Squatting on the steps of the theatre was a small, dejected group of men.
‘You are the band?’ asked Mukhtar.
‘To our misfortune, Effendi, we are,’ said one, who appeared to be the leader.
‘Which among you is the kemengeh player?’
‘Oh, my God!’ said one of the musicians despondently. ‘Effendi, it is I.’
‘Your name?’
‘Farraj.’
‘Have you your instrument with you?’
It was produced. Mukhtar examined it and then passed it politely to Seymour. It seemed to be a kind of viol, only short and thin, with a small bulb of a soundbox. On inspection, the bulb turned out to be a coconut, pierced with small holes and with about a quarter of it cut off. It stood, like a cello, on a long spike.
‘And the bow,’ said Mukhtar.
The bow seemed to Seymour pretty much like the ones used in England, only cruder. The horse-hair strings passed through a hole at one end and were tied to a ring at the other.
‘I will take this,’ said Mukhtar. ‘Have you another?’
‘Yes, Effendi,’ said the depressed kemengeh player.
‘With you?’
‘Inside, Effendi.’
‘Fetch it. Go with him,’ Mukhtar said to one of the constables lounging nearby. ‘Have you any spare strings? Bring them, too.’
They went off.
The band’s leader plucked diffidently at the terjiman’s sleeve.
‘Effendi,’ he said, ‘the strings may not be that great. But this is not Farraj’s fault. They are all he can afford. We are but poor men, Effendi, and we have to make do with what we can pay for.’
‘The quality of the strings is not the issue,’ said Mukhtar, looking round. ‘Are there any more string players here? Does one of you play the ’ud?’
‘Effendi –’
‘Let me see it.’ It appeared to be some kind of lute, played with a plectrum and not with a bow, but certainly a stringed instrument. ‘I will keep that, too.’
‘These bloody string players!’ muttered one of the other musicians.
The string players gathered in a little group around the band leader. He turned to Mukhtar.
‘Effendi,’ he said, ‘are you going to keep these instruments?’
‘For a while, yes.’
‘There is the performance tonight . . .’
Mukhtar considered.
‘They will be returned to you before,’ he said.
‘Do better without them,’ muttered the dissident.
‘The kanum? Do you have a kanum?’ demanded Mukhtar.
‘Alas, Effendi . . . They hire by the band here. And the more players in the band, the less the money for each. We can get a kanum player if you wish, but you would have to pay extra.’
‘That is not necessary. I wish to look only at the stringed instruments actually here. Are there any more? No?’
‘I’ve always said you don’t really need string players,’ said the dissident.
‘I will speak with you afterwards, Hassan,’ hissed the ’ud player.
‘Why don’t you take his drums away, Effendi?’ growled the flute player. ‘Then the music will be balanced and our ears will not be offended.’
‘Ali –’
‘I am interested only in the strings,’ said Mukhtar hastily.
‘There you are!’ cried the drum player triumphantly. ‘It is only the strings that are in question. The Effendi knows who plays the rubbish around here!’
‘The quality of the strings is not the issue,’ said Mukhtar firmly. ‘Neither of the strings nor of the playing.’
There was a long silence.
‘Then why –’
‘The issue,’ said Mukhtar ‘is Miss Kassim.’
‘Now, look, Effendi –’
‘What goes on up on the stage is not our business –’
‘Effendi, we are but simple players,’ said the leader. ‘Every night we come and make our music and then we go away again. What goes on up on the stage does not concern us. And if some of the turns are sinful –’
‘Effendi, we ourselves were in doubt. They dress like men. They look like men. Who is to say they are not men?’
‘Visit not their indecency upon us!’
‘Shut up!’ said Mukhtar. ‘That is not the point. The point is, Miss Kassim has been murdered –’
‘Murdered!’
‘Have you not heard?’
‘Miss Kassim? But, Effendi, we saw her only this afternoon. She was rehearsing –’
‘That is right. And she went off to change. And while she was changing, she was murdered.’
They seemed stunned.
‘And I am looking for the one that killed her,’ said Mukhtar.
They struggled to take it in. And then:
‘But, Effendi, why do you look among us?’
‘Because it seems that she may have been killed by the string from a musical instrument.’
‘I’ve always said that string players –’ began the drum player swiftly.
‘Shut up. Now, what I want to know is – and you would be wise to speak truly – did one of you go with Miss Kassim?’
‘Effendi, we are upright men!’
‘Effendi, we swear –’
‘Never, Effendi!’
‘None of you?’ said Mukhtar sternly.
‘None of us!’
‘If only –’ muttered someone at the back.
‘Effendi,’ said the band leader, ‘she was too high for us. That is the truth of it. We are but poor men. She had other fish to fry.’
‘Gold fish,’ said someone.
‘Gold fish?’
‘She goes with rich men, Effendi, and does not spare a glance for such as we.’
Mukhtar looked around. The kemengeh player had not yet returned.
‘What about Farraj? Did he not cast an eye on her?’
‘Well, anyone can cast an eye –’
‘But no more? Did he speak with her alone? Go to her room?’
‘Farraj is an upright man –’
‘And, anyway, he wouldn’t have had a chance.’
‘Effendi,’ said their leader, ‘whoever’s string it was, it was not Farraj’s.’
‘That we shall see,’ said Mukhtar.
‘Lalagé?’ said Rice-Cholmondely, the next morning, shocked. ‘That’s awful!’
He fetched Ponsonby.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Ponsonby. ‘The notification has just come through.
‘Already? That’s quick off the mark. They must have someone intelligent on the case.’
‘It’s Mukhtar,’ Seymour said. ‘You know, the terjiman we met over at Gelibolu.’
‘What’s he doing over here? They usually stick to their own vilayet. Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. I had a long chat with him.’
‘Someone will have to go down,’ said Ponsonby.
‘I will,’ said Rice-Cholmondely.
‘Mind if I come with you?’ said Seymour.
‘Why does someone have to go down?’ asked Seymour, as they settled back in the landau.
‘To collect her things.’
‘And why should the Embassy be doing that?’
‘She’s a British passport holder.’
‘With a name like Lalagé Kassim?’
‘Well, the theatre business is a funny business. Out here, anyway.’
‘’Ello?’ said an irritated, sleepy voice, in a strong East London accent.
‘I’m from the Embassy,’ said Rice-Cholmondely. ‘I’ve come to collect Lalagé’s things.’
The door opened and a tousled woman appeared, wearing a short nightdress.
‘Got to bed late,’ she said, apologetically. ‘Come in.’
‘Sorry about Lalagé,’ said Rice-Cholmondely.
The woman shrugged.
‘That’s ’er bed,’ she said, pointing. Underneath it was a battered suitcase. Rice-Cholmondely bent down and began to go through it.
&n
bsp; ‘Why don’t you just bloody take it?’ said the woman.
‘Got to check the individual things. They’ve all got to be signed for.’
‘Oh, yes, everything’s got to be bloody signed for!’
She sat down on the other bed.
‘Have you roomed together long?’ asked Seymour.
‘Since we got ’ere. About eighteen months ago.’
‘It must have been a shock,’ he said sympathetically.
She didn’t say anything. Her eyes, however, were red from crying.
‘You got on well to share a room for that long.’
She shrugged.
‘She was all right,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to stick together if you’re a woman out ’ere.’
Rice-Cholmondely looked up.
‘Anything else?’ he said.
The woman stood up and took a worn dressing gown off a hook and threw it on to the bed.
‘That’s about it,’ she said. ‘We travel light.’
Rice-Cholmondely stuffed it into the case.
‘Any family?’ he asked. ‘Anyone we could send this to?’
‘Never ’eard of anyone.’
‘We’ll keep it in store. If you think of anyone, could you let us know?’
He handed her his card.
She looked at it, then put it away. There was a similar case below her bed.
‘Does she owe anything? For the room, I mean?’
‘We share it.’
‘I’ll look after it.’
He went out.
‘Where are you from, then?’ said Seymour.
‘Bermondsey.’
‘I’m Whitechapel.’
‘Really?’ she said, surprised. ‘You don’t sound it.’
‘My family moved in,’ he said.
She knew exactly what that meant.
‘Immigrant, are you?’
‘Way back. Grandfather’s time.’
‘What are you doing out ’ere, then? You’re not one of them, are you?’ She gestured in Rice-Cholmondely’s direction.
‘No. Police.’
‘Police! Bloody ’ell!’ Then, after a moment: ‘You don’t sound like one of them, either. ’Oo are you after?’
‘A man named Cunningham. Know him?’
She nodded.
‘I know ’im,’ she said.
‘He was killed, too.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know. It seems to ’appen round ’ere, doesn’t it?’
‘Look, I’d like to talk to you. Alone. Can I take you out for coffee?’
She laughed.
‘It’s not like that,’ she said. ‘Not out ’ere. It’s different for a woman, see.’
‘Where can we go, then?’
‘We can talk ’ere,’ she said, ‘after your mate’s gone.’
Rice-Cholmondely came back up the stairs.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. He picked up the suitcase.
‘I’ll stay here for a moment,’ said Seymour. ‘I’d like to have a word with this lady.’
‘Nicole,’ she said. ‘That’s my name. At least, it’s my professional name.’
‘Right. Nicole. Sorry about all this.’ Rice-Cholmondely lingered for a moment. ‘Nicole, there’s probably no need to worry, but if I were you, I’d be a bit careful for a while. If you know what I mean.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Nicole. ‘I’ve been thinking that myself.’
‘Right, then. See you later, old man. I shan’t be going back just yet, so the landau will still be there for an hour or so.’
They heard his heavy feet on the stairs.
‘You really Whitechapel? ‘ Nicole asked Seymour.
‘Yes.’
‘I quite like Whitechapel,’ she said. ‘There’s more to it, isn’t there, than there is to Istanbul. I mean, for a woman.’
She took off her nightdress and put on her working clothes, the clothes she rehearsed in. They were a man’s clothes: baggy trousers and a loose shirt worn on top of the trousers and coming down to her knees. Under the shirt the shape of her breasts did not show. When she’d finished, and combed her hair, she sat down on the bed.
‘They put ’er in the way of it, didn’t they? I’m not saying they caused it, but if they ’adn’t put ’er in the way of it, it wouldn’t ’ave ’appened, would it?’
‘They?’
‘Those blokes up there. At the Embassy. Like ’im.’ She gestured after the departed Rice-Cholmondely.
‘How did they put her in the way of it?’
‘There was this bloke. Really ’igh up, ’e was. A Prince or something. Well, that man Cunningham kept wanting ’er to be nice to ’im. You know what I mean? Well, she didn’t mind. Not at first. I mean, ’e was rich, and ’e paid for what ’e got. And ’e was mad about ’er. Wanted to see ’er every night, you know, after the show. But, Christ, you’ve got to sleep sometime. And it was awkward. I mean, we shared the room. Of course, I didn’t mind, we ’ad an arrangement, and I used to get out. But, Christ, every night! I mean, you want your own bed sometime, don’t you. And there was always the rehearsal next morning.
‘Well, it went on and on, and it got to the point when she didn’t want to. Not every night. But ’e insisted, couldn’t seem to let ’er go.
‘“Look,” I said, “you don’t ’ave to if you don’t want to. You can pull out.” “Not so easy,” she said. “And, besides, I quite fancy ’im.” “Which one?” I said, because she’d always seemed keen on Cunningham. “Both!” she said, and laughed.
‘“You silly cow,” I said. “’E’s using you.” “I know,” she said. “For Christ’s sake,” I said, ”pull out of it.” “I can’t,” she said, “not now.” “You’re crazy,” I said. “Well, I am a bit,” she said.
‘You see, she was gone on that man Cunningham. ’Ad been from the first. I mean, ’e was a real charmer. Made ’er think she’d dropped out of ’eaven, just to please ’im. Well, she liked that. It was a bit of a change from the usual men she met. And, to be fair, ’e seemed quite keen on ’er.
‘But then one evening ’e brought that Prince along, and ’e took a shine to ’er, too. Now you would ’ave thought ’e’d ’ave told ’im to clear off, although maybe you can’t do that to a Prince. But ’e needn’t ’ave gone as far as ’e did.’E seemed positively to encourage it. ’E just laughed and said: “’Ere’s your chance, Lalagé! Make a few bob out of ’im. Oh, and by the way . . .”
‘I don’t know what ’e wanted ’er to do by the way. Chat ’im up, certainly. But I think there was more to it than that. But I don’t know what. She never said. Besides, I don’t think she minded. In fact, she quite liked it, ’aving the two of them on a string, I mean. It made ’er fancy she was someone. Two men like that! One a Prince, the other, well, I don’t know, but I’ll tell you what, you don’t see blokes like ’im in the East End! So she enjoyed ’erself and went round with ’er ’ead in the clouds.
‘But I could see the others didn’t like it. They didn’t mind Cunningham, because ’e’d brought business in to the theatre. We’d shifted to a new level since ’e’d taken an interest in the theatre. Rudi was quite crazy about ’im – ’e’d eat out of ’is ’and. But the others, the ordinary people, the Turks, the porters and so on. They didn’t like it.’
‘What exactly was it that they didn’t like?’ asked Seymour.
‘’Er going around. Not so much with Cunningham, that didn’t matter, but with the Prince. And doing it so openly! They thought she was flaunting it. You know, thrusting it in their face. I could see trouble coming and I said, “Lal, you want to watch it!” “I’ve got a powerful friend,” she said. “’E’ll take care of it.” “You’re earning yourself some powerful enemies,” I said, “and they’ll take care of you.”’
Seymour asked her who the powerful enemies might be but she turned vague. She just felt it, she said. She knew. You ought to steer clear of these high-up blokes. Go too near the sun and you get burnt. Keep to your own level. Keep your head d
own. Don’t stick your neck out. That was what she had learned, in Bermondsey as in the theatre. And out here, she said, it was even worse. Women didn’t count for much out here. They were disposable. ‘I mean, to the Sultan and them ’igh-ups. You get out of line and they send the Fleshmakers round.’
‘The Fleshmakers?’ said Seymour. ‘I thought they were all in the past.’
‘That’s what Cunningham said. “They’re all dead and gone, love,” ’e said. “You can forget about them.” But she shouldn’t ’ave forgotten about them, should she?’
‘I think there’s something you should have told me,’ said Seymour, as they were going back up the hill in the landau.
‘Oh, yes, old chap?’ said Rice-Cholmondely.
‘About Lalagé. And Cunningham. What was she doing for him?’
‘Don’t quite know what you mean, old chap.’
‘She was spying for him, wasn’t she?’
Rice-Cholmondely was silent for a moment. Then:
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, old boy.’
‘No? How would you put it, then?’
‘More, gossip-collecting. Spying’s not part of our job. Not as diplomats. But gossip-collecting is. Gossip can be very useful to us. It gives you a feeling for what’s in the air, how you weigh things, read policy. A lot of a diplomat’s work, you could say, is picking up gossip.’
‘And that’s what Lalagé was doing for you? Picking up gossip?’
‘Yes. And the gossip that Lalagé picked up was particularly useful because it was Palace gossip.’
‘Palace gossip?’
‘The Palace positively buzzes with gossip, old boy. And it’s important for us to have an in on it because that’s where policy is made. And Lalagé had good contacts.’
‘With a Prince?’
‘Well, old boy, we won’t go into it too much. Let’s just say someone pretty high up. High enough to be really useful.’
‘And that’s all that Lalagé was doing? Picking up gossip?’
‘That’s all, old boy.’
‘Cunningham was twisting her arm.’
‘Cunningham was always a bit ruthless with women,’ said Rice-Cholmondely, a little uneasily.
Chapter Five
A cavass brought him the letter while he was sitting outside on the terrace. Seymour had not been expecting a letter and was surprised. He was even more surprised when he looked at the letter. It had a little crest on the back and smelled of perfume. Seymour did not get letters like this.
A Dead Man in Istanbul Page 6