The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  I was too close now to back down. I’d never forgive myself. I compiled a list of multiple choices:(a) Give up and go home.

  (b) Try bargaining. That’s what they seemed to expect, after all.

  (c) Get the police involved; that is, ask Selçuk for his help in accessing the box.

  (d) Wait for them to make the first move. Only then decide on a course of action.

  Neither “all of the above” nor “none of the above” were options. None of the choices satisfied me, but I decided on D before switching to B at the last second.

  My self-confidence had returned, along with my sense of style. I sat down and crossed my legs.

  “So, what should I do?” I asked.

  Playing a dumb blonde often does the trick, but, thanks to his background as an inspector, the manager was proving to be a tough nut indeed.

  “Allow me to offer you something to drink,” he said. “Please take a seat . . .”

  I was already sitting. I just looked at him.

  Ms. Cheery sat down in the armchair opposite; the manager settled into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk.

  “What would you like? A cup of Turkish coffee?”

  “Unsweetened, please,” I said.

  The assistant had dialed the number of the beverage service already.

  “I’ll have one as well, Gülben Hanım.”

  So that was the name of the assistant now ordering herself a medium-sweet Turkish coffee.

  The weather was discussed in the short time it took for the coffee to arrive.

  The moment the office boy left the room with his empty tray, the manager got down to business.

  “You’re not the only one interested in Volkan Bey’s safe-deposit box.”

  “Do you mean the police?”

  Eyes closed, Gülben Hanım shook her head from side to side this time.

  “The person in question,” he continued, slurping his first sip of coffee and establishing beyond doubt his class, or lack thereof, “is one of our most valued customers.”

  I’d grown impatient and tossed off the first name that came to mind.

  “Nimet Hanoğlu?”

  Dear Gülben’s eyes had narrowed, but her head remained stationary. It was either a halfhearted endorsement, or she had withheld automatic approbation at the last moment.

  “You’ve made her acquaintance?”

  “In a sense,” I said, remembering what she’d sent me. No doubt, they were still sprawled out on my floor.

  “What do you propose?” I suddenly asked.

  They hadn’t expected me to be so direct but didn’t react in the least, except for exchanging glances. It didn’t take a genius to see that they were in on this together, whatever it was.

  “We could invite her here . . .”

  “What difference would her coming here make?” I said, stubbornly playing dumb. “Is she the executor?”

  They exchanged glances again as they plotted the best response. I had to hand it to them: Without a word, a sound, or even much facial movement they were able to communicate with each other perfectly.

  They’d reached agreement. A sympathetic expression on his face, the manager turned to me.

  “Maybe we could be of service. Provided that Nimet Hanım is allowed access first . . .”

  “But that would be fraud . . .” I said.

  He continued smiling. He was a cool character indeed. Good for him.

  “Special clients deserve special treatment. I hope that you appreciate that.”

  “Of course I do, efendim.” I smiled. “And I, too, will soon be joining the ranks of the ‘special’?”

  His smile widened.

  “Naturally. Had you doubted it?”

  “Well, what if I decide to file a complaint? I could inform the police, or ask them to open the box.”

  “You could, certainly,” he said. “But it might not be in your best interests. We all know about . . . certain developments. You may wish to reconsider.”

  So, that pillar of respectability, Nimet Hanım, was acting as a kind of benefactress for the manager and his assistant. They were eating out of the palm of her hand. In a bid to get the key, not only had she sent her thugs after me, she’d also ensured that I’d be thwarted once I arrived at the bank, if I ever did.

  I had no idea if Selçuk would be able to protect me if the police got involved. I couldn’t risk it. What’s more, for all my success in previous cases, in this one I was now a suspect—or under suspicion, at least.

  If Nimet Hanım came, the box would at last be opened, and I, too, would be permitted access. But I had no way of knowing how much Nimet and her banker flunkies would actually allow me to see. I was all alone and felt quite sorry for myself. If only I had someone to support me, to encourage me and give me strength. But there was no one!

  The manager broke the silence.

  “So, efendim, what it is to be? You do realize that you’re not the rightful owner of that key.”

  I ignored the veiled threat. It’s not like they’d be able to wrest it away from me. Not here, in a bank full of customers.

  “It doesn’t belong to Nimet Hanım, either,” I said.

  He pretended to smile. But his eyes continued to bore into me.

  Chapter 34

  Sometimes my recklessness scares me. What was I thinking when I agreed to wait for Nimet Hanoğlu to open the safe-deposit box?

  The great lady was phoned, and her presence politely requested. I was offered another cup of Turkish coffee. Gülben even went so far as to suggest that Necla Hanım, over in operations, be permitted to read my cup, assuring me that her fortune-telling was always spot on. Clearly, Nimet Hanım wouldn’t be arriving any time soon.

  A second cup of coffee would be too much for my stomach, but I liked the idea of having my fortune read.

  “Perhaps a bit later,” I said.

  The manager and I waited tensely in our respective seats. Gülben flitted in and out of the office, no doubt imagining herself to be “on top of things.” Peering at the computer screen on his desk, the manager was the picture of industry. I wasn’t fooled. The waiting game must have been equally excruciating for him.

  I thought it best to amuse myself with pleasant thoughts. I ran through Audrey Hepburn’s filmography from start to finish, and back again. Then I busied myself with choosing a favorite from among her leading men. Even though he was well past his prime, and so nervous about playing opposite the young Audrey that he’d had a last-minute face-lift before shooting began, the legendary Gary Cooper deserved top spot. After all, he’d received the Tallulah Bankhead stamp of approval when she’d declared, “The only reason I went to Hollywood was to fuck that divine Gary Cooper, and to make the odd film.” All of his leading ladies, from Ingrid Bergman to Patricia Neal, had fallen for him. Who was I to turn up my nose? Yes, top of the list definitely went to Gary Cooper.

  Then there was Burt Lancaster in the woefully miscast The Unforgiven . His athletic physique and tough guy image, along with those mouth-watering nude photos making the rounds on the Internet, earned Burt second billing.

  Instantly relegated to bottom of the list were Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady, Alan Arkin in Wait Until Dark, and Albert Finney in Two For the Road.

  Now I would have to choose from among Gregory Peck, Cary Grant, Peter O’Toole, and William Holden, who costarred twice, first as a young man and then in middle age. George Peppard wasn’t bad in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but he was too bland for my taste. Ditto for husband Mel Ferrer in War and Peace and Anthony Perkins in Green Mansions.

  What was taking Nimet Hanoğlu? How much longer would we have to wait?

  “Are you sure you won’t have another cup of coffee?” asked the manager.

  I decided fortune-telling would be the very best way to pass the time.

  “Without sugar, right?” he confirmed

  So, despite appearances, he had a memory for detail.

  Nimet Hanoğlu arrived at the same time as my cof
fee. It was the first time I’d seen in her person. She was exactly as she’d been described: A self-assured woman of middle years who holds herself fully erect and looks one unflinchingly in the eye. It becomes increasingly difficult to pinpoint a woman’s age as she matures: I guessed that she was about fifty. Although she wore no makeup, her graying hair had been swept up into a spectacular bun. Her jewelry consisted only of a ring and a single pendant. But what a ring, what a pendant. While her tailored suit appeared deceptively simple at first glance, it was beautifully cut of exceptional fabric. She could have been a not too distant relative arriving for tea with the queen of the England.

  After a quick glance at me, she shook hands with the manager and Gülben. We were then formally introduced.

  “Merhaba, Nimet Hanoğlu. I’m Faruk Bey’s wife.”

  Even her handshake demonstrated force of character.

  She sat down in the chair opposite, appraising me. I did the same. She had a flawless pink-and-white complexion.

  I offered her my coffee. The fortune-telling could wait for another time. Anyway, it infuriates me when things don’t turn out as promised, and they usually don’t.

  “I understand that you have the key to Volkan Bey’s safe-deposit box . . .” she began.

  She had a deep voice, and there was something barely perceptible about her intonation that suggested she’d been educated at a foreign school and had roots somewhere in Anatolia.

  “I do.” I smiled.

  “I have no knowledge of your exact relationship to Volkan Bey, but I suspect that the contents of the safe-deposit box could shed light on the suspicious circumstances surrounding my husband’s death, as well as the accusations he faced concerning the murder of Volkan Bey. That’s why I would like to see the box first. This is the first time my family has experienced something like this, and we’d like to resolve this question immediately.”

  That wasn’t at all what I’d expected.

  She must have sensed my surprise. And continued.

  “Look, I don’t know you. But there’s something I’d like you to know: My husband would never have become mixed up in these kinds of unsavory activities. He may have had dubious dealings, but they were always of a financial nature. Not anything like this. My family and I will not . . . cannot . . . allow our names to be dragged through the mud. Everything must be made known, however disagreeable it may be. I need to know. No matter what. No matter how painful it may be. I am prepared for the worst.”

  “The police,” I said, playing dumb, “are working on it. In a day or two, they’ll have solved the case.”

  She smiled bitterly.

  “Don’t forget, this is Turkey,” she said. “The murderers of Uğur Mumcu, Abdi İpekçi, and Bahriye Üçok are still at large. Our family will not permit my husband’s murder to be relegated to the third page of the gutter press. That is not our way.”

  “Well, what if the contents of the box implicate your husband and your family? What will you do then?”

  This time, the smile was fierce.

  “You don’t know me, so your misgivings are perfectly understandable. I’ve already explained everything, here at the bank, but I’ll do it again for your benefit. My family is from Kilis and of some prominence there. My marriage to Faruk was arranged while we were still children. I was raised to become his spouse, sent to the best Swiss schools, and trained to be the perfect wife. I have a strong sense of justice. I don’t mince words. I have nothing to hide, and nothing I can’t account for. That has always been the case, and always will be . . . I once feared God, and only God. No longer. If He wishes, He can take my soul. End of story.”

  I couldn’t help smiling as I listened.

  “I loved Faruk. And respected him. He reciprocated. We were married for twenty-four years. Couples always imagine that they know their partners. I believe I knew Faruk . . . No, not ‘believe,’ I know I knew him. Yes, I knew him through and through, what he was capable of, and what he was incapable of. Those malicious rumors in the press insinuating relations with a man of the lowest character were untrue. Fabrications of the worst kind. He’d need to be quite an actor to have fooled me all these years, and he was no actor. But if I am wrong, and if he has been deceiving me and my family for all these years, I need to know. And to act accordingly.”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “I’ve been so preoccupied with these questions, I haven’t even had the opportunity to mourn him. I haven’t shed a tear. The man I’ve known since I was a child, the man I’ve shared a bed with for twenty-four years, the man who has always been at my side just couldn’t be the man they say he is. It can’t be true. I knew him too well.”

  Her eyes had grown misty. We all looked on silently.

  She didn’t cry, just closed her eyes and raised her eyebrows for a moment, as though she was merely stretching her facial muscles. When her eyes reopened, she was back in iron lady mode.

  “I knew him well,” she repeated. “Perhaps you’ll understand better if I tell you we were friends. The best friend I ever had. That’s important. Without a sense of companionship, marriages wither and die. Ours had never been a love match, but we grew up together and respected each other. Some things may have remained unspoken and unsaid, I don’t remember right now. But I can tell you honestly and straight from the heart that we shared so much. I’ve lost a friend, a treasured friend. Can you understand what that means?”

  I wanted to assure her that I could. She had affected me deeply. Her choice of words may have been conventional, but it was her intensity and sincerity that got to me.

  “I think I can,” I said.

  “He wasn’t the type of man who would commit suicide. He was full of life. He wasn’t an outgoing person, but he was, in his own way, full of life. And those crimes they wrongly accused him of, they were beneath him. Like I said, I knew him well, as well as I know myself. And I trusted him completely.”

  “And what about them?” I said, waving at the bankers.

  “I found out about the box from Volkan Bey’s brother. I’ve known Nejat Bey for years. He kindly agreed to help me.”

  Nejat Bey proudly stirred in his seat at the mention of his name.

  “Don’t mention it,” he murmured.

  “Faruk Bey and I have known Nejat Bey for some years. We’ve done each other favors. Of a financial nature, of course. There are some people one can count on. Nejat Bey is one of them.”

  More murmuring from Nejat Bey.

  She was somehow appealing. Her large, honey-colored eyes were candid. She seemed honest. She commanded respect. She may even have resembled Ingrid Bergman in her later years. The Bergman in a tailored suit who seduces Yves Montand and Anthony Quinn . . .

  “I need to know who’s behind this, how Faruk died, why he was accused of murder, and who has been slandering him. He had as many friends as enemies, but these . . . accusations of murder . . . are going too far. I can’t take it anymore . . .”

  “So you do really want to get to the bottom of all this?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” she said, eyes widening.

  “Then why did you send two armed men to break into my house? In the middle of the night?”

  Arching her eyebrows, she looked in turn at me, the manager, and the cheery assistant. Finally, her eyes came to rest on me again.

  Now she was steely. “Look, I still doubt your true intentions. Just as I doubted those of Volkan Bey’s brother.”

  One of the arched eyebrows settled into place, the left one remained raised as she looked at me inquisitively.

  If she was acting, she was a real star.

  “Who do you think I am?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I’m meeting you for the first time. But Okan Bey tried to blackmail us, and it was you who took the key from him. What conclusion was I to draw?”

  So that’s what Okan meant when he claimed they had “helped out.” And he assumed I was trying to get in on the action, too. What a dope. I laughed
aloud.

  The three of them stared uncomprehendingly.

  “That’s not it at all,” I said, and explained why and how I had obtained the key. Naturally, I said as little as possible about why I’d been drawn to the case and my hacking job with Cihad2000.

  “Well then, let’s open it together,” she said.

  “As long as nothing falls into the wrong hands, I have no objections,” I concurred.

  Nejat and Gülben led the way to the vault, followed by Nimet Hanım and me. I hadn’t forgotten about the thugs tied up in my bedroom. I’d have to reach İpekten and let her know. In fact, it’d be a good idea to arrange a little chat between Sarp and Nimet Hanım.

  Having dispensed with the formalities of signing in and producing ID, we soon found ourselves standing in front of a full-size safe-deposit box, number 170. Gülben was more brisk and businesslike than ever as she inserted the first of the dual keys. Now it was our turn; that is, my turn.

  Like an amateur actor taking up her role, I glanced meaningfully over my shoulder at them.

  Nimet Hanoğlu had the presence of mind to request that Nejat and Gülben leave us alone.

  They were so in awe of their own dedication to service that they left without a word, to wait outside the entrance to the vault. I’d have been unable to resist peeking inside from time to time.

  Nimet’s eyes met mine. In them, I read hauteur, supplication, curiosity, compassion, even a slight helplessness—that is, the full gamut of her emotions. She had the most amazing eyes! Any suspicions we’d had of each other evaporated with that look. I opened my handbag and withdrew the key.

  I tried to get excited about opening a safe-deposit box for the first time in my life. But I felt nothing.

  Inserting the key carefully, I turned it. I tugged on the box. It wouldn’t open. I tried again.

  Nimet calmly reached over to turn the second key provided by the bank. The box opened.

  Eyes on the contents of the box, we both hesitated to make the first move.

  Chapter 35

  As I got to know Nimet better, my respect and admiration for her grew. I found myself liking her immensely. She had a soothing presence, she looked me directly in the eye when she spoke, and everything she said was measured and eminently reasonable. It helped, of course, that Nihal Hanım, my beloved elementary school teacher, had also looked a bit like Ingrid Bergman.