by Alice Duncan
But no. If there was any saving of Sam to be done, darn it, I aimed to be part of it.
“Nevertheless, I’m going with you to . . . wherever you said.”
“Beşiktaş.”
“Right. What’s Bes . . . that place, anyway?”
“It district by water. House there with Mister Sam. Men tie him up and hit him. Ask him questions.”
My hand flew to my mouth. “They hit him?”
Ali nodded. “They hitting him. Say, ‘Where is it?’ He tie to chair.”
My brow crinkled, reminding me of my recent injury, so I uncrinkled it. “Where is what?”
With a shrug typical of those parts, Ali shook his head. “I not know. They think Mister Sam know.”
“Shoot. I wish I knew. They’ve been plaguing me for what seems like forever, and I don’t even know what they think I have. Maybe I do have it. I don’t know if I do or not, because I don’t know what it is.”
Ali merely stared at me as if I were babbling, and I guessed he was right. I got up from my own chair cautiously, in deference to my head. Then I began pacing, my nerves jumping, wanting to set out that very minute to get Sam back. “You see, these men have been after me since we were in Egypt, and we don’t know why. But from what you just told, me they think I have something they want.”
“Yes. You say so before.”
“I did? Yes, I guess I did. Oh, dear, Ali, what will we do?”
He gave another shrug. On him those shrugs looked good. Well, heck, everything looked good on Ali. “Go to Beşiktaş, fight men, rescue Mister Sam. Bring him back here.”
I blinked at him. “You make it sound easy.”
“It be easy. I get my brothers. They help.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” I clasped my hands to my bosom—what there was left of it after too many weeks of unwitting dieting.
“So you get Mister Harold, and we go?”
“Yes. I think he’s eating right now.”
“Mister Harold always eating.”
I couldn’t very well argue with that since it was true. I said, “I’ll go down to the restaurant and fetch him. You wait here.”
Ali rolled his eyes. “You stay here. I get Mister Harold. You don’t go nowhere alone.”
“Oh. Right. I forgot.”
Which pretty much tells you the state I was in. “While you get Harold, I’ll change into comfortable clothes so I won’t get in the way, and I’ll be able to help.”
“How you help?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I’ll think of something.” Boy, it galled me that Ali considered me so utterly worthless. I noticed the dagger thrust through Ali’s belt. “Do you have another one of those? Maybe I can use a dagger.”
He paused long enough for me to understand what he thought of that idea: not much.
“Well, then, maybe I can find a cudgel or something,” I said, feeling desperate. “I want to help, darn it!”
“Yes, yes. I know.” Ali sounded resigned.
Something then occurred to me that had me saying sharply, “And don’t you dare drag Harold out of the restaurant and then set out without coming back to get me! I need to be there to help get Sam back.”
From the way Ali looked at me then, I knew that the only reason he aimed to return to my suite and do my bidding was that he didn’t want to get into trouble with the hotel management if he didn’t—or maybe he was afraid I wouldn’t tip him if he refused to do what I asked of him. At that point, I didn’t care.
After Ali left, I hurried to my closet and took out a white shirtwaist and my jodhpurs. I slipped on some stockings and the boots I’d worn to climb the Great Pyramid, and grabbed a jacket and a serviceable hat that looked more like a man’s headwear than a woman’s. But that was a good thing. I didn’t want to attract attention, and I figured those clothes were about as anonymous as I could get.
Then I paced.
And paced.
And paced.
Just when I was about to bolt out the door and run to the dining room, and to heck with lurking kidnappers and/or assassins, another knock came at my door. I was rushing over to open it when Harold said, “Daisy Gumm Majesty, what’s this nonsense about foregoing the police and going to rescue Sam ourselves? If that’s not the most harebrained, idiotic—”
I flung the door opened, grabbed Harold’s arm and yanked him into the room, Ali following hard on his heels.
“Shut up, Harold. We can’t get the police involved, because they’ll make a huge official fuss. By the time they get organized, those men will have killed Sam. Even if they don’t kill him, they’ll certainly hear the noise made by the Turkish police and those London coppers coming from a mile away. What we’re going to do is sneak up on them and rescue Sam ourselves. Then we’ll tell the police.”
“We? Who’s this we of whom you speak so glibly?”
I don’t think I’d ever seen Harold so angry. And it’s not that I think he was essentially a cowardly sort of person. But he wasn’t your basic man of action, if you know what I mean. Harold was accustomed to running in his regular little ruts, and when he left them for any reason—like this trip, for instance—he made sure his road was smooth and his accommodations first class. He wasn’t the type of person who necessarily rescued other people on a daily basis unless he had a really good reason, and even then he might hire someone to do it for him. For which he had plenty of money, of course, but in this case, money wouldn’t help. What we needed was action, and Harold was going to act whether he wanted to or not.
“We can do it, Harold. Ali’s bringing Ahmet and his brothers. Ali’s brothers, I mean. They’ll be armed.” Actually, I wasn’t sure about that part. I turned to give Ali a questioning glance, and he nodded. I felt better knowing we’d be accompanied by armed men who knew where we were going and, with luck, what to do after we got there.
“For God’s sake, Daisy, do I look like the hero type?”
“No, actually, you don’t. But you can do it, Harold. I know you can. You’re my best friend, and my best friend can do anything. Heck, you helped me save a fair maiden once before. You can help me save Sam this time. And you’ll have lots of back-up, what with Ali and Ahmet and Ali’s brothers.”
“Good God.” Harold hung his head for only a moment. But he knew his was a lost cause. “If I survive this day’s work, Daisy Majesty, Del and I are going to be able to dine out on this story for months. Maybe years.”
I grinned at him and patted his back. “That’s the ticket.”
“Let me change my clothes,” Harold said grumpily. “I don’t want to ruin a good suit.”
So Ali accompanied Harold to his room so Harold could change his clothes, and I resumed pacing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It wasn’t more than twenty minutes later that we set out for Beşiktaş. My sense of geography is iffy at best, but from what Ali told us, Beşiktaş was merely one of Istanbul’s various districts, in the western part of the city, and was mainly populated by fishermen because it was on the river. Which river, I couldn’t tell you, being geographically challenged, as I mentioned before. The house in which Sam was being held faced the river, whatever one it was.
We grabbed a donkey-drawn cab outside the Sultanahmet Hotel, and when we told the driver where we wanted to go, he looked at us in a manner that told me people didn’t often ask to be driven to Beşiktaş. Oh, well. There was a first time for everything. For instance, this would be my first time rescuing a man. As referred to briefly above, I’d helped rescue a damsel in distress once, but that was in Pasadena and not nearly so frightening a prospect. Actually, come to think of it, I was plenty scared at the time, but that was because I was trying to hide the maiden from Sam Rotondo, the very man toward whom I was headed at that very moment, and whom I intended to rescue come hell or high water this very day.
Which just goes to show you how times—and attitudes—change. There had been many times during my acquaintance with Sam when I’d have gladly seen him captured by bad
guys and removed from my life. Now I was scared to death for him and wanted him back in my life.
As I watched out the window of the cab, it seemed to me that the parts of the city we were driving through were becoming less and less prosperous looking. Well, I supposed a fishing settlement wouldn’t necessarily be a big tourist draw. The looks of the place didn’t do my state of anxiety any good, however, and I was glad I’d downed a couple more aspirin before we set out.
“I don’t like this,” muttered Harold, who’d changed into something khaki, I suppose thinking he’d be less conspicuous that way than in one of his white linen suits. I agreed with him. “And where are these famous brothers of whom you spoke?”
Ali answered the latter part. “They meet us there. They with Ahmet at house.”
“Ah. Wonderful.” Harold turned to me. “Do you have any kind of weapon, Daisy?”
“Um . . . no.”
“Well, I brought my revolver, but—”
“You brought a gun?” I was shocked. Perhaps I was even horrified. I couldn’t imagine Harold Kincaid with a gun. The mere thought was . . . I don’t know. Incongruous, I guess.
“No need gun,” said Ali, sounding sure of himself. “My brothers be armed, and also Ahmet.”
“With what?” asked Harold.
Ali squinted at him. “With enough weapons to get Mister Sam back.”
It occurred to me that he was probably talking about daggers and swords and stuff like that. Mind you, daggers and swords are all very well in their place, but I had a strong feeling that Mr. Stackville and his accomplices were armed with guns. My heart decided to do another hectic maneuver in my chest, and my head throbbed in rhythm. Blasted head. I wished I were in better shape for this mission. But we would prevail. Darned if I’d let those blasted Englishmen—well, and that Frenchman—get away with their hateful shenanigans.
As we traveled, the houses became taller and more exotic-looking. Made of some kind of stone or brick, they exuded an aura of the mystical Orient. Unless that was my imagination. I’d probably been reading too many Fu Manchu books; not that we were in China or anything, but boy, Istanbul sure didn’t look like Pasadena. Here were the shrouded women I hadn’t seen in the heart of the tourist part of the city, and the men in loose trousers and shirts belted any old how with bits of cloth. These folks didn’t wear the same kinds of robes as we’d seen in Egypt. For one thing, they were slightly more colorful, but they weren’t the nifty types of costumes Ali and his Sultanahmet fellow-workers wore, either. No glitter here. Only serviceable woolen garments—the wool was a guess on my part, Turkey, like Egypt, having lots of goats and sheep available.
The driver said something in Turkish, and Ali turned to Harold. “He can go no farther. Streets too narrow.”
“Oh, wonderful,” muttered Harold. Then he said, “So what do we do now?”
“We walk,” said Ali.
Harold said, “If we rescue Detective Rotondo and he’s injured”—my heart did another of those flippity-flop things it had taken to doing of late—“how will we get him back to the hotel?”
It was a reasonable question, although I wished Harold hadn’t asked it. I gazed hopefully upon Ali, who didn’t disappoint.
“We hire donkey cart,” Ali said. “And I tell cab driver to wait for us here.”
“Thank God,” I whispered. Very well, I suppose a donkey cart might be bumpy if Sam were grievously injured, but at least I knew we’d be able to find some sort of conveyance. We’d also have the cab. I guess a donkey cart and cab would be able to carry us all, including the prisoners we aimed to take to the police station with us.
Harold shot a nasty glance at me before he said, “All right. I suppose I’m the one who’ll pay the drivers?”
Ali shrugged.
I said, “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll pay him!” Harold’s lousy attitude was beginning to annoy me.
“Don’t be silly,” barked Harold. He handed the driver a bunch of coins, the driver’s eyes bugged slightly, as did Ali’s, and we got out of the cab.
“I wish you’d ask how much things cost and not just toss money at people,” I said softly to Harold. “You’re paying way too much, and you’re demeaning these good people.”
“Demeaning them?” Harold looked at me as if I were insane. “Does he seem to feel demeaned?”
I took a peek at the driver, who was smiling and bowing at Harold. “Well, I still think you should ask. No wonder people don’t like Americans. We just toddle into their countries and throw our money around.”
Another grouchy look from Harold. “Whoever said people we overpay don’t like us? Did Billy read you that from an article in National Geographic?”
“Well, no, but it smacks of imperialism to me. We don’t take time to get to know other people’s cultures.”
“Damn it, Daisy, we don’t have time to study Turkish culture! You’re the one who made me come on this idiotic rescue mission.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
As we’d talked, Ali had started shoving ahead of us through the throngs of people and donkeys and chickens and goats. At least there weren’t any camels here as there had been in Egypt. Although I loved their blankets, of which I’d purchased a couple, I wasn’t fond of camels. We had to hustle to keep up with Ali. Harold kept looking around nervously as if he didn’t approve of the crowds. I figured they were Turkish crowds in a Turkish town, and they belonged there. We didn’t. So I just tried to keep close to Ali.
I darned near bumped into him when he came to a sudden halt and held out his hand in a gesture that meant for us to stop. Three men, two of whom were as tall as Ali, and all of whom were almost as good-looking as he, surged out of the crowd and met Ali with smiles and warm embraces. His brothers, I deduced. Boy, these Turkish gents had it all over people from the other countries I’d visited in the looks department. Not that I should have been noticing such things at a time like this.
Turning to us, Ali said, “My brothers. Mehmet, Demet and Barbaros.”
The men bowed in turn, and I knew I’d never keep their names straight, and that didn’t have anything to do with the fact that my mind kind of snagged on the last name. But . . . Barbaros? What a great name! Well, never mind that.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, and bowed in my turn. Then I felt stupid. But what’s a girl to do? This was the most unusual situation in which I’d ever found myself. I turned to Harold and saw him bow, too, so I didn’t feel so bad.
“Follow us,” said one of Ali’s brothers. I don’t know which one it was, except that I knew it wasn’t Barbaros, because I’d paid attention to him especially because of his name.
“You follow, Demet. Be sure nobody follow Missus Majesty and Mister Harold.”
“You in trouble?” Demet asked us. I knew it was he, because he’s the one who let us pass, and then he followed us.
“A friend of ours is,” I said. “And thank you very much for helping us get him back.”
“Insh’Allah,” said Demet. Whatever that meant.
But I didn’t have time to ruminate on the linguistic intricacies I was hearing all around me—although I did notice that I heard not a single English word spoken in this part of the city of Istanbul, which was a odd sensation. Talk about being your basic stranger in a strange land.
Ali and his other brothers kept up a stream of low chatter as we followed them through the crowds. The crowds, by the way, didn’t smell awfully good, although that could probably be chalked up to a lack of running water, no proper sanitation and stuff like that. Most of us Americans don’t know how lucky we are. The closer we got to our destination, the odors also became more fishy. Ah. Good. I wasn’t partial to the small of old fish, but I figured the aroma meant we were nearing the place where Sam was being held captive.
Ali and his brothers turned down what appeared to be a narrow alleyway, although it happened to be merely another street, only less populated than the one we’d just left. Most of the people we saw here wer
e barefoot and had shorter wide trousers than the rest of the populace. Then I noticed that the trousers weren’t necessarily shorter, but their wide bottoms were kilted up underneath their wearers’ sashes, and I figured we were amongst fishermen. Better and better, if slightly smellier.
And then I saw Ahmet! Crouching in that characteristic Middle-Eastern way beside a ratty building right, smack next to the water, he was. Sam’s lair! Surrounded by fishy things—nets, ropes, barrels, stray pieces of lumber and wood, and all sorts of other stuff I didn’t recognize—he spotted Ali and nodded.
“Mister Sam, he still there,” said Ali. Then he said, “Wait here,” and we did, Harold, Ali’s three brothers, and I while Ali padded softly up to Ahmet, avoiding walking in front of any windows. Mind you, all the windows I saw in that long, low building were so filthy, I doubted anyone could see out through them, but still, it was wise to take precautions.
I’m not good at waiting. I get really impatient. At that moment, my nerves were stretched to taut, I’m surprised one or two of them didn’t snap right in half. I was so worried about Sam and so wanted to get him back in one piece!
And speaking of pieces . . . I picked up a bit of lumber lying on the ground, figuring it might be strong enough to smack a person with should the need arise. I wished Ali had given me a dagger, although I suppose he was right not to do so. You probably have to take lessons to learn how to use a dagger properly. Anybody, even a phony spiritualist, can whack someone across the shins with a piece of wood.
After approximately six and a half hours—I’m exaggerating, of course—Ali crept back to where we stood, everyone waiting patiently except yours truly.
“Demet, go to the south end of the building. Barbaros, go to the water side of the building. Mehmet, you take east side. Ahmet and me, we take north end. We break down door and rush in. The three men still there, along with Mister Sam.”
“What about us?” I demanded. “We want to rescue Sam, too.”
“I don’t,” said Harold. “I’d just as soon watch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I need to see if he’s all right.”