I needed more than one pair of eyes at that moment. I wanted to see the reactions of Ziya, Refik, Sami, Canan, and Haluk all at once.
Gritting her teeth, Canan listened. Her face had tensed to the point where she looked like a plastic surgery victim: slitty eyes, a projecting forehead, elevated eyebrows, lips stretched thin, and a squared-off chin! She didn’t say a word. And if she had, her clenched lower jaw might have shattered into a thousand pieces.
Poor Haluk Pekerdem looked stunned. I wanted to fold him into my arms and comfort him. A man like him, cheated on! And with a gigolo, no less. But then again, this was no ordinary gigolo . . .
“Canan introduced me to Volkan!” cried Sami, springing to his feet and playing the victim. Hikmet pressed him back down into his seat.
Canan produced an artificial burst of laughter. It was so forced!
“So what if I did?” she exclaimed brazenly. “Sami needed a strong man in his life, and Volkan was certainly that. A real pro. They were the perfect match . . . So what?”
She shot out a cloud of smoke. She was visibly shaken. Her crossed leg swung to and fro irritably.
“I warned him. I told him to stay away from you society types. I took him in, gave him everything he wanted. But he didn’t listen. If he’d just listened,” bawled Ziya.
“That’s an important point,” I said. “But, in fact, there was no harm in Sami seeing Volkan. Excuse me, Refik, I don’t say this to break your heart. But it’s the truth. The problem was Sami’s fear and self-loathing. He was ashamed. Just as he is now.”
I stopped and looked at him. He was industriously wiping his glasses.
“That’s enough. Stop sweating and stop wiping your glasses!” I said. “I’m losing my temper, mister . . . And as for you, Canan Hanım, you turned his shame to your advantage. You forced Sami to send Volkan to some of your most important clients, on the house. A sweetener! And you also used him to gather information about those same clients . . . for blackmail purposes. If anyone had found out what you were up to, that would have been the end of Faruk. No one wants a loan shark—sorry, Nimet—who knows too much and may blackmail them one day. And as for Volkan, he was no dummy. He kept records on all his clients, shaking them down for whatever he needed. It wasn’t long before Faruk Bey found out . . .”
“. . . and intervened,” continued Nimet. “At first, he didn’t understand exactly what was happening. Some clients were making extra payments for no apparent reason. It was only much later, when Okan Bey came to visit, that we found out why. Faruk learned that some of these funds were being channeled directly into Canan’s personal account. I vividly remember the night Canan and Haluk also visited. While I was in the parlor, playing bezique with Haluk, you, Canan, shut yourself away in the office with Sami and Faruk.”
Bezique? Haluk and Nimet playing bezique in the parlor, like a couple of old maids? I could just imagine the green baize, and Haluk keeping score. I immediately banished him from the scene.
“That’s enough,” said Haluk, reacting for the first time. He sounded like a criminal lawyer making a final objection in a losing case. He stood up. “What’s all this nonsense? How can you accuse Canan?”
“Because she’s guilty!” I cried.
Haluk’s eyes widened in shock. He seemed unable to breathe for a moment. Then he turned and looked at Canan. She just shrugged a shoulder. My Haluk collapsed onto his chair.
“But why?” he groaned.
Expressed in that “why” were a multitude of anguished questions: Why was I cheated on? Where did I go wrong? How could a wife like mine tire of a man like me? What could a gigolo give her that I couldn’t?
“Money,” I answered. “Clearly, she needed more cash. She was playing a foolish and dangerous game. Blackmailing her own brother, poisoning his business relations. It was easy enough to raise money while it worked. At first, Sami was putty in her hands. Volkan made sure of that. In fact, we have letters showing how infatuated Sami Bey became with Volkan. He was even jealous. Jealous of a gigolo!”
I occasionally glanced at Ponpon out of the corner of my eye. Face a picture of astonishment, her head swiveled from one speaker to another.
“I loved him,” mumbled Sami. “More than any of you will ever know . . . What we had was special.”
“Not like me, you didn’t. I loved him. Understand?” Ziya said, softly sobbing at the back. “I’d have died for him! Gone to hell and back!” He sounded wretched and looked miserable. And he knew no one was listening to him.
“Well, he was my lover at the end . . . We dreamed of a new life together. Together for always . . .” Refik chimed in. “We were going to travel abroad.”
Sami’s sweaty face flushed angrily. “You! Where’d you spring from?”
Kemal, who had been sitting quietly in his wheelchair all night long, let out a low whistle and the words “This is getting complicated!”
Here we had three men, all of whom claimed to have been the love of Volkan’s life. The three of them looked at one another with tear-filled eyes. Fortunately, Refik had Volkan’s brother, Okan, for comfort. And as for Ziya, he just sobbed away quietly.
“You may well have loved him, Sami Bey, but that didn’t stop you from peddling him to others,” I said. “And it was also Sami who arranged the transfer of funds—with or without the knowledge of Faruk—to Canan’s London bank accounts. Volkan was starting to get greedy. He’d realized just how rich and powerful his customers were, and he wanted a piece of the action. Somehow, Faruk found out. And pulled the plug. Both on Sami and on Canan . . . Right?”
“Not really,” said Sami.
“Well, anyway,” I continued, “on that night, Sami and Canan put their plan into action. Maybe they’d cooked it up earlier. We don’t know for sure. They telephoned Volkan using Faruk Bey’s cell phone. One of them may even have taken his cell phone with them. All we know is that calls were placed to Volkan late one night. Volkan had gotten out of hand. He was threatening Sami. And Sami met with him that fateful night!”
“No, it wasn’t me!”
If he kept sweating like that he was in danger of dehydration.
“Well then, who was it?” asked Nimet. “It couldn’t have been Canan. She was at the nightclub that night. There are witnesses.”
“Oh, you mean that night?” said Ponpon, finally realizing what night we were talking about. “Of course, you came to watch my show.”
“Even I was there,” I added.
“We hired someone . . .” whispered Sami. A public confession. “An ex-con. We keep a few around. Sometimes they come in handy.”
Ziya, Okan, and Refik were all glaring at Sami.
“And you claim to love him . . .” Refik said reproachfully.
“You’re in deep shit, four-eyes! You’re gonna have to deal with me now,” Ziya growled, unleashing a series of threats outlining in some detail the agonies Sami would suffer at his hands.
Selçuk was squirming in his chair.
“Have you got any hard evidence?” he inquired.
“We’ve got a heap of documents and papers, but you’ll have to sort through them and decide what you can use,” I said.
“Let’s continue,” said Nimet, taking the floor.
“Sami killed Volkan, even if he wasn’t directly responsible. But all of the evidence pointed to Faruk. If he’d been imprisoned and out of circulation, they would have taken over the business.”
“But then Haluk Bey saved the day,” I said.
Haluk was still looking utterly crushed. And gorgeous in a new way.
“That idiot,” spat Canan. How could anyone look at a man like that with so much hatred?
Nimet and I talked rapidly in turn.
“That’s right, Haluk did all he could to defend Faruk,” said Nimet. “The case against him was full of inconsistencies. I think he may even have confided his suspicions to Haluk.”
“Yes, I did find out one thing,” Haluk said, his head bowed. “Canan was heavily overdrawn.”
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“And,” I said, “that’s when we came into the picture: me and Kemal! But who hired us? Haluk! Why? To rescue both his wife and Faruk. He paid us good money. And he got what he paid for. But he cast the net too wide. If he’d simply settled for deleting a few phone records, Kemal and I wouldn’t have suspected much. But the international dimension caught our attention.”
“The funds were always transferred via the Island of Jersey and London. I had to wipe out those records . . .” Haluk muttered.
Canan looked at him in disgust.
“Canan naturally realized that things were going to blow up in her face,” I said. “Faruk had become too dangerous. She laid all her cards on the table, but he hadn’t even been arrested at that point.”
“That brings us to the night Faruk died . . .” said Nimet. She was speaking more precisely than ever. With her right hand she toyed with her necklace. “When Faruk was released, many people came to wish him well. I was too ashamed and upset to leave my room. But I do know that the last three visitors were Sami, Canan, and Haluk!”
“The three prime suspects,” I said. I hoped Haluk hadn’t done it. Canan could go to prison, and then he’d be mine. I’d be there to console him. “A person or persons persuaded Faruk to go out on the pier that night. And then into the sea . . .”
“First he was clubbed on the head!” Cihad2000 provided that critical detail. “With a blunt instrument. I was listening in on the police radio.”
I silently congratulated him. Sometimes his obsessive snooping was useful.
No one spoke. You could have sliced the tension with a knife.
“If we consider Sami’s diminutive physique . . .” said Nimet, breaking the silence. “Faruk was a big man, even a bit stout in his latter days.”
Everyone was staring at Canan and Haluk.
“Ay, alright already. I got it,” said Ponpon, shooting to her feet. “I’m late. You can tell me later who did it. I’m confused enough as it is. You’re driving the lyrics right out of my head.”
As she shook Nimet’s hand and prepared to leave, “Thanks so much for inviting me. Your house is so nice. I hope to come again another time,” she remarked.
“Certainly,” Nimet managed in reply.
Selçuk kept things moving.
“I’ll call in the squad . . .” he said.
“Please . . .” said Canan tearfully. She wiped her eye with a recently manicured finger. “Haluk, do something . . . Please don’t call the police . . .”
Even Ponpon looked back, spellbound.
“Ayol, you mean you did it?” she cried, finally grasping the seriousness of the situation.
Canan broke down. None of us had expected that. She was sobbing hysterically, oblivious to her ruined makeup. Gone was the Nişantaşı girl who’d looked down her nose at everyone, most of all me. I almost felt sorry for her.
“He turned on me . . . He wouldn’t even listen . . . What was I to do? . . . Everything was falling apart . . . What else could I do?”
Haluk embraced her. I found that unnecessary. It should have been me.
“Can you leave us alone until the police come?” he asked.
Chapter 38
Everything happened that night just as Nimet and I had planned, like an Agatha Christie novel, or even better, the starstudded finale of a film adaptation: Murder on the Orient Express, Death on the Nile, The Mirror Crack’d, and Evil Under the Sun had nothing on us, even with cameos by Sean Connery, Ingrid Bergman, Bette Davis, Maggie Smith, Lauren Bacall, Jacqueline Bisset, Diana Rigg, Elizabeth Taylor, Jane Birkin, Mia Farrow, and Anthony Perkins.
Canan and Sami were led away in handcuffs. That business with the Telekom records was kindly swept under the carpet, thanks to Selçuk. After all, Cihad2000 and I had helped solve two murders.
With the mystery of her husband’s murder cleared up, Nimet began the painful mourning process. We hope to visit each other regularly. We even talked about taking a short holiday together. She’s always wanted to visit the coast of Croatia. “Dalmatia is supposed to be wonderful,” she says. We haven’t yet had a chance to make definite travel plans. I hope we become friends. And if we do, she’ll certainly be a novel addition to my little circle.
Ali was terrified when he found out what a close call we’d had. I expect he’ll steer clear of shady contracts, at least for a while. I also expect a resulting drop in the company’s fortunes—and mine.
Kemal, alias Cihad2000, meets regularly with Pamir. As far as I know, he no longer rents five-star suites, settling instead for more modestly priced hotels. “I only have eyes for her,” he claims. Pamir retorts, “I’m a professional, ayol.”
No one’s seen Refik around for a while, at the club or anywhere else. They say he and his lover have taken a long holiday, either in Tunisia or in a village down south. Rumor has it that he’s working on his latest masterpiece.
Sami is in jail, of course. If he does get out, Ziya Göktaş may honor his oath to avenge Volkan’s death.
We’ve still got to take care of the scum in Hasan’s neighborhood. I don’t want to bother Selçuk about it. Perhaps I can find another way. I’m thinking it over.
Haluk Pekerdem is still in jail. I can’t imagine him there. I hope nothing bad happens, that he doesn’t get droopy shoulders and sad eyes, gain or lose too much weight, or otherwise allow his amazing good looks to deteriorate in any way. He’s being charged only with being an accessory to a crime and with concealment of evidence. In any case, he’ll be out long before his wife, Canan. I’m still hopeful. Who knows?
Acknowledgments
I have always watched awards ceremonies—especially the Oscars—with a sense of amazement and good-natured envy. The award winners invariably present a long list of those believed to have contributed in some way to their general development. It is a fascinating life survey, embracing everyone from parents and teachers, to those well-known sources of inspiration, neighbors and pets.
Presented with the opportunity to compile my own list, I have decided to milk it for all it’s worth. If I have overlooked anyone, I apologize for the oversight of my editor and consultant.
First of all, I would naturally like to thank my family: My mother, dearest Meloş; my late father, even if he is unable to read this; my brother, who I believe has always taken life much more seriously than I have; his spouse, the happy result of my skills as a matchmaker; my late grandmother on my mother’s side, who was always a source of joy and panic in the house where I grew up; that pillar of dignified calm, my late great-grandmother on my father’s side; various other relatives, some living, others no longer with us, including my aunts, uncles, maternal uncles, first- and second-generation cousins—those passed over know who they are—and, finally, because anything but a specific mention would be a disgrace, my “special” cousin, Yeşim Toduk; my aunts’ husbands, and my aunts-in-law.
Next come the friends I would like to thank: Naim Faik Dilmener, who patiently read my manuscript, guiding and encouraging me, and who is himself a keen reader of detective stories and an authority on golden oldie 45s, as well as his son, but in particular his wife, “Belinda”; Berran Tözer, who set out with me when this project was a five-book miniseries, but threw in the towel by the time we reached page 27; my esteemed partners and fellow consultants with whom I make a respectable living—for it would be impossible for me to survive on my earnings from writing books—Işıl Dayıoğlu Aslan and A. Ateş Akansel and their spouses Burçak and Suada (who is also my Reiki master), as well as Işıl and Burçak’s daughter, Zeynep; and Ateş and Suada’s dogs.
Despite their not really know what exactly was going on, I would like to thank, for their unfailing emotional support, Mehmet “Serdar” Omay; Murathan Mungan; Füsun Akatlı and her daughter, Zeynep, though we haven’t seen each other in a long time; and Zeynep Zeytinoğlu; Yıldırım Türker; Nejat Ulusay; Nilgün Abisel; Levent Suner; Nilüfer Kavalalı; Mete Özgencil, whose painting, in which I lose myself from time to time, hangs on the wal
l of my study; and Barbaros Altuğ, who somehow managed to motivate me without making his intentions obvious, and who is now my agent and imagines that he will somehow emerge unblemished from all of this.
Miraç Atuna, who constantly reinvents herself and, like me, wakes up before dawn, therefore making it possible for me to have a phone conversation with someone before 7 AM.
My business colleagues Kezban Eren, Derya Babuç, and—yes, her surname is real—Pelin Burmabıyıklıoğlu; the ever-smiling Remzi Demircan and Meral Emeksiz, who are the most positive people I’ve ever met; everyone I’ve met and encountered at offices anywhere, especially the sometimes capricious secretaries for enduring all kinds of cruelty; all of my eccentric former managers and bosses—I have somehow never been able to locate the normal ones, with the exception of Ergin Bener, who, of that group, is the only one completely at peace with his inner child.
And as far as those responsible for my technical development: naturally, all of “our” girls, if for no other reason than their courage and their very existence. My encounters with each and every one of them has enabled me, consciously or unconsciously, to make use of their many impersonations, gestures, styles, and sometimes the revealing detail of a single word.
The publishing house that will print this book, my editor or editors, copy editor, proofreader, binder, cover designer, and all those involved in promoting, distributing, and selling the book.
The many who through their works have inspired me over the years, including Honoré de Balzac, Patricia Highsmith, Saki, Truman Capote, Christopher Isherwood, Reşat Ekrem Koçu, André Gide, Marquis de Sade, Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, Yusuf Atılgan, Hüseyin Rahmi Gürpınar, Gore Vidal, Serdar Turgut, and many others.
The Gigolo Murder Page 24