Bloody Bokhara Read online

  THE BLOODY BOKHARA

  William Campbell Gault

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Murder in the Raw

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  IT HAD been a slow winter. Cleaning and repairing had kept us going, but there isn’t the money in cleaning that there used to be. Not if you’ve got any respect for rugs. Not if you clean them the real Armenian way.

  It was spring, and the door to the store was open, the shop bright with color. In the window we had an eighteen foot Sarouk, a lovely piece with a sheen like silk — a floral design on a deep rose background.

  Usually, when Papa is unhappy, he can get a lift out of just admiring a rug like that. But not today.

  “Why,” he said, “did I ever get into this business?”

  I’d heard the question before. Perhaps a thousand times. Even when business is good, he asks it, and doesn’t expect an answer.

  I smiled at him. “The only thing wrong with this business is the people who are in it, Papa. It’s your competitors who give you your gray hair.”

  “Competitors?” he said scornfully. “Competitors — huh! I’ve got no competitors. Contemptoraries, I got.”

  “It’s contemporaries,” I corrected him.

  He shook his head. “For them, I have nothing but contempt. They are my contemptoraries.”

  I started to laugh, and then an elderly couple walked into the store.

  Papa’s face brightened as he rose and came forward to greet them. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “A beautiful morning, Mr. and Mrs. Egan.”

  Years ago, the Egans had been good customers. And then they’d had their entire house carpeted, wall to wall, in the fashion of the time.

  Mrs. Egan nodded, and smiled in her cool way. Mr. Egan said, “Good morning, Mr. Kaprelian. I’m surprised that you remember us.”

  Papa’s smile was beatific. “I never forget a friend,” he said earnestly. The word ‘friend,’ to Papa, is synonomous with ‘customer.’

  Mr. Egan flushed faintly, looking uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “Our — carpeting is pretty badly worn, Mr. Kaprelian. We’re thinking of having the house done over. Frankly, it’s a choice between re-carpeting and orientals. I wondered how prices were on orientals, these days.”

  I knew Papa was wincing, inside. But it didn’t show on his fine, merchant’s face. “Prices,” he said, “have never been more favorable, Mr. Egan. Values have never been better.” He called to me: “Levon, you will help me, please.”

  To everybody I know, I’m Lee. To Papa, I’m still Levon. I went over to help him take down and spread some rugs.

  I knew the pile he’d go to. Egan was shopping. Egan was interested in price, and price alone. We had some very loosely woven Lilihans Papa had picked up as trade-ins. They’d been used less than a year; they were new, you might say.

  Name alone means only the locality, you understand. There are good, bad and indifferent weavers in all localities. These Lilihans were not top, but they were attractive and serviceable rugs.

  The trouble is, there was that Sarouk in the window, dominating the shop with its color. Against the memory of that, these Lilihans looked wan and without sheen.

  The price Papa quoted them made me wince. He wasn’t thinking only of this sale. He wanted the Egans back. As friends, to use the merchant’s word.

  Mr. Egan looked surprised at the price, and his interest was alive on his face. But Mrs. Egan was frowning. I thought of saying something to her, but I never interfere when Papa’s selling.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” Papa asked.

  Mr. Egan nodded. Mrs. Egan continued to frown.

  She said doubtfully, “I was wondering about the colors. Our decorator tells me it’s so hard to work any scheme, any motif around an oriental rug.”

  Interior decorators…. From the painter, the paper-hanger and the furniture and drapery dealer, they get a cut. But not from the oriental dealers. No rake-off, no recommendation — that’s the interior decorator.

  “These colors are not bold,” Papa said. “They will blend with anything.”

  “Perhaps.” She didn’t look like she believed it. “The decorator also said we should not spend all our money on the floors.”

  All their money would buy three small town banks. Maybe being careful is why they had it.

  Papa looked grave. “Let me suggest something, Mrs. Egan. Let me bring some rugs up to your house, some rugs I will personally choose. Leave them on your floors for a week or two. Then, make your decision.”

  “That seems fair enough,” Mr. Egan agreed.

  But Mrs. Egan shook her head. “I want to look at some carpeting, first, this morning. If I don’t find what I want, I’ll be in again.”

  Papa started to say something, but Mr. Egan beat him to it. “Isn’t your cousin, over on Broad Street, selling carpeting in addition to orientals, Mr. Kaprelian?”

  “I believe he is,” Papa said.

  Sarkis has been selling domestic carpeting for nine years and Papa knew it well. Every Sunday, Papa and Sarkis ate chicken and pilaff, together. Every Sunday, they played tavlu. The rest of the week they were busy cutting each other’s throats.

  Mr. Egan smiled. “Well, we’ll be back. I’ll see that she comes back, Mr. Kaprelian.”

  Papa smiled and nodded, his eyes sad.

  He said nothing as I helped him pile the rugs back, folding them, stacking the folded row against the wall. For minutes after we’d finished, and he was back in his chair behind the desk, he had no words.

  Finally, he said: “Carpeting — ” and shook his head.

  “It covers the floor,” I said. “It serves the same purpose.”

  He looked at me as though I’d uttered a sacrilege — which I had. “It covers the floor,” he repeated. “It serves the same purpose.”

  I started to explain, but he raised a hand. ‘We will pretend I am Rembrandt. We will pretend I have a fine, a beautiful idea. I get my brushes and my paint and first-grade canvas. For weeks, months, maybe more I work like a dog. I am finished, now, and I have this picture, this work of art. The dealer says it is the best I have ever painted. He puts it up, so people can look, so somebody can buy. All the customers admire it. It would look beautiful, they know, on their wall. Am I right?”

  “Sure,” I said, “but — ”

  He raised his hand, again, to silence me. “No buts. It would be a credit to the wall. Now — do they say, ‘Well, I want to look at some wallpaper first. If I can’t find the right kind of wallpaper, I’ll be back for the picture.’ Don’t they both cover the wall?”

  “Rembrandt is dead, Papa,” I said. “This is a different time.”

  “Both of these things I know. Have you some things to say I don’t know?”

  “A Rembrandt is a work of art,” I pointed out.

  “Oh.” He nodded, his smile satirical. “In the window, a Sarouk, a fine Sarouk. About twenty-seven thousand knots to the square foot. Each knot is tied by hand. The finest wool is used, vegetable dye is used, care and skill is used and knowledge. This is not a work of art?”

  “In a way,” I admitted, “but — ”

  But Papa wasn’t listening. He was rushing for the phone. “Astvadz, I forgot — I’m losing my head.”


  Now, he was calling Sarkis’ number; now, he had him on the wire.

  “Sarkis? You’re busy? No? Well, it’s like this. One of my very best, one of my most loyal customers was in, a Mr. Egan and his wife. Old oriental customers. But the wife had an idea she would like to look at carpeting, and they were going to Acme, you understand, to inspect their line. But I made it plain you had a finer selection, Sarkis. I told them about your more reasonable prices. Together, we will make a dollar or two on these loyal customers of mine, eh, Sarkis?”

  A silence, while his cousin Sarkis told him what he thought of that.

  Then, my father’s level voice. “Oh, so you know they have carpeting now. You sold them the carpeting they now have. They are your customers. Listen, my loud cousin, when you were still living in a mud house, in Sivas, I was selling rugs to Mr. Egan. Good-bye.” Angrily, he hung up the phone.

  I kept my face serious. “Is that true what you told him, Papa?” I asked. “I thought you and Sarkis came to this country at the same time.”

  He shook his head. “I had been here some time when Sarkis arrived. A considerable time, Levon.”

  “How long?”

  “Over two weeks.” He went over to get his hat. “I am going to lunch.” He went out, his face stormy.

  It looked like a tough day to make a dollar. I went into the back shop where Selak was washing rugs. Selak’s a big boy, well over two hundred pounds, with warm brown eyes and a timid smile. Selak’s mind stopped growing when he was about twelve, but he’s kind and gentle. It’s only his terrible strength that’s frightening. He’d been with us for years.

  “It’s time to eat, Selak,” I told him.

  He nodded and smiled.

  I wouldn’t have to tell him when it was time to start, again. Selak’s old-fashioned; he likes to work.

  I waited until he had unwrapped his lunch and started to eat before I went into the front shop again. I stopped short in the doorway, staring at the vision.

  It had to be. No girl was that beautiful. No hair that fine and golden, no eyes that deep a blue. No girl could wear simple green linen and look like a queen.

  Proud, with slim long legs and adequate bosom, with a mocking smile, standing right inside the doorway.

  “I’ve been admiring that rug in the window.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said. I hadn’t moved since coming through from the shop, but stood there like some oaf, staring.

  I came forward, now.

  She said, “It’s a Sarouk, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Top Sarouk.”

  A frown. “I’m — not sure it would go with my furnishings. The place is almost too modern, if you know what I mean.”

  “Perhaps a Bokhara, or a Feraghan, then,” I suggested. “Or a Kerman. They work in very well with modern schemes.”

  “Perhaps — ,” she said. “I’ve a Bokhara, now. I mean, a real one. There’s so much confusion about Bokharas, isn’t there? The real ones are called Khiva, sometimes, or Afghanistan. This one was made in Bokhara.”

  “You’ve been reading a book,” I said.

  Her laugh was music. “I have. Books. For the past two weeks. You see, up until a year ago, I had no interest in orientals, at all. But a friend of mine died and left me these rugs. I kept them in storage until a month ago.” She broke off. “But you’re not interested in all this, are you?”

  I wanted to tell her I was interested in anything she had to say. I said, “It’s very interesting. It’s possible you might have some valuable rugs in the group.”

  Which was a bad business admission from a potential buyer’s standpoint. But I wasn’t thinking of business.

  “There’s one,” she said slowly, “that could be valuable. It’s an antique, I’m sure. I’d like to have you look at it.”

  “I’d be glad to,” I told her.

  “This afternoon?” she asked, and handed me a card.

  There wasn’t any reason why my legs should feel weak at that. She wanted an appraisal. Whatever I’d read into those two simple words of hers hadn’t been in them when she voiced them. It was my spring blood talking.

  “This afternoon,” I agreed. “Would two-thirty be all right?”

  “Two-thirty would be fine.” She smiled, and I read more into that than I should have, perhaps. She went out.

  At the curb, there was a Caddy convertible, black as sin. I watched her climb into that. I watched it until it disappeared up the street.

  Papa would be unhappy, I knew. A potential customer with a Cad convertible, and I hadn’t sold her a thing. I didn’t care; I was looking forward to two-thirty.

  When Papa came back, and I told him about our visitor, he didn’t look unhappy. He put his head on one side, and studied me.

  “You will stick to business, Levon? Maybe, it’s because you look so much like Tryon Power?” His smile was sly.

  “It’s Tyrone, Papa,” I said. “And there’s no resemblance, none at all.”

  “Does the mirror lie? In the washroom, there’s a mirror. Why don’t you look?”

  “Don’t kid me,” I said. “She was driving a Cadillac, a new one, a convertible. She can do better than me.”

  He shrugged. “Take the station wagon, just the same. Then you can take the Sarouk along. How can she tell it won’t go with modern unless she sees it in her place? Take the Sarouk along, Levon. Selak will go with you, to carry it up.”

  “I don’t think she wants the Sarouk,” I argued.

  “It’s time for your lunch,” he said. “Go and eat. We will talk of it after lunch.”

  I went out to lunch. I still had her card in my hand, her engraved card. Claire Lynne. The address was penciled on the card, which meant she’d planned the appraisal before entering the shop. I recognized it as the Prospect Towers, a very fine address, overlooking the bay.

  I don’t remember eating lunch; I couldn’t concentrate on food. Nor do I remember all of Papa’s instructions regarding the Sarouk. But I took it along in the station wagon, and Selak came with me.

  The Prospect Towers was only about ten years old, a towering, modern apartment building of structural glass and white, glazed brick. Twentieth century swank for the rootless upper classes.

  The apartment of Claire Lynne was on the top floor, a studio apartment, a story and a half high, with a terrace overlooking the bay.

  It was modern, but not sterile, bleached woods and splashy colors, deep toned drapes and carpeting bringing the light woods to life. There were no orientals in here, in this immense living room.

  She was wearing black lounging slacks and a white blouse. The blouse had a low neck and I suddenly had weak knees.

  “The Bokhara,” she said, “is in the dining room.”

  I followed her across the carpeted expanse to the L at the far end of the room. Here, separated from the living room by a low planter’s wall, crawling with ivy, was the dining room. Here was the so-called Bokhara.

  Finely spun wool, compactly woven. Octagons on a background of Turanian red. A beautiful, finely finished piece with a sheen that comes only from wear.

  “Well?” she said, as I stared.

  “Fine,” I said. “Beautiful. Any dealer would call it a Royal Bokhara, because that’s the name they go by, in the trade. It’s from the Turcoman group. It’s a Tekke. The real Bokhara is called Beshir in this country.”

  She absorbed all this with interest, for some reason. “That’s what I was told,” she agreed. “The man I got it from told me just what you have.”

  I bent down again. There was a stain running through the red, darkening it. “It should be cleaned,” I said.

  She didn’t seem to be listening. “I think you’re qualified,” she said quietly, “to look at another rug I have.”

  I stood erect, again. “This was a test? You wanted to get my reaction to this one, first?”

  She smiled. “The other rugs are piled in the guest room.”

  I followed her back into the living room and through t
hat to the entrance hall. From there, she led me to a fairly large, unfurnished room. There was a pile of rugs on the floor in here.

  I went through them, one by one, identifying them as well as I could. There were antiques and semi-antiques in the pile. There was a lot of money on the floor in here, all in wool.

  When I’d finished, I said, “You originally said ‘another rug.’ Is it in this pile?”

  She shook her head. She went over to open a closet door. “In here, it is.”

  I reached in and brought it out. I unfolded it — and stared.

  I’d seen some fine pieces through the years, silk and wool and metallic. But this was far beyond any of those. This was the kind the old-timers talked about — the inspired work of a master weaver, an antique prayer rug.

  It wasn’t big but it could easily be priceless.

  She said, “Name it.”

  “An antique. A Persian, could have come from Kashan, but I’m not sure of that. I wish my father could see this.”

  “That’s why I had you come up,” she answered. “You can show it to him. I want you to put it in your safe, if you would. You have a safe for your fine pieces, haven’t you?”

  I nodded. “For our silks. This — Do you know what it is?”

  “I think I do,” she answered. “You’ve heard of Maksoud of Kashan?”

  I looked at her. “Yes. He lived about four hundred years ago. He was the greatest of the Persian weavers.”

  “Right,” she said. “His masterpiece is in the South Kensington Museum in London. It’s called the Ardebil Carpet. His name is woven into a corner of the rug, in Arabic.”

  I nodded, and looked down at the Arabic inscription on this rug. I looked up to meet her smile.

  I said, “I understand he spent the better part of his life weaving that one in London. Thirty-three million knots. He wouldn’t have much time for anything else.”

  “But if he had?”

  I shrugged. I’d been holding my breath, I suddenly realized, and I expelled it, now.

  “I think we ought to have a drink,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  “I could use it.”

  We went back into the living room. I kept seeing that prayer rug in my mind. I kept hearing the words, Maksoud of Kashan. And, for some reason, I continued to think of the blotted streak on the Bokhara in the dining room.