The Eunuch of Stamboul

by Dennis Wheatley

  By the time Swithin had unpacked, bathed, and changed, it was too late for there to be any chance of him catching McAndrew at his office so he decided to dine quietly in the Hotel and spend the evening browsing through the latest Turkish papers and periodicals which, although controlled by the Government were certain to reflect something of the interests and temper of the people.

  In the lounge he found a bookstall presided over by a young woman so he asked her for the Istanbul, the Millujet and the Ulus, then he looked at her a second time. Most men would have, for she was attractive enough to have caught the eye of the most hardened misogynist.

  “Êtes vous Français, Monsieur?” she asked with a shy smile as she handed him the papers.

  “Non, Anglais—et vous, Mademoiselle?”

  “I have no country,” she replied at once in excellent English. “By birth I am a Russian, brought here as a little girl with the refugees at the time of the Revolution. I cannot return. I would not if I could, and although the Turks permit us to stay here they refuse us Turkish nationality.”

  “You speak English very well,” Swithin remarked. “Have you ever been in England.”

  “No, never. But I had an English governess from the age of five to ten, when we were forced to leave my home, and I have kept it up by practice with the many English here.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “The Revolution must have been a terrible experience for people like yourself.”

  “Yes, for the old ones especially. They, who had been used to comfortable homes and good food and clothes and servants, still miss such things, but I do not remember much of the troubles and our escape from Russia.”

  “I suppose you were lucky to come through at all,” said Swithin thoughtfully.

  “Why yes,” she smiled, “and compared to many others I am lucky now to have this good job in the Hotel. Most of my friends have been living how they can for years in abject poverty. I break my heart for them.”

  “You must find it pretty dull though if you are cooped up behind this bookstall for hours on end every day?”

  “Oh it is not so bad. I close it soon now. My time is up at eight o’clock, and sometimes there are English, French or German gentlemen staying in the Hotel who are a little lonely. If they do not care for the professional women who are to be picked up at the night places they ask me out to supper with them.”

  The girl’s words were an obvious invitation and Swithin did not doubt that, when offered, it was rarely rejected but he skilfully avoided it by replying;

  “I should like to ask you to take pity on me one night but unfortunately I am here on business and I am afraid that most evenings I shall have masses of figures to go through.”

  “Ah, well!” she gave a little shrug. “That is a pity because I like to talk with the English when they are as you—a gentleman. It makes me forget for a time the difference that the Revolution has made to my life. The drudgery of my job and the beastly little flat where I live with my mother.”

  “What is your name?” he asked casually.

  “Vorontzoff—Tania Vorontzoff, and my mother is the Baroness. We are Ukrainians and come from Karkoff.”

  He smiled and picked up his papers. “Well, if work permits I shall hope to see something more of you, but now I must be going in to dinner. Good night.”

  She smiled in return, shaking back her dark curls with a little lift of her pointed chin. “Don’t work too hard—Good night.”

  Next morning at half-past ten Swithin presented himself at the offices of McAndrew, Shorn and Co., General Merchants, in Tophane Street, with his letter of introduction from Sir George.

  The senior partner of the firm saw him at once and Swithin discovered him to be a lean, cadaverous-looking man with eyes almost as blue as his own and pale sandy hair that was just fading into grey.

  Having perused the letter the Scot glanced up from beneath beetling brows which sported hairs as long as the feelers of a good sized-prawn.

  “So ye’re fra’ Duncannon and ye’ve come to this city of sin to find oot the present feeling amongst these mis-believing Turks?”

  “That’s it,” Swithin agreed, “and Sir George said that you might be good enough to give me your help.”

  “Not I!” exclaimed the other quickly, “I’ve a use for me neck and although they’ve stopped bowstringing and impaling folk these last few years these sons of Belial are still uncanny handy with a rope.”

  “Perhaps I put it a little strongly,” Swithin smiled. “I meant that I’d be very grateful for any tips you care to give me.”

  “Ei—now ye’re talking. Duncannon’s an old crony of mine and if I can prevent ye making a fool of yersel’ by a little advice I’m willing, though I doubt ye’ll take it all the same.”

  “Try me and see. Honestly I’d be grateful if you will.”

  “Ei—so you say and maybe ye mean it but I’ve learnt noo to expect that these forty years sin’. Are ye staying at the Pera or the Tokatlian now?”

  “The Pera.”

  “Ei—I thought it would be one of those swagger hotels.”

  “You think I should be less likely to be watched if I move to a smaller place?”

  “Better still take a wee place of yer own. Then ye’ll be free to come and go in yer own guid time, with God’s permission, and no one the wiser.”

  “Right, I’ll go round the house agents and see what they can offer in the way of quiet little flats.”

  “Ye don’t need to wear oot yer shoe leather that way,” the dour McAndrew replied abruptly, “as a side line I keep a wee list of flats to feu mesel,’ so we’ll combine business wi’ pleasure—if ye can call it pleasure when a decent body as ye appear ta be wants to try conclusions with that treacherous rascal Kazdim.”

  “You mean the Chief of Police. Sir George told me something of him. He was a Palace Eunuch at one time wasn’t he?”

  “Ei—and a Eunuch he remains, so he can breed no more of his kind, God be praised. But the Palace has gone the way of lots of things since the Sultan was smuggled oot of the toun in a British Red Cross van, wi’ the family jewels and an umbrella that got stuck in the door as he tried ta climb in.”

  Swithin could not help laughing at this mental picture of the unfortunate Vaheddin, last Imperial Ottoman Sultan Emperor of all the Turks and Terror of the World, fat, flabby and useless, escaping out of his rebellious capital under the protection of the British. Then he remarked seriously; “But what an extraordinary thing that a Eunuch should have risen to become the Chief of the Secret Police.”

  The merchant had taken a shabby black book from a drawer and was flicking over the pages. He paused to look up sharply. “And fer why should ye think that now? Spying’s the natural business of a Eunuch. In the big harems there were scores of bonnie lassies wi’ only one husband between the lot of them and no natural ootlet fer their passions. At times they’d go fair mad fer the lack of a man, so every harem was riddled wi’ plots to smuggle in some lusty young hamal or soldier fer an hour. ‘Twas the job of the Eunuchs to match their cunning against that of the women, and the clever ones made a mint o’ money at the game. Think of the opportunities fer blackmail in sich a poseetion mon! When one of these onnotural creatures had nosed out a love affair he’d play the woman like a salmon trout by threatening ta tell the master if she did not find him sil’er enough to still his tongue or, if she were rich, he’d encourage her to play the whore provided he made a guid thing oot of it. But all the time he’d have to go canny as a cat, fer if the woman were caught at her tricks he’d be called on ta answer fer it and if his brother Eunuchs found him out they’d tell on him to curry favour with their boss, so he stood a double chance of having his fat neck wrung. Can ye tell me a better school than that fer a secret service man?”

  “Of course you’re right,” Swithin agreed, “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.”

  “No I didna’ suppose ye had, and if ye want my opeenion ye wouldn’t have lasted a fortnight at the job yersel
’!” After this crushing remark McAndrew returned to the study of his small ledger, then he spoke again;

  “Here’s the vera thing for ye. Small, self contained, three-roomed, furnished flat. Free of vermin, No. 19, Rue Tatavla—that’s just north of Pera—It belongs to a Frenchman who works in the Crédit Lyonnais. The young fool started going with some Greek houri who was kept by a Bulgar, and the Bulgar caught him entertaining the lady one night—minus his trews, so he threw him out of the window. His bank gave him six months sick leave so here’s his flat furnished and to feu. I can let it ye fer 80 Turkish pounds—that’s about £13 IOS. British—the month, and it’s cheap at the price. Will ye take it or no?”

  “Certainly. It sounds the very thing.”

  “Ei—an’ seein’ ye come fra’ Duncannon I’ll assume ye ta be a respectable body fer the moment so we can dispense wi’ references.”

  “Thank you.” Swithin managed to suppress his mirth with difficulty and inquired; “What else do you recommend me to do?”

  “Keep yer room at the Pera if you can run to the expense and occupy it part of the time. If ye are watched then they’ll think it’s yer pairmanent address and that ye are just a gay European who goes out certain nights wi’ the ladies. Ye’ll be free then to use the flat fer meeting people you wouldn’t care ta be seen with in the cafés, and as a bolt hole in case of necessity.”

  “All right I’ll do that. Now can you put me on to any places where I am likely to pick up the latest political gossip. The cafés where journalists, ex-deputies and minor officials meet I mean?”

  “Ei—there’s the Foscolo Bar and the Petits Champs but sich places are always full o’ police spies and agents provocateurs these days so the other folk who use them keep a guard upon their tongues. I doubt ye’ll learn anything that’s not common knowledge if ye sit in them for a sen’night.”

  “Surely there are places where the opposition and the discontented elements get together to discuss their grievances?”

  “There is no opposeetion. The Wolfman at Angora hanged all that mattered of it years ago. As fer the discontented they’re all mixed up with the other folk, just as in other countries, and if some of them meet now and agen, it’s in private—else the police would be on their track.”

  Swithin nodded. “On the face of it then it does not look as if there is anything in Sir George’s idea that a drastic change is about to sweep the whole country?”

  “It does not, and God forbid that it should. I’m a cautious mon when it comes ta giving an opeenion, but it’s my belief that Kemal is seated firmly in the saddle now, and although he’s an ill-living man in himself he’s done great things for Turkey. Tho old people take it hard that he’s smashed their religion and customs, mebbe, but the young and progressive are wi’ him to a mon; so if Duncannon has it in his head that there’s an anti-Kemalist revolution brewing here and sent ye ta get details, it is a wild goose chase ye’re on I’m thinking.”

  “That was only one idea,” Swithin demurred. “Sir George also thought that it might be some new move which Kemal is contemplating himself. A volte-face to Islam again perhaps, or an attempt to regain the old Turkish territories which have been taken away piecemeal ever since the first Balkan war.”

  McAndrew shook his sandy head. “Why should he want to do that now? He’s unshackled his country fra’ the fetters of ignorance and superstition which have hampered it for centuries. My, it’s almost unbelievable the miracle he’s performed! He’s changed the outlook of a whole people! Ye can no appreciate that as I can who have lived here all these years, but he has I tell ye, an’ he’ll not go back on that even ta make hi’sel’ Caliph and Sultan and Sheik El Islam rolled into one. He’s more powerful as Dictator than he would be wi’ fifty trashy titles if he had to submit ta the Mullahs and the word of the Koran again.”

  “Perhaps, but what about the suggestion that he is preparing for a war?”

  “Not he. If he’d ha’ wanted war look what an opporrtunity he had when the Greek Revolution was in full swing. The Greeks are the hereditary enemies of his country and he’s fought them fer a dozen years of his life. There’s not a man East of the Adriatic who could hold a candle to him as a General, in fact he’s probably the greatest living soldier in the wurrld to-day an’ he’s got a well equipped standing army full o’ veteran fighters who’d jump at the chance of a scrap. While the Greeks were slaughtering each other he could ha’ seized Thrace overnight and smashed the Bulgars in the morning if they’d tried to intervene. But he didna’. He stuck to the Balkan Pact whereby Turkey, Roumania, Jugo-Slavia and Greece agreed ta maintain the status quo. Kemal stands fer a Turkey free and independent within her own borders and he’d even fight the British Empire if we tried to interfere wi’ her—but he’ll not set one foot outside the boundaries he’s fixed hissel’!”

  “Well there it is,” Swithin smiled and stood up. “I may be here on a fool’s errand but Sir George is convinced that something queer is going on and it’s my job to either find it out or reassure him beyond all question that his fears are groundless. Since you can’t help me further I must just mix with every class I can and slowly sift any evidence that I manage to gather. It’s going to be a long business and a dull one I’m afraid.”

  “Mebbe.” The Scotsman rose to his full lanky height, “and I hope so fer your sake but queer things are apt to happen ta folk who go poking their noses into others’ business in this toun so me last piece of advice is ta go canny about it.”

  “Thanks,” murmured Swithin preparing to depart. “I’m anxious enough to keep a whole skin I assure you. When shall I be able to take over this flat?”

  “I’ll send the keys up ta the Hotel this forenoon wi’ a note fer the body who’s acting caretaker; an’ a letter of agreement which ye can return wi’ a cheque fer the first month’s rent. I’d prefer that ye don’t come here agen fer I can no afford ta be mixed up in this secret business ye are on.”

  “I understand and thanks again for the hints.” Swithin held out his hand.

  The dour Scotsman took it and held it for a moment, while an internal struggle seemed to be raging in his breast. Then suddenly an extraordinary kindly smile transformed his lean horus features.

  “If ye get into trouble,” he said, “real trouble—me house is in Moda just across the Bosphorus—Yagourtchi Street No. 110. I’m trusting ye not ta use it onless ye are scared of your life—but at a pinch I might be able ta get ye out.”

  Late that afternoon, having rested through the hottest hours of the day, Swithin paid his first visit to the Tobacco Depot to take over which was the nominal reason for his presence in Constantinople. From the Galata Bridge he was rowed by sturdy oarsmen into the open straits and up the Bosphorus. He could quite well have taken a motor launch but as he had ample time he preferred the more leisurely pace of the ancient caïque which better enabled him to enjoy the scenery.

  It was not impressive as long as they remained near the Pera shore, for the wharves and warehouses, comparatively modern products of the last half century, differed little in appearance from those of any great port in northern Europe, and Swithin knew that on a rainy day, when mist shut out the distinctive buildings of the city on the rising ground beyond, they could be as depressing as the waterside in Hamburg, Liverpool, or Rotterdam. After a little while however, distance lent enchantment to the view and Pera, dominated by the White Tower on its hill top, took on the aspect of a fairy city, yellow, white, and cream intersected with spaces of garden greenery, set between a sky of cobalt and a sea of deepest blue.

  They passed the Dolma Baghtche Palace, rowed on for half an hour, and then just past Ortakeuy pulled in to a small private wharf below the Tobacco Depot.

  It was a long, low, two-storied wooden building set in what at one time must have been a beautiful garden. Swithin knew from his conversations with Sir George that in the old days it had been one of the minor properties of the Shah of Persia and used by him on his occasional visits to the Turkish capital.
The wide windows overlooking the gardens and the Bosphorus still contained traces of the lattice work which had shielded the ladies of the harem from the gaze of the curious and Swithin knew that a number of them had remained in residence there until as recently as 1922.

  The Manager, a Greek named Lykidopulous, whom Swithin had warned of his visit, came down to greet him with low bows, much anxious rubbing of hands and many servile phrases.

  Swithin cut him short by explaining that he did not understand one word of Turkish, a subtle piece of craft since the fellow was babbling away in Greek and naturally concluded that Swithin was equally ignorant of that as well.

  He broke into quaint but understandable English on the instant and his servility gave place to a friendly, almost patronising, air.

  When the other members of the office staff were duly presented Swithin found that none of them could speak a word of English and, when he tried them in French, he purposely made his own pronunciation so bad that they could not understand him. Lykidopulous grew more friendly and patronising than ever and Swithin was astute enough to guess the reason.

  Evidently the Greek had been dreading that this visit by the English Bank’s representative might bring some small malpractices to light, but since Swithin was unable to question any of his staff he now felt reasonably sure that nothing would be given away to his discredit.

  Coffee was served with due ceremony in the office and excellent cigarettes, the product of the firm, then Lykidopulous stood up.

  “I show you the factory—yes-please. This side. I lead yes-please, you not mind—I thank.”