The Bloody Bokhara by William Campbell Gault

Author:William Campbell Gault [Gault, William Campbell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-3978-7
Publisher: Prologue Books
Published: 1979-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

I FROWNED, which was just part of the act. “Of course,” I said. “It’s about — a — Are you Mr. Dykstra?”

He nodded, a faint smile on the undistinguished face.

“It’s about a rug,” I went on, “a Kerman you have.”

The faint smile remained. “If it’s the rug I think it is, I’d rather not discuss it. It’s a painful topic.”

“I had a plan for making it less painful,” I said.

He studied me for seconds, his face blank, the eyes not moving. I had a swift impression of a snake about to strike.

Then he said, “Come in.”

The entrance-hall floor was covered with an Ardebil runner; we went from that to the thick richness of a pale green Kerman which covered this end of the living room. There were two distinct furniture groupings in the living room, and two fairly well-matched Kermans.

We sat at the end of the room farthest from the entry hall, on a huge davenport upholstered in French tapestry.

He offered me a cigarette from a box, and I took it. He took one, himself, and I held a light for both of us.

Then, he said, “The man who sold me the Kerman died yesterday.”

I nodded. “I was with him when he died.”

“And this morning you come here with some prepared story.”

I was bringing my cigarette to my mouth when he said this. I brought it down, again, before it reached my lips.

“You must think I’m stupid,” he went on quietly. He lifted one leg to hook it over the other. He sighed. “Ever since this — this Ducasse was killed, the police here have been bothering me. I thought I was beyond police annoyance at my age, but it seems I’m not. My reputation has followed me here from Gary, I suppose. I like this town. It’s conservative and well managed and within overnight plane reach of any place I might want to visit. I didn’t come here to create or expect a disturbance. Now, do you want to tell me, honestly, why you’re here?”

“I told you, partly,” I said. “I think I can sell that rug for you. Not for twenty-three thousand, but enough so that you won’t be stuck too badly.”

“And how did you know I paid twenty-three thousand for it?”

“Sam,” I said slowly, “Sam Sabazian was a relative of mine. And a good friend. There isn’t anything he didn’t tell me.”

No word from him. A great silence, and I wondered if we were alone in the house. Silence, and then a single word. “Anything — ?” He looked at me questioningly.

I said, “We grew up together.”

“And now he’s dead.”

I nodded.

“And you pretend you’re here to see about selling the rug. Young man, I know more about people than that. You’re here because you think I know something about Sabazian’s death. Sergeant Waldorf had the same idea. You’re both wrong.” His voice had risen through this; the last sentence rang in the room. His legs were uncrossed, now; he sat forward on the davenport.

“I’m not pretending anything,” I said.

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