The Snake Stone Read Online Free PDF Page B

squarely in the eye. Yashim nodded. Monsieur Mavrogordato obviously was a Bulgar. Yashim didn’t mind. Left to his own devices, he supposed, Monsieur Mavrogordato might yet be totting up the church accounts in some provincial viyalet. Instead, he had become a merchant prince in the capital of the Ottoman Empire, steered by the woman whose slender claim on the Mavrogordato legacy had provided the necessary leverage. A woman whose boldness was scarcely in doubt.
    “My husband is a moderate man of thoroughly regular habits. It falls to me to maintain a household that is quiet, orderly, and appropriate. Anything that disturbs Monsieur Mavrogordato in his work also disturbs us here.”
    Madame Mavrogordato, Yashim noticed, had not touched her coffee.
    “I know very little about business,” Yashim said.
    “It is not necessary that you should. What I require is a certain—intelligence. And discretion.” She paused. Yashim said nothing. “Well?”
    “I hope, hanum, that I am discreet.”
    Her lips tightened. “Yashim efendi, my husband was visited yesterday by a Frenchman. He asked for a small loan. In the course of the discussion, the man made certain offers which were in some sense disquieting to my husband. Later, I was able to detect his agitation.”
    Yashim blinked. “Offers, hanum?”
    “Offers. Promises. It is hard for me to say.”
    “You think that your husband was being blackmailed?”
    Madame Mavrogordato’s face remained impassive, but she twisted the string of beads in her hands so tightly that Yashim half expected them to break. “I do not think so. My husband has nothing to be afraid of. I believe that the Frenchman was proposing to sell him something.”
    “You believe—but you’re not sure?”
    “My husband keeps nothing from me, but he found it hard to recall exactly what the man said. If, indeed, he said anything at all. It was more a question of—of the tone. As if he were hinting at something.”
    “Maximilien Lefèvre,” Yashim said.
    Madame Mavrogordato looked at him sharply. “That’s right. What else do you know?”
    Yashim spread his hands wide. “Very little. Lefèvre is an archaeologist.”
    “Very well. I—that is, my husband and I—would like you to find out a little more. If possible, I would like you to encourage Monsieur Lefèvre to conduct his—research—elsewhere. I resent disturbance.”
    Yashim put out his lower lip. “I can try to find out something about Lefèvre. But I should speak to your husband.”
    Madame Mavrogordato’s eyes were iron black. “It is enough that you have spoken to me.”
    She picked up the bell and tinkled it. A servant appeared, and Yashim rose to leave.
    “One thing,” he added as he reached the door. “Did your husband give him that loan?”
    Madame Mavrogordato worked her jaw and glared. “That—” she began, and with that hesitation Yashim realized that she was far younger than he had originally thought; not yet forty. “I—I never asked.”

10
    A S Yashim followed the footman down to the hall a door opened and a young man stepped forward.
    “One moment, you,” he said. “Go along, Dmitri. I’ll see the fellow out.”
    The young man was in his early twenties. He had a thick mop of black hair and was strongly built, with broad shoulders and a big jaw that hadn’t lost its puppy fat. He was dressed in a well-cut stambouline, a starched collar with a silk cravat, black stovepipe trousers and a pair of slim black leather pumps. He was almost as handsome as his mother—the resemblance was very striking—but his eyes were smaller, harder, and there was a contrasting softness around his mouth that Yashim liked rather less.
    “Good morning,” he said politely.
    The young man scowled and stared at Yashim. “I saw you come in. You were talking to Mother.”
    Yashim raised an eyebrow and made no reply.
    “Did you talk about me?” the young man asked abruptly.
    “I don’t know. Who are you?”
    “My name’s Alexander.