Topkapi by Eric Ambler Page B

to Istanbul.”
    “Then did you not think this proposal of Mr. Harper’s strange?”
    I permitted myself to smile. “ Monsieur le Commandant ” I said, “I thought it so strange that there could be only two possible reasons for it. The first was that Mr. Harper was so much concerned to impress the daughter of a valuable business associate with his savoir- faire that he neglected to ask anyone’s advice before he made his arrangements.”
    “And the second?”
    “That he knew that uncrated cars carried in Denizyollari ships to Istanbul must be accompanied by the owners as a passenger, and that he did not wish to be present when the car was inspected by customs for fear that something might be discovered in the car that should not be there.”
    “I see.” He smiled slightly. “But you had no such fear.”
    We were getting cosier by the minute. “ Monsieur le Commandant ” I said, “I may be a trifle careless about having my passport renewed, but I am not a fool. The moment I left Athens yesterday, I stopped and searched the car thoroughly, underneath as well as on top, the wheels, everywhere.”
    There was a knock on the door and the customs inspector came back. He put a sheet of paper down in front of the Commandant. The Commandant read it and his face suddenly tightened. He looked up again at me.
    “You say you searched everywhere in the car?”
    “Yes, sir. Everywhere.”
    “Did you search inside the doors”
    “Well, no, sir. They are sealed. I would have damaged ...”
    He said something quickly in Turkish. Suddenly the security man locked an arm round my neck and ran his free hand over my pockets. Then he shoved me down violently onto a chair.
    I stared at the Commandant dumbly.
    “Inside the doors there are” - he referred to the paper in his hand - ”twelve tear-gas grenades, twelve concussion grenades, twelve smoke grenades, six gas respirators, six Parabellum pistols, and one hundred and twenty rounds of nine-millimetre pistol ammunition.” He put the paper down and stood up. “You are under arrest.”
     

3
    THE POST HAD no facilities for housing prisoners, and I was put in the lavatory under guard while the Commandant reported my arrest to headquarters and awaited orders. The lavatory was only a few yards from his office, and during the next twenty minutes the telephone there rang four times. I could hear the rumble of his voice when he answered. The tone of it became more respectful with each call.
    I was uncertain whether I should allow myself to be encouraged by this or not. Police behaviour is always difficult to anticipate, even when you know a country well. Sometimes High Authority is more responsive to a reasonable explanation of the misunderstanding, and more disposed to accept a dignified expression of regret for inconvenience caused, than some self-important or sadistic minor official who is out to make the most of the occasion. On the other hand, the Higher Authority has more power to abuse, and, if it comes to the simple matter of a bribe, bigger ideas about his nuisance value.
    I must admit, though, that what I was mainly concerned about at that point was the kind of physical treatment I would receive. Of course, every police authority, high or low, considers its behaviour “correct” on all occasions; but in my experience (although I have only really been arrested ten or twelve times in my whole life) the word “correct” can mean almost anything from hot meals brought in from a nearby restaurant and plenty of cigarettes, to tight-handcuffing in the cell and a knee in the groin if you dare to complain. My previous encounters with the Turkish police had been uncomfortable only in the sense that they had been inconvenient and humiliating; but then, the matters in dispute had been of a more or less technical nature. I had to face the fact that “being in possession of arms, explosives, and other offensive weapons, attempting to smuggle them into the Turkish Republic, carrying