"Ali Koray, it was said, got into debt again very quickly after he sold his property. He is a lazy man who does nothing except sit in his father's office, drink tea, and play cards,” she said. “He doesn't work, and so with no work and no property left to sell, what can he do? I'll tell you what I think,” she said, “I think that he remembered Ofis's house and that it reverted back to him on her death. I'd lay money myself that he didn't mention that to you when you spoke to him."
"You think that Ali Koray killed Ofis Hanim?"
"Yes,” she replied simply, “I do. I know the foreigner wanted to buy it originally, but Ofis wouldn't sell. Ali Koray, however, needed to sell or do something."
"Can you prove it?” Ikmen asked.
The old woman flung her withered hands to either side of her body. “Listen to what I say and see what you think,” she said. “Whoever killed Ofis shot her house to pieces, as you know. Whoever killed Ofis was making sure he killed all of her snakes along with her. He shot the house just to make sure that nothing was left alive in that place. There were no more than her two little snakes she'd had for years, but he wouldn't have known that. Now, to my knowledge, the foreigner didn't know anything about the snakes. But Ali Koray did, and he was very afraid of them. Now Ofis's house is his and I think that if you ask the foreigner whether Ali Koray has approached him about it, you will find that he has indeed done so."
Ikmen sat back in his chair and considered what had just been said to him. To say that Irini Hanim's story was strange was an understatement. But then, Lunar Park and its inhabitants had been nothing if not strange, as he well knew. There was a lot that puzzled about her story—like why Ofis Hanim preferred, actually preferred, to live with snakes. There was also the problem of what Irini had been doing at Ofis's house when Constable Yildiz apprehended her.
"Irini Hanim,” he said as he lit another Maltepe cigarette, “we still haven't established exactly why you were at Ofis Hanim's house this evening, have we?"
"No."
"So, you told me that you are a thief..."
"Yes,” she said, “in part that is true.” She reached into the pocket of her long black coat and took out a brightly coloured piece of paper. “I stole this,” she said as she laid it on the table in front of Ikmen.
He leaned forward in order to look at what turned out to be a small poster. It showed a painting of a very voluptuous woman covered in thin, writhing snakes. Above the image was written "The Slave of the Snakes—the wonder and glory of Lunar Park.” Pointing down to what to him was indeed a familiar image of a woman he said, “This is Ofis?"
"Yes,” the old woman replied. “Lovely, wasn't she? You know that years ago Ofis asked me if there was anything I would like from her should she die before me. I said I would like one of these old posters. A young boy who came to the park week in and week out, a poor thing with a harelip, painted it and Murad had it copied. He made a very good likeness of Ofis."
"So if that's the case, you're not stealing anything at all,” Ikmen said.
"I have no proof Ofis said that I could have anything,” Irini replied. “And so..."
"And so, and yet that wasn't the whole reason why you went to that house this evening, was it, Irini Hanim?"
For a moment she looked as if she might be about to dissemble, but then she shrugged again and said, “No, it wasn't. I wanted to tell you about Ali Koray, too."
"So why didn't you just come down to the station and ask to see the inspector like everyone else?” Arto Sarkissian asked.
The answer when it came made both the Armenian and the policeman smile.
"Because I don't like the wait,” Irini said with a considerable amount of tetchiness in her voice. “People wait for hours to see people like Cetin Bey. I'm far too old and tired to do that. Getting arrested really does cut out a lot of needless time-wasting."
* * * *
The following day saw Ayse Farsakoglu confirm that Ali Koray did indeed have gambling debts. He had also, according to Mrs. Lukash, approached her husband the previous evening about a possible sale of Ofis Hanim's house. And although Ali Koray denied ever having so much as set foot in Ofis Hanim's house, his shoes told another far more sinister story.
"Condemned by snake as opposed to human blood,” Ikmen said when he went to see Irini Hanim at her small room in Balat a few days later. “It was all over his shoes."
"Ah well, you see the snakes always looked after Ofis,” Irini said as she placed a small glass of tea in front of her guest. “She was their goddess."
Ikmen smiled. “You know,” he said, “that when we found Ofis Hanim she had one snake in each hand."
The old woman nodded her head. “Like the snake goddess of Knossos in Crete,” she said. “It is a statue showing a voluptuous bare-breasted woman holding a writhing snake in each hand."
"Oh, yes,” Ikmen said, “I think I may have seen a picture of that somewhere."
"It is a great treasure,” Irini said. “And yet, I imagine you probably don't like it very much, do you, Inspector?"
"You mean because of the snakes?” Ikmen said. “You know, Irini Hanim, there is a reason for my phobia about snakes."
"There is always a reason for everything,” the old woman replied.
He then told her about his childhood encounter with snakes—and with their goddess Ofis Hanim. When he had finished his story Irini said, laughing, “Oh dear, you poor little boy! You know that people were always putting their hands into the pit, but not to save the Slave as you did! They generally had a far more sexual motive. Oh, you poor dear child!"
She put her thin arms around his neck and for just a few moments she held him as he imagined she would have done her own children many years before. In fact, he felt very sad that poor Irini had now seemingly been deserted by her children. For her to end her days in a damp little room in a rough part of Balat seemed both very harsh and very sad. She was so vulnerable. He openly expressed his fears to her. Again she laughed.
"Oh, you don't want to worry about me, Inspector,” she said. “I have accepted my fate. But I also have a little help now, too."
Seeing the twinkle in her dark old eyes, Ikmen said, “What's that, Irini Hanim?"
"I've just simply followed Ofis's example,” she said. “If you look behind you on top of the bookcase you will see."
Ikmen was suddenly gripped by a terrible cold feeling. This was coupled with a genuine belief that turning around to see what might be on top of the bookcase was going to be a very bad idea. But he was a man and a police officer and so he couldn't just not do something so simple and seemingly safe as turn his head around. And so he did it quickly, sweating as he moved.
"Oh. Ah."
There were two little snakes on top of the bookcase. They had shiny skins and bright, inquisitive eyes. They were also loose.
"Nonvenomous Cypriot whip snakes, just the same as Ofis had,” Irini said with a smile. “Everybody in the neighbourhood knows I have them and no one ever comes near or by. They are my new children. One is called Ofis and one Cetin, in honour of you and what you did for my old friend, Inspector."
"Oh, er, well,” Ikmen swallowed hard and then wet his bone-dry lips with his tongue. “It is, I suppose, quite an honour to be, er, named alongside one who is a snake goddess..."
"Ofis” and “Cetin” looked at him with a lot of sinuous approval.
"They like you,” Irini said, still smiling at the odd sight of her little pets and a man they were unconsciously tormenting. “You should make your peace with snakes, you know, Inspector. You, I feel, have a natural affinity with them."
"Yes, well, affinity, er ... I suppose that even snakes have their likes and dislikes, don't they?” he said.
"Absolutely,” the old woman replied. “Would you like another glass of tea, Inspector?"
"Not just at the moment,” Ikmen said as he tried without success to wrest his gaze from the strange lidless stare of the serpent named especially for and after him. “I'm fine now. Absolutely ... fine."
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Novelette: TERESA by Rubem Fonseca
Rubem Fonseca is one of Brazil's best-known literary figures. This very short tale contains hallmarks of the celebrated Brazilian writer Rubem Fonseca's longer work: lack of sentimen-tality, emotional honesty, and an ambiguity about the crimin-ality of certain acts. 2008 will see the publication of a collec-tion of his stories in English (The Taker and Other Stories.) by University of Rochester's new Open Letter Press.
Translated from the Portuguese by Cliff Landers.
* * * *
I got in the elevator. Two big fat guys were inside. “An apartment that size and the only people living in it are the old man and that gold digger,” one of them said. “The bitch just wants the old man's money,” replied the other, “but he won't die, ninety years old and he won't die. She must be real disappointed, she's been putting up with the old man for five years now."
Then they stopped talking and got out ahead of me. At the entrance I asked the doorman, “Who are those two who just left?"
"Mr. Gumercindo's sons,” he answered.
"First time I've ever seen them here,” I said.
"They don't get along with the old man,” he replied. “Since he married Dona Teresa this is the first time they've shown up."
I would always see Mr. Gumercindo leaving on Dona Teresa's arm. They lived in the apartment above mine; we used to go down together in the elevator and would exchange pleasantries. I would hold the door open for them, for which they thanked me amiably. Dona Teresa didn't seem at all like a woman who'd married for money.
The day after hearing the sons’ conversation in the elevator, I went down with Mr. Gumercindo and Dona Teresa. Without their noticing, I took a close look at Dona Teresa. She was taking care of Mr. Gumercindo with great affection and devotion. No other woman in the building treated her husband that way.
One day Mr. Gumercindo suffered a cerebral vascular accident. Some time later, the three of us were going down in the elevator, with Mr. Gumercindo in a wheelchair.
"Let's go for a stroll in the park,” said Dona Teresa. “You like going to the park, don't you?” she asked. Gumercindo nodded.
"May I go along?” I said.
After a turn through the square we sat in the shade of a tree. Mr. Gumercindo started to doze off, and Dona Teresa wiped a bit of saliva from the corner of his mouth. I saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"He used to be so full of life,” she said with a sad smile.
I met them other times and noted that Dona Teresa had become exhausted because of her husband's illness. She was seventy but looked much older. She had lost weight and her face had become paler. There are cases in which the sick person ends up killing their caretaker.
I spent a few days in Sao Paulo doing a job for the Dispatcher, a customer easy to dispatch.
When I got back I went up to the old couple's apartment. Dona Teresa opened the door. She looked so sick that I felt obliged to say, “Dona Teresa, you should get a nurse, someone to help you take care of Mr. Gumercindo."
"He doesn't want it,” she answered, “he wants me to take care of him myself, just me. And I think he's right. A nurse wouldn't treat him the way he deserves."
I was away for a week handling another job for the Dispatcher, a more complicated one this time. The customer had a bodyguard who gave me problems. When I got back, I again encountered Mr. Gumercindo's two big fat sons in the elevator, accompanied by two thin women. They nodded in a friendly way and left ahead of me.
"Are those Mr. Gumercindo's sons and daughters-in-law?"
"Yes,” answered the doorman. “They live here now. Mr. Gumercindo died, but the apartment's big enough for all of them."
"What about Dona Teresa?” I said.
"I haven't seen her,” he replied.
I ran into the new residents of Mr. Gumercindo's apartment again. The two women looked like whores. I know whores when I see them. The two sons were even fatter. They talked about the new cars they'd bought. The women wore expensive clothes. Those guys have been doing something they shouldn't, I thought. In my work I have to be able to sniff out who's dangerous and who isn't, who's a sonofabitch and who isn't. Those two were both.
After a month I found it strange not to have seen Dona Teresa in the elevator. She liked to walk in the park and sit on one of the benches to take the sun. “Have you seen Dona Teresa?” I asked the doorman. He said he hadn't.
I went up to Mr. Gumercindo's apartment, rang the bell. A maid opened the door.
"I'm here to see Dona Teresa,” I said. The woman slammed the door in my face.
I rang the bell again. I heard the woman's voice yelling from inside, “Dona Teresa can't have visitors."
I shouted, “Can't you open the door to talk to me?"
"I have orders not to open the door to strangers,” the woman yelled from inside.
Two days later I returned to Dona Teresa's apartment. I knew it was the maid's day off. It was the time of the doorman's lunch break. I first removed something from the little leather case where I kept brochures about computer equipment. I rang the bell and saw that the peephole had darkened. Someone was looking at me from inside.
One of the fat guys opened the door a crack. “I came to visit Dona Teresa,” I said.
"She can't have visitors,” he replied, irritated. “Get lost.” He started to close the door but I didn't let him.
"Open it,” I said, sticking the gun against his forehead.
Standing in the living room was his brother. “Where is she, you sons of bitches?"
"She's traveling,” one of them stammered.
"Traveling my ass,” I said, slamming him in the face with the pistol butt, across the nose.
Dona Teresa was in one of those hospital beds, both wrists tied to the metal railing. “Untie her,” I said. They untied her. “Now sit her up in that armchair."
"Are you all right?” I asked. She nodded that she was. “Can you keep a secret?"
"Yes, I can,” she answered in a weak voice.
"A terrible secret?"
"Yes, Mr. Jose,” she said.
I took the two fat guys into the bathroom, ordered them into the tub, and put a bullet in each one's head. I always shoot in the head. I took their wallets and credit cards from their pockets. I went back to the living room.
"I killed those bastards. Nobody must know it was me. Say it was a robber."
"Yes,” she said.
I went into the whores’ bedrooms and got the jewels from the drawers. Then I left, leaving the door open.
In my apartment I stuck all that junk into several supermarket bags. I put it all in my leather case, left, took a cab, got far away in another part of town, and threw each bag into a different garbage can.
When I got back, there was a huge commotion in the building.
"They robbed Mr. Gumercindo's apartment,” the doorman said, “and killed his two sons."
"Really? How is that possible?"
"It was when I was at lunch,” the doorman answered.
"What about Dona Teresa?"
"She's okay,” he replied.
I went up to Mr. Gumercindo's apartment. The two whores were there, whimpering.
"You can pack your bags and go somewhere else,” I said. “The apartment belongs to Dona Teresa."
When the pair of whores had left, Dona Teresa kissed my hand, “You're a saint, Mr. Jose. I'll keep our secret till the day I die."
I went back to my apartment. A saint. A saint my ass. I'm a hit man. I kill for money.
Not always.
(c)2008 by Rubem Fonseca; translation (c)2008 by Cliff Landers
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Poetry: WHAT A FRIEND WE HAVE IN SHERLOCK (A HYMN TO HOLMES) by Len Moffatt
"What a friend we have in Sherlock!"
So they said at Scotland Yard,
Thanks to all the help he gave them
Solving ca
ses they found hard.
—
Watson was his faithful Boswell
On their cases near and far;
A ghostly hound, a secret serpent
Were among the most bizarre!
—
But the case that bothered Sherlock
More than those he never solved
Was the one with Irene Adler
When his heart became involved.
—
There are rumors that their offspring
Favored Mycroft at his birth.
He became the Wolfe named Nero,
Sharp of wit and wide of girth.
—
We are grateful to our Sherlock
And his clandestine affair.
Thanks to him and Irene Adler,
The Master had a big fat heir!
Copyright (c) 2008 Len Moffatt
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Novelette: WHEN THERE'S A WILL by by Judith Cutler
Here with another entry in her series featuring antiques dealers Tripp and Townend is Britain's Judith Cutler. The author of several acclaimed series at nov-el length, Ms. Cutler has pro-vided EQMM with many short stories over the years, ranging in setting from several histor-ical periods to the present day. Her novel Still Waters—the third in her Fran Harman series—was published in the U.K. in March (Allison and Busby).
Why Wally Moore should have taken it into his thick head to bid against Griff for aVictorian dressing case, goodness knows. Wally's a jewellery man.
And why Griff should have chosen to join battle was beyond me, too. I knew he'd never seen eye to eye with Wally, so it's possible he was driven by malice—though in his case it was rarely pure and never simple. Meanwhile, as the two raised the stakes of their tiff, the estate of Marguerite Fairborn, deceased, was rubbing its hands in glee at the prospect of its growing profits.
Were any of her beneficiaries present? I looked around the cluttered drawing room of a worthy Edwardian house set in a jungle of a garden. The room's windows were too small and the mullions far too heavy to give me any pleasure in it. From the day it was built the place had been passed down through the same family, so there should have been rich pickings. I wondered why there weren't—why was nothing passed down from generation to generation as an heirloom?
EQMM, November 2008 Page 10