least they didn’t rob this one.”
“I wouldn’t make that assumption,” Kamil corrected him. “They could have gone in and then locked the door again. They appear to have had the keys. None of the doors were forced.”
Omar nodded.
“We’ll need an account of what’s stored in these rooms,” Kamil told him. “I’m surprised there aren’t already bank officials here. Weren’t they notified?”
“I was busy with the fire, getting people out. Maybe the Karaköy police sent word.” He called over one of his men. The policeman was young, with the face of a much older man. His eyes were serious and attentive. “Rejep, go ask Chief Muzaffer where the bank officials are.”
“The keys to this room might still be here,” Kamil suggested, looking around. He set two of the gendarmes to search the bank systematically. They came back with handfuls of keys taken from various offices. None of them fit.
Rejep returned, red-faced. “Chief, Chief Muzaffer said to tell you…” He hesitated, and Omar bellowed at him, “Just tell me what that rat-faced excuse for a policeman said. I’m not going to kill the messenger.”
“Yes, Chief,” Rejep rattled off. “He said that if you want to be the cook, you have to also peel the onions.”
Omar turned back to Kamil and translated. “No one has told the officials, although you’d think they could smell their bank burning even in the suburbs. Rejep, find out who the top officials are and where they live.”
“Just a minute,” Kamil interjected. “The central cashier is a Frenchman named Montaigne,” he said. “The comptroller is British. Swyndon is his name, I think. There’s a third official, a German, but I don’t know him.” He had met the bank officials several times at social events. Kamil remembered Montaigne as a narrow-eyed man who tippled champagne. Swyndon had a leonine head and a loud voice. He generally could be found in a gathering holding forth on some obscure subject, like the best way to hunt tigers, and tended to be the center of attention of a group of admiring ladies.
Omar gave Kamil a surprised look, as if he had suddenly remembered that Kamil was a pasha and not a simple ex-soldier like himself. “The addresses,” he reminded Rejep.
The policeman began to move off, but Omar called him back. “And keep track of what the Karaköy police find out. Talk to the neighbors and people in the restaurants around here yourself. Find out what they saw.” He explained to Kamil, “I only trust my own sources.”
“As you command, Chief.” The policeman turned to go.
“Rejep,” Omar called out again. “Make sure you write it all down. The magistrates like fat reports.” He winked at Kamil.
They climbed out of the basement into the smoke that still filled the lobby. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Pieces of it lay splintered across the floor like a spill of diamonds. The tellers’ stations were behind cages of gilded wrought-iron bars. Bars that had kept no one out, Kamil noted grimly.
Beside him, Omar huffed, “Why bother blowing anything up when you have the keys? If they hadn’t made all that racket, the theft might not have been discovered until morning.”
“Probably they meant to kill the guards. They might have recognized them.”
“Don’t you think blowing up the building is an exceptionally elaborate way to kill a few guards?”
“Have you spoken to the surviving guard?”
“He wasn’t in any condition to talk last night. They took him up to the Austrian infirmary. I hope he’s still alive. From what I saw, the burns looked bad.”
The sun was rising, flushing the sky orange, as they strode up the hill to the Austrians. Nuns with broad white wimples tacked across the unpaved yard like sailboats, carrying baskets of laundry, buckets, and trays of food between the two-story wooden house that served as their residence and a former barracks they had turned into an impromptu infirmary. As one of the wimples
“I wouldn’t make that assumption,” Kamil corrected him. “They could have gone in and then locked the door again. They appear to have had the keys. None of the doors were forced.”
Omar nodded.
“We’ll need an account of what’s stored in these rooms,” Kamil told him. “I’m surprised there aren’t already bank officials here. Weren’t they notified?”
“I was busy with the fire, getting people out. Maybe the Karaköy police sent word.” He called over one of his men. The policeman was young, with the face of a much older man. His eyes were serious and attentive. “Rejep, go ask Chief Muzaffer where the bank officials are.”
“The keys to this room might still be here,” Kamil suggested, looking around. He set two of the gendarmes to search the bank systematically. They came back with handfuls of keys taken from various offices. None of them fit.
Rejep returned, red-faced. “Chief, Chief Muzaffer said to tell you…” He hesitated, and Omar bellowed at him, “Just tell me what that rat-faced excuse for a policeman said. I’m not going to kill the messenger.”
“Yes, Chief,” Rejep rattled off. “He said that if you want to be the cook, you have to also peel the onions.”
Omar turned back to Kamil and translated. “No one has told the officials, although you’d think they could smell their bank burning even in the suburbs. Rejep, find out who the top officials are and where they live.”
“Just a minute,” Kamil interjected. “The central cashier is a Frenchman named Montaigne,” he said. “The comptroller is British. Swyndon is his name, I think. There’s a third official, a German, but I don’t know him.” He had met the bank officials several times at social events. Kamil remembered Montaigne as a narrow-eyed man who tippled champagne. Swyndon had a leonine head and a loud voice. He generally could be found in a gathering holding forth on some obscure subject, like the best way to hunt tigers, and tended to be the center of attention of a group of admiring ladies.
Omar gave Kamil a surprised look, as if he had suddenly remembered that Kamil was a pasha and not a simple ex-soldier like himself. “The addresses,” he reminded Rejep.
The policeman began to move off, but Omar called him back. “And keep track of what the Karaköy police find out. Talk to the neighbors and people in the restaurants around here yourself. Find out what they saw.” He explained to Kamil, “I only trust my own sources.”
“As you command, Chief.” The policeman turned to go.
“Rejep,” Omar called out again. “Make sure you write it all down. The magistrates like fat reports.” He winked at Kamil.
They climbed out of the basement into the smoke that still filled the lobby. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Pieces of it lay splintered across the floor like a spill of diamonds. The tellers’ stations were behind cages of gilded wrought-iron bars. Bars that had kept no one out, Kamil noted grimly.
Beside him, Omar huffed, “Why bother blowing anything up when you have the keys? If they hadn’t made all that racket, the theft might not have been discovered until morning.”
“Probably they meant to kill the guards. They might have recognized them.”
“Don’t you think blowing up the building is an exceptionally elaborate way to kill a few guards?”
“Have you spoken to the surviving guard?”
“He wasn’t in any condition to talk last night. They took him up to the Austrian infirmary. I hope he’s still alive. From what I saw, the burns looked bad.”
The sun was rising, flushing the sky orange, as they strode up the hill to the Austrians. Nuns with broad white wimples tacked across the unpaved yard like sailboats, carrying baskets of laundry, buckets, and trays of food between the two-story wooden house that served as their residence and a former barracks they had turned into an impromptu infirmary. As one of the wimples
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