The Abyssinian Proof: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels) Page 32

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we don’t know what’s really said, do we? He could tell the ambassador four is five and we’d have to accept it.”

  “Is he the only Turkish speaker at the embassy?” Kamil asked, shocked.

  “The others all left. The old ambassador worked them to the bone, canceled their home leaves. Some of the poor buggers hadn’t seen England in three years. The new translator shipped out from London last week. Oxford trained. When he arrives, we won’t have to rely on Owen anymore. He’ll be restricted to his other duties where he can do no harm.”

  “What other duties?”

  “Diplomatic pouch, post, shipping. He said he had done it before, and truth be told, it’s the one thing he does well. We can always count on our post being on time.”

  Kamil tried to keep the excitement from his voice. “Would you be able to obtain a list of everything he’s shipped for the embassy over the past month—what, where, when—without him knowing?”

  “Certainly,” Battles said. “It might take me a week, maybe two.”

  “I need it this afternoon.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  On his way out, Kamil turned back and asked, “Is Owen married?”

  “I doubt it,” Battles replied. “He’s always chatting up the ladies at embassy functions. He’s a dark horse, that one. Has an apartment somewhere in the city. Never invites anyone over.” He thought a moment. “I suppose he could have a native wife. I hear they don’t mind that sort of thing.”

  Kamil nodded curtly and stepped out the door before a suitable rejoinder could form on his lips.

  KAMIL LEFT A police guard outside the building in Tarla Bashou, then he, the local police captain, and a fresh-faced policeman climbed the stairs to Owen’s apartment. The hall was narrow and dark, but the steps were scrubbed clean. The stairwell was fragrant with the scent of freshly baked pastry and the noon meal. Every door was slightly ajar and women peered out, their children pressing their faces through the opening.

  Kamil knocked on Owen’s door.

  A woman spoke from the apartment across the landing. She had a scarf draped around her face and her body was hidden behind the half-closed door. “He’s not home.”

  Kamil turned toward her. “Do you know where he is? When he’ll be back?”

  “He’s rarely here, but he came in late last night. He’d lost his key so the doorkeeper had to let him in. He made a lot of noise in his apartment and right before the first ezan, a carriage came and they took down some big chests. It woke me and the children up.” As if on cue, a baby began to bawl behind her. The door closed for a moment, then opened again, a bit wider. Kamil could see she had a baby in her arms. A little girl clung shyly to her mother’s shalwar.

  If Owen was rarely here, Kamil thought, he must have another apartment somewhere. “Does he get a lot of visitors?”

  “I’ve only seen an orange-haired man and some rough local types. They haul large chests up and down the stairs at all hours. I’m afraid one of the children will get trampled underfoot someday. Up and down. Up and down. I sent my husband over with some stuffed peppers once, but he just took them and didn’t even thank us. Didn’t return the plate either. Not that we expected thanks, mind you. But I thought my husband could talk to him about being careful of the children on the stairs. I don’t like the look of those men. This is a respectable house.”

  She cocked her head and suddenly ran back inside. He could hear the clatter of pans in the kitchen, then a burnt odor wafted onto the landing.

  Kamil took out the key Avi had taken from Owen’s pocket, and inserted it in the lock. He told the policeman who had accompanied him to interview everyone in the building. “I want a description of these men. Get the doorkeeper’s wife to sit with the women while you talk to them.”

  Then Kamil pushed the door open and he and the police captain stepped inside.

  The room smelled of unwashed clothes with a hint of flowery cologne. There was little furniture, just a table with one chair, an old sofa covered with a purple silk quilt stitched with flowers in silver thread, a wardrobe, and a mattress on the floor with some grimy bedding. On the table was an empty enamel plate. Dust padded the windowsills and collected in drifts in the corners of the room. The wardrobe was empty. Dirty laundry was piled on the floor beside it. Kamil recognized one of Tailor Pepo’s shirts wadded up. The wooden floor was scored from heavy objects dragged across it.

  A door led to another room. Kamil pulled back the dusty drapes to let in light. This room was piled high with chests and wooden crates. He opened one and found a cache of ancient coins. Another chest was full of jewelry, not all of it old. Owen must be dealing in stolen jewelry as well. In Europe, it would be nearly impossible to trace.

  “Take an inventory of everything in this apartment,” he told the police captain. “Then box everything up and deliver it to the courthouse as evidence. I’m holding you responsible for the safety of these objects.” Kamil was reluctant to leave this undocumented treasure in one man’s hands, but Owen was on the run and he couldn’t spare the time to stand guard over the inventory.

  The captain stood to attention. “Of course, Magistrate. You can rely on me.”

  As he crossed the room, Kamil noticed an iron stave with an odd-shaped cross at the top. It looked familiar. Then he remembered seeing something like it in the picture Ismail Hodja had shown him from the sect that worshiped the weeping angel. An Abyssinian cross. Perhaps Balkis or Saba could help him identify it. He wrapped it in a sheet and took it with him. He also took the plate from the table and, on his way out, placed it before the neighbor’s door.

  A guard was left to keep watch on the apartment. If Owen did return, Kamil would have him turned over to the British Embassy, since by law he wasn’t allowed to arrest a British national. If Owen didn’t return, and Kamil didn’t expect that he would, he would share his evidence with Scotland Yard.

  On his way back to the Grande Rue de Pera, Kamil passed the French Hospital.

  The gatekeeper called out a greeting: “Peace be upon you, Magistrate.”

  Kamil stopped. “Upon you be peace.”

  The man put his hand on his heart and bowed. “I wanted to thank you, Magistrate, for opening my fate.”

  “I’m pleased for you, but what have I done?”

  “Remember the young refugee woman you asked me to care for?”

  “Of course. What happened to her?”

  “She has accepted my offer of marriage.” The gatekeeper’s smile was so broad it lit up the street.

  Kamil was taken aback, thinking that the man had taken advantage of the wretched girl’s situation. But the alternatives ran quickly through his mind. Would it be better for her to be housed in a convent with hundreds of other women and children, being taught a skill that would bring her little money, even if she could find work? Instead, here was a gentle man who seemed genuinely pleased that she had accepted him.

  “Congratulations,” Kamil said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  The gatekeeper didn’t notice his hesitation. “She’s living with my mother for now. The baby is a boy, a boy like a lion. My mother is crazy about him. She’s always wanted a grandson. So, Magistrate, I would like to thank you for my family. We would be greatly honored if you would consent to come to the wedding.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  Kamil pictured the young woman being absorbed by this family—being fed, protected, embraced—and wondered how she felt about it. He hoped they would be gentle with their love.

  KAMIL SAT AT his desk and eyed with dismay the stack of papers that had accumulated over the past few days. He sifted through letters and messages. One was from Hamdi Bey. He eagerly ripped it open and read it.

  Hamdi Bey wrote that he had inquired through some trusted friends in the antiquities business in London about the firm of Rettingate and Sons. It was owned by Lionel Rettingate and a silent partner whose name no one appeared to know and wh
om no one had ever seen. Although nothing had ever been proved, the shop was suspected of selling stolen goods and no reputable dealer would openly buy from them. It was no secret, though, that these same dealers would pass money under the table if Rettingate had something they really wanted.

  Kamil was disappointed. He had hoped for a direct link of some kind to Owen.

  He sat back and lit a cigarette, then unwrapped the long package containing the cross and carried it over to the window to examine it in the light.

  “Good morning, bey.” He heard Avi’s voice behind him. “Would you like me to bring you some tea?”

  “Good morning, Avi.” Kamil didn’t turn. He was looking intensely at the cross on top of the long stave. It was made of iron and brass in a flat diamond shape and decorated with a pair of stylized birds, little more than pairs of tiny iron wings. He touched the edge of the diamond and the wings, then held it up to the light and studied the shape from the side and from above.

  “Come over here and hold this steady.”

  Avi stood beside him and wrapped his hands around the stave of the cross. Kamil noticed the boy’s hands were still scratched and covered in scabs, but they seemed to be healing. He took a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and slipped it carefully between the wings of one of the birds. The white linen came away stained a rusty black. He did the same to other parts of the cross.

  He examined the stains for a few moments. “Blood,” he announced. “We’ll get the police surgeon to verify it, but I think it’s blood.”

  He suddenly had an idea. “You know the bakery behind the stables?”

  “Yes, bey?” Avi said, clearly puzzled.

  “Run over there and bring me an unbaked loaf of bread, one that’s already risen. Tell them to wrap it up so it doesn’t fall flat before you get back.” He reconsidered. “Bring two, just in case. Run.”

  A few minutes later, Avi and Abdullah watched with fascination as Kamil placed a tray on the floor. The yeasty dough wobbled in his hands. He set it on the tray. The imprints of his fingers disappeared as the dough puffed itself up again into a flawless beige mound. Then Kamil took up the cross by its stave, turned it over so the cross was facing downward, and plunged it like a spear into the dough.

  In the moments before the dough repaired itself, they could see a pattern of incisions. It was the same as the pattern of cuts on Malik’s body, the sets of tiny bite-like punctures made by the miniature wings.

  When the bread had risen again, they saw that its beige surface was mottled black in a pattern that echoed the cuts. Kamil had Abdullah record what he had done, then gave him his handkerchief to send to the police surgeon for analysis.

  And he added murder to the charges against Magnus Owen.

  “DOES THAT MEAN Amida didn’t kill Malik?” Omar asked, looking disappointed.

  Kamil had ridden to Fatih station to fill Omar in on the news, and was eating a portion of stuffed mussels he had purchased from a vendor. He swallowed and said, “It appears that way. I don’t understand, though, how he got hold of Malik’s pin.”

  “I think it’s time to ask him.” Omar buckled on his revolver and threw on his jacket. “By the way, the watchman found a body behind the Fatih Mosque this morning, with that mark carved into his back. So either Owen or his henchmen are still around. Probably that testicle Remzi,” he added darkly.

  “Owen will stick around to see if he can get the Proof of God,” Kamil predicted, wrapping the shells in a piece of newsprint. “He’s probably holed up in his other apartment. I wish I knew where that was. Who was the victim?”

  “Dark-skinned boy in his early teens, naked. Might be Habesh. He looked familiar. Probably from Sunken Village. While we’re there, we can ask if anyone’s missing.”

  AS SOON AS Saba saw the cross in Kamil’s hand, she exclaimed, “It can’t be. Where did you get that?” She went to a long box in the corner of the room and opened it, then turned to her mother. “It’s empty. Did you know the scepter was missing, mother?”

  Balkis was propped on the divan and covered with a quilt, one of her wrists bound in a thick yellow-stained bandage.

  “Missing?” Balkis exclaimed. “That’s not possible. I used it on Friday.”

  Kamil and Omar stood just inside the door. Kamil trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes from Saba. He couldn’t quite grasp that this was his sister. She wore a brown charshaf that covered everything but her face, which was pale and drawn, her pallor accentuated by the dark frame of the veil. She no longer looked like a child.

  “It’s the scepter we use for our ceremonies,” Saba explained to Kamil. He noticed she avoided looking at him. She reached out for the cross. “I’ll put it back in the box.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t give it to you just yet. It’s evidence. We thought you might help us identify it.” He gave the cross to Omar, who wrapped it in a piece of oiled cloth. “We’re actually here to see your son,” Kamil told Balkis.

  It was late afternoon. He and Omar had searched Amida’s house and looked for him in his usual haunts in Charshamba. Kamil didn’t think he had gone far. He was sure Amida still hoped to pluck the golden apple, to sell Owen the Proof of God Kamil had dangled before him. Four thousand gold liras was almost a minister’s salary. It would buy Amida travel and a life far away from here. Four thousand liras would make a modern man of him. He was probably out looking for the manuscript right now. Kamil was certain that had been Amida’s reason for coming to Malik’s house two nights ago. He had probably planned to break in and hoped to find the Proof before his meeting with Kubalou. By now it was safely locked up in Hamdi Bey’s museum.

  “Did he take the scepter?” Saba asked.

  Kamil remembered that Saba had wanted him to arrest Amida and thought she’d be pleased to know they were here to do just that.

  “We don’t know,” Kamil said in a neutral voice. “That’s one of several things we’d like to ask him.”

  “I’ll take you to him,” Saba offered.

  “Don’t,” Balkis croaked.

  “Mama, Amida is a man, so let him take responsibility like a man.”

  Saba slipped on her shoes and told Kamil and Omar to follow her.

  When they reached the path that led to Amida’s cottage, Kamil stopped and said, “He’s not home. We were just there.”

  Saba didn’t answer, but continued along the path. Pushing open Amida’s door without knocking, she went inside. Kamil shrugged and followed. Omar took up a position inside the door.

  Saba strode to the piano in the sitting room, lifted the lid and brought her hands down several times on the keys, creating an explosion of noise.

  She crossed her arms and they stood waiting in the dying echo.

  Amida appeared blinking in the corridor. He seemed surprised to see Kamil.

  Kamil and Omar exchanged glances and Omar gave an imperceptible nod.

  Kamil was shocked at the change in Amida since last night. His face was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot and swollen and shaded with circles as dark as bruises. He looked shaken and, Kamil thought, anguished.

  “Brother, Kamil Pasha has some business with you,” Saba said, her voice taking on a note of concern. She too looked surprised at Amida’s state.

  Kamil took Amida by the arm. “Let’s go next door.”

  Amida tried to shake him loose, only to find Omar hoisting him by his other arm.

  “So where were you?” Omar asked him in the tone he reserved for naughty children. “Hiding in your rabbit warren?”

  Amida struggled. “You have no right.”

  “Of course not,” Omar agreed. “You’re such a good boy.”

  They brought him into Balkis’s house and thrust him into the receiving hall. Omar disappeared back outside.

  Balkis’s face was white and slick with sweat. “My son,” she croaked.

  Saba turned to Kamil and, for the first time, looked at him directly. Kamil found himself lost in her green eyes, so like his father’s. He blinked and looked a
way.

  “We found this,” he said, and took Malik’s pin from his pocket.

  Amida looked surprised and then relieved. He clearly had expected to be arrested for kidnapping Elif and attacking him, Kamil thought, watching his face. The harder an animal squirmed to get out of a trap, the more it entangled itself.

  “Malik wore that all the time,” Balkis said, stretching out her hand. “A friend gave it to him, an Irish monk. Where did you get it?”

  “The pin wasn’t on Malik’s body, so either the killer took it or someone took it from his house. Whoever killed him was after something much bigger and I doubt they would have bothered with a pin. I think someone went to Malik’s house that night after Malik had already taken the pin off and stole it. Was that you, Amida?”

  “What would I want with a cheap pin like that?” he grumbled.

  Kamil took it back from Balkis. “I found this in the Covered Bazaar. A dealer named Gomidian had it.”

  “We’ve done business with him for thirty years,” Balkis said. “He’s always been fair. What was he doing with it? Did he kill Malik?”

  Amida looked wary.

  “He said he bought the pin from Amida.”

  Amida’s eyes shifted rapidly around the room. “If I tell you, what’ll happen to me?” he asked.

  “We’ll arrest you for theft.”

  “The theft of a pin?” Amida scoffed.

  “Not just that. We can start with the reliquary.”

  “You can’t prove I took it.”

  “You were seen leaving the mosque, and in your house you have the carpet that was stolen along with the reliquary.”

  “I borrowed that carpet from the storeroom at the mosque.”

  Omar had returned and stood blocking the door. From the look on his face, Kamil knew he had found the tunnel. He caught Kamil’s eye and nodded.

  Saba came to stand before her brother. “I know you took the reliquary, Amida,” she said sadly. “How else could you have known it was empty? Uncle Malik told only me about the Proof of God. You overheard us, didn’t you? But you thought he meant the reliquary. You didn’t know there was a manuscript inside.” Saba’s voice rose. “You have no idea what the Proof of God is and you’re not worthy of being its caretaker.”