The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  I felt faintly let down. Not that I believe what Papa says about Tyrone Power, but I didn’t expect to run second to George Herro.

  “I’ll be sure and tell him,” I said, and folded the check carefully.

  She was frowning, as she walked with me to the door. There, she said; “By the way—who is this Miss Lynne? A friend of—Mr. Herro’s?”

  “A friend of mine,” I said, and smiled reassuringly.

  “I see,” she said archly. “Well, be sure and tell Geor— Mr. Herro I was asking about him.”

  This kind of business wasn’t for me. My conscience was elastic enough to charge what the traffic will bear, but not enough to trade on an old woman’s sentiment. Not that she wasn’t a fraud. Not that she wasn’t able to take care of herself—and her purse. It was just that I didn’t believe a piece of your soul should go with every sale.

  I dropped Selak off at the store on the way back.

  When I got to the Towers, it was only three o’clock.

  Claire said: “It didn’t take you long.”

  I handed her the check. “It was a straight sale,” I told her. “Mrs. Cooke’s heart belongs to George Herro.”

  She nodded. “I know. But he’s disciplining her. She bought a rug from Henri Ducasse a month ago.”

  I lighted a cigarette, saying nothing. I went over to stand near the door leading to the terrace. “I don’t like this way of doing business, Claire,” I said. “We wouldn’t lose much if we were careful, selling them straight.”

  “Straight?” She cocked her head to one side. “There wasn’t anything crooked about that sale, was there? I don’t understand you, Lee.”

  “You understand me,” I said, “and it isn’t anything illegal, but I wasn’t only selling her a rug; I was selling her a chance to see Herro. I don’t like it. It’s—messy.” I paused. “And now, I’d like to hear the story, the true story, about those rugs.”

  “Sit down and relax,” she said.

  I sat down, but I couldn’t relax.

  “The rugs are Mr. Egan’s, as you guessed. He’s got a bill of sale for every one of them. He wants to sell out, and because he’s known me a long time and trusted me, he’s stored them here. He’s the one who suggested George Herro. He’s the one who suggested you.” She paused. “Anything illegal in that?”

  “Why doesn’t he sell them from his house?”

  Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s willing to sell them to us, to George and me, but neither of us had the money. So we give him a share, as each one is sold.”

  “His wife knows about it?”

  Claire’s face stiffened. “I don’t—what are you driving at, Lee?”

  “She has the money in that family,” I said. “Mr. Egan buys some fine rugs with her money. To her, a rug is just a floor covering, and after a number of years must be replaced. After fifteen or twenty years, those rugs haven’t lost a nickel of value. He was a very careful buyer. He has a big wad of money in a stack of rugs she considers worthless. Now, he sells out—and gets out?”

  “You’re guessing,” she said. “It isn’t fair to Mr. Egan guessing those kind of things about him.”

  “All right, I’m guessing. I’ll find out, later, how well I’m guessing. And now the Turk?”

  “Ismet?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “Ismet Bey,” she said. “He ran a cult out in the town of cults, Los Angeles. It was part Mohammedan and part voodoo and part pseudo-science, I guess. He went out of town for a week on a trip with—one of his disciples, and the law stepped in. The disciple’s papa had called them in. Ismet left town again when he heard the police were looking for him. His temple furnishings were sold at auction.” She shrugged. “George was at the auction.”

  “That’s where he picked up the rug?”

  “That’s his claim. I don’t believe everything George says, though, do you?”

  “Not always.”

  “Well, that’s what I know. Your imagination will probably fill in a lot of things that aren’t true, but that’s my story.”

  I got up and went out to the terrace. I wanted to think about these things, without looking at her. I couldn’t be rational while I was looking at her.

  It was phoney enough. It was as phoney as a lead dollar or seemed that way to anybody who was sane. If I was going to get out, now would be the time.

  From the doorway, she called: “Scotch, Lee?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll be running along. I’d like to get over and see Mrs. Egan this afternoon.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “It’s his business, Lee. You’ve no right to go messing into his domestic life.”

  “O.K., I won’t. That’s answer enough for me. You can count me out of it—as of now.”

  She stood in the doorway like a statue, her face blank, her body motionless. “Now—what caused that decision?”

  “An accumulation of bad angles,” I said. “It wasn’t any one incident. Let’s just pretend we never met.”

  And then, because the weakness was on the way back, because she looked so startled and innocent there in the doorway, I got out fast.

  I didn’t look back when I reached the street. I had a hunch she’d be up there on the terrace.

  At the store, Papa was in back talking to Selak, his voice high and excited.

  When he came back to the front again, he said: “Selak wants to quit. But he won’t tell me why.” He shook his head.

  “He’s in love and jealous,” I said. “Jealous of me, but you can tell him there’s no reason to be.”

  “So—” Papa said. “So it wasn’t all business?”

  “It was mostly business, but bad business. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He shrugged and went over to check his books.

  I felt noble and moral and miserable. The trouble was, it was still spring.

  The afternoon dragged on. About five, Papa put his books away and said: “I think I’ll go home. You can close up, Levon.”

  We closed at five-thirty. I nodded.

  He paused in the doorway for a moment, and I could feel his eyes on me. Finally: “Levon—Berjouhi is beautiful, too.”

  “I know,” I said. “I know. I’m all right. I’m no baby.”

  Papa sighed. “No … All right. I’ll see you at supper.”

  He left and I went back to see Selak. But Selak wasn’t there. I went back into the store, just as Mr. Egan entered.

  He’s a good-looking gent, despite his years. He’s close to sixty, I’d say, but he’s the kind of thin, tall gent who can wear clothes. He never had enough troubles in his life to age him.

  He seemed exceptionally uncomfortable, his face faintly flushed.

  “Good-afternoon, Lee,” he said. “Miss Lynne has asked me to explain some things to you.”

  “It’s not necessary, Mr. Egan. You don’t owe me any explanations.”

  “Perhaps not. But I’d like you to understand that—” He paused. “That my wife is fully aware I’m selling those rugs.” Again, he paused. “You may phone her right now, if you wish.”

  “I’ll repeat,” I said, “that you don’t have to explain anything to me, Mr. Egan. I’m out of it.”

  “That’s why I’m explaining,” he said. “I—don’t want you out of it, Lee. I have too much faith in your sales ability. And too little faith in George Herro’s integrity.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. I was thinking of Claire.

  Mr. Egan said, “This is very embarrassing for me. I’m not conditioned to—to begging, Lee.”

  It was embarrassing to me, too. Whenever I’d seen the word “gentleman” used, I’d always thought of Mr. Egan. He’d symbolized all the things an ignoramus like me thought of as a gentleman, a cultured person.

  But I’d sold a lot of the carriage trade; I wasn’t completely naive. I said flatly: “How about that Bokhara, Mr. Egan?”

  He frowned. “It’s mine, of course.”

  “I know that. But whose bloo
d was on it?”

  “Blood?” His surprise, I felt, was honest. “You’re talking in riddles, Lee. I bought that rug from your father, more than twenty years ago. I—”

  “Miss Lynne didn’t tell you about the blood?”

  He shook his head, saying nothing, staring at me.

  “There was so much of it,” I said, “so much, it was suspicious. Maybe my imagination was too active. But you see, Henri Ducasse’s death was in the papers that same day, and Claire—Miss Lynne—had talked of him. The whole set-up looked bad.”

  He wasn’t listening. “Blood—” he said. “Dry, Lee?”

  “Dried. So maybe it wasn’t so important. Henri was just killed yesterday, I guess.”

  He shook his head. “Haven’t you read the evening papers? Henri Ducasse was found yesterday. He was killed three or four days ago.” His eyes were reminiscent. “Ducasse—” he said, and he was talking to himself. His face grew tight. “Lee, we’ll talk about this later. Don’t decide against us just yet.”

  He turned and was gone from the store.

  It was nearly five-thirty, now. I locked the back door, and turned out the lights in the washing room. I checked the windows back there. In the store, I checked the safe also and set the alarm system.

  All this I did automatically, thinking of Claire every second. Even Egan’s sudden departure didn’t interest me; there didn’t seem to be any room in my mind for anything but Claire.

  As for Selak, I felt sure he’d be back tomorrow. Grace would talk to him and straighten him out, if he told her he’d quit.

  At five-thirty, I got the signal from the alarm system and left.

  I went home by way of Prospect Avenue. It isn’t the direct route, but I took it for the same perverted reason you’d prod a sore tooth with your tongue.

  I didn’t look up as I passed the Towers. It was an effort of will, but I managed it. That’s how I happened to notice the derby going through the front door, and the narrow back of Ismet Bey.

  It wasn’t any of my business. I was well out of it. I was due home for supper, and after supper I intended to get drunk.

  Only there was this parking space at the curb, beckoning almost, and I slid the convertible into it.

  So he’d found the owner of Maksoud’s rug. Or, at least, the possessor. Had he come to make an offer? Or had he come to make a claim? There was danger in this ridiculous little man, I sensed; there was a threat to Claire.

  When I reached Claire’s door, I could hear their voices inside. I could hear the Turk saying: “It was my rug originally. I know how much it went for at the auction. I don’t know what you paid for it, Miss Lynne, but I’m prepared to give you forty thousand dollars for it. In cash, of course.”

  Claire’s voice: “I’ll have to talk this over with Mr. Herro.”

  “It was Mr. Herro,” Ismet Bey said, “who sent me to you, Miss Lynne.” And now his voice was lower. “I mean to have that rug one way or another, Miss Lynne.”

  That’s when I rang her bell.

  She didn’t smile when she saw me there. She said: “I can’t think of any more you’d want to tell me, Lee.”

  “I saw Bey come in here.” I took a breath. “I worried about you, Claire. I thought—”

  “Come in,” she said, without expression.

  When I entered the living room, Ismet Bey rose and smiled. He bowed slightly. “The boy from the store.” He nodded. “We’ll make a deal, now?”

  “First,” Claire said, “I want you to tell Lee the history of your losing the rug, Mr. Bey.” Her voice was brittle and she avoided my eyes. “Lee seems to think he’s being hoodwinked.”

  He looked from me to her, and back to me. “Of course.” The smile, again, and he seated himself. “As soon as we’re all comfortable.”

  The story he told was substantially the same she’d told me about him. The only difference was that he put his own position in a more favorable light. His trip out of town had been a business trip, purely a business trip.

  “That was in January,” he told me. “At the auction in February, the rug was sold to settle some claims. I did not know who bought it. I heard only last week that it had come to this town. Today Mr. Herro contacted me and gave me this address and Miss Lynne’s name.”

  “You want to buy it back? For how much, Mr. Bey?”

  “For forty thousand dollars.”

  “You must want it badly.”

  “Who can value an altar? Who can appraise the symbol of a faith, Mr. Lee? If it were cotton and machine-made, it would still have value under those qualifications. But this—this could conceivably be the work of Maksoud. My disciples believe it is; I almost believe it is myself. There is no proof of this; there can be no proof. But there remains the faith.”

  “Forty thousand dollars’ worth of faith?”

  His face grew faintly harder. “We’ve mentioned the sum enough, I think. It will be cash and no record of the transaction need be made. It will be tax-free money. I am not a poor man, Mr. Lee, and it was the rug which helped to make me a rich one. The price I am suggesting is more than fair. It will be my only offer.”

  “It’s the merchant blood in me,” I said. “I like to haggle.”

  “I am not here for that purpose.”

  I looked at Claire. “You’re the boss.”

  She looked at Ismet Bey, and I thought I saw uneasiness in her eyes. “It seems like a fair offer to me,” she said quietly.

  “It’s a small rug,” I said, “and even if Maksoud wove it, that’s a lot of money, an awful lot of money.”

  “It is settled, then?”

  “It’s settled,” Claire said. “Tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock, here. Bring the money. The rug will be here.”

  He nodded agreeably and rose.

  I said: “Was it Mr. Herro who told you about the rug being in this town, Mr. Bey?”

  He looked at me questioningly. Then he nodded.

  “You’ve known him for quite a while?”

  “For some time.”

  “He’s—not a disciple of yours.”

  He shook his head. “No. No, I’m afraid faith is not one of Mr. Herro’s virtues.” He looked down at his derby. “Why do you ask, Mr. Lee?”

  “Just curious,” I said. “And the name is Kaprelian, Mr. Bey, Lee Kaprelian. I’m the son of the man who owns that shop.”

  His smile was dim. “You were fortunate enough, it seems, not to have inherited his disposition. Good-evening, Mr. Kaprelian.”

  She went with him to the door. When she came back, her face was still grave. “Just a quiz kid, aren’t you? I hope you have enough answers now.”

  Golly, she was beautiful as she stood there, looking down at me. To Papa, Berjouhi was beautiful, but no girl I was ever likely to meet could match Claire, I knew.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I came here, didn’t I? I—worried about you. What did you expect, that I’d crawl? How truthful have you been through all this?”

  “More questions,” she said. “Allan had some, too, after you talked to him. He came up here screaming about the blood on that Bokhara.”

  Allan was Mr. Egan. I said: “Did you give him a satisfactory answer?”

  She said tautly: “Yes. He trusts me.”

  “And Sergeant Waldorf trusts you?”

  “He seemed satisfied.”

  “You’re so beautiful,” I said. “You’re so damned beautiful. I wonder how your answers would sound if you weren’t.”

  Her face was white; her blue eyes blazed. “We’ve nothing to say to each other, Lee. Nothing can be gained by this bickering.” There was the glint of tears in her eyes. “Oh, why did you have to come back?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I had to, Claire.”

  And she was in my arms again. She was sobbing in my arms and I was soothing her as well as I could, feeling soft and rotten. But way under the softness, the hard core of my skepticism remained.

  I called up Mom and told her I wouldn’t be home for supper. I w
ent out and got a couple of steaks and some rolls. Claire broiled the steaks and we ate out on the terrace.

  Later, we sat out there and watched the stars, watched the lights of the traffic below, watched the lights of the downtown section grow. There were things about this business I was to regret. There was nothing about the night I would ever regret or forget.

  I like to think she’ll never forget it either. Maybe just because for those hours I didn’t ask any questions. Or maybe because she’d felt, at least for the moment, some of the emotion many must have felt for her.

  It was around midnight when the phone rang, and she went to answer it. It was for me.

  It was Papa. “Levon, Selak is with you?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him. He left the store before I did. I didn’t see him leave.”

  “Grace called, Levon. She’s worried. He didn’t come home.”

  “I’ve no idea where he could be,” I said.

  A silence on the wire. Then: “Well, maybe it will be all right. Maybe he’s with a friend somewhere.” Another silence. “Berjouhi called, too.”

  “O.K., thanks. You’d better notify the police about Selak if he doesn’t come home soon.”

  “That I’ll do,” he said, and hung up.

  Claire said: “What’s happened, Lee.”

  “Selak is missing,” I told her.

  “Selak?”

  “Your silent admirer. That man who works for us. He left the store in a peeve this afternoon and he hasn’t come home yet.”

  Her eyes were wide. “You don’t think—” She looked around as though half-expecting to see him standing behind her. “I mean, the way he stared at me and—”

  “Last night,” I said, “he stood right down there across the street. When I left, he was sleeping in my car.”

  “He’s—harmless, Lee?”

  “He has been up to now. I suppose he still is.”

  We went out onto the terrace, but it wasn’t comfortable out there any more. A wind had come to life from the north, and there was a chill to it.

  In the living room Claire put a stack of records on the player and called to me: “Mix a drink, will you, Lee?”