The Eunuch of Stamboul

by Dennis Wheatley

  He continued to sleep most nights at the Pera, only using his Tatavla flat when he returned to it late and felt too tired to change again in order to make a respectable reappearance at the hotel.

  With Tania, at the bookstall, he became on the most friendly terms although he resisted her blandishments and hints that she would not be averse to supping with him, for his every night was occupied with his dogged but wearisome attempts to secure information.

  On one occasion he tackled her on Turkish politics, since she seemed an extremely well-informed young woman, but she said at once that it was wiser not to talk of such things and, swivelling her dark eyes in the direction of a bowler hatted individual nearby, whispered that he was a detective.

  At the Tobacco Depot he kept his ears open in the hope that the conversation of the workers might tell him something, since they had no idea that he could speak their language, but they talked little and, although he kept up his visits there for the sake of appearances, he learnt nothing.

  After a further three weeks, his depression at his lack of success had sapped all his natural gaiety for, with his mercurial nature, it preyed upon his mind that he seemed to be taking Sir George’s money to loaf about Constantinople week after week without apparently achieving anything. Had it not been for Diana’s taunt he would have been tempted to throw the whole thing up and confess his failure, so it was in an unusually evil temper that he sat down to compile his already overdue third report.

  Outside the apparently baseless remarks of the Russians, that something or other was in the air, there was nothing to show for three weeks’ grinding work except the statement of the Italian-Jew bar-tender. Swithin had confirmed the fact that commodity prices had been falling steadily for some months past, but Sir George would naturally be aware of that already, and Swithin had no means of checking the suggestion that the Constantinople Jews were busy smuggling their money out of the country.

  As he sealed the letter he was as far as ever from being able even to hint at the cause or object of this rumoured ‘change’ which he had come out to fathom.

  He sent it off, as he had the other two, in accordance with his instructions, by Kavass to Allan Duncannon, the banker’s brother who lived outside the city at Bebek. Then, the following day, to his complete amazement, he received an acknowledgement of it from Diana.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE IMPULSIVE STUDENT

  It read:

  I have your letter, Father is still in Athens but I have come on here to stay with my cousin Ursula. He received your earlier notes and told me to read any future ones from you in order to pass on the gist of them in my own letters to him. If we happen to run into one another it would be best if you do not appear to know me, and under no circumstances are you to telephone me here. Be outside Hadji Bekir’s, the patisserie in the Grand’ Rue de Pera, at 4.30 tomorrow afternoon.

  D.

  P.S. You will destroy this—of course.

  With mixed feelings he re-read the brief note. After surprise his first emotion was delight at knowing her to be in Constantinople, but he had not forgiven her yet for her abominable treatment of him on the yacht so, although the lapse of time had taken the edge off his indignation, his pleasure was short lived.

  Thinking things over he had to concede that if she were so deep in her father’s confidence she could not be quite such an empty-headed little fool as she had made herself appear on the voyage out. Then—as he realised the significance of her postscript—he smiled.

  Why should she think it necessary to ask him to destroy her note? Since it concerned secret business it would have been crass negligence to keep it in any case and she would certainly know that in such circumstances all correspondence is destroyed immediately as a matter of routine. The obvious inference was that, despite their angry parting, she still thought that some personal tie existed between them and that he might keep it from sentiment. Swithin laughed as he struck a match and lighting the single sheet of paper watched it flame into blackened ash.

  The following afternoon he was outside Hadji Bekir’s at the appointed time and so disturbed at the thought of seeing her again that he did not realise until afterwards that she had not kept him waiting for a single minute.

  On the stroke of half-past four a private car drew up. The chauffeur flung open the door and Diana and another girl stepped out.

  Swithin had his back to them, for he had taken up his position outside the shop and was apparently studying the notice which declared Hadji Bekir to be: ‘Fournisseur de l’ex Cour Impériale et Khediviale. Créateur du Raehat-Locoum, utilisé depuis des siècles dans les Harems en Orient,’ although actually watching the reflection of the traffic in the glass.

  He knew at once that she had seen him but remained as he was until she reached the door of the patisserie then, just as she dropped her bag and stooped to retrieve it from the pavement he turned and forestalled her. Their heads almost touched and he caught her whisper “Try the University,” then he handed her the bag, received her smile of thanks and—she was gone.

  He turned back to the window, studied the cakes for another moment, then walked away.

  ‘God! she’s good-looking.’ That was the thought which dominated his mind all the way back to the hotel. Even then it was only with the greatest resolution that he put it out of his head to consider her suggestion and he had to admit that to be sound.

  Students in Eastern countries take to politics with all the enthusiasm which their Western contemporaries reserve for physical development or sport, and Swithin knew that every Balkan University had its secret societies for the liberation of its fatherland from the “foreign yoke’ or ‘despot’ of the moment. Such youths with wild, ill-directed patriotism were the first to fill the streets on any ‘national’ day to aid in rowdy demonstrations, and it was from the unbalanced in their ranks that anarchist organisations recruited the fanatics who believed they could earn a martyr’s crown by sacrificing their lives in some dastardly political assassination. But youth is often indiscreet and Swithin realised that there was just a chance of his securing first hand information of this trouble that was brewing if he could make a few friends at the Stamboul University.

  That evening, as a first step, he inquired from the Head Porter at the Pera what lectures were being given in the University Quarter which were open to the public, and learned that a certain Mr. Mufid Yessari, B.Sc. (Oxon), was giving a series upon ‘The Turkish Race, its Origin and Development’ one of which was announced for the following night. Obviously this was one of the side lines in the Kemalist Government propaganda for strengthening Turkish nationalism. Mustapha had initiated the campaign in 1928 by acting schoolmaster himself and appearing with a blackboard and chalks to introduce the latest ‘development’—his substitution of Latin characters for the old Turkish script—to the notables of Constantinople.

  Swithin bought a back seat and attended, confident that a certain number of students would be among the audience. The lecturer, a short tubby man, who wore a suit of plus-fours evidently imported from England, was obviously a master of his subject and a very competent speaker. The occasion was the fourth in a series of six talks and he had arrived at that period of Turkish history when the vast ramshackle Empire was tottering to its fall. Ferdinand of Bulgaria was casting covetous eyes on Macedonia, George of Greece on Crete, Peter of Serbia on Uskub, the ancient capital of his country, and Nikola of Montenegro, like any other bandit, ready to join with them for what he could get out of it. The four Christian Kings had sunk their differences, preached the Ninth Crusade, and come down like wolves on the Turkish fold. In all but Thrace they had driven Turkey out of Europe and, after bitter fighting among themselves, divided what the Austrians and Italians had left of her Western Empire between them.

  On the face of it this sounded a sad tale of woe but the Government subsidised speaker treated it with extreme skilfulness. “What had they lost?” he asked. “Great areas of territory perhaps, but by whom was the territory peo
pled? Not Turks to any appreciable extent but alien races in an almost constant state of insurrection. It had cost far more money to police these countries and defend them from their Christian neighbours than they had ever got out of them in taxes; and the best men in Turkey had wasted their lives to keep them in subjection. Now they were free of that burden and able to devote their wealth and energy to bettering their own condition. Even the small percentage of Turkish nationals who had passed under foreign rule by these apparent disasters were not to suffer permanently. By Kemal’s new scheme for the repopulation of Thrace, which had been practically denuded of human beings owing to twelve years of almost continual war, the Turks in the Balkan peninsula were all to be repatriated and settled in model farms and villages. Thrace would blossom once again and their brothers, brought out of captivity, still further strengthen and unify the new Turkish nation within its natural borders.”

  Swithin knew the whole story already, but he admired the able way in which the speaker put it over, for it could be no simple task to convince a patriotic people that the loss of its entire empire was for its eventual benefit. Yet the majority of the audience obviously accepted the lecturer’s statements and a certain number of them even showed enthusiasm. However, here and there groups sat silent with watchful strained faces and Swithin judged that these would have vented angry criticisms had they not feared arrest for showing open hostility to the policy of the Government.

  Some of these latter were obviously young students such as Swithin had expected to find at the meeting and one, apparently unaccompanied, was sitting on his immediate left. He was a tall dark young man with thick-lensed glasses and stooping shoulders. His nose was beaky and his chin slightly receding, which gave him an eager impulsive look, and his long-fingered hands fidgeted perpetually as though he was itching to stand up and make a protest.

  As the lecturer spoke so glibly of settling Macedonian Turks on Thracian farms the young man suddenly sprang to his feet but before he had time to open his mouth Swithin had grabbed his arm and pulled him down again:

  “Quiet, you fool,” he whispered, “this is no place to air your own opinions.”

  Two stewards came hurrying up to inquire what was the matter. The young man looked worried and flustered so Swithin came to his rescue.

  “My friend is ill,” he explained, “and we would like to leave but do not wish to disturb the meeting—is that permissible?”

  A passage was made for them at once and the stewards courteously escorted them to the entrance of the building. Outside the young Turk began to mop the perspiration from his face and turned to Swithin:

  “I am most grateful to you. If you had not prevented me, my anger would have led me to say something stupid and then these devils would probably have arrested me. My name is Reouf. You speak Turkish well—but you are a foreigner—are you not?”

  Swithin explained that he was an Englishman whose business had necessitated a long stay in Constantinople and that having seen how promptly the authorities dealt with interrupters at similar meetings he had felt it only decent to intervene.

  Reouf thanked him again and suggested coffee. Swithin accepted readily enough and they were soon seated together at a nearby café. The Turk proved to be a student as Swithin had supposed and, in addition, a very charming and loquacious person. Over the tiny cups of sweet, black, scalding coffee he praised England loudly and lamented that owing to lack of a proper trade agreement with Britain the bulk of Turkish business was falling into German hands. Like many Turks he hated Germany, since he considered her responsible for the ruin of his country in the War.

  Swithin dared not turn the conversation to current politics for the moment, but as they talked of the past he learned one piece of history; the fatal decision which had resulted in tying the Turkish Empire to Germany’s chariot wheels.

  “In 1914,” said Reouf, “Great Britain was building two big warships for Turkey. When the crisis came they were ready for delivery and they had been paid for—yet, at the urgent request of the Russian Foreign Office Britain detained them in her yards. On August 4th the British Navy was the stronger by two battle cruisers of the latest type but she had alienated the whole of the Turkish nation. Those ships had not been built and paid for by Budget money but by patriotic subscription to which even the widow and the orphan had contributed their mite. Turkey might have been kept neutral but for that stupidity. As it was even the children felt they had been robbed by Britain and the nation stood behind Enver Pasha’s pact with Germany to a man.”

  “A sad blunder on our part,” Swithin admitted, “but even so Turkey would have done better to forget her battleships and remain out of the War.”

  Reouf agreed heartily to that and admitted that there was some excuse for Britain acting as she had in such an emergency; but pointed out that, in the low state of education general in Turkey before the War, the people could not be expected to appreciate anything except that they had been deprived of those two glorious ships, paid for by self-denial and the nation’s pocket money.

  For nearly two hours they sipped successive cups of coffee and talked upon a variety of subjects with mutually growing interest and esteem, so that when Swithin suggested another meeting Reouf replied at once;

  “I was about to ask if you would give me the pleasure of showing you something of the city during your stay. Have you yet been out to the old wall of Stamboul?”

  “No,” Swithin confessed, “but I should like to very much.”

  “Then if your business permits will you meet me tomorrow at, say twelve o’clock, by the Golden Gate of the Fortress of Yedi-Koula?”

  “Yes, I am free all day to-morrow as I visited my Depot to-day.”

  “Good. Then we will make the excursion and take a picnic lunch.”

  As they left the café and paused to shake hands outside it the young Turk added, “The old fortifications are full of interest but also they have many lonely spots where we can talk freely. You are an Englishman and intelligent. My friends and I wish that Englishmen like yourself should know our views as to where the true good of Turkey lies. Changes are coming very shortly now and if you understand our motives you can explain them to others on your return and win for us the sympathy of your countrymen.”

  “I should be only too happy,” Swithin replied with joy in his heart and, as he turned away, he felt that through this encounter he was at last about to gain the key to the secret which had baffled him for so many dreary weeks.

  CHAPTER X

  THE TOWER OF MARBLE

  As Reouf had declared the Great Wall of Stamboul was well worth a visit. One of the most imposing ruins in Europe it rose out of the dusty plain in a great double step, the inner of which was sixty feet in height and, in many places, broad enough to drive a chariot along its top; a vast buttress protecting the ancient portion of the city.

  Swithin’s guide met him at the Golden Gate and they entered the great tangle of masonry and courtyards, known as the Castle of the Seven Towers, which dominates the wall’s south-western point. Then, climbing the broken stairway of a deserted tower they surveyed the magnificent panorama from its summit.

  Below them as they faced the town were massed acre upon acre of squalid buildings, wood, brick, and stone, intersected with tortuous alleys which teemed with the slum population, but beyond they gave place to tier on tier of splendid domes and a stone forest of minarets, while still farther off, hazy in the quivering heat of midday, the slopes of Pera were just visible across the Golden Horn.

  To their left, rising and falling over hills and hollows, curving a little here and there, broken at intervals by squat square towers, and gradually mounting with the level of the ground, the double tiered wall stretched away inland to the northward as far as the eye could see. Yet the prospect to the south was even more beautiful. On that side the old wall dipped and rose and dipped again for a quarter of a mile, then it ended in a marble tower which rose actually out of the blue waters of the Marmara.

  For
half an hour they scrambled from one vantage point to another, identifying the distant buildings of the city, admiring the fortifications, and gazing across the sea, intensely blue and sparkling in the sunshine, to the island of Prinkipo, which lay far out upon its faintly crested waters, and beyond, like a low bank of cloud on the horizon, the shores of Asia.

  Climbing the worn stairways and across heaps of rubble in the grilling sunshine was hot work however so, as they came through a hidden passage to a great rent in the main wall which overlooked the moat and the cypress-lined road which runs parallel with it, Swithin suggested lunch.

  The angle of a nearby tower made a shady spot beneath the hole; so they jumped down on to the lower wall and set about unpacking their picnic meal.

  When hunger and thirst were satisfied they settled themselves with their backs to the warm brickwork below the breach, lit cigarettes, and began to talk.

  For a little they spoke of idle things then Swithin brought the conversation back to the point where they had dropped it the night before.

  “You were going to tell me the views of yourself and your friends about the future of Turkey,” he said. “Of course all Constantinople knows that the present state of things will not continue long but I should be interested to hear how you propose to better them?”

  Reouf took off his thick glasses, peered at Swithin for a moment with his weak eyes while he wiped the lenses, and then restored them to his beaky nose. “Yes, you are an Englishman so I can trust you not to repeat anything I tell you to the authorities—and it is very important that we should have the sympathy of as many Englishmen as possible when the time comes. You and I are only pawns in the game but if I can make you understand our situation it may be that you will persuade others of your countrymen to take a reasonable attitude and so influence your Government to the same end. You see, the Western nations have looked upon us Turks as a degenerate race for so long, I feel no chance should be lost which may help to reverse that view, and enable you to appreciate all that we feel.”