Black Amber

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  The other man answered coldly. “We do not take such action with one who has served us as long and faithfully as Ahmet Effendi has done. There will be no reporting of this to the police. You understand? If you are so foolish as to take some action, my sister and I will protect Ahmet Effendi. We will deny that anything has happened.”

  Tracy glanced at Nursel and saw that her eyes were downcast. It was clear that she would do exactly as her brother wished.

  Miles turned his back on Murat and spoke to Tracy. “I don’t know how you got into this, but it seems to be over. You’d better go back to bed.”

  Tracy started up the stairs. As she looked down over the rail she saw Murat gesture Nursel away and take Ahmet into his bedroom. Tracy continued upstairs and Miles followed.

  As they reached the upper floor Miles sniffed at himself ruefully. “I need an airing too. He spilled most of that stuff over the two of us. Deliberately, I think. If the bottle had merely slipped out of his hands, it would have broken on the floor. But he got the stopper out first, so it went all over him and over me.”

  “But why?” Tracy asked. “Why would he do that?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps to cover up some other smell? Don’t ask foolish questions. It’s too late at night.”

  His tone was snappish and she snapped back. “I have plenty of questions to ask, and I don’t believe they are foolish!”

  He took her firmly by the arm and marched her to her door. “There’s just one question I’m interested in now. How did you get down there so fast?”

  “I was out on the veranda,” she said. “I think you know that. I saw a boat coming in toward the landing. The same one you were watching.”

  “By the dark of the moon,” he said. “This was a good night for it. Go on. What else did you see?”

  “Nothing,” she admitted. “I ran downstairs after you to find out what was going on. But by the time I got to the landing there was no one there.”

  “Exactly my deduction,” Miles said. “The boat comes in elsewhere, I suppose. Have you ever considered that it might be wiser for you to stay out of an affair like this?”

  “As you are staying out of it?” Tracy asked.

  “It’s my business, not yours. I’ll thank you to keep still about having seen me go down there.”

  Her feeling toward him was one of greater irritation than ever before. “Why should I keep still? What are you trying to hide?”

  He looked at her with such exasperation that she feared he might shake her, as he had shaken Ahmet. She backed away from him hurriedly.

  “You do smell quite dreadful,” she said.

  He neither shook her nor swore at her, though he might well have done both. “From the moment you arrived in this house I haven’t known what to do about you. That sister you told me of would have had her hands full trying to keep up with you. Now—will you go to bed and stay out of this from now on?”

  His look told her that she was pushing him too far, but she had to stand her ground. “No,” she said, “I won’t keep out of it.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, but he did not shake her. Quite astonishingly he pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth—with great impatience and a sort of rough tenderness. Then he shoved her away.

  “Now will you go home? Slap my face, if you like, and go home. Get out of this! You’re way beyond your depth in dangerous waters and you don’t belong here. You can’t remain any longer.”

  She felt a little sick with shock because two totally opposing currents were charging through her in almost the same instant. To her distress, she liked being kissed by Miles Radburn. She liked it that he had wanted to kiss her. And then he had told her why he’d kissed her and the current had flashed distressingly the other way. Her eyes were bright with outrage and her cheeks flaming, but again she stood her ground.

  “I do belong here. I am involved. Nothing you can do will change that. Anabel was my sister and I belong here as much as you do.”

  He stared at her while color drained slowly from his face, leaving it pale and cold. Abruptly he turned on his heel and walked away from her across the salon. She watched him go. Watched him disappear into his own room, where the portrait of Anabel would look down upon him with its secret green gaze.

  Feeling thoroughly shaken, she went into her room. She had left the veranda doors open and the air was cold. She closed them with hands that shook and caught the sweetish odor of heliotrope upon her own person. It was a dreadful, sickly smell. She knew she would detest it for the rest of her life. It was on her coat and she flung it off to escape the scent and shivered in her thin nightgown. Quickly she got into bed and lay beneath cold sheets thinking. But not of Ahmet, or of the larger events of the night. She could remember only that Miles had kissed her in order to anger her and be rid of her. He would never forgive her for being Anabel’s sister, or for the hoax she had played on him. While she, after all her resolution, her determination never to follow in Anabel’s footsteps again, was moving helplessly down a road that could lead only to pain and frustration she had brought upon herself. No matter how hard she tried, she could not put out of her mind and her heart the man Anabel had loved. The man others claimed was responsible for Anabel’s death.

  14

  In the morning Miles was up and out early and Tracy did not see him at the breakfast table. She went downstairs, to find Murat and Nursel breakfasting alone. Ahmet was nowhere in evidence.

  Dr. Erim greeted her cheerfully enough and rose to pull out her chair. “Good morning, Miss Hubbard. We are sorry you had to lose your sleep because of the disturbance last night.”

  She undoubtedly looked as though she had lost sleep, Tracy thought. She murmured a “good morning,” and waited for Halide to bring her coffee. She needed it strong and thick today.

  Nursel smiled at her sadly. “Murat and I have been discussing this foolish act of Ahmet Effendi’s. He has been all his life with us. For servants to take small items of food—this is not unknown in Turkey, as in other countries, but to do such a thing as this! How will you deal with him, Murat?”

  “Unfortunately, it is not in my hands,” Murat said stiffly.

  Tracy knew he was thinking of Sylvana.

  “Does Mrs. Erim know what has happened?” she asked.

  Nursel rolled her eyes heavenward. “She does not know. I am afraid of what will result when she learns. But my brother and I are also discussing another matter. I have suggested to him that if Ahmet Effendi has done such a thing before, it is possible that your sister was judged falsely and blamed for taking what she did not take.”

  Murat shook his head in disagreement. “This I do not believe. Certain articles were found in Mrs. Radburn’s possession. There is no question about what she was doing.”

  Tracy looked at her plate and did not speak. Her head ached and her eyes felt heavy. At the moment it was impossible to concern herself with Anabel’s behavior or Ahmet’s guilt.

  “Last night I told Mr. Radburn that I am his wife’s sister,” she said. “Have you seen him this morning? Has he mentioned the fact?”

  “We have not seen him,” said Nursel. “But do not he concerned—we will protect you, even if he is angry. When you wish to go home we will arrange it—at any time you wish!”

  She wasn’t concerned, Tracy thought. She was simply numb and shocked and sickened. Because of the discovery she had made about herself last night and which she could not manage to live with this morning.

  As they were about to leave the table, Sylvana appeared. For all her bright, calm air of efficiency, Tracy sensed again her single-minded determination to bend persons and events to her own use and eventual profit. Yet it was not entirely clear what lay behind this desire to rule, to manage, to manipulate. Tracy remembered the odd distortion that had appeared in the samovar reflection and the interest Miles had shown in it. Had that accidental glimpse revealed a disturbing truth about Sylvana that Miles had recognized?

  Glancing at Murat, however, she kne
w that he was not fooled by the woman. Dr. Erim, at least, saw her with a contemptuous clarity he scarcely tried to conceal as he told her curtly what had happened last night.

  Sylvana took the account with a tranquil acceptance that seemed faintly exaggerated.

  “We cannot do without Ahmet Effendi,” she decided at once. “I cannot imagine how this household could be run without him. Every servant has faults and makes mistakes at times. If nothing has been taken, and if you have reprimanded him, I think we must give him another chance.”

  “I have spoken to him,” said Murat. “I believe there will be no more trouble.”

  “Good. I shall add a few words of my own and then we shall go on as before—yes?”

  Murat shrugged and left them, to retire to his laboratory in the other house. Within Tracy’s hearing no one had asked why he had come home unexpectedly last night, and he had offered no explanation.

  “Where is Ahmet Effendi now?” Sylvana inquired briskly.

  “He has remained in his room downstairs, waiting to be kept or dismissed,” Nursel said. “He is very gloomy. Would you like me to bring, him here?”

  “Not now. Let him commune with Allah for a time. Perhaps he will chasten himself sufficiently. Undoubtedly he took these things to give to his son Hasan to sell in that poor little store. Come, let us begin sorting the articles which must be shipped. Then we will start the packing. Is everything ready?”

  As Sylvana spoke she had moved into the main salon where the disturbance had occurred last night. Behind her back Nursel looked at Tracy and shook her head vehemently, denying the implication that would have involved Hasan. She did not argue openly with Sylvana, however. Tracy might have admired her more if she had. Always Nursel gave before the slightest pressure, no matter what her inner feelings might be.

  The tall green porcelain stove in the salon had been lighted earlier, and the room, for all its vast reaches, was not uncomfortable in the springlike weather. Halide came to help and later one of the girls from the kitchen joined them. Wrapping paper and twine had been set out and there were shears and cardboard and large boxes. Sylvana gave crisp instructions and insisted upon wrapping each breakable object herself. When she discovered that the bottle of heliotrope scent had been smashed, she seemed more annoyed than she had been over the actual thieving.

  “Such carelessness! It is difficult to forgive Ahmet Effendi for this. But of course one of my special scents would have been a fine thing for his son to sell in the bazaar and he would try to take this.”

  Nursel went so far as to make a clicking sound of disagreement with her tongue, but Sylvana seemed not to hear, or ignored it if she did.

  Tracy sat at a table, wrapping various articles—a shepherd’s bag, handwoven and embroidered in brightly colored wool, a shallow bowl of beaten copper, silver jewelry, and innumerable tespihler.

  After a time Tracy’s hands moved automatically and she paid little attention to the talk around her. The problem of Miles must be faced. She must see him and talk to him, perhaps tell him of Anabel’s phone call, show him the strand of black amber left between the pages of the book with a passage marked. She must tell him why she had come here, try to make him understand her need for secrecy. He had sounded last night as though he knew something of what went on in this house. He had accused Ahmet of working for a master—meaning Murat? How much of a thorn of trouble between Miles and Murat had Anabel herself been? It was possible that Tracy and Miles might help each other if they pooled their mutual knowledge.

  Yet even as her thoughts turned along a practical course, there was an aching in her that would not be quiet. Ever since she had come here, she had been moving surely and inevitably toward Miles Radburn. Even in moments of antagonism the chemistry of attraction had been drawing her to him. When Nursel had warned, she would not listen. Had she been more honest with herself, she might have felt the strength of the current before she was helplessly caught up in it.

  But no—she would not accept that! She was not helpless even now. Anabel had drifted with whatever current had caught her up. But this was not for Tracy Hubbard. It was nonsense to believe that she could fall in love so suddenly that she was unaware of what was happening until it was too late. Or—the pendulum swung again—was this the fundamental and irreversible truth that she must now face—that in spite of herself she was in love? Because of Anabel this would be a particularly difficult thing to accept, and she winced away from it in her own thoughts.

  Sylvana’s voice broke in upon this unhappy circling. “Are you dreaming, Miss Hubbard? If you please—we cannot waste good twine like that.”

  Tracy apologized and unwound a few wasted lengths of twine. She was well aware that Sylvana regarded her with cold distaste today. Beneath all that mock calm, the woman was still angry because Tracy had defied her and remained at the yali. But at least it would not be for long. Now that Miles too wanted her to go, Tracy’s days in this house were numbered. With that thought came further realization of the cause behind her hurt and confusion and self-blame. Miles had loved Anabel first. He still kept her picture on his wall. Last night he had rejected Tracy. Hubbard unequivocably. It was this that hurt so much and would not release her from pain.

  Again Sylvana’s voice cut into her thoughts, drawing her back to petty reality, whether she liked it or not.

  “Where is the strip of calligraphy Miles has made for me?” Sylvana was asking. “I have a cardboard roll in which to place it so that it will not be damaged in mailing. I thought it was here among these things, but I do not find it.”

  At once a search began for the Turkish script. It was not among the articles in the big room where they worked. Nor could Nursel or Sylvana find it in the living quarters Nursel shared with Murat, where other articles had been piled. Halide was sent to the kiosk to search for it there, but returned empty-handed.

  Sylvana shed her air of tranquillity and began to look seriously disturbed. “I have several regular buyers for these pieces in New York. Miles has contributed his time for this work and the money goes with the rest to the villagers’ fund. This must be found.”

  Tracy remembered Ahmet’s odd interest in the piece when she had surprised him in Miles’s study.

  “There’s still Ahmet,” she suggested.

  “He would not take such a thing,” Sylvana said. “Still—we must be sure.”

  “Let me speak to him,” Nursel offered. Her concern about Hasan’s father was evident to Tracy, but Sylvana lacked the key to an understanding of Nursel’s feelings.

  “Yes—it is time,” Sylvana said. “Bring him here, whether he has the script or not.”

  Nursel hurried away. During her absence Miles came indoors from his walk. He would not have stopped on his way upstairs if Sylvana had not spoken to him.

  “I am sorry that I will not have time to give you a sitting for a day or so,” she said. “As you can see, we are well occupied. This will take up all of today and perhaps some of tomorrow. After that, we will continue with the portrait.”

  “The painting can wait,” Miles said.

  He did not look at Tracy and she could sense his displeasure with her, his continued rejection. She gave her attention to tying a secure knot in carefully apportioned twine and pretended not to know that he was there.

  When he had gone upstairs, Sylvana spoke again to Tracy. “I think we shall not tell Mr. Radburn about this small matter of the calligraphy. Assuredly it will be found. He would be disturbed if he thought his contribution had been carelessly treated.”

  Tracy said nothing. Perhaps she would tell Miles, perhaps not, but she wondered at this small effort at deception on Sylvana’s part.

  A few moments later Nursel returned with Ahmet. Last night the man had seemed murderously angry with Miles, then apologetic with Murat. Now he had returned to his usual sullen, uncommunicative self.

  Nursel produced the rolled-up script and placed it before Sylvana. “What has happened is nothing for us to be excited about, I think. Ahm
et Effendi tells me he has only borrowed this. He took it to his room yesterday, thinking you would not mail it at once. Then, after what happened last night, he was upset and forgot to return it.”

  Sylvana unrolled the strip of paper and spread it out upon a table. Then she spoke to Ahmet in Turkish.

  He answered her readily enough, repeating the names of Allah and the Koran several times. As they talked, Tracy stepped close to the table to study Miles’s careful, precise work, once more fascinated by it. The ancient calligraphy had been truly beautiful with its vertical lines, its dashes and loops and convolutions. There were bows like small crescent moons, and lines that wriggled up and down like the moving body of a snake. All meaningless to eyes that could not read, but endlessly intriguing as a pattern. Miles must have reproduced the script meticulously.

  In one corner was a sort of hatchwork design with small ripples around it like falling leaves. This Tracy had not noticed before and she studied it, puzzled. Before she had come to a conclusion, Sylvana picked up the script, rolled it into a cylinder, and slipped it inside the mailing tube. She spoke a few more words from the table to Ahmet and he bowed to her and went away, looking not at all repentant.

  “I suppose it is reasonable that this piece should interest him,” Sylvana said. “Ahmet Effendi can read the old characters as young Turks cannot, thanks to Mustapha Kemal. I do not believe Atatürk did only good for Turkey. So much of the old and picturesque is gone.”

  “This is true,” said Nursel dryly. “Before I was born my mother wore a veil and my father a fez. Murat and I are no longer able to be so picturesque.”

  Sylvana sat down at a table to address the tube, paying no attention.

  Nursel whispered to Tracy, “We will not tell Hasan. I do not know why Ahmet Effendi is so foolish, but he will continue to work here and I do not think this will happen again. Hasan would be worried about his father.”

  Tracy scarcely listened. A clear picture of the calligraphy as she remembered it lingered in her mind. A picture that was without the crosshatching and falling-leaf design in one corner. Had Miles added some further touch after the script had been delivered to Sylvana? Or might Ahmet have been so whimsical as to have put in something of his own—perhaps out of his knowledge of what was correct in Turkish writing? Both seemed unlikely. Apparently Sylvana had noticed nothing. Or wished to notice nothing.