A boy appeared at the door, a tray of glasses swinging from his hand on a thin metal tripod. He plucked one off and handed it to the apprentice, who placed it before Kamil.
“What else can you tell me about Monsieur Owen?”
The apprentice’s hands continued their deft needlework as he answered Kamil’s questions. “I went to Tarla Bashou to deliver the shirt. The apartment was on the second floor. I knocked but there was no answer, so I went to leave the shirt with the doorkeeper. He told me the man who rented the apartment was an agent of trade by the name of Megalos. I wanted to make sure I was delivering to the right address, so I asked him to describe the tenant. The doorkeeper said he rarely saw him, but from his description it sounded exactly like Monsieur Owen. The doorkeeper didn’t think he actually lived there but used the apartment for business. He said the neighbors were always complaining to him about bulky trunks coming in and out and blocking the stairwell. It is odd. I mean, a proper business would have a depot.”
“What do you know about business?” Tailor Pepo rasped from his cutting table.
Agents of trade were go-betweens in business deals, paper shufflers and deal makers, not shopkeepers, Kamil thought. Owen was involved in something quite different.
“There’s one more thing.” The apprentice looked uncomfortable. “It’s just gossip.” He glanced at Tailor Pepo.
“Go ahead,” the old man said. “Leaves don’t flutter unless there’s wind.”
“I heard that Monsieur Owen lost his position at the embassy last year. He was accused of taking bribes.”
Kamil remembered the previous ambassador’s daughter, Sybil, mentioning that her father had fired his secretary. Instead of returning to England, this man stayed in Istanbul and set himself up as an agent of trade.
Tailor Pepo put his hands over his ears and shook his head. “I knew it right away.”
“But he was rehired when the new ambassador arrived.”
“How do you know this?” Kamil asked.
“My brother delivers produce to the embassy kitchen, pasha.”
Kamil finished his tea, thanked Tailor Pepo, and left. In the passage, he stopped, took the money clip from his pocket and regarded the engraving, then flipped it over and looked at the initial. M for Magnus, he thought, but something else danced just offstage in his mind. Suddenly he saw it. Four lines in the shape of two mountain peaks: M.
Was this Kubalou’s brand?
Hurrying out of the passage, he took a shortcut to the British Embassy.
He waited for the ambassador’s secretary on an uncomfortable chair in the ornate receiving hall. The clerk behind the desk studiously ignored him. A clock ticked ostentatiously on the mantel. The previous ambassador had done most of his business from his rooms in the private residence at the back of the British Embassy compound, so Kamil had spent little time in the public rooms.
It gave him time to think. He was jumping to conclusions. Just because a man smoked Cuban cigars and his name had an initial that looked vaguely like a symbol cut into the bodies of dead men didn’t necessarily mean he was guilty of killing them. Malik’s name also began with an M. And perhaps all the trunks the tailor’s apprentice had talked about really were just connected to Owen’s business as an agent of trade. Why was he so ready to believe, Kamil asked himself, that Magnus Owen was Kubalou? Was it that Owen had lied about how long he had been in Istanbul? A useless lie. Kamil wouldn’t have cared one way or the other. But the lie might have stopped Kamil from discovering that Owen had been fired for taking bribes under the previous ambassador.
After half an hour, a short, harried-looking man in a well-tailored suit rushed in. He had great brown whiskers on his cheeks and a bald head, across which lay two streaks of hair that looked as if they had been painted on.
“So sorry, Mister Pasha. Or should I call you Magistrate? Never know what form of address to use here, dash it. I’m Battles, the ambassador’s secretary.”
Kamil had no idea if this was his last name, his first name, or a job description.
“Kamil,” he clarified, reaching out his hand to Battles. “I’m here in my capacity as magistrate for the Beyoglu Court.”
“Well, do come in, man,” Battles interrupted him, leading the way toward a door at the back of the hall. “I know I’ve kept you waiting, Magistrate. I do apologize.”
He swept Kamil into his office and offered him a chair. A very large desk shined to a high polish dominated the room. Three upholstered chairs were arrayed around a smaller inlaid table.
Battles sat down opposite Kamil and crossed his legs. He propped his chin on one fist in a caricature of total attention. “Now,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
“I’m here to inquire about one of your employees, a Mister Magnus Owen.”
Battles suddenly sat upright. “Why is the Ottoman court interested in Magnus Owen? Look here, what’s this all about?”
“I can’t tell you anything at the moment,” Kamil explained. “We’re in the middle of an investigation. Right now I need some information.”
“But we have a right to know,” Battles spluttered.
“You’ll be the first to be informed. I’m sure you can understand,” he said conspiratorially, “that our actions must be circumspect. I’m working together with Scotland Yard on this matter.”
“Of course. Of course.” Battles laid his finger along his nose. “No need to bother the ambassador with this yet. Scotland Yard, eh?” He looked impressed.
“Is Mister Owen here?”
Battles shot up and stuck his head out the door. “Harbinger, is Owen here?”
A moment later, he came back shaking his head. “No one’s seen him all day. Never here when you want him.” He tilted his head and looked at Kamil. “Is Owen involved in something? Drugs, eh? I won’t tell a soul.” He leaned forward intently. “I knew it. I could smell it on that man. I told the ambassador not to hire him.”
“Why did you do that?”
“He was secretary to the former ambassador, but said he had resigned. He was living locally, acting as an agent of trade. Apparently very respectable. As soon as the new ambassador arrived, Owen showed up and asked for his old job back. ‘Well, we have a secretary,’ I said. ‘Me. We don’t need a second one.’” Battles shook his head. “No, I didn’t like the man one bit. Shifty eyes. He went behind my back, convinced the ambassador he had more experience dealing with the natives. Not a lot of staff stayed over from the previous ambassador, you see, so it’s true our sea legs were a bit wobbly, but we were getting the hang of it. The ambassador hired him as cultural attaché. I couldn’t fathom it. He’s about as useful as a two-legged stool.” He leaned forward again. “And then one day I was talking to one of the men from the old days and guess what he told me? Owen hadn’t quit. He was asked to resign, for taking a bribe. Well, when I heard that, I went straight to the ambassador, but he thought it was just gossip. Seems Owen made himself useful. Speaks the local lingo, you know.” Battles shrugged. “I made the best of it. Kept him away from anything important. People like that. They think they’re one of us, but you can smell the street on them. Gives himself airs, he does, plays the gentleman, but I did some checking around.” Battles lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket. Father’s a duke. Did the right thing by him, sent him to the best schools and all that, but beyond his public school manner, Owen’s a fraud. He’s no more a gentleman than old Harbinger out there,” Battles concluded, indicating the clerk in the hall.
Kamil wondered at the depth of his venom. Why would Battles hate the man so much? There was nothing in Owen’s manner that had given Kamil cause to think ill of him. Perhaps, Kamil thought, he wasn’t as finely attuned to the narcissism of minor class differences as the British were. They seemed to have the olfactory sophistication of hunting dogs when it came to sniffing out a man’s standing. Kamil wondered whether a lifetime of harassment by his peers could drive a man to seek out associates like Remzi.