The Gigolo Murder

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 Han?m 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 Han?m, 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 Selcuk 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 Han?m 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 Han?m, 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 Hanoglu to open the safe-deposit box?

The great lady was phoned, and her presence politely requested. I was offered another cup of Turkish coffee. Gulben even went so far as to suggest that Necla Han?m, over in operations, be permitted to read my cup, assuring me that her fortune-telling was always spot on. Clearly, Nimet Han?m 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. Gulben 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 Hanoglu? 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 Hanoglu arrived at the same time as my coffee. 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 Gulben. We were then formally introduced.

“Merhaba, Nimet Hanoglu. 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 Ugur Mumcu, Abdi Ipekci, and Bahriye Ucok 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.