Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 799 & 800, March/April 2008

“We’re in good company,” Ives remarked.

Then the lights dimmed and an announcer introduced, in Turkish and English, “The toast of Istanbul, the fabulous Turkish Delight!”

Stanton had never found belly dancers particularly erotic, but he had to admit that Miss Delight was quite good at what she did, appearing in a striking red costume and veils that, naturally, left her midsection exposed. She danced to the beat of the music, moving her body in rolling waves that seemed endless as the tide. “She’s really something,” he told Ives.

“I can see you’re impressed.”

As she danced close to the ringside tables several men reached out with currency to tuck into her skimpy sequined costume. Up close she appeared older than at a distance, perhaps nearing forty, with hair black as midnight and makeup a bit too thick to be convincing. “She has a few tricks,” he admitted.

“Let’s go back to the hotel. I can show you more tricks than that.”

He downed the rest of his drink. “Sounds good to me.”

“Let me stop at the ladies’ room first.”

Turkish Delight was just finishing her dance, bowing low to the audience, when Ives left her seat and scampered toward a lighted doorway across the room. Stanton signaled their waiter for the check and put it on his business credit card.

The waiter was back in a few minutes for his signature. He slipped the credit card into his card case and listened to a singer give a passable rendering of a French song popular some decades earlier. He looked around for Ives, but couldn’t see her anywhere. Turkish Delight was nowhere in sight either. He’d expected her to be lingering at the bar as they sometimes did in New York clubs.

After waiting some fifteen minutes, he called a waitress over. “My — my wife has been in the ladies’ room a long time. I wonder if you could check on her, see if she’s ill. Her name is Juliet.”

Happily, the waitress understood English and went off to see about Ives. She returned after a few moments looking blank. “She’s not there. The place is empty right now.”

“Strange. Is there a back way out of here?”

“Just through the kitchen.”

Stanton left the table and wandered up to the bar. “I came in with a young woman, tall, long legs, long blond hair, full lips, a cute nose—” He stopped, realizing the bartender didn’t understand a word he was saying.

He looked around in frustration, seeking out the waitress who understood English. She was nowhere to be seen, but a small boy was approaching his spot at the bar. He was one of the beggars they’d seen outside. The boy muttered something he couldn’t understand and forced a folded note into Stanton’s hand. Then he was gone.

Stanton unfolded the note and read the words he was dreading: Get the calligraphy from the hotel safe and await our call. Otherwise she dies.

Ives awakened as if from a dream. Her head seemed about to burst, but when she tried to soothe it with her hand she realized she could not move her arms.

She opened her eyes and imagined she was in hell. The walls of the room were red and she rested on a red velvet sofa. A single floor lamp lit the room. “What happened?” she asked out loud, but there was no one there to answer her.

Presently, perhaps a quarter-hour later, a Turkish man entered the room. He was a handsome fellow with a dark moustache and deep dark eyes. She guessed his age to be around forty. “I see you are awake,” he said in passable English.

“What happened to me? Where am I? My head hurts.”

“We are sorry such tactics were necessary. You were struck from behind with a cosh, then injected with something to make you sleep. They removed you from the Bosphorus Cafe by way of the kitchen.”

Ives realized for the first time that she could not move because her hands and feet were bound to the sofa. “Why have I been taken here?” she asked. “Where is my partner?”

“He is well, and has been informed of your situation. As soon as he turns over the painting you will be released.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“You need not know that. It is better you don’t, if you expect to leave here alive.” He poured a glass of water from a pitcher and allowed her to drink, lifting her head with a helpful hand to the back of her neck.

“Thank you,” she acknowledged. Then, “Is Stanton doing what you asked?”

“We will know soon. You must rest now.”

“What time is it?”

“After eleven.” He cut a piece of duct tape from a roll on the floor. “I’m going to have to gag you.”

She started to object, but the tape was already over her mouth. He left her alone and closed the door behind him. Glancing around as best she could, she saw no windows, but the red drapes on one wall could easily hide such an exit. There was another red sofa across the room, but there was no sign of her purse there or on the floor. She thought about her cell phone but decided there was little chance she could find it, much less use it to call Stanton. And what would she tell him, anyway? She had no idea where she was, though the place could well have been a room in a harem for all she knew.

She knew Stanton would find her somehow, even if he had to give up the painting. He would do that for her.

Wouldn’t he?

Stanton’s first move was to ask for the owner of the Bosphorus Cafe. He was taken to a second-floor office where a bald man wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses sat at a computer screen. A tray of candy cubes sat on his nearby desk, each encased in a bit of rice paper. He looked up as Stanton entered. “I’m the building manager, Guzine Guler. What is your problem?”

“I wanted the owner.”

“The owner is not on the premises.”

“Very well. My name is Walt Stanton. I arrived here nearly three hours ago with a young American woman, my companion. We had dinner and watched the show. As we were about to leave, she went off to the ladies’ room and never returned. I believe she has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom. Unless you want me to call the police, you’d better see that she’s freed right away.”

The bald man held out his empty palms to Stanton. “I know nothing of this. I can assure you no one here had anything to do with this supposed kidnapping.”

“It’s a real kidnapping. I’m not imagining it.” He was tempted to show the note he’d received, but it might have led to questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

“I would suggest returning to your hotel, Mr. Stanton. Certainly your companion will return, if she isn’t there already. It is not uncommon for young foreign ladies to meet a handsome Turk at the bar and go off with him for a brief dalliance. But they always come back.”

Stanton’s growing panic was fast turning into anger and he knew he had to control himself for Ives’s sake. “I’ll take your advice for now,” he managed to reply.

He started to rise and Guler slid the tray of candies forward. “Here, take a Turkish Delight before you go.”

Stanton left the office and went back downstairs, forcing himself to gaze at the faces along the bar. Ives was not among them, of course. He took a chance and had a taxi deliver him to the art gallery where they’d met with Bruno Tranle earlier in the day. The door was locked but he could see a light in the back office. He rang a bell by the door and waited. When nothing happened he rang again. This time Tranle poked his head out of the office and recognized Stanton.

“What are you doing here?” he asked as he opened the door.

“There’s been a slight problem. We took your advice and ate at the Bosphorus. Somebody grabbed Ives when she went to the restroom. Now they want your calligraphy before they release her.”