miles’s hand, strong and firm about her own, returned, and with it a sense of painful loss. Again Anabel had gone ahead of her. The pattern still held.

  She put out the lamp beside her bed and turned her head against the pillow. The patch beneath her cheek was quickly damp and she did not know why she cried, except that welling up in her were old defeats and old longings and old loneliness. Always where Anabel had been, nothing could ever be right for Tracy. Yet this had been neither Anabel’s fault, nor Tracy’s.

  She slept fitfully for a time, and then could not sleep. After that she lay wakeful, listening to the creakings of the old wooden house, astir on a windy night. Massive doors and shutters rattled, and loose panes of window glass set up a clatter, until Tracy’s every nerve was alert. It seemed that footesteps moved everywhere, that all the house was on the prowl. At last restlessness drove her from her bed. She flung her coat around her and opened the doors to the veranda.

  It was the dark of the moon and scudding clouds hid the stars. Across the Bosporus most of the lights had gone out and there was little radiance anywhere, except for lamps on fishing boats out in the strait. She stood at the rail with a shoulder to the wind and watched the black water flowing below the jutting balcony. Its surface caught a wavering ladder of light cast from the dim lamp that burned all night at the house landing. There were no ships passing, and the lapping of water over stone steps seemed the only nearby sound in the night. It must be well past midnight, and yali and kiosk were soundly asleep. Everyone was asleep except Tracy, who had been drawn to this dark, pointless vigil.

  She was about to return to her warm bed when she heard a slight sound behind her, and whirled. The veranda lay still and empty. No white cat emerged from the shadows. Her bedroom was dark, and she knew the door to the salon beyond was locked. Yet there had been a sound somewhere near. The closed shutters of the room next to hers were the old-fashioned shutters of a Turkish house, left perhaps from the days of the haremlik, with their latticework and lozenge-shaped openings—meant for someone to see through without being seen.

  An eerie conviction was upon her that eyes indeed watched behind the shutters. That someone in the room beyond had moved, making the slight sound she had hears. She wondered what would happen if she pulled the doors suddenly open to reveal whoever stood hidden there. It took all the courage she possessed to make the quick move. But the shutters resisted her. They were latched from within the room.

  Her very gesture terrified her. She stood in full view of a watcher who knew she suspected his presence. She began to edge toward her room, afraid to make another sudden move lest he unlatch his door and be upon her. But there was no further sound, no pursuit. She was opposite her door when a faint splash from the water reached her. She looked over the rail and saw one of the fishing boats gliding past not far from shore. She had a single glimpse of its light before something blocked it from view. There was no sound of a motor, no sound of oa
rs, just that faint dip and splash that she had heard. Strange that such a boat seemed to be coming so silently in toward shore. She wondered if it was approaching this house, and looked down at the landing again. Something seemed to move in deepest shadow, as though another watcher observed the boat.

  Again there was a sound from the room next to hers—like a door being opened and softly closed. The sense of watching eyes was gone. Tracy ran through her own room and unlocked the door. In the dim light from the chandelier above the stairs, she saw a man running lightly down. It was Miles Radburn, and she knew that he had gone to meet that boat coming so quietly in to shore over the dark Bosporus.

  She did not hesitate. She dared not wait, lest timid fears hold her back. She dared not count the risk. This was an opportunity to find out what stirred in this house, what midnight excursions might have roots in a past that had once involved Anabel.

  Her bedroom slippers were soft upon her feet and they made less noise upon the stairs than the old house voiced of its own accord. She stole to the second floor, where all was empty and quiet. Both Murat’s bedroom door and Nursel’s were closed. Murat, of course, was away in Istanbul. The door of their shared salon stood open, and she saw that it and the main hall were heaped with the merchandise Sylvana Erim must have sent over from her house. Evidently preparations had already begun for the work to be done tomorrow.

  Tracy wasted no second glance on heaped tables and piled-up chairs. Moving more cautiously now as she rounded the lower bend of the stairs, she went toward the lower corridor that ran from front to back of the house. There were no lights on below. Only the faint light from high over the stairs kept the marble corridor from being utterly black. She could see no one, hear nothing. Step by step she ventured down the lower stairs and stood upon cold marble.

  At first she thought the corridor empty. Then she realized that a darker massing at the end near the boat landing was the figure of a man. His back was toward her as he faced the water, and she did not think she had been seen or heard. She could not go that way. But there seemed to be no one near the door at the other end that opened on the driveway, and she ran toward it soundlessly, thankful that marble did not creak. The door was locked with a huge, old-fashioned key and there was a more modern lock as well. She hoped the turning of the key, the click of the lock would not be heard. In a moment she had the massive wooden door partly open. It would creak if she opened it wide, so she slipped through the crack and was outside where the wind was rising, hiding all other sounds.

  The area between the two houses lay quiet. In the garage the car Murat Erim should have taken to Istanbul stood in its place, but she did not pause then to question its presence. Wind swept between the two houses and whipped at her coat, stung her bare ankles, tossed her hair. She fled from the lighted area around the corner and found herself in the dark garden. Here grass deadened the sound of her steps, and there were the black forms of bushes and trees guarding her all about. She picked her way carefully, able to see but little, moving in the direction of the water. At the corner of the house she blended into the thick darkness of a hydrangea bush and started toward the landing.

  There was nothing there and no one. No small fishing boat with oars muffled had come in to shore. All stood empty and without life. Only wind ruffled the dark waters of the Bosporus. Yet she had been sure the boat was approaching the shore. There would have been no time for it to dock and get away again. She had been sure, too, that a figure had stood not far from where she stood now, watching. And she had seen Miles come downstairs.

  The very emptiness of the place was somehow alarming. She had gone far enough. She turned and hurried back through the garden by the path along which she had come, knowing her way now and able to distinguish objects in her path. She reached the front door and found that the wind had blown it shut. It had latched itself behind her, and she could not get in. Whether she liked it or not, there was nothing for it but to return through the garden and go around to the water side.

  She approached the landing warily, but it stood empty as before. There was no tide in these waters that opened eventually to the Mediterranean, but the wind was pushing the Bosporus into a squally pattern, sending dashes of spray against the landing, so that she felt the wetness upon her bare ankles as she ran toward the corridor.

  Here she did not hesitate, lest she be silhouetted to watching eyes against water and sky as Miles had been. She darted into the gloom, relieved to find the corridor empty. There was something almost eerie about the way everyone had vanished, and she wanted only to regain the safety of her own room and lock the door behind her. There had been no time to be frightened, but now cold tremors seized her and she found that she was terrified without knowing what there was to be terrified about.

  She ran upstairs as quietly as she could, and shut herself into her room. But she did not go to bed. She did not take off her coat. She stood for a time on the balcony again, watching the water and the landing below. Nothing stirred. There was clearly no one there. Once it seemed that she heard not too distant sounds from the water, but nothing was visible close in, and such noises were usual all night long. Out on the water the lights of fishing boats moved like fireflies.

  When she tired of watching the landing, she closed the balcony doors and set the inner door ajar, listening now for Miles’s return upstairs. Again there was only the usual creaking of stairs and house. More than a half hour had passed since her excursion and it began to seem probable that he had returned to his room earlier. There was no purpose to be gained by listening all night for footsteps that never came any closer. Then, just as she was about to close her door and go back to bed, a sudden clamor arose from the floor below. She heard Miles shouting, “No, you don’t! Drop that stuff! Drop it!”

  Tracy ran toward the stairs and down them. In the big second-floor salon two figures struggled together. Something crashed with the sound of breaking glass and a strong scent of heliotrope flooded the air. The larger figure that was Miles won its struggle with the smaller more wiry one—Ahmet. Miles held the captive by the loose cloth at the back of his jacket, shaking him roughly. The odor of heliotrope bathed them both, bathed the very air about them.

  As he shook the fellow, Miles ran his hands over Ahmet’s pockets, divesting them of assorted contents. He flung objects away from him across the floor. A comb and coins and other small articles skittered toward Tracy. She bent to pick up two strings of beads. One was the somewhat greasy brown tespih she had seen often in Ahmet’s fingers. The other was of black jet.

  “Were you stealing for yourself?” Miles demanded. “Or is this something you do for your master?”

  It was a strange question, and by way of reply Ahmet turned upon Miles a look which indicated that he understood the words and was angered by them.

  Miles went on and Tracy wondered if he deliberately baited the man. “Perhaps this is a matter for the police. Perhaps it is now time to show everyone the source of our thefts.”

  Before Ahmet could manage an answer, Nursel’s door opened and she came from her room wearing a flowing green gown, her black hair long upon her shoulders, her dark eyes wide with alarm.

  “What is it?” she cried. “What has happened? Miles, what has Ahmet Effendi done?”

  The houseman ceased to struggle and turned limp. Cautiously Miles released his hold. “I’m not sure. He seems to have been taking stuff from this merchandise of Sylvana’s.” He gestured to the floor about him, where Ahmet had dropped an armload of goods. “A queer assortment. Pillows and embroidered bags and table linens. Suppose you ask him to explain.”

  Nursel questioned the man in Turkish while Miles listened. Ahmet shook his head in sullen refusal and would not answer. Abruptly a new voice spoke from the head of the stairs, and Tracy turned to see Dr. Erim standing there. He regarded the tableau for only a moment and then strode to Ahmet, addressing him without excitement, coolly, quietly. Ahmet hung his head as if in shame, as if admitting his iniquity. When Murat had listened
for a moment or two to what appeared to be mumbled confession, he turned to the three who waited.

  “If you please—the occurrence is over. I will deal with Ahmet Effendi myself. I see that a perfume bottle has been broken—let us open windows to air the room.”

  He followed his own suggestion with the veranda doors, and Ahmet, after another dark look at Miles, began to gather his scattered possessions from the floor. Tracy held out the two strands of beads and he took them from her sullenly.

  Nursel came to Tracy. “Can you tell me, please, what has happened? Why does Ahmet Effendi touch such things for which he has no use? I have asked him, but he does not tell me the answer. Nor does he tell my brother.”

  “Perhaps he meant to sell them,” Tracy suggested.

  Nursel looked indignant. “He has been trusted for many years in this house—almost like one of our family. I cannot believe he would do such a thing.” She lowered her voice for Tracy’s ears only. “Hasan, his son, will be most upset. I do not know—perhaps it is better if we do not tell Hasan.” She threw a concerned look at Ahmet, still pocketing his belongings, and saw the broken scent bottle on the floor.

  “But what a sad thing! It is Sylvana’s perfume bottle that has been shattered, the perfume wasted. Sylvana will be annoyed. She ordered this container herself from a village glass blower. I cannot understand what Ahmet Effendi can be doing with that or with any of these things.”

  Neither could Tracy. And there were other things she did not understand. Miles had said nothing of the boat, if he had seen it, or of being in the corridor below—if his had been the figure she had seen. But he was not through with his notion about summoning the police, and he said as much to Murat.