Black Amber

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

“Maybe she even helped for a time,” said Miles. “She couldn’t bring herself to blow up the whole thing and cut off her own supply of heroin.”

  “She must have known that opium was brought by water and hidden in the ruined palace, since she spoke of the Sultan Valide when she telephoned me.”

  “Exactly. The way she haunted the place, she could easily have happened on the truth.”

  “Even Yasemin knew about that hole in the floor,” Tracy said. “She led me to it. But there’s still a long step from the raw opium we saw in that box to pure heroin.”

  “Not so long as you might imagine. There’s no need for fancy stills and elaborate equipment, you know. The process can be managed with ordinary kitchen utensils and a few chemicals bought from a drugstore. Ethyl alcohol, ammonium chloride, sulphuric acid, and a few other cozy little items. From the crude opium you get morphine, and from morphine comes diamorphine. Heroin is the trade name for diamorphine, the final step. The whole operation takes only a little knowledge and some hours of time. It could be done anywhere.”

  “Perhaps in one of the laboratories in the kiosk?” Tracy said softly.

  “Of course. I’ve often wondered how much of Sylvana’s perfume operations were a blind. And if Anabel’s interest in perfume-making grew out of something she happened on down there. Now I have the proof, and all I need is to know which of them stands behind the operation. I have to be sure, no matter what I suspect.”

  Tracy was thinking of something else. “If Anabel was involved in all this, how could anyone withhold heroin from her as seems to have happened at the end? Wouldn’t she have made sure of a supply from the articles she took—like this bag?”

  “She was no beginner to get relief through sniffing heroin. And she had no needle. I kept watch for that. Besides, this is the pure stuff and as much as a tenth of a gram will kill. It would need to be cut back.”

  On ahead the windows and towers of old Istanbul were beginning to catch the full rays of the rising sun. The rounded mound of buildings shimmered in golden haze, like ‘a splendid Arabian Nights vision floating above the Golden Horn. But Tracy could see only the evil at its heart. An evil that had treatened Anabel’s very life. And now would threaten Miles if he returned to the yali. “It’s all so dreadful, so horrible,” she murmured. “I never imagined!”

  “Now you’re imagining too much,” he said. “It’s time to think of something else.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small packet and handed it to her. “I picked these up for you in a shop off Taksim Square. See what you think of them.”

  He was trying to distract her and she did not want him to succeed. Without interest she removed the cover of the small box. On a bed of cotton lay a pair of earrings delicately carved in ivory. They were neat button clips, etched in minute fretwork. Modest earrings that would not dangle. Quite suitable for a girl who could never be like the Anabel of Miles’s portrait.

  He was watching her. “I can see that you don’t like them. What’s wrong?”

  The last twenty-four hours had been too much. She was beyond being rational and sensible. These earrings were a verdict that she would not accept.

  “Murat said I ought to dress in a more fashionable and frilly way,” she told him. “He thought dangling earrings suited me and made me more feminine.”

  Miles’s snort disposed of Murat Erim. “You’re quite feminine enough as you are. Besides, he’s not the one to listen to. The man was half in love with Anabel himself. He probably thinks you ought to pattern yourself in your sister’s image. Even though he turned against her at the end.”

  So Miles had known about Murat. Of course there would have been no need for jealousy under the circumstances that had existed.

  “Forget about Murat,” Miles went on. “And forget Anabel for the moment. While you’re often a thoroughly exasperating young woman, you are at least, as I’ve told you before, all of one piece. You fit yourself. You wear yourself well. Simplicity is your style. And so is your long shining hair that you wear so neatly. Earrings that dangle are not for you.”

  “You’ve never approved of me!” Tracy cried, still lost to reason. “All you want is to send me home and—”

  “Stop being an idiot!” he said roughly. “That doesn’t suit you either. What I shall do without you once you’ve gone back to New York, I can’t think. The prospect looks fairly dull and bleak.”

  “But you said—”

  Cold fury was upon him again. It was in his eyes, in the set of his mouth, and she shrank from the sight of it.

  “I said I wanted you out of this. I’ve been trying to keep you out of it all along. There’s a demon to be unmasked and I don’t want you around when it happens. I’ve been using delaying tactics on my book for months while I tried to get to the bottom of what’s going on. And then you come out and disrupt everything. Cause for Anabel’s actions can be traced clear back to her childhood. But the immediate and terrible blame isn’t yours, my prickly darling, or mine either. It belongs to the creature who drove Anabel to her death. Even if I’d stayed at the yali the day she died, a way would have been found. If only she had come to me—but she didn’t.”

  Tracy stared at the city across the Golden Horn. She found to her surprise that her spirits had lifted enormously, in spite of everything. The spires and domes looked unbelievably beautiful in the morning light and she wasn’t angry any more. Miles had called her his darling. He was concerned about her. He didn’t want her to be like Anabel. Surreptitiously she clipped on the button earrings.

  “Traffic’s beginning to move,” Miles said, and started the car.

  Tugboats in the water had pushed the floating section of the bridge into place. All about them cars, motorbikes, bicycles, handcarts—with pedestrians on the far edges—were coming to life, beginning to move.

  Neither Miles nor Tracy saw the man who slipped through the traffic behind them until he suddenly opened the back door of their car and got in. There was nothing of friendliness in the look Murat Erim turned upon Miles as he spoke.

  “When you cross the bridge,” he said, “you will take the turn I indicate.”

  Miles glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “I will if it’s the way to the airport,” he said, inching the car into the narrowing stream that approached the bridge.

  Murat Erim lifted his right hand briefly and Tracy saw the automatic in his fingers. “It is better if you do as I say. Since we have come this far, there is something I wish to attend to.”

  Tracy sank down in the front seat. Miles gave no sign except for the tightening of his hands on the wheel. It was easy to guess what had happened. Murat had been in the boat that set out in pursuit across the Bosporus. It was the car he drove whose headlights they had seen behind them on the hills. He could not catch them on the road to Istanbul, but he had counted on the bridge to hold them for him. Somewhere back on the road he must have left the car and come forward on foot, searching through waiting traffic. By their bad luck he had reached them in time.

  “How did you happen to spot us when we left the yali?” Miles asked casually.

  “Unfortunately, we expected you on the land side,” said Murat. “Ahmet Effendi did not realize a boat had come and gone until you were out on the water. Then he came to summon me. Our start was late. After we crossed the Bosporus I borrowed a car from a friend. Ahmet Effendi is now at the wheel. For the time being, your car will be more convenient for me and he will return the borrowed one.”

  “Would you mind telling me what you’re up to?” Miles asked.

  “Did you think I would let you leave the country if it was possible for me to stop you?”

  “I meant to return, never fear,” Miles said. “It’s Miss Hubbard who will get aboard a plane.”

  “She will not,” said Murat flatly. “If she had gone home to New York in the beginning, she might have remained uninvolved. But now you have committed her by your own actions. As you committed Anabel. We will end this thing today. And we will end it in my wa
y.”

  Tracy remembered Nursel’s words, “… soon, soon the matter will be ended.” Nursel must have known very well what was in the air.

  Miles said nothing more, but gave his attention to driving. Solidly packed cars were moving slowly over ancient Galata Bridge. On the sidewalks masses of people streamed across the Golden Horn, coming from and going toward old Istanbul. In the water on either side of the bridge, a curious pattern was evident. A good many ships and boats anchored in the Horn had drawn aside to let other craft flow through the opening. Now, on their right, a mass of seacraft of every size flowed out toward the Bosporus, while on the left all that were willing to be shut in for another twenty-four hours had entered the upper reaches of the Golden Horn.

  At the far end of the bridge a traffic policemen directed the cars, and Tracy saw Miles glance at him speculatively. But the man was interested only in keeping the way open, the cars moving. In the back seat Murat was alert, his hand hidden, but ready.

  On the far side he indicated the course and the car followed a cobblestoned street up the hill. Tracy lost count of the turns they took, the labyrinth of narrow streets they followed, until Murat at length gestured Miles to the curb.

  “This is good,” he said. “You will get out, please, both of you, and go upstairs ahead of me.”

  Miles hesitated for a moment before he left the car, and Tracy knew he considered opposition. But there was little chance of summoning help in this remote Turkish street. When Murat jerked open the car door and gestured, Miles got out, turning back to extend a hand to Tracy. She felt the warm, reassuring pressure of his fingers, and tried to take heart.

  18

  The house was very old—one of the now forbidden wooden houses of an older Istanbul. Weathered to a smoky brown, it rose flush with a sidewalk too narrow for more than one person to pass at a time. There were three tall, narrow stories above a basement, and from the second floor two old-fashioned Turkish balconies overhung the sidewalk, rather like suspended sentry boxes.

  When Miles hesitated at the doorway, Murat prodded him and motioned Tracy to go ahead. The entryway was darksome, unlit, and there was a smell of long-stale cooking. The wooden stairs turned crazily upward, and sagging treads moved and creaked beneath their feet as they climbed to the third floor. Here Murat called out and a door opened upon the darkness, blinding them with morning light.

  Ahmet’s son, Hasan, stood silhouetted in the doorway. He was already up at this early hour and indeed looked as if he had slept little during the night. He greeted Murat respectfully and, if he felt surprise at this early visit, he did not show it, but stepped back to allow his visitors to enter the single room he occupied. After the dark stairway, Tracy stood blinking and uncertain in the small bright room.

  A rumpled bed occupied the greater part of the space. There was a table with books upon it near a window where sun poured through. A porcelain stove stood against one wall, cold and unlighted.

  Murat spoke to the young man, regarding him with a disapproving eye. He spoke in English, as though he wished to make sure the foreigners understood.

  “You have served me badly, Hasan Effendi. You were set to watch at a time when watching was important, and you failed by falling asleep. It has been necessary to repair your mistake.”

  Hasan ceased to smile. “I do not fall asleep, efendim,” he denied. “I stay in the house of the Sultan Valide and I remain awake and watchful.”

  There was nothing like setting one thief against another, Tracy thought, and interrupted abruptly.

  “I saw you there asleep on the veranda of the ruined house, Hasan Effendi,” she said. “You were very sound asleep. You did not hear me at all.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hubbard.” Murat bent a mocking look upon her and went on sternly to Hasan. “It is better if you do not lie to me. We will now return to the yali and you will accompany us there. Your father wishes this. It is possible that we may give you an opportunity to make up for your negligence.”

  Hasan bowed his head submissively, offering no objection, and when Murat turned to Miles, Ahmet’s son flung Tracy an oddly enigmatic look. Where she might have expected resentment, he seemed almost pleased.

  “It is necessary for you to understand, Mr. Radburn,” Murat continued, “that the end has come for you. This matter will now move as I wish. Any resistance on your part may result in an unfortunate accident. You understand what I say to you?”

  “I think I’m beginning to,” Miles said.

  Murat gestured to Hasan to go downstairs first, and then to Miles and Tracy to follow. When they reached the car, Miles was put in the driver’s seat, with Murat beside him, while Tracy got into the back with Hasan.

  Though the blockage around the bridge had been broken, morning traffic was still heavy and moved at a crawl in this congested area.

  Under cover of noisy city sounds, Hasan spoke softly to Tracy. “Thank you, efendim, for informing the Doktor of my negligence in falling asleep.”

  Tracy stared at him, trying to read the brown eyes and the face she had seen wear dark scowls directed at Nursel. Former anger seemed to have given way to a surprising mood of cheer.

  “But you told Murat you were not sleeping,” she said. “So why are you pleased when I told him you were?”

  “I knew he, would not believe me,” Hasan said. “You confirmed what I wished him to know.”

  This oblique approach was too much for Tracy, and she attempted no comment. When they were across the bridge and moving toward the car ferry, Hasan spoke to her again.

  “I wish to thank you for befriending Nursel. It is well. I, personally, will see that no harm befalls you in whatever may come.”

  Such an offer of friendship from this young man, who had not in the beginning approved of her, was astonishing, but Tracy did not stop to question it now.

  “It’s not myself I’m afraid for,” she said quickly. “What does Murat intend to do about Miles?”

  Hasan’s face darkened. “It will be as this man deserves.”

  “But why—why?” Tracy pressed. “Why does Murat—”

  “You speak my name?” asked Murat from the front seat.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Tracy asked. “I want to know what is happening. Why are we being taken back to the yali as if we were prisoners?”

  “This you will know soon,” Murat said. “Let there be no talking now. If you must choose your friends unwisely, then there are consequences you must suffer. As it was necessary for your sister to suffer the consequences of her acts.”

  From then on there was silence. During the brief crossing of the Bosporus no one left the car. There were people all around going to work, but there seemed no one to whom an appeal by foreigners in trouble could be made. Miles remained alert and watchful, but he took no step toward freedom. On the Anatolian side early morning traffic had quickened and he drove with concentrated assurance. Whatever faced them at the yali, Miles’s courage had not been shaken and Tracy tried to take comfort from the knowledge.

  When they reached the house Nursel was waiting for them. She smiled briefly at Hasan, but scarcely glanced at Miles or Tracy.

  “Ahmet Effendi has returned,” she said. “All is ready.”

  “Where is Sylvana?” Murat asked.

  Nursel moved her eyes in the direction of the kiosk across the drive. “She has breakfast in her rooms. We will find her there.”

  “Good,” said Murat. “We will go there now. The moment is here. It is time for the truth to be known.”

  On their way upstairs in the kiosk Ahmet slipped out of the shadows of the upper salon, where he had apparently been watching, and joined them.

  In Sylvana’s room, Nursel drew uneasily apart, as though she wished to leave all that might happen here to others. Not once had she met Tracy’s eyes. Ahmet had a quick, almost scornful look for his son, and Tracy saw the young man lower his eyes.

  Mrs. Erim seemed surprised and not a little annoyed with this invasion of visitors before she had
finished her coffee and rolls. When she saw Miles, her eyes sparked with anger and she would have spoken to him indignantly if Murat had not stopped her.

  “Let us waste no time. I have brought your accomplice back when he would have escaped from the country and left you to suffer all consequences alone.”

  Sylvana made an effort to recover an illusion of serenity. “What nonsense are you speaking? What do you mean—accomplice? Accomplice for what?”

  “It is not necessary to dissemble,” Murat told her. “We know all that you have done. Where is the samovar?”

  For the first time Tracy glanced about the room, missing the now familiar gleam of burnished copper.

  “Why do you wish the samovar?” Sylvana asked. “This morning I shall dispose of it. I shall have it thrown into the Bosporus from the boat landing. It is an evil thing which has brought great trouble upon me. All—all the misfortune that has come upon this house is the fault of that evil object.” She looked at Miles. “That one could see me as you have painted me is the blame of the samovar!”

  Murat ignored this outburst. “What have you done with it? Tell me at once where it is!”

  “I do not like this tone in which you speak,” Sylvana said. “But it is there—in the corner, hidden from view so that I will not see the wicked pictures it makes.”

  Ahmet went to the indicated corner, where scarves and cushions from the divans had been flung to hide the samovar. He pushed them aside and pulled the samovar into view.

  “Open it,” Murat ordered. “Remove the lids, Ahmet Effendi.”

  The old man worked quickly, taking off the copper chimney, removing the other parts until the charcoal tube and hot water chamber stood open. Murat himself went to the samovar and reached through the narrow neck into bulging depths. A moment later he drew out a plump plastic bag, packed like a sack of salt. But the white powder it held was not salt. Balancing it on his palm, Murat extended it toward Sylvana.

  “This contains perhaps a kilo. A little over two pounds of pure heroin. You see—we know all. We have the final evidence. We know the crime you have been committing under cover of the Turkish goods you send abroad. We know how you have operated with this Englishman’s help. You managed to use his wife Anabel also, until she became difficult to control because of her own addiction. Now you have brought in the young sister as well. This is a terrible thing.”