The Eunuch of Stamboul

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Just think of being cooped up in these dreadful places for months on end perhaps,” Swithin remarked. “It’s nice to know that civilisation has at least made such horrors impossible in these days.”

  The other chuckled: “Yes, all things are speeded up now. Either a man is tried and released if he is innocent or if that is not convenient he is not tried but dies at once. Come, there is another point of interest that I will show.”

  He led them out into the sunlight from the Castle of the Seven Towers by a low gateway, down a tree-lined road to the railway embankment which cut the fortifications at right angles to enter the city, under it by a narrow tunnel, and so on to the wall again, where it runs for its last four hundred yards towards the sea. They entered another black hole in a bastion, stumbled down a long flight of crumbling stairs and eventually arrived in a circular chamber which echoed to a peculiar hissing sound.

  The vault was lit by long slits in the walls through which, in ancient days, archers had loosed their shafts upon beseiging foes. Glancing through one of them Swithin realised that they were now in the Tower of Marble which, projecting from the main fortifications, was built out into the sea. Three sides of its base were washed by the waters of the Marmara and only the fourth linked it with the shore by the structure concealing the passage through which they had come.

  The repulsive-looking fat man stood there pointing to a great hole in the middle of the floor. Swithin stepped forward and peered over the edge. This then was the explanation of the hissing sound; forty feet below the chamber where they stood the seething waters rushed and tumbled through a channel right beneath the centre of the tower. It was an oubliette and Swithin realised its deadly purpose. Reouf did also, and after one glance backed away towards the wall.

  Again their self-appointed guide chuckled as he looked from one to the other of them. “When it was not convenient to try people they were brought here. These walls could tell lovely tales for us of screaming men, and women too, their hands tied behind their backs, flung down into the water. Better than a dungeon that eh? All over in one minute and none ever returned to tell of their experience.”

  For a moment all three of them regarded the sinister black hole in silence while the sound of the rushing waters from which there could be no escape came up to them. Then the big man suddenly laid his plump hand on Reouf’s arm.

  “I have known such things happen even in my lifetime,” he said softly, “and such things still might happen to those who are so clever that they make the big mistake.”

  CHAPTER XI

  OLD LAMPS FOR NEW

  From the first appearance of the big stranger Swithin’s apparent interest in the fortifications had only been dictated by caution. At last, after all these weeks of unsuccessful prowling he had secured, in one short hour of conversation with Reouf, real confirmation of Sir George’s fears for the stability of Turkey. It yet remained to be seen how wide the ramifications of the conspiracy were but he felt that his news should be passed on with the least possible delay so, as they left that sinister chamber in the Tower with its horrid shaft down which men had been hurled to death in the sea below, he glanced at his watch, appeared surprised to find that it was after three, and begged the others to excuse him.

  Reouf seemed disappointed that he could not remain to drink coffee with him at a local café before returning to Pera, but their self-appointed guide offered himself jovially as a substitute and, since the young Turk could not refuse his company without being openly rude, Swithin was able to leave the two of them together, having confirmed his appointment with Reouf for that evening.

  He hastened back to the Pera and scribbled a line to Diana saying that he had urgent news which he preferred not to commit to paper. He added that he would remain in the lounge of the hotel until a quarter to eight so that she could appear to run into him casually there if she wished or, if she thought that too public, would she send him a message stating some other place where they could have ten minutes’ talk together.

  Having dispatched his note by messenger he passed the time of day with Tania, purchased a sheaf of the latest periodicals from her, and settled himself with them at a table in the lounge which commanded a good view of its entrance.

  How long he would have to wait he had no idea. Diana might be out when his note arrived, or kept by some engagement, yet he felt certain she would manage to come or send him a message somehow before a quarter to eight. She had gone up immensely in his estimation since their brief meeting two days before outside Hadji Bekir’s. She might be a hard-hearted-Hannah, he felt, but she was no fool; her suggestion about the University had already borne magnificent fruit and she was obviously taking a keen interest in her father’s affairs.

  He watched the clock tick round from four o’clock to five with reasonable complacency feeling that in any case he could hardly expect her under the hour then, at half-past five, he ordered himself a second tea in the hope that she might arrive in time to join him, but by six he had finished toying with it and she had not yet appeared.

  By seven his optimistic mood had passed. Twice he had been to the porter’s desk to make certain that there was no message for him so he began to wonder if she had been out all the afternoon and not yet received his note.

  He thought of telephoning but did not like to go against her instructions. Then he began to wonder why she had laid it down so definitely in her note that he should not do so, and a new idea filled him with sudden apprehension. Perhaps with this great network of police spies in Constantinople she suspected that there was one among the servants in Allan Duncannon’s house. If so, the fellow might have means of supervising all correspondence and for some purpose have deliberately delayed the delivery of his note. It seemed a rather far-fetched idea but the prohibition against his telephoning supported it and Swithin felt that in the sort of business in which he was now engaged even improbabilities should be taken into consideration. He was doubly glad that he had refrained from giving written particulars of his news and began to wonder, reckoning the theory of a spy among Allan Duncannon’s servants as a possibility, what course he had better adopt if Diana failed to turn up by a quarter to eight.

  It meant that he would have to go to his appointment without passing on his information. The few hours’ delay were of no great importance, but there was just a chance that the unexpected might happen at the meeting. If Kemal’s Secret Police were better informed than young Reouf and the dreaded Kazdim Hari Bekar chose that evening to round up the conspirators, Swithin saw himself being caught among them and thrown into prison with the rest. It would prove an extremely difficult business then to get his warning through to Sir George yet the conspiracy would go on and perhaps catch the banker unawares.

  He admitted to himself that there were no real grounds for such morbid fears, either of a spy in Allan Duncannon’s house or that the meeting of the Kaka would be beaten up that evening, but he did not want to take any chances and as he pondered the matter he suddenly had an inspiration. He would use Tania as a post office.

  It was twenty to eight now and still no sign of Diana so he went over to the desk and wrote out a telegram to her. ‘News of the World which you ordered urgently just arrived please collect. Verontzoff Pera Palace Bookstall.’

  That, he thought, should evade the attention of any possible spy at Allan Duncannon’s and ensure Diana calling at the bookstall next morning if he chanced to be arrested with the conspirators that night.

  Then, on another sheet of plain paper he gave a brief account of all that he had learned from Reouf concerning the Kaka, left it unsigned and sealed it up in a blank envelope, feeling that he could trust Tania to pass it on to Diana.

  When he had finished he dispatched his telegram to Diana and with the letter in his pocket strolled over to the bookstall.

  “Tania,” he asked. “Will you do me a favour?”

  “Certainly, my nice Englishman.” She smiled serenely upon him as an old friend now.

  Lifting
a paper from the stall he dexterously slipped the note underneath it so that only she could see what he did, then he said softly:

  “That letter is for a friend of mine. She is rather tall, very fair, and has lovely dark eyes. I may not be back to-night and if I’m not she will call here to-morrow morning and ask for a copy of the News of the World. I want you to give her this note for me and promise that under no circumstances will you give it to anyone else. You see—” He proceeded with the romantic fiction he had concocted to secure her interest, “her father does not like me a little bit and if he saw the telegram in which I’ve told her that I have left this letter with you he might send somebody to fetch it and that would get both her and myself into a whole packet of trouble.”

  “I understand.” Tania raised her sleek dark eyebrows. “So that is why you would not take me out to supper?”

  “Yes,” he confessed with a smile. “But I’ll stand you and your best boy friend the finest supper that’s to be found in Istanbul if you’ll help me out in this.”

  “Of course I will,” she laughed. “Is she very lovely?”

  “Very lovely, Tania.”

  “Lovelier than I am?” her dark eyes narrowed.

  “Some men adore fair women and some dark,” he replied diplomatically. “So the two of you could divide the whole race of men between you.”

  Tania’s red lips curved into another smile. “You are enchanting!” she exclaimed, “and your lovely lady shall have her letter in the morning.”

  “Thanks Tania, you are a dear.” With a gay wave of his hand he left her and hurried away to meet Reouf.

  The Turk was there, waiting for him at the lower end of that truly oriental ‘Street of Steps’ which curves its way up the hillside towards the White Tower, the citadel and sole remnant of the fortifications built by the Genoese merchants when Galata was a separate city, given to them by the Byzantine Emperor for their aid in driving out the Roman garrison.

  “This way,” said Reouf promptly and turned in the direction of the Galata bridge.

  “How did you get on with that queer bird who interrupted our conversation, after I had left you?” Swithin inquired.

  “Very well.” The young Turk sank his voice to a whisper. “He turned out to be one of us—a high member of the Kaka. We have a sign by which we can recognise such men and he showed it to me immediately you had gone. We had a most interesting conversation and finding me so enthusiastic he told me that there may be some special work which he would like me to undertake.”

  “That’s fine,” Swithin commented. “I was a little afraid he might have overheard the last part of our conversation, but even if he did there’s no harm done as he is in this thing himself.”

  At the Galata bridge they shouldered their way through the press of people down to the quay and boarded a steamer ferry which would transport them across the Bosphorus to Scutari.

  The passage of the straits is about four miles and by the time they had reached the Asiatic shore darkness was falling. The lights of Stamboul and Pera began to twinkle in the clear atmosphere across the water and above, in a black velvet sky almost free of cloud, a thousand stars appeared to jewel the heavenly canopy.

  After the long day of moist heat, excitement in the sudden progress of his mission, and then the anxious hours waiting for Diana, the change to cool, restful, semi-darkness with the waters hissing softly against the sides of the small steamer, was a welcome respite to Swithin, and a new energy pervaded his limbs as they walked down the gangway on to the low quayside where the ferry berthed.

  “This way,” Reouf murmured again and led him through the narrow tortuous streets of Scutari’s Turkish quarter, heavy with the mingled smells of spices, cooking garlic, and unwashed humanity which pervades the Orient until, a quarter of a mile from the landing place, they paused before a small restaurant.

  It was a two-storeyed, flat-roofed building without chimneys. On each side of the door a large dirty window displayed a sad collection of the edibles offered for sale within. In one, smothered beneath a million flies, were ranged bowls of Yaourt, saucers of semolina topped with rose leaf jam, chunks of the most uninviting greyish goats-milk cheese, and slabs of Halva, the oil of which was oozing through the silver-paper covering on to a wooden board. The other window was half-open and in it Chis-Kabap was being cooked—strips of meat, fat, and onions placed in layers upon a long spike and built up from the bottom in the shape of a cone. A charcoal brazier provided the necessary firing and before it the Chis-Kabap was being turned constantly by a slatternly looking boy cook. Yet despite the unwholesome appearance of the place, the smell of the cooking meat which permeated the whole street was highly appetising, and at least slightly modified Swithin’s reluctance to follow his host inside.

  The whole of the ground floor consisted of one big room with the charcoal cooking-braziers in a corner by the window, a rough wooden staircase at the far end leading to the floor above, and the rest of the space devoted to tables covered with American cloth, at which sat a motley collection of diners.

  Most of the men were black-coated and the few women present wore dark costumes and European hats. Swithin judged them to be of the small merchant and junior official class. On one wall hung a large portrait of the Gazi Mustapha Kemal, not in the buttoned-up military overcoat and rakish papenka as of old but bare-headed, his sleek hair brushed flatly back, and clad in a perfectly tailored morning coat, a dark waistcoat with a neat white slip inside its V, a long tie and a stiff white-winged collar. No minister at Westminster could have presented a more faultlessly correct appearance but the lean face was unchanged and the curious light magnetic eyes stared out of the photograph with all the old relentless determination.

  A lean, older, and more handsome edition of Reouf with a kindly face and heavy black eyebrows rose from a side table below the portrait and extended his hand to Swithin.

  “My brother Arif—my English friend Mr. Destime.” Reouf made the introduction.

  “I am happy to see you,” Arif said pleasantly. “Reouf telephoned that he hoped to bring you. May I introduce my Uncle Issa?” With a wave of the hand he indicated an elderly grey-bearded Turk, the only other occupant of the table.

  The greybeard remained seated, his arms crossed upon his stomach and his hands hidden in the long sleeves of his coat after the old fashion of the Orient. “Merhaba beyn. A fietesiniz Is Alah has keldiniy” he said with a stiff bow in answer to Swithin’s greeting then he relapsed into dignified silence, but the two brothers soon made up for his taciturnity.

  They seated their English guest between them, clapped hands for the waiter and, while apologising for the indifferent fare of the eating-house, pressed him to order of its best.

  Swithin chose Arbuse, the large green water-melon with red flesh and black pips, to eat as a first course in the English fashion, then Tauk which he knew to be chicken, though it turned out to be a very scarecrow of a cock and so overcooked that the meat was falling from the bones, and Kadaieff, an inoffensive sort of cake. The others joined him in the melon, then had Kebap, with rice cooked in fat, and afterwards a compote made of dried fruits—except for Uncle Issa who ate nothing. Arif explained to Swithin in a whisper that the old man was very devout and at present fasting.

  During the meal Reouf spoke of the meeting that was to follow. It was not political he said but a small social society which had been established for a number of years. They met twice monthly and, certain of their members being amateur musicians of some skill, enjoyed a little music, also recitations, and sometimes a debate. It was the trend of the latter which would, he felt certain, bear out all that he had said to Swithin that afternoon.

  As they ate their dessert the tables began to empty and most of the patrons, instead of leaving by the door to the street, went up the wooden staircase. Arif settled the bill and, with Uncle Issa still gloomily silent leading the way, they followed.

  Swithin caught a glimpse of some small fusty rabbit-warren rooms on the first floor
and then, after climbing a steep ladder, came out upon the flat roof above.

  The summer night air was cool and refreshing after the stuffy food-laden atmosphere of the restaurant, and the stars gleamed like powdered diamonds in the dark purple bowl of the sky above. About twenty people were assembled on the roof-top which, apart from the star-light, was only lit by a few small oil lamps where a coffee maker sat busy at his task in one corner.

  They walked over to him and were served with little cups of the dark aromatic brew, then mingled with the rest. Arif and Reouf exchanged greetings with a number of other members of the society, introducing Swithin as their guest, while Uncle Issa joined a group of elderly serious-looking men and sat down with them cross-legged against the low coping of the wall.

  There was no air of conspiracy about the men whom Swithin met, they were polite and friendly people, gathered apparently for a pleasant social evening. They spoke freely of their affairs, asked Swithin his impressions of Istanbul, and listened with interest when he told them of the Tobacco Depot which he had come out to supervise. In their grave discourse he could trace no sign of discontent, they made no mention of Kemal’s government or foreign politics, much less of the secret organisation that he had hoped to find out about.

  After half an hour the number of people on the roof had increased to about fifty, the trap-door to which the ladder gave access from below was closed and a little group of people began a rhythmic clapping of their hands.

  A space had been cleared in the centre of the roof, cushions laid out in it, and in the semi-darkness half a dozen men, each carrying a stringed instrument, took their places there.

  After a few hesitant notes silence fell and the sextet broke into a jumble of weird discordant sounds which to Swithin’s unaccustomed ears had no trace of melody in it.

  Quiet applause followed as their music ceased. They rose and bowed solemnly, then sat down to play again. Suddenly the tinny jangle of a jazz tune from a radio set in one of the houses across the street cut through the wailing of the stringed instruments. There was an irritated murmur from the listening crowd. The players struggled on for a little and then, giving up the unequal contest, brought their music to an abrupt conclusion. The roof-top positively buzzed with angry whispers.