by Unknown
The only answer to that was to use his own weapon, the one he’d taught me. “Business first, Papa,” I said.
He opened his mouth to answer, and then clicked his teeth. He sighed, and went over to look out the huge plate glass window, the one where it says, N. Kaprelian and Son, in big, gold letters.
We don’t get a paper downtown. We get the home edition. That’s why I didn’t read about Henri Ducasse until just before supper.
Henri, who’d been described by Claire as smart and rich, was now something else. Henri Ducasse was dead.
He’d been found in a deserted garage stabbed to death. He hadn’t, according to the authorities, been stabbed in the garage, as there was very little blood on the cement floor, and it was obvious he had bled a lot. He was identified as a connoisseur of rugs and tapestries—and a bon vivant.
My sister, Ann, was reading the society page across from me, and I asked her: “What’s a bon vivant, Ann?”
“Oh, a lover of good living,” she said. “A man who likes fine foods. Thinking of taking it up, Lee?”
“Not until business gets better,” I answered. And then, at something in her voice, I looked up.
The paper was in her lap, and she was regarding me. “Papa says you’re not going to the dance, tonight.”
“He told you the truth.”
“You’ve called Berjouhi?”
“From the store, before I left.”
Ann shook her head, and her dark eyes were quizzical. “You get away with murder. I know six boys who’d like to take your place with Berjouhi. How do you do it?”
“With mirrors,” I said, and went back to reading about Henri Ducasse.
At the supper table, Papa was unusually silent. He would look at me from time to time, and I had the impression he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.
Ann and Mom got into a discussion about one of Ann’s customers at the hat shop. They carried the conversation.
After supper, Papa said: “A game of tavlu, Leon?”
“O.K.,” I said.
It’s called backgammon in this country, but Papa and his cronies still called it tavlu. Also, they don’t use a cup to throw the dice, a point I insisted on tonight.
“You think I would cheat, Levon?”
“No, of course not. But you get too many double sixes.”
“That’s the dice.”
It was an old argument; there are more sixes than any other number, they claim, and play accordingly. They get them and it isn’t due to manipulation. What those experiments at Duke are trying to prove now, they knew for ages, these old-timers.
As we set up the board, Papa said: “I’ve been thinking about that Bokhara. I sold that rug, once. I’m trying to remember who I sold it to.”
His memory was unbelievable, even for ordinary pieces.
“Maybe—Henri Ducasse?” I suggested. I kept my eyes on the board.
He shook his head. “Twenty years ago, or more, I sold that rug to somebody in this town. I can’t remember.” He tapped his forehead.
He played a sound game, making no mistakes, covered all the time, making all the traditional and routine moves. The only thing his game lacked was daring, and that’s why I beat him three straight.
Which didn’t prevent him from telling me: “You play a dangerous game, Levon. As you get older you will be more careful.”
“I won,” I said.
“You were lucky.” He folded the board carefully, and put it in the bookcase. “You be careful tonight, Levon.”
“I will,” I promised, and went into my room to dress.
There wasn’t any reason I couldn’t wear the clothes I’d worn all day. No reason but that weakness in the legs. I wore my new gabardine suit and my best oxford shirt. I wore a tie of rich and simple dignity. I was, I realized, also wearing a smirk and I left that back in the bedroom, before going out into the living room.
Papa’s gaze covered me over the top of his Mirror-Spectator. He said dryly: “You will remember the firm’s reputation, Levon. You will make no promises for the firm before you talk to me.” He went back to his reading.
I didn’t answer him. He didn’t expect an answer.
It was a warm night, a false summer night, and the moon was almost theatrical. The little convertible seemed to be humming to herself, as I cut over to Prospect.
The Prospect Towers were alive with light, the white brick reflected the moon’s glow, the full-length windows of the top floor were like a battery of beacons against the sky.
Over at the Parkleigh Hotel, the party would just be getting under way and I felt a moment’s regret. I hadn’t seen the gang all together for a long time.
Across the street, a broad, poorly dressed man stood under the shadow of a budding maple tree. For a moment, I stared that way, for it looked like Selak. But he made no move to leave the shadows, and I couldn’t make out his face clearly from here. There’d be no reason for Selak to be up at this end of town, anyway.
As I waited outside of Claire’s door, I could hear music inside. It was Aram Khachaturian’s Saber Dance, a current juke box favorite. The timing was too pat; I felt like a fly waiting outside a spider’s web. But perhaps I could turn into a bee, or perhaps this web wouldn’t be as strong as its creator thought it.
Claire Lynne was wearing something misty in a pale green, something about as substantial-looking as a cloud. “You’re on time,” she said, her smile warm and friendly.
This didn’t look like the start of an ordinary dealer-customer relationship.
We went in, and she asked: “Recognize the music?”
“Strauss, isn’t it?” I answered.
She sighed. “And all the work I went to—” She chuckled. “No, it’s not Strauss, Lee.”
A man was sitting on one of the armless love seats, and he rose as we entered. A short, dark man with one of those unlined faces. He could have been forty or seventy. But I knew he wasn’t forty.
It was George Herro, a Syrian we had frequently dealt with, another Henri Ducasse, another social salesman.
“Good evening, Lee,” he said. “How’s your father?”
He extended his hand, and I took it. I said: “He’s worried about business as usual. And tonight, he’s worried about me.”
Claire went over to turn off the record player. Herro said: “About you? You’re in trouble, Lee?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I’m young and innocent and don’t know Khachaturian from Strauss. And here I am, in the major leagues.”
Herro frowned. Claire laughed.
Herro said: “I don’t—quite follow you, Lee.”
“Yes, you do,” I said. “And I want you to admit it before we go any further. If we’re going to sell some rugs, we should understand each other, first.”
Herro looked at Claire, and now they were both smiling. Herro said: “I underestimated you, Lee. Let’s all sit down, shall we?”
We all sat down, neat and cozy.
Herro looked down at his hands, and up at me. “You’ve seen those rugs in the other rooms?”
I nodded.
“They need to be very carefully sold,” he said. “They are not something to dump on the market.”
“Any really fine rug needs to be carefully sold,” I said.
His eyes were reflective. “That’s right. In 1911, Lee, I sold an antique Kirman for thirty thousand dollars. Later, at an auction, the same rug was sold by its owner for seven hundred.” He paused. “I sold an Ispahan for thirty-five thousand to the same customer. At the auction, it brought twelve hundred.”
“I wasn’t alive, then,” I said, “but those were the golden years, at the beginning of the century. A lot of very wealthy men collected orientals as a hobby. Those were the collector’s years.”
“And those are collector’s rugs.”
“But this isn’t 1911.”
He stirred. “No. It isn’t. A lot of bad management has come into the business since then. Throat and price cutting has come into the
business, and dealers who try to compete with carpeting. This isn’t the business it was—nor are those the kinds of rugs you’ll find on the market today.”
“Miss Lynne said something about customers—” I put in.
“That’s what I’m coming to. There are still some of the discerning customers left. We know quite a few.”
“Mostly women?”
He nodded, watching me, looking for a reaction.
“That’s your field, George,” I pointed out.
“It was.” He smiled. “Before I became emotionally involved with a few of them.”
“And these rugs—where’d they come from?”
“Most of them are from a St. Louis collection. I picked some of them up there. The rest are from town, here. They were bought through the years, by a man of breeding and taste and discernment. I don’t have to tell you these aren’t the kind you’re buying today.”
I looked at Claire Lynne. I said: “That’s a different story than you told me when you came to the store today.”
“I wasn’t revealing my hand, at the time,” she said. She looked at me levelly. “I thought it was a little early.”
For a moment, nobody said anything. Then George Herro said quietly: “Well, Lee?”
I waited until my silence got through to them, and then asked: “What happened to Henri Ducasse?”
Neither of them flinched. Claire shrugged. Herro said: “I understand he was trying to sell a rug to a man named Dykstra. I understand the deal was almost completed when Dykstra discovered the rug wasn’t as represented. This is just rumor one hears in the trade. I cannot vouch for it, personally.”
“Dykstra—” I said. “We sold him some rugs a few years back. War profiteer, wasn’t he?”
“Among other things. He was something of an expert on repeating weapons, I understand. And explosives, generally. Had a rather thriving, if illegal, trade in things of that sort.” He smiled dimly. “Why do you ask about Henri Ducasse, Lee? What has he to do with this business?”
“I didn’t know. That’s why I asked. Claire mentioned him, today.”
She said: “It was just a coincidence, Lee.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll work along with you.” I didn’t mention the Bokhara, then; I was saving that. “How about that rug you have in our safe? You’ve got a customer for that?”
Herro said: “We won’t worry about that for a while. I’ve an idea we can get our price for that.” He looked at the thin gold watch on his wrist. “Well, I’ve an engagement at nine-thirty.” His smile tried to read some intriguing meaning into the words, some romantic rendezvous. He rose. “I’ll leave you two young people to amuse yourselves now.”
Claire went to the door with him. I went over to the record player. She had all of the Gayne Suite there, and I put it on.
When she came back, I was sitting on one of the love seats.
“So?” she said.
“So, it’s settled. You don’t mind if I’m a little uneasy about it, though?”
She didn’t answer that right away. She was bending over a decanter on the cocktail table between us. “Scotch, again, with water?”
“Fine.” I averted my eyes, like a gentleman.
As she handed me my drink, she said: “Why are you uneasy?”
“For one thing—Ducasse, who was killed. Then—Herro. He’s never been arrested, but he’s had some close calls, I remember. And one other thing—that blot on the Bokhara. It was blood, Claire.”
Poise, she had. Or innocence? I would settle for poise. Her eyes didn’t waver; there was no visible tenseness in her.
She frowned. “Blood?”
“Blood. Enough of it to make me wonder how it got there.”
“I can’t tell you, Lee, because I don’t know. It was that way when I got it. And I got it yesterday; George brought it up.”
“You know where he got it?”
She nodded. “I know. But it would involve someone I don’t want involved, Lee.”
There seemed to be a lot of faith required from me in this business. I said: “All right. We’ll forget about it—for now.”
We didn’t talk about rugs for the rest of the evening. We drank a little, and listened to some music. We went out onto the terrace, and there I obeyed that impulse I’d had at the door this afternoon. I pulled her into my arms and kissed her.
She seemed to enjoy it. She seemed to expect it.
When I got down to the car again, it was two-thirty. The broad man no longer stood under the maple tree. He was asleep in the seat of my car. It was Selak.
His mouth was open, and he was snoring heavily. I went around to the driver’s side quietly and climbed in behind the wheel. I’d driven him more than halfway home before he woke up.
He shook himself and straightened in his seat, rubbing his eyes. I stole a glance at him. He seemed embarrassed and looked straight ahead. The clothes he wore were tight. But I knew they were his best.
I said: “I didn’t expect to see you up at this end of town, Selak. Been to a show?”
Something that sounds like “Voch,” which is “no.”
By the tone of his voice, I realized he didn’t relish any questioning. I said no more. He shared the silence.
When I stopped in front of his house, there was a light on. His sister, a thin, prematurely gray girl, was waiting on the porch, and she came down to the walk as the car stopped.
“Selak—where have you been?”
Then she saw me. “Oh, Lee—he was with you? Everything is all right?”
“Everything’s all right,” I assured her. “He was out with me.”
“He’s never been out this late, before,” she said. “You were at the dance?”
“No. No, we were over to see a friend of mine.”
Selak had left the car, was going up the steps to the porch. He hadn’t said good-night. I didn’t know if he was miffed or embarrassed. He’d probably been hit as hard as I was.
I said good-night to his sister, and turned the little convertible toward home. There was no reason I should sing, but I sang. There was no reason I should feel smug and sophisticated and adventurous. But all these things, I felt.
Papa’s curiosity was greater than his temporary annoyance with Sarkis, evidently. For Sarkis was at the store when I got there the next morning, and Papa was getting the prayer-rug out of the safe.
Sarkis looked at it in awe, and some ejaculation escaped his throat. He knelt like a man in church.
“Maksoud of Kashan,” he read, and, “the year is 940.” He looked thoughtful. “That would not be our calendar. That would be about 1560 or ’62.” He looked at my father. “Where did you get this treasure?”
“It isn’t mine,” Papa said. “Can you believe it’s genuine?”
Sarkis’ broad face was grave. “It’s an antique. But that rug from the mosque. It’s an Ispahan, isn’t it?”
“You could ask Levon,” Papa answered. “He read the books.”
“Not enough of them,” I said. “In three books I got three dates for the Ardebil Carpet and no designation. What do you honestly think about it?”
He shook his head, and looked at it again. “What does it matter? There are none like it, today. A rug like this, if you owned it, you could ask anything, anything the customer could pay. There would be no other limits.”
“Ethics, Sarkis,” I chided him.
“Ethics?” Both of them looked at me blankly.
Then Sarkis said: “Across from me is a picture store. In the window, something you couldn’t call a picture. Two weeks I’ve been seeing that picture every day and can’t figure what it is. But the price card I can read—twenty-five hundred dollars. That’s plain enough. Ethics?”
“All right, then, how much would you pay for that rug, Sarkis?”
“I’m a poor man,” he answered. “My money is all in merchandise. I am a dealer, not a collector.”
“You are a wolf, not a lamb, you mean?” I grinned at him.
&nbs
p; He sighed, and looked at my father. “These young ones,” he said.
Papa frowned at me. “You will remember Sarkis is my cousin.”
Yesterday, Sarkis had been his contemporary. Today he was his cousin. Today they shared a reverence for craftsmanship.
I said no more. I concentrated on the Serapi I was repairing. I was only vaguely aware of the small, dark man on the walk outside, looking in through the open door.
Papa was saying: “And how did you make out with Mr. Egan, Sarkis?”
“All carpeting, the whole first floor,” Sarkis answered. “And the rugs that man used to buy … But his wife, you know. His wife has the money, and it’s carpeting for her.” He shook his head sadly.
The small, dark man was in the doorway now, and I looked up. He was staring at the rug still on the floor in front of the safe. I don’t know why I was suddenly nervous, but I was.
He had a thin face, this man, and a nose like a parrot’s beak. He had the small, round eyes of a bird, too, eyes black as sin. He was wearing a black derby, which he removed, now, disclosing a completely bald head, glistening with perspiration.
“That rug, gentlemen—” he said. “It is for sale?” He reached into an inner pocket as he said this.
With one motion, Papa had tossed the rug into the safe and clanged the door shut. There had been something so malevolent about that gesture of his, Papa had reacted instinctively.
But the man had a handkerchief in his hand, now, and he was wiping the perspiration from his shining head. “It is for sale?” he repeated.
Papa shook his head. “It is not ours, sir. We are keeping it for a customer.”
“I may see it? I believe I once owned it.”
Papa shook his head stubbornly. “It is not ours to show.”
The black eyes went from Papa to Sarkis, and back. “It is a secret? Or you do not trust me?”
Papa said: “It is a very valuable rug. It is not ours. I am sorry, sir.”
Silence. The man looked at Sarkis, then at me, as though sizing up his adversaries before making an attack. Finally: “You gentlemen are Christians?” The voice was faintly tinged with contempt.
We all nodded.
“You would not know, then, the value of that rug. In the mosque at Ardebil, it was woven by the slave Maksoud. To Allah it was dedicated, and to his Prophet, Mohammed. It was never intended for Christian use nor Christian admiration.”