Jenny White - The Abyssinian Proof

“Certainly,” Battles said. “It might take me a week, maybe two.”

“I need it this afternoon.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

On his way out, Kamil turned back and asked, “Is Owen married?”

“I doubt it,” Battles replied. “He’s always chatting up the ladies at embassy functions. He’s a dark horse, that one. Has an apartment somewhere in the city. Never invites anyone over.” He thought a moment. “I suppose he could have a native wife. I hear they don’t mind that sort of thing.”

Kamil nodded curtly and stepped out the door before a suitable rejoinder could form on his lips.

Kamil left a police guard outside the building in Tarla Bashou, then he, the local police captain, and a fresh-faced policeman climbed the stairs to Owen’s apartment. The hall was narrow and dark, but the steps were scrubbed clean. The stairwell was fragrant with the scent of freshly baked pastry and the noon meal. Every door was slightly ajar and women peered out, their children pressing their faces through the opening.

Kamil knocked on Owen’s door.

A woman spoke from the apartment across the landing. She had a scarf draped around her face and her body was hidden behind the half-closed door. “He’s not home.”

Kamil turned toward her. “Do you know where he is? When he’ll be back?”

“He’s rarely here, but he came in late last night. He’d lost his key so the doorkeeper had to let him in. He made a lot of noise in his apartment and right before the first ezan, a carriage came and they took down some big chests. It woke me and the children up.” As if on cue, a baby began to bawl behind her. The door closed for a moment, then opened again, a bit wider. Kamil could see she had a baby in her arms. A little girl clung shyly to her mother’s shalwar.

If Owen was rarely here, Kamil thought, he must have another apartment somewhere. “Does he get a lot of visitors?”

“I’ve only seen an orange-haired man and some rough local types. They haul large chests up and down the stairs at all hours. I’m afraid one of the children will get trampled underfoot someday. Up and down. Up and down. I sent my husband over with some stuffed peppers once, but he just took them and didn’t even thank us. Didn’t return the plate either. Not that we expected thanks, mind you. But I thought my husband could talk to him about being careful of the children on the stairs. I don’t like the look of those men. This is a respectable house.”

She cocked her head and suddenly ran back inside. He could hear the clatter of pans in the kitchen, then a burnt odor wafted onto the landing.

Kamil took out the key Avi had taken from Owen’s pocket, and inserted it in the lock. He told the policeman who had accompanied him to interview everyone in the building. “I want a description of these men. Get the doorkeeper’s wife to sit with the women while you talk to them.”

Then Kamil pushed the door open and he and the police captain stepped inside.

The room smelled of unwashed clothes with a hint of flowery cologne. There was little furniture, just a table with one chair, an old sofa covered with a purple silk quilt stitched with flowers in silver thread, a wardrobe, and a mattress on the floor with some grimy bedding. On the table was an empty enamel plate. Dust padded the windowsills and collected in drifts in the corners of the room. The wardrobe was empty. Dirty laundry was piled on the floor beside it. Kamil recognized one of Tailor Pepo’s shirts wadded up. The wooden floor was scored from heavy objects dragged across it.

A door led to another room. Kamil pulled back the dusty drapes to let in light. This room was piled high with chests and wooden crates. He opened one and found a cache of ancient coins. Another chest was full of jewelry, not all of it old. Owen must be dealing in stolen jewelry as well. In Europe, it would be nearly impossible to trace.

“Take an inventory of everything in this apartment,” he told the police captain. “Then box everything up and deliver it to the courthouse as evidence. I’m holding you responsible for the safety of these objects.” Kamil was reluctant to leave this undocumented treasure in one man’s hands, but Owen was on the run and he couldn’t spare the time to stand guard over the inventory.

The captain stood to attention. “Of course, Magistrate. You can rely on me.”

As he crossed the room, Kamil noticed an iron stave with an odd-shaped cross at the top. It looked familiar. Then he remembered seeing something like it in the picture Ismail Hodja had shown him from the sect that worshiped the weeping angel. An Abyssinian cross. Perhaps Balkis or Saba could help him identify it. He wrapped it in a sheet and took it with him. He also took the plate from the table and, on his way out, placed it before the neighbor’s door.

A guard was left to keep watch on the apartment. If Owen did return, Kamil would have him turned over to the British Embassy, since by law he wasn’t allowed to arrest a British national. If Owen didn’t return, and Kamil didn’t expect that he would, he would share his evidence with Scotland Yard.

On his way back to the Grande Rue de Pera, Kamil passed the French Hospital.

The gatekeeper called out a greeting: “Peace be upon you, Magistrate.”

Kamil stopped. “Upon you be peace.”

The man put his hand on his heart and bowed. “I wanted to thank you, Magistrate, for opening my fate.”

“I’m pleased for you, but what have I done?”

“Remember the young refugee woman you asked me to care for?”

“Of course. What happened to her?”

“She has accepted my offer of marriage.” The gatekeeper’s smile was so broad it lit up the street.

Kamil was taken aback, thinking that the man had taken advantage of the wretched girl’s situation. But the alternatives ran quickly through his mind. Would it be better for her to be housed in a convent with hundreds of other women and children, being taught a skill that would bring her little money, even if she could find work? Instead, here was a gentle man who seemed genuinely pleased that she had accepted him.

“Congratulations,” Kamil said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

The gatekeeper didn’t notice his hesitation. “She’s living with my mother for now. The baby is a boy, a boy like a lion. My mother is crazy about him. She’s always wanted a grandson. So, Magistrate, I would like to thank you for my family. We would be greatly honored if you would consent to come to the wedding.”

“I’d be delighted.”

Kamil pictured the young woman being absorbed by this family-being fed, protected, embraced-and wondered how she felt about it. He hoped they would be gentle with their love.

Kamil sat at his desk and eyed with dismay the stack of papers that had accumulated over the past few days. He sifted through letters and messages. One was from Hamdi Bey. He eagerly ripped it open and read it.

Hamdi Bey wrote that he had inquired through some trusted friends in the antiquities business in London about the firm of Rettingate and Sons. It was owned by Lionel Rettingate and a silent partner whose name no one appeared to know and whom no one had ever seen. Although nothing had ever been proved, the shop was suspected of selling stolen goods and no reputable dealer would openly buy from them. It was no secret, though, that these same dealers would pass money under the table if Rettingate had something they really wanted.

Kamil was disappointed. He had hoped for a direct link of some kind to Owen.

He sat back and lit a cigarette, then unwrapped the long package containing the cross and carried it over to the window to examine it in the light.

“Good morning, bey.” He heard Avi’s voice behind him. “Would you like me to bring you some tea?”