The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [156]
Setting the battered panama with the scarlet band at a jaunty angle, he walked across the room to the door. With his hand on the handle, he stared around. He wanted none of the few miserable possessions that were his. He would never come back here again. He patted the pocket with the bank draft, reassuring himself. He was a rich man now.
The counter clerk at the Banca Stamboul noted the size of the check and the appearance of the client and called the manager. Abyss was uncomfortably aware of his scrutiny as he took in the size of the draft drawn on a reputable Swiss bank, and then his appearance, checking it with the picture in the passport in the name of Mr. Georges Gerome.
“Of course, Mr. Gerome, we will be delighted to open an account for you,” the manager said at last. “I myself will take care of it. Just tell me what sort of account you would prefer. May I suggest a short-term deposit at our highest interest rate while you make up your mind about investments? And a reasonable current account, for ready cash and so on?”
Abyss nodded. “Put a hundred thousand into a current account and the rest on deposit. And I’ll take ten thousand cash now, in dollars.”
He toyed nervously with the spoon in the Turkish coffee they had given him while he waited. They were taking their time and he sweated, wondering if something had gone wrong.
“Here you are then, Mr. Gerome.” The manager returned, smiling. “We just need your signature here, sir, and here.”
Abyss wished his hand wouldn’t shake so. His scrawled signature looked like a forgery. He glanced up nervously but the manager’s smile seemed glued on.
“And here is your ten thousand dollars, Mr. Gerome. May I welcome you to the Banca Stamboul. If you encounter any problems, or wish to discuss investments, anything at all, I should be pleased to advise you.”
Abyss grinned as he walked through Taksim Square, unaware of the small man in the brown coat ten paces behind. The ten thousand dollars made a satisfying bulge in his jacket pocket and he grinned again. First he was going to check into a suite at the Hilton Hotel, then he was going shopping. Four dozen new shirts, custom-made of course, a dozen nice suits, underwear, socks, shoes … and a new lucky hat. He didn’t need the old one anymore. Laughing, he tossed his old panama at the shoeshine man sitting on the corner of the square and the old boy grinned back, his toothless brown face creasing like a cracked walnut. Abyss decided that he liked Istanbul. A man was treated like a prince here—and he could live like a king.
The neon sign on the bar on the corner caught his eye and he hesitated. Just one drink wouldn’t hurt and after all, there was no hurry, the Hilton would still be there in an hour. He laughed, telling himself it was the same with sex; he could heighten the pleasure by delaying the ultimate event. And that was another thing money could buy, something he hadn’t had in a long time: sex.
He didn’t notice the small shadowy man in the inconspicuous brown jacket slip into the bar after him and take a seat by the door.
Abyss surveyed the array of bottles behind the bar happily. He had never really thought the girl would pay up. He had thought twenty-five thousand was as much as he would get, and that had already slipped through his fingers like water. It had cost him ten thousand alone for the new passport, and then there had been boats, planes, trains, hotels … all the long-drawn-out palaver of hiding. But no more. Now he could have whatever he wanted.
He chose a double-malt scotch, savoring it on his tongue before tossing it back and ordering another. “And one for yourself,” he said magnanimously to the barman. The man nodded, pocketing the money. He’d met a million like Abyss. They came and they went.
Abyss crouched low on the barstool as the pain hit him again. Merde, it was really getting bad now. Maybe he really would have to give up the scotch. Sweating profusely, he staggered from the bar.
The little man was