I await the resurrection of the dead.
And the life of the ages to come.
That was the way it should be kept.
Amen.
34
Yashim made his way into the Grand Bazaar. It was two days since Goulandris the bookseller had been killed, and still confidence had not returned: locked doors punctuated the frothy rows of booths, the vendors seemed subdued, the crowd less busy than usual.
Malakian was at his doorway, sitting quietly on a mat with his hands in his lap.
“Do you have news?”
Yashim inclined his head. “Lefevre, the Frenchman we talked about? He was killed in Pera.”
Malakian sighed. “It is like I said. Lefevre lived a dangerous life.”
“That’s not quite what you said, Malakian efendi. You said he did not always dig with a spade.”
“It is the same, my friend. In Istanbul, I think, it is better that the ground is not disturbed.”
“Lefevre disturbed something.” Yashim squatted down beside the old man. “Or someone.”
“You will have a coffee with me,” Malakian said.
Yashim could tell he didn’t mean it. He declined. “The Hetira, efendi.”
The old Armenian paused before replying. “I think a man like Lefevre would work where money is to be found. But sometimes in these places there are too many secrets, also, and so there is no trust. A negotiation is not easy. I am sorry for his children.”
“His children?” Yashim found it hard to imagine a Lefevre with children. But then, what would he know? “Do you have children, Malakian efendi?”
The old man nodded solemnly. “Five,” he said.
“God’s blessing upon them,” Yashim said politely. “Malakian efendi, do you still have that coin for Dr. Millingen? The English collector?”
It was Malakian who looked surprised. “Of course. He does not come here every day.”
“I will be in Pera this afternoon,” Yashim said. “I could take him the coin, if you liked.”
Malakian turned his head to look at Yashim. “You want to meet Dr. Millingen?”
“Yes,” Yashim said.
35
“My French is-indifferent, I’m afraid,” said Millingen. He laughed pleasantly and held out a hand. Yashim took it: the doctor had a firm grip. Scarcely older than Yashim, he looked in good shape: the grizzled hair, the lean, brown face, the tall, erect posture. He was neatly dressed in a black cutaway coat and a brilliant white shirt; his cravat was loose at the neck.
“Most kind of you to come. Aram’s been throwing out hints these past few weeks, and my collector’s instinct tells me what you’ve brought. You aren’t an addict, too?”
Yashim smiled. “I do not collect coins, doctor.”
“Good for you! I caught the bug in Greece-time on my hands. It’s nothing much, but I’ve been making a collection of late Byzantine coinage. All those states and little kingdoms which grew up after the crusaders sacked the city in 1204. Silver obloids minted by the Morean despots, for instance. This, I suspect, may be the one I’m missing.”
Dr. Millingen slid the coin from its pouch onto his leather-topped desk and prodded it with his finger. “I knew it. An angelus. Damn, but Malakian is clever. I’ll wager he had this coin the whole time.” He looked up and pulled a face. “A collector is a very weak man, wouldn’t you say? Six months ago I would not have given five piastres for this coin. Now it arrives to close a gap, and Aram Malakian will have me paying through the nose.”
“Well, I suppose if Malakian always supplies you with your coins, he can’t help knowing what you are looking for,” Yashim pointed out.
“Ah, no.” Millingen wagged his finger. “That’s part of the game-when I remember to play it properly. I don’t rely on Aram, you see. There are other dealers, though I admit he’s the best. Sometimes I think they operate a ring, pool their information. So I have to lean on friends outside the bazaar, too. You’d be surprised. There’s a monk in Filibe who helps me, and an old friend in Athens. A doctor, like me. But Malakian! He’ll ruin me!”
Yashim smiled. “I’m afraid he only asked me to bring it over. He didn’t mention money.”
“Not a word!” Dr. Millingen laughed again, and ran his hands through his curls. “The old fox! He knows I’ve been sitting here with my tongue hanging out. And in a moment I’ll put this angelus with the others and complete the set. And then how could I ever let it go again? Oh, Yashim efendi, I’m afraid our old friend has quite deceived you. You have just sold your first angelus.”
Yashim smiled. “I am afraid, Dr. Millingen, that it is I who have perhaps deceived you. I was glad to bring you this coin, but really it is some information that I want.”
Millingen waved his hand. “Fire away,” he said affably.
Yashim found himself hesitating. “At the palace, they will speak for me.”
Dr. Millingen leaned forward slightly. “Yes, Yashim efendi. I believe I know you.”
Yashim felt encouraged. “I knew the unfortunate Monsieur Lefevre, as well. The man who was killed.”
“Ah, yes. Bad business, that.”
“He told me you had met once.”
Millingen looked surprised. “It’s quite possible. Who knows? I’m afraid he was rather beyond recognition this morning.”
“You examined the body.”
“An autopsy. It means to have a look for oneself-from the ancient Greek. I never liked the postmortem stuff, to be honest. I’m a doctor, not a pathologist: it’s my job to save lives.”
“Lives may be saved if we can find out who did this.”
Millingen looked dubious. “A dark alley, in the middle of the night? You can rule out witnesses. Those dogs make enough noise to wake the dead. Anyway, this is Pera, not Stamboul.”
“Efendi?”
“It would take more than murder to get the Perotes out of their own houses on a dark night. Haven’t you noticed-the people here are colder than a Scotch welcome?”
“But the cause of death-and the time. You reached a judgment?”
Millingen frowned. “Yes, I did. It was somewhat spectacular-the trunk was hacked open, from stomach to sternum. But he was actually killed, I suspect, with a blackjack: a powerful blow to the base of the neck. He was almost certainly unconscious when they cut him open. Spatchcocked, you might say, like a widgeon or a teal.”
“But why?”
“Purest speculation: whoever killed him wanted to attract the dogs. Quite decent plan-although it’s the dogs, ironically, which help me suggest a time of death.”
“How’s that, Dr. Millingen?”
“The teeth marks. Some are older, which caused a loss of blood when the body was still fresh. Then an overlapping set of marks, sometimes a parallel set. The dogs tend to feed by night, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Last night the body was pulled apart. And of course there are other indications, like the state of decomposition, desiccation of the eyeballs, and such. He couldn’t have been killed much later than the night before last; possibly, I suppose, a little earlier. I’ll be suggesting a time of death between noon Monday and, say, six o’clock on the Tuesday morning.”
Not good, Yashim thought: that put him and Lefevre together, alone, at a time when he could have been killed.
