The Eunuch of Stamboul

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Why don’t you send someone across to ask those people to stop their wireless?” Swithin inquired of Arif.

  “It would be dangerous to do so,” the Turk replied. “The Government wish to change our music as they have changed so many other things. If we complain we should be sure to get the worst of it but look—we are about to see some dancing.”

  The cushions were being collected from the centre of the roof, only one player remained and, as Arif spoke, he began to draw thin notes from a long reed pipe. A slim female figure emerged from the shadows almost as though she were floating on air. She span, hesitated, and then drifted on, making the circle of the onlookers and almost touching them as she skimmed past on her toes.

  Swithin caught a breath of her heady perfume and in the faint light saw that she was naked but for the filmy veils that shrouded her delicious limbs, yet a yashmak curved from ear to ear below her kohl-laden eyes and he realised with a little shock that this was the first veiled woman he had seen since his arrival in Turkey.

  She returned to the centre of the circle and remained there, a picture of grace, gently swaying from the hips in time to the cadence of the music. That dance was a perfect example of the Eastern art and would have been a thing of sheer delight, captivating the senses, luring the imagination to subtle mysteries and binding the watchers like a spell, but for one hideous discord which cut across its fascination and destroyed its thrall; the mechanical monster opposite made the night hideous with the revolting crooning of some western barbarian brought on the unresisting ether from Midland Regional or Madrid.

  The veiled odalisque fluttered to a final obeisance, rose, and floated away into the shadows once more. The applause broke out afresh but many heads among the audience were turned in furious remonstrance towards the blaring horror across the way and savage imprecations almost drowned the clapping.

  A short stout man then took the centre of the open space and began to declaim in what, to Swithin, were queerly unequal periods, and an accent which was somehow strange, but after a moment he realised that the orator was reciting poetry and in the old Turkish which had been the everyday speech in the capital when he had visited it before. As he listened he found that he could understand most of it and the theme was very similar to that of the French troubadours who told, in the middle ages, of old heroisms and past wars. The fat little Turk was delivering a classic epic about the greatness of their nation when they had stamped the Bulgars in the dust and the star and crescent had waved from Christian castles in many distant lands.

  As he ceased the applause broke out in greater volume and Swithin felt the first tingle of excitement run through his veins. The meeting was now pervaded with an almost electric atmosphere. Another speaker took the fat man’s place and announced that Zainee Hanoume would now address them on the new marriage laws.

  With eager expectancy the crowd shuffled for fresh places. The wireless had at last been switched off and, as an elderly woman came to the front, a pin could have been heard to drop in the shadowy silence that now enveloped the gathering on the roof.

  Madame Zainee spoke quietly but she was obviously a practised orator. For a little while she talked of Turkey as it had been in the past and the monotonous existence led by women of good family. They had been treated unfairly, she declared, and prohibited from undertaking many useful services to their families and the State but, though all had agreed that these conditions should be altered, such changes should not have necessitated their becoming irreligious or lending themselves to the immorality of Western ways.

  Then for the first time Swithin heard the arguments of an educated woman for the maintenance of polygamy. She cited her own history. Married at the age of sixteen to the son of a wealthy Pasha she had been a first wife—petted and adored. For seven years, at which, as a doctor and observer of humanity, she placed the limit of sexual attraction of two average persons for each other, she and her husband had lived in the utmost felicity. During that period she had borne him four children and at its end she knew, as every woman in the East must know sooner or later, that the time had come when her husband should have another bed-fellow. There was no question of divorce, such a barbarous custom had never been heard of except by mutual consent after a husband and wife had found it impossible to live happily together. Instead, in accordance with the age-old precedent she had been responsible for negotiating the marriage of her husband to a second wife. With care and diligence she had sought for many weeks until she had found a young girl who possessed beauty, a fine dowry, and came of a good family. With loving care she had prepared the girl for the marriage-bed and in the early days of matrimony instructed her in all things which might aid her lasting happiness. The child had responded with sincere affection and the respect which was due to the first wife of her lord. All three had lived in amity for a further term of years. The husband happy in the possession of a beautiful young wife and a well-ordered home. The girl happy in her love time, with no household cares to burden her youthful shoulders and destroy tranquillity. Herself happy in her growing children and as the undisputed mistress of the house who ordered all things for their mutual comfort. When the second wife had borne three children a third wife had been added and, after that pleasurable excitement the household had settled down once more. As first wife she had remained mistress still with all the respect and devotion of the other two yet relieved of her most onerous duties, now that she was advancing in age, by number two; who in turn was able to devote more time to her young children; while number three provided that relaxation for their husband which even a middle-aged or elderly man must need at times.

  And now! This admirable ordered scheme of things had been entirely wrecked. Under the new law a man was allowed only one wife. Either he must remain tied to the first and, when the flesh moved him, go whoring after shameless women to the loss of his self-respect, or he was forced to a succession of these hateful divorces; leaving his older wives, the mothers of his sons, even though he loved them tenderly, to go out shamed and lonely into a strange world bereft of his sympathy and protection.

  That women should be free to follow careers if they wished Madame Zainee most heartily supported. They had brains as well as men and should be given every opportunity to use them but, she maintained, that was no reason for this senseless destruction of the home. Monogamy might suit the West perhaps although even that was doubtful, and she produced statistics to hammer home her point. France, England, Germany, the United States, all possessed legions of sterile, unmarried, thwarted women, and legions more who through divorce now lacked any natural protector and settled home for their declining years. In Turkey, until recent times, as a natural course of events every girl had at least shared a marriage-bed, and had her chance of motherhood with such security from want as was afforded by her husband’s means. Above all, she insisted, Turkish women were naturally unsuited by temperament for either the sterile or insecure existence which appeared to satisfy so many of their sisters in the West. Yet that in future was to be the lot forced upon many millions of them unless these shameful marriage laws could be annulled.

  It was a long speech and so admirably built up that Swithin had to admit the logic of the speaker’s views—at least as far as the people she represented were concerned. If these Eastern women were content to share a man, as they had done for centuries, why should they not be allowed to continue to do so and, now that many of them were taking up careers there seemed a better reason than ever for two or more to divide the labours entailed by children and a home between them. Of course few Western women, he realised, would be content to accept so short a sex life, that was the big snag, but apart from it and the question of Christian morality, the system, if adhered to, appeared wholesome when compared with the scandalous fraud and collusion which arise from the English divorce laws or the casual liaisons which are openly indulged in throughout every country in the West.

  About the opinion of the gathering there could be no question. They crowded round Mad
ame Zainee pressing her hands to their foreheads and murmuring enthusiastic approval of her address. The coffee-maker in the corner got to work again, trays of Rabat Locoum, stuffed dates and an assortment of fruits crystallised in sugar, were handed round, and then the meeting began to break up.

  Reouf took Swithin by the arm. “Arif has to see my Uncle Issa to his house,” he said, “he lives here in Scutari, as we do also not far from him, but Arif will join us again later. You and I will go on ahead and secure a table at a little place in Pera we frequent for supper, if you are willing.”

  “Splendid,” Swithin agreed. “Your brother is a charming fellow and I should like to see more of him.” Upon which they made their adieux to the rest of the company and left the roof top.

  On their return journey to Galata the ferry steamer was less crowded and they found a deserted spot near the stern where they could talk at ease.

  “Well, what did you think of it?” Reouf inquired eagerly. Swithin was leaning over the rail gazing at the foam in the steamer’s wake, which sparkled with phosphorescent fire as the screws churned it up, leaving a lane of dancing silver in the dark waters of the Bosphorus. “I found it most interesting,” he answered thoughtfully. “Are all those people members of the Kaka?”

  The Turk smiled in the darkness. “I do not know for certain but I think you can rest assured that at least eighty per cent of them are and the others soon will be. There are gatherings like that going on all over Turkey now and you saw for yourself the trend of popular opinion.”

  “Yes, you convinced me of that all right, but would those people who were there to-night really carry much weight politically?”

  “Why yes, they were representatives of the class that is the backbone of the nation. Not necessarily wealthy but solid respectable people, landowners, merchants, heads of departments in various services the type that in the past has sent its sons to administer in the provinces. My brother is a good example, he is Chief of the goods-yard at Haidar Pacha station, the great terminus of the Baghdad railway where it comes to an end on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus.”

  Swithin nodded. “He’d be a pretty useful man then to have with you in the event of a Revolution. I liked him awfully, he is such a pleasant chap to talk to.”

  “But he is not happy.” Reouf cut in quickly. “He is in love and would like to marry but it is not possible.”

  “Why, is he married already?”

  “Oh no, but she is the mistress of a man of great importance, one of Kemal’s friends and a General in the Army.”

  “Can’t she leave him?”

  “That would be dangerous. She would like to but he might kill her, or at the least have her deported for she is a French woman whom he brought from Paris. She acted as his secretary there, then he made her his mistress and brought her to Turkey. She is very beautiful, you will see her to-night as she is free for supper. It is for that reason we cross to Pera, where she lives.”

  For a little Swithin pondered the miserable position of the unfortunate Arif, deeply in love with a woman who was compelled to give herself to another man, their only hope of happiness that in time this General might tire of his beautiful Parisian plaything. In the meantime what agony for them both and how Arif must loathe this Kemalist General.

  His thoughts turned for a moment to Diana and he wondered if she had yet received his note, then the dark bulk of the shore became less vague, a sky line formed—etched against the starry heavens, the minarets and domes of Stamboul rose up in front of them and the steamer berthed just below the Galata bridge.

  At the tiny restaurant they found a table for four and ordered lager while waiting for the others. Reouf, who was a practising Moslem, denied himself wines and spirits in deference to his religion, but told Swithin that he did not consider himself to be jeopardising his salvation by the enjoyment of an occasional glass of beer.

  The café was thronged with people so they talked no more of the meeting and twenty minutes later Arif joined them, bringing with him a rather startling platinum blond whom he introduced to Swithin as Mademoiselle Jeanette Foureur.

  She proved a pleasant natural girl with few pretensions and an irrepressible fund of vitality and humour. With her elbows propped on the table and her plump little pouter pigeon bust pressing against its edge she smoked incessantly, chaffed Reouf, ogled Swithin in a purely friendly way, and pressed her knees against Arif’s under the table.

  Arif was obviously intensely proud of her and Swithin thought that she would probably make him an excellent wife. Being a French woman she would doubtless settle down quite cheerfully to middle-class domesticity and, with the shrewdness of her type, handle his finances with an astute economy. She was by no means ‘very beautiful’ as Reouf had said, at least according to Swithin’s standards, but she was cleverly made up and her black and white check tailor-made was distinctly chic. It was probably her silver-gold hair, rose-pink complexion, and constant vivacity which had made the Turkish General consider her worth importing and later played such havoc with Arif’s affections.

  The pilaff of veal they had for supper was excellent, although Jeanette boasted that she would cook Arif a better one when they had their own kitchen, and over the meal she kept them in continuous fits of laughter. Swithin had not enjoyed an evening so much during all the weeks that he had been in Constantinople. Yet noticing suddenly that it was nearly eleven o’clock, it occurred to him that there might be a letter from Diana waiting for him at the Pera Palace by now. It was even possible that she had given him an appointment for a few moments at one of the dance places that night, since he had said that the matter was urgent. So he drank up his coffee and moved his chair back preparatory to excusing himself from his new friends and wishing them good night.

  He said how sorry he was to have to leave them and Arif at once produced a card giving the address at which he and Reouf lived in Scutari with the hope that they would meet soon again. Then, just as Swithin pocketed it, well satisfied with his evening’s work, a shadow fell across the table and turning, he recognised the gigantic man who had acted as guide to Reouf and himself on the old wall that afternoon.

  “Good evening,” piped the mountainous newcomer in his thin falsetto; addressing Reouf, “Please forgive me if I disturb your party but that of which we spoke together has happened. Is it possible for you to give me your assistance now—to-night?”

  ‘Ho! ho!’ thought Swithin, ‘the affairs of these conspirators move swiftly, but never mind, if there is anything important in the wind I’ll have it out of Reouf to-morrow sure enough.’

  The young Turk rose to his feet, adjusted his thick glasses on the bridge of his protuberant nose, and murmured “Certainly.” Then with a smile at Swithin and a word of farewell to his brother and Jeanette he followed the big man from the café.

  Swithin had risen too and then his eye fell on the girl who was sitting on the opposite side of the table. Her face had gone deathly white, the patches of rouge stood out upon her cheekbones in sharp contrast to her pallor; her plump little hands gripped the edge of the marble-topped table, the painted crimson nails cursing the ivory of her taut knuckles.

  “What is it—are you feeling ill?” he asked quickly.

  “No—no,” she stammered, “but that man—what does ‘e want with Reouf?”

  “Ma chérie, whatever is the matter?” exclaimed Arif, placing a protective arm about her shoulders.

  “Mon Dieu! why ‘as ‘e taken Reouf?” she stammered desperately, her lips trembling with sheer terror. “I am afraid—I am afraid.”

  “Why—d’you know him?” demanded Swithin. His blue eyes had suddenly gone hard and cold; “Who is he?”

  “Oh do you not know?” she almost wailed. “That is the Chief of the Secret Police, Kazdim Hari Bekar, the Eunuch of Stamboul!”

  CHAPTER XII

  THE GIFTED AMATEUR BUNGLES BADLY

  “What if he is?” said Swithin quickly. “Reouf is not a criminal wanted by the Police.”

&nb
sp; “But Kazdim!” breathed the girl. “That man is a monster of sadistic cruelty; ’e ’as never missed an execution an’ delights in carrying them out ’imself!”

  Arif had gone pale. He looked up at Swithin doubtfully. “Reouf’s no criminal but—well there are other things.”

  Swithin wished that he could have reassured them. It seemed pretty certain that Arif was a member of the Kaka and it would have set his mind at rest if he knew that Kazdim was in the conspiracy also, but to say so would have necessitated Swithin admitting his own knowledge of it, which was directly contrary to Reouf’s strict injunctions, so instead he said; “I don’t think you need worry. Your brother told me that he had a long talk with this fellow Kazdim this afternoon and that they agreed to meet again about some business they thought of undertaking together.”

  “I see.” The taut muscles of Arif’s face relaxed slightly and, although Jeanette’s eyes were still filled with anxious foreboding, there was nothing else which Swithin could do so, repeating his farewells, he left them.

  Little time had been lost by those swift exchanges and, although Reouf’s doings were not strictly Swithin’s affair he wondered if the young Turk were aware of the identity of his sinister companion. Hoping that he might be able to catch him and get him aside for one moment to give him a word of warning he hurried out into the street.

  It was crowded with a slowly drifting throng enjoying the cool darkness after the long day of damp semi-tropical heat. Taxis, private cars and old-fashioned horse vehicles swarmed in the narrow roadway. He glanced swiftly up and down but there was no sign of Reouf or the enormous Secret Service Chief. They had been swallowed up in the crowd or, perhaps, driven off immediately in a waiting car.