“The name means something to you?” Yashim asked, cocking his head. The banker looked apologetically blank. “I thought—perhaps your wife…”
Mavrogordato startled. “My wife?”
There was a moment’s pause. Yashim fluttered his hands.
“Forgive me, I should explain. Maximilien Lefevre. The archaeologist.”
Mavrogordato frowned. “Lefevre,” he repeated. Then, in a somber tone, he added: “You haven’t heard?”
“I knew him slightly,” Yashim said slowly.
Mavrogordato gave a grunt. “Knew him. Hmm.” He began to tap his fingers absently on the table.
“I’m investigating his death. Trying to establish some facts.”
“I know nothing about that,” the banker said.
“I didn’t mean to suggest—” Yashim raised his hands. Even in this office he could still hear the murmur of the crowd outside, the faint ringing of little bells, the rattling of carriages on the cobbles. “You had met him, too?”
“I—he came here once. He wished to borrow some money.”
He paused. Yashim said nothing.
“I lent him the money,” the banker continued. “A small amount.” Mavrogordato paused, as if remembering, then levered himself briskly away from the desk. “Very unfortunate. But business must go on.”
“Of course, efendi. If I might just ask—did you talk together? He was an interesting man.”
Mavrogordato looked surprised. “I’m afraid I have no interest in archaeology. Dull of me, I am sure, but I am a man of business. You understand.”
Yashim cocked his head. “How much did he borrow?”
The banker blew out his cheeks. “If you ask me, I believe it was two hundred francs.”
“Ah. French money.”
“You know, these days…One can’t lend piastres.”
“Because…?”
“The value, it’s too unsettled.” Mavrogordato waved a podgy hand. “These are financial things, efendi.”
“About which I know so little,” Yashim agreed. “Is that why he came to you, do you think?”
Mavrogordato gave a deprecating shrug and picked up a paper on his desk. “I couldn’t say, efendi. I wish you luck.”
“Thank you so much for your time.” Yashim paused, with his hand on the doorknob. “One final thing I forgot to ask—what kind of security did Lefevre give you?”
For a moment Mavrogordato’s eyes searched the room. He gestured with the paper in his hand. “He was a Frenchman. It was only a small loan.”
“Yes, of course. He gave you nothing.”
As he closed the door, he saw that Mavrogordato was still watching him, blinking.
45
“POOR bastard,” Palewski said. He glanced through the window, where the bees were dozily buffeting the wisteria. “Don’t you find these summer evenings unbearably sad? It must be my age.”
Outside, a stork clattered its bill; a pair had lately taken up residence on the new pinnacle of the Galata Tower a few hundred yards away.
Palewski bent forward and retrieved the little book from the table. “Lefevre must have been very frightened to leave this in your flat.”
“I suppose he thought of it when I went to get him a berth on the boat,” Yashim said. “It cheered him up, somehow.”
“Thinking it was safe, yes.” Palewski could not quite rid his voice of its contempt.
He stuck his nose in the book and began to murmur to himself. Yashim helped himself to the ambassador’s tea and leaned back in his chair, trying to recall Lefevre’s mood, trying to remember their last words. He had got into that caique—how? He could remember that he, Yashim, had been slightly impatient with the whole affair—the money and Lefevre’s petulance about the boat. After that, he hadn’t paid Lefevre too much attention. He thought he would never see him again.
But Lefevre must have pondered the possibility. Hence the hidden book. And he had stepped into the bobbing caique and pushed off without a word.
There were many things you could find to dislike about Lefevre, but you couldn’t fault his bravery.
Meanwhile, everyone was shortly going to be invited to think that Yashim had killed him. It didn’t matter whether they believed it or not: just airing the possibility would be enough. Slander was raised only against the weak: nobody flung accusations at people whose power was secure. To be placed under suspicion showed a want of luck on Yashim’s part; and nobody in Istanbul, least of all in the palace, liked an unlucky man.
Yashim raised his cup and squinted at his friend through the steam, with a sudden upsurge of affection.
