The Poniard Of Death
Lorient Montaner
Of all the inexplicable cases I had investigated in all these years, none was ever as lethal as 'The Poniard of Death'. I can recollect, through the certain retrospection of my quondam experiences, the particular details of this riveting case. On the 18th of April in the year 1902, I had arrived at the bustling port of Constantinople, Turkey, amidst the inspissated fog that shrouded the area of Levent in the unusual midday.
It was spring, and the weather of the Black Sea had been unpredictable in its unsteady fluctuations in temperature, with chilly winds from the northwest and warm gusts from the south that I felt upon my florid cheeks and bowler hat instantly. The sway of the billowing currents of the Bosphorus Strait soon began to decrease, at the forefront of the awe-inspiring image of the city.
Constantinople was the most populous city in Turkey and the country's economic, cultural, and historic centre of the Ottoman Empire. It was a transcontinental city in Eurasia, extending across the Bosphorus Strait that had divided Europe and Asia, betwixt the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea. Its commercial and historical centre lay on the European continent, but about a third of its population dwelt on the Asian continent.
There were abundant commercial ships and private ferries that had utilised Constantinople as a main route to the Black Sea. The Bosphorus was one of the most active waterways in the world, transporting the exchange of goods from Europe to Asia.
I was requested by a certain gentleman, Sir Martin Redfield, to investigate the murders of two prominent English diplomats, who were mysteriously killed in Constantinople. My name, you enquire, is Jack Cauvain, a resolute and established inspector from London. I was not alone in my endeavour or trip, but in the worthy accompaniment of the Prefect of the Prefecture of Paris, Monsieur Hugo Bonheur.
The trip to Turkey was the first time either of us had visited the exotic country. I had perceived, in Bonheur, as our ferry had approached the harbour, a sudden look of hesitance that occupied his pensive thoughts unwittingly. He was also seasick, and he looked pallid and nauseous as I was contemplating the grievous nature of the murders of the two British diplomats.
The engrossing mist of the vast sea presented an eerie sensation of entering the parallel passage between the two worlds of Western and Occidental cultures. Unfortunately, we did not come to Turkey for mere leisure nor an empressement of cultural relevance. We had taken the famous Orient Express from Paris at the Gare de L'Est to Giurgiu in Romania via Munich and Vienna.
At Giurgiu, we were ferried across the Danube to Ruse, then to Varna and finally to Constantinople, because we had missed our scheduled train. Once we had descended from the ferry, we were in front of the vibrant bustle of Constantinople.
My English bowler hat and Bonheur's recognisable French kepi hat had produced such an unmistakable impression that did not go unnoticed by the curious local peasants of the port. There was a clear representative mélange of distinctive nationalities from Assyrians, Kurds, Bosnians, Greeks, Armenians, Albanians, Romanians, Bulgarians, Arabs, and Jews that had arrested our attention.
'Voilà, Bonheur, the land of the memorial Ottoman Empire that was once governed by the glorious sultans of Mehmet the Conqueror and Suleiman the Magnificent', I said to Bonheur.
'Oui, inspector, and there is so much history here to unravel. I wonder if we shall be able to solve the mystery of the murders'.
'Verily, I am inclined to believe that in every mystery, there is a definite answer to the riddle that beguiles the investigation'.
'I would hope that this will be the case!' Bonheur muttered.
'Cheer up, Bonheur—for you look too glum and wan. The trip through the sea has enfeebled you in a momentary enervation. You will regain your vim and vigour anew once we are at the hotel. Where is your Bohemian spirit, my friend?'
'My Bohemian spirit? A good warm bath would do for a beginning!'
After approximately ten minutes at the harbour, we were immediately taken to our hotel, 'The Pera Palace Hotel Jumeirah', located in the Beyoğlu district in Constantinople, by a local cab sent by Sir Redfield. We were afforded the native hospitality of a soothing Turkish bath called the 'hammam' to rid ourselves of the lingering effects of the long and wearisome trip, and we were grateful for the amiable reception given to us, as Bonheur was glad to feel the steamy vapour of the bath invigorate his manly vitality. Bonheur's interest in coming was the horrible murder of the French diplomat Monsieur Guerin. After the Turkish bath, we rested in our individual rooms until evening arrived. Then, we were kindly escorted to the home of Sir Redfield for dinner.
He was an aristocratic diplomat in charge of the British Embassy in Constantinople, who welcomed us with his enigmatic presence. He was fairly tall and slim in constitution and spoke with a typical lordly accent that denoted his intellectual upbringing. He was smoking a Turkish cigar, and the puffs of smoke eventually reached us.
I was eager to learn about the intrinsic details of the murders so that I could initiate the investigation suddenly with Bonheur. It was after we had finished our luxurious dinner that Sir Redfield apprised us of the unfortunate murders committed in the city. Bonheur was attentive to the words expressed by Sir Redfield but gazed at my scribbling that I had jotted down in my notebook. I was accustomed to writing certain details of my cases in notebooks to organise my thoughts effectively.
'From your explanation, Sir Redfield, the murders of the British diplomats were perpetrated in their own homes within secrecy. The local police retrieved no significant clues, except that the diplomats were killed in the manner of an execution, effectuated by a seasoned professional. A poniard was discovered. What I don't understand is the genuine motive for these atrocious murders', I stated.
'The motive, Inspector Cauvain, has not yet been determined, but there seems to be the implication that some evasive organisation attached to a secret international plot is behind the murders', Sir Redfield insinuated.
'Are you suggesting that there is a secret plot devised by a foreign association? Although it does seem quite feasible, what do you base your assumption on?'
'I rather believe that the world of the early 20th century has begun to differ positively from the previous century, but much to my chagrin, it has not!'
'The Utopian vision of the artists!'
'Pardon me, messieurs, but I am more of a realist, who deals more with facts and implications!' Bonheur interposed.
'Indeed, Bonheur, no one else is suggesting otherwise. You French have forsaken the savoir-faire', I told Bonheur.
'As for the original question, gentlemen, there was a note received by one of the officials at the British Embassy that inculpated an anonymous group that claimed responsibility for the murders', Sir Redfield disclosed.
'It must be an anarchist group, Sir Redfield— for they have been infiltrating my country, France, for decades!' Bonheur proclaimed.
'I doubt that, Prefect, but I can comprehend your actual concern. What we are dealing with is a secret society, I fear. This is the prime reason I have solicited the detective's investigative service and agency', Sir Redfield replied.
He then showed us the note, which was written by this Middle-Eastern group. Although the brief contents were written in English, the seal, which dripped in blood, was of Arabic calligraphy: ٱلْحَشَّاشِين. 'This was addressed to our embassy, Inspector Cauvain. Have you ever heard of the ancient order of the Al-Ḥashāshīn, commonly known as the Assassins? They were a formidable Moslem sect, formally known as the Nizari Ismailis, who engaged in mortal conflict. Because they lacked their own army, the Nizari depended on these warriors to carry out calculated espionage and assassinations of key enemy figures. Over the course of 300 years, they successfully murdered two caliphs, prominent viziers, sultans, and Crusader leaders. The Assassins were destroyed in the end by the invading army of the ravaging Mongols, but the origins of the Assassins can be traced back before the First Crusade, around 1094 in Alamut, north of modern Iran, during a rapid crisis of succession to the elusive Fatimid Caliphate'.
'I have heard of the mention of the Assassins before in my research of secret societies, Sir, but I was led to believe that this ancient order had long been exterminated and was now a mere historical reference of the past'.
'So did I, inspector, but if this ancient order has resurfaced from the grave, then we are confronted with a very direful predicament'.
'Are there any other substantial clues or information, Sir Redfield?' Bonheur queried.
'No, except the note and its vivid contents!' Sir Redfield remarked.
We had abated our fascinating conversation with Sir Redfield and departed his home shortly thereafter. We decided to continue our investigation at the local police station of Constantinople on İstiklal Avenue.
There, we conversed at length with Captain Ramazan Özgün of the Constantinople Police. He was a short and stocky fellow, who wore a fez on his head. The fez was typically worn by many people in the city. Fortunately for us, he spoke to us in English, since my Turkish was not that refined and current in its vernacular usage. What limited information he provided was of partial significance, enough to begin constructing a ratiocinative analogy based on the inference of the possible motive and pattern for the murders.
I was loath to disclose the mysterious note or reference to the secret society of the Assassins to the captain, as I did not want to confuse him with unfounded speculation, which might have been manipulated by the killer to make us believe in the culpability of the Assassins.
My priority, instead, was to establish the motive first, then determine the principal affiliation of the culprit. It appeared that the murderer was agile and precise in the execution of the crime, not only managing to elude the police but also evading detection by any nearby witnesses.
Sir Redfield had provided us with a motor vehicle, allowing us easy access between the hotel and the affluent quarter of Beylerbeyi near the Bosphorus, where several foreign diplomats resided. In addition to the British, there were French and German nationals living in this area. Naturally, my experience driving this new revolutionary machine was not extensive, but we managed.
‘Do you think it wise, inspector, to drive this machine on the cobblestones and dirt roads of Constantinople?’ Bonheur queried.
‘Perhaps not, Bonheur, but as the adage goes, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Besides, it can't be that difficult’.
‘Have you ever driven one of these contraptions before?’
‘Indeed, my experience is limited, but rest assured, you are in good hands!’
‘I don't see many other vehicles on the streets, except the occasional foreigner’.
‘Exactly! We are in the 20th century now. Don't be so pessimistic, my boy!’
It did look quite unusual to see two middle-aged investigators in their early forties driving a vehicle alongside 18th-century wagons and 19th-century carriages drawn by Arabian horses. There were clear signs that Turkey was on the path to modernisation. Constantinople was transforming into the Eastern Paris of the Middle East, and I had always been fascinated by the rich history of the Ottoman Empire. From our vantage point, we could see the peripheral shores of the magnificent Bosphorus.
Bonheur was visibly nervous as we continued down the path to the French Embassy, located on the other side of the city. Occasionally, the automobile struck rocks or bumps, jostling us side to side or up and down in an unsteady motion.
Throughout the trip, I noticed Bonheur's growing concern for our immediate safety. He remained preoccupied as we finally approached the embassy. The death of the French diplomat, Monsieur Guerin, was a serious matter, and Bonheur knew that solving the case with such scant evidence would be difficult.
He was eager to thoroughly examine the crime scene so he could brief the embassy officials and gather any additional information they might have received from witnesses. I waited outside the embassy whilst Bonheur went in to speak with the officials.
After he returned, I took him to the scene of the crime. The murder had taken place outside Monsieur Guerin’s private residence, in the vibrant garden of his Turkish villa. As we examined the area, it became clear that the murderer had ample space to escape unnoticed after committing the act.
Bonheur was convinced that the murderer must have had assistance. He could not fathom the culprit being capable of such stealth and speed alone—especially since, unlike the two British diplomats, Monsieur Guerin had been killed in broad daylight. His reasoning was sound, but I broadened my analysis.
What was indisputable was that Monsieur Guerin had been killed while in the company of someone smoking a Turkish Ootz cigar, enjoying the serenity of the garden. We later learned from one of the servants that Monsieur Guerin did not smoke and that he had a guest that morning.
‘There’s clearly a sophisticated setup here, Bonheur. This murder can help us better understand the criminal’s mind’, I asserted.
‘How so? I’m not sure I follow’, Bonheur asked.
‘I shall explain. First, look closely at the layout of this area—it’s quite accessible for someone looking to make a quick escape. Second, note the angle between the spot where the murder most likely took place and the villa. Do you see that ornate window? If someone was inside, they could easily have seen the garden. One more thing—we know that Monsieur Guerin, like the others, was killed with a sharp object. That object had to puncture the neck in one swift motion to minimise any chance of the victim crying out’.
‘So if I understand you correctly, the murderer was definitely a professional, not some amateur acting rashly?’
‘Exactly’.
‘Then do you believe someone else assisted in the murder and was inside the villa when Monsieur Guerin was killed?’
‘That I cannot say for certain yet, but it certainly appears possible. Let’s take a look inside the villa’.
We were granted permission by the servants to enter and examine the window.
‘What do you think?’ Bonheur asked.
‘I cannot say with complete certainty. But if you look from the window, you can indeed see the exact spot where Monsieur Guerin was killed’.
Bonheur leaned in and stared out the window. ‘If someone did help the killer, then who was it, Inspector? A servant? A friend?’
‘That, I do not know. It could have been anyone—a friend or a foe’.
‘So you’re suggesting that whoever it was either befriended Monsieur Guerin or betrayed him?’
‘Exactly’.
‘There’s one thing I still don’t fully understand. You said the killer struck Monsieur Guerin in the neck?’
‘Yes’.
‘How do we know it wasn’t a downward blow?’
‘We don’t—at least not yet. Until we examine the cadaver, all I can offer is conjecture’.
‘You mean at the mortuary?’
‘Indeed’.
We visited the local mortuary to examine the bodies of Monsieur Guerin and the two British diplomats. It was imperative to determine whether the murders were not only similar in modus operandi but also in execution. The Turkish pathologist who had performed the autopsies allowed us to make our examination undisturbed. I focused intently on the puncture marks and any other notable impressions on the victims.
Once I could answer the key questions related to the autopsies, I could confirm or adjust my earlier theories based on the incontrovertible facts. It didn’t take long to discover that the puncture wounds were made with a rapid upward thrust to the jugular vein, killing the victims instantly.
It was likely that the murderer used one hand to strike the fatal blow and the other to briefly cover the victim’s mouth. The wounds were consistent with a dagger-like weapon. The consistency of the method convinced me that we were dealing with a well-planned, professional killing.
When I explained my findings to Bonheur, he agreed with my conclusions. I turned my focus to identifying and apprehending the culprit—or culprits. Bonheur dubbed the murder weapon the ‘poniard of death,’ a name that chillingly captured the nature of the crimes. The significance of that reality was sure to shape the course of our investigation.
‘Inspector, we are dealing with a skilled murderer’, Bonheur remarked.
‘No, Bonheur—we are dealing with a master assassin’, I replied.
‘If that’s true, how do you propose we find and capture this elusive assassin?’
‘I haven’t figured that out yet. But I suspect the assassin will strike again’.
‘We must investigate further into the secret society of the Hashashins. That won’t be easy’.
‘Difficult, yes—but not impossible. We must rely on our deepest instincts’.
The pathologist answered several more of my questions before we left. The evidence clearly described the assassin’s stealth and precision. This cold, methodical killer had already claimed three prominent European diplomats and had proven skilled at evading capture.
As we pondered our next move, we were suddenly informed of another gruesome murder. This time, the crime scene was the Mahmutpasha Bazaar, an open-air market that extended between the Grand Bazaar and the Egyptian Bazaar—Constantinople’s major spice market for centuries.
Captain Özgün arrived within minutes. I recognised him immediately by his short, stocky build and the distinctive fez he wore. His officers, clad in pith helmets, reminded me of British soldiers from the Boer Wars in South Africa.
Initially, there was chaos as the police worked to control the crowd of curious merchants and shoppers. Captain Özgün feared it was an anarchist attack by the Young Turks Movement, which had been a persistent concern for the Turkish authorities.
Although the movement was concentrated in larger cities, its influence had spread to smaller towns and villages, and the Jandarma (Gendarmerie) had been tasked with suppressing potential uprisings. Once the crowd was settled and we could properly examine the scene, we saw the body of a tall man. He was a foreigner—another diplomat. We soon learned that his name was Jean Claude Portier, a Swiss national.
‘Mon Dieu, inspector. What do you suppose truly happened here?’ Bonheur asked.
‘If you’re referring to the murder, then I have no doubt—this was the work of our assassin’.
‘But how can we be sure?’
‘Once again, by the modus operandi. Look closely—you’ll see the pool of blood on the ground and the deep wound slashed across the victim’s neck’.
‘Oui, your point is valid. But we must find out if there were any witnesses’.
‘Indeed, Bonheur. Let’s ask Captain Özgün if anyone saw what happened. Any solid lead could be crucial’.
Captain Özgün briefed us on the few scant clues they had gathered at the market. Remarkably, despite the crowd, only one witness claimed to have seen the murder.
According to the witness, who was an elderly merchant, the Swiss diplomat Monsieur Portier was walking along the avenue towards the Grand Bazaar when he was accosted from behind by a stranger. The incident happened so quickly that the description provided by the witness was vague and unclear.
The culprit had succeeded once again in evading justice, and his disguise was sufficient to conceal his true identity from the Turkish police. It was highly unfathomable to accept that, in broad daylight, the assassin would be bold enough to murder Monsieur Portier in the middle of the bazaar.
As we would soon discover firsthand, our assassin was no ordinary killer to dismiss so lightly. Even after investigating the murder and speaking to the witness, the Turkish police believed the murder involved a clever anarchist plot. I concurred on one point: the murderer was clever. However, there was an overlooked detail unnoticed by the police, due to the commotion stirred.
Another note had been left behind by the assassin. Bonheur discovered the mysterious note on the ground nearby the street. When he showed me the note, I immediately read it. The familiar seal, in blood, of the Hashashins was clearly visible within the Arabic calligraphy. I thought it more prudent not to disclose this note to Captain Özgün or the Turkish police, as they would assume the anarchists had written it, rather than the ancient order of the Hashashins.
Bonheur asked me whether we were certain that the unruly anarchists were, in the end, not involved in the murders of the Western diplomats. I had always considered my greatest virtue to be my accuracy, but I was not certain that my intuitive nature had not deceived me.
Unlike Bonheur, I was confident that this was no mere discrepancy between the anarchists and the government. I told Bonheur there had to be something more concrete than the assertion of rebellious whims of change. To the Turkish police, this was the despicable act of the anarchists, and the local newspapers of Constantinople had begun circulating rumours about their devious doings.
The newspaper offices on Bâb-ı Âli Street, at the centre of Turkish print media, alongside Beyoğlu across the Golden Horn, had already printed the news of the murder. Cağaloğlu Street, where the newspaper was printed, quickly became the centre of controversy. A nightly curfew was imposed on the city by the Turkish police, issued by Sultan Abdul Hamid II.
Although the victims were all Western Europeans, the Ottomans placed guards at important monuments, such as Dolmabahçe Palace, the Ortaköy Mosque in front of the Bosphorus Bridge, and the Hagia Sophia. There was an unsettling sense of foreseeable chaos and unrest interspersed across major parts of the city of Constantinople.
This recent murder had tightened security around residents and important areas. There was also tremendous indignation in Western countries at the lack of security for their diplomats. Bonheur discussed the intimidating danger of the anarchists with me, as he was familiar with their unlawful influence and impact in France. Naturally, I expressed my concern to him about the undesirable difficulty of resolving the case. The abhorrent death of Monsieur Portier had hastened the need to apprehend the assassin.
The mystery of the secret society of the Hashashins had to be investigated in greater depth. I considered Sir Redfield, but I wanted the expert opinion of a Muslim historian. Therefore, I asked one of the officials at the British Embassy where I might find such a man. Security at the embassy had been heightened after the recent murder.
Thankfully, I was fortunate to be referred to a Mr Sayeed Abdullah Rahman. His residence was in the Bebek neighbourhood of the city, and he greeted us upon our arrival. We changed our clothing to avoid recognition as foreign investigators.
We took the vehicle provided by Sir Redfield to Mr Rahman's address. He was a very distinguished professor at one of the local universities and was interested in speaking with us after we explained our intrigue with the legendary Hashashins. I also explained who we were and why we were in Istanbul, though he wondered about our particular interest in this secret society.
I understood his engaging curiosity, yet I did not admit the actual reason for our enquiry. I told him we were inquisitive foreigners en route to Aleppo in Syria, interested in Muslim secret societies. He acquiesced and began to relate details about the Hashashins. I was especially interested in their superb tactics for execution, and so I asked:
‘Mr Rahman, what can you tell me of their tactics employed?’
‘The Hashashin were said to be adept in furusiyya, or the Islamic warrior code, where they were excellently trained in combat, disguises, and equestrianism. Strict codes of conduct were followed, and the Hashashins were taught masterfully in the art of war, linguistics, and strategies, sir’.
‘Enough to kill and go undetected?’
‘Yes!’
‘What can you tell me of their daggers, Mr Rahman?’
‘Their daggers were deadly’.
‘Enough to swiftly murder someone?’ Bonheur asked.
‘Of course!’
‘Who would employ these men, Mr Rahman?’ I queried.
‘Powerful men, who wanted their foes killed’.
‘Could these assassins or types of assassins actually exist now in our century?’ I asked Mr Rahman.
‘That is a fascinating question, inspector. Now, as for an answer. Any assassin can claim to be from the Hashashins’.
There was nothing more Mr Rahman could provide in terms of information about the Hashashins. We thanked him for his useful service and left his home. Mr Rahman had not only verified a pertinent profile of the assassin but the ancient tactics also used by the fierce members of this secret society.
The irretrievable clues formed the convolution of the investigation and the procrastination of the truth. The urgent capture of the assassin was becoming of utmost significance. It was difficult to surmise how we might prevent the assassin from killing another Western diplomat. Why was the assassin murdering influential Western diplomats and not Turkish ones?
Much of this investigation was shrouded in uncertain secrecy of a discrepant nature. I had to admit that the case challenged my ratiocination and intuition, but it only strengthened my resolve to unravel the unabatable mystery.
There were no conclusive suspects to question or presume, except the tendentious anarchist or a hired professional. This was when I began to ruminate on the possibility of someone hiring a professional assassin. It seemed too coincidental that none of the victims were Turkish.
Bonheur was still convinced the anarchists were involved in the murders, and the Turkish police concurred with that view. They had planned to disband the anarchist movements. Although I did not always agree with Bonheur, I respected him. There was no other determined compeer who knew me better than Bonheur.
We got into the vehicle and decided to visit the home of Sir Redfield. When we arrived, we were told he was at Robert College, an American boarding school near the Liceo Italiano. He was conversing with a German diplomat when he saw me.
‘Inspector Cauvain and the Prefect, it is good to see you. What brings you both to see me?’ He asked.
‘We didn't mean to interrupt you, Sir Redfield, but we came to apprise you of our diligent investigation’, I answered.
‘Allow me a few minutes to finish my conversation. Let me introduce you both to Herr Adolph Grossman’.
I shook the hand of the German diplomat. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you’, I said.
Bonheur reciprocated the gesture. After Sir Redfield finished speaking to the German diplomat, we spoke to him privately. He was extremely eager to know the progress of our ongoing investigation. We revealed the facts we had gathered, but there was still no independent verification of who the assassin was or whether others assisted him. The notes referring to the secret society of the Hashashins were not sufficient to build a solid foundation for the case.
Consequently, I expressed my fascination with the methodical manner in which the assassin had murdered the diplomats. I proposed that the notion of the assassins might be a subterfuge. When Sir Redfield heard this claim of mine, he smiled and wished me luck in capturing the true killer. He seemed well informed about the current situation, but I perceived he was contemplating something, with a curious look of doubt as we spoke. Bonheur also sensed this peculiar reaction.
Sir Redfield urged us not to entrust our investigation to the Turkish police, whom he deemed seemingly incompetent. His distrust of them was both evident and genuine. He excused himself and explained that he had a serious engagement to attend in the Cağaloğlu quarter near Topkapı Palace, where the buildings of the Sadrazam or Grand Vizier and other Viziers were located, and where foreign diplomats were received by the Grand Vizier of Constantinople.
He had suggested that we relax a bit for the day and enjoy the splendours of Constantinople. He had recommended the Cité de Péra or Hristaki Pasajı, with its rows of historic cafés, wine houses, and restaurants on İstiklal Avenue. We had agreed, as Bonheur had insisted.
We left Sir Redfield at the American Boarding School and headed towards the Cité de Péra in our motorcar. 'It does smell very good in this part of the city,' Bonheur said.
'It is the Middle Eastern aroma of the city's merchants and traders, Bonheur!' I answered.
'It does remind me, to a certain degree, inspector, of the Parisian scents of the Rue de Buci or the Rue St-André des Arts'.
'I believe the main entrance to the avenue is through there. Let us park the motorcar and continue on foot!'
'D'accord!'
'There is a space!'
We parked and walked to an old Parisian café that had delighted my good French friend and prefect. We sat down at a table provided and began to chat. 'I am certain that you shall feel at home here. Although it is not Le Café de la Paix nor the Café Procope in Paris, nevertheless, it does seem suitable to your liking!'
'Ah, what I would give for that to be the truth!'
'I see the immediate thought of that contemplation brings a smile to your face'.
'Oui!'
'Good. Now that we are seated amongst the cafés and wine houses of Constantinople, we can discuss at length the matter of the death of the Swiss diplomat, Monsieur Pontier'.
'Pardon, but what is there to say? The diplomat was obviously murdered by the same assassin'.
'There is something queer about these murders that troubles my analytical sensibilities'.
'What do you mean? I do not comprehend!'
'All these murders and the peculiar nature of their evolving circumstances'.
'Please explain!'
'We know that the assassin has killed several Western diplomats, and that the tactics used resemble the method of execution by the secret society of the Hashashins. What we still do not know is who is behind this intricate operation'.
'Exactement!'
As we continued our engaging discourse on the subject of the Hashashins, a strange man dressed in dark, obscure colours approached us from the front of the café. He was wearing a turban that covered his facial features, save for his sable eyes, which were penetrating and beady.
At first, Bonheur did not notice the unsettling presence that I sensed from the stranger. As the stranger advanced, I realised that he was heading towards us, and his intentions were far from amicable. Swiftly, he pulled out a sharp dagger and hurled it at us.
Fortunately, he missed. I had seen the dagger coming and ducked under the table, urging Bonheur to do the same. The dagger had not missed by much. It struck the brim of my bowler hat. We sprang to our feet, but the assassin leapt on to the tram on İstiklal Avenue and made his escape. The incident did not go unnoticed by the crowd; nevertheless, no witnesses were able to provide an effective description of the assailant.
I felt immediately that we had been deliberately targeted, but the question was, why? Bonheur was outraged and demanded that we speak at once with Captain Özgün of the Constantinople Police. I understood his indignation but told him we needed to maintain our composure. He acquiesced, and we left the café, returning to our hotel in the motorcar.
The application of our cognitive discernment was required if we were to truly solve this perplexing mystery. This reprehensible attempt on our lives by the daring assassin was a deliberate act imposed upon us. The question remained: by whom? The assassin was merely the accessible pawn utilised in this deadly game of subterfuge, yet there was someone far more devious and cunning than the assassin—someone who was the true mastermind behind this intricate plot.
At the hotel, we were visited by Captain Özgün, who had been informed of the shocking occurrence at the café. He questioned us about the description of the attacker. I explained to him the details and the limited view I had of the man. There was indeed not much to form an accurate profile.
After he departed, I began to discuss the harrowing experience with Bonheur. Rather than focusing solely on the incident, we decided to concentrate on the underlying motivation behind the murders. This was a tangled web of conflicting thoughts that enveloped the core of the investigation.
Thus, I deemed it prudent to return to the crime scene—not the one involving us, but rather the murder at the Grand Bazaar of the Swiss diplomat, Monsieur Portier. I told Bonheur that I had an intuitive hunch that might begin to answer several unresolved details about the murders.
Bonheur’s natural curiosity prompted him to question my reason for revisiting the crime scene. He was unsure of precisely what we were to search for and was extremely concerned for our safety. I asserted to him that there was something suspicious about that particular murder at the bazaar.
Bonheur remained puzzled by my reasoning and needed to unburden his anxiety. I began examining the area in hopes of discovering any plausible traces left by the calculated murderer. I also started to visualise in my mind the terrible scenario that had unfolded before Monsieur Portier was murdered so brutally. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary that could indicate a tangible clue.
As I surveyed the bazaar, I noticed a man at a shop belonging to a merchant. I gazed studiously at the man and felt a strange sensation compelling me to investigate that shop further.
'Where are we going?' Bonheur enquired.
'I have a hunch. Follow me!'
'Where? Tell me!'
'To the bazaar ahead!'
We reached the bazaar. 'Now what?'
I gestured in pantomime.
'What are you trying to tell me?'
I took him aside and whispered in his ear, 'That man there dressed in Moslem garb is the man I saw attack us yesterday'.
'Mon Dieu, are you certain? How can you be so sure?'
'I cannot forget those penetrating and beady eyes'.
The man at the bazaar never noticed our presence. We saw him depart and board the tram, which we followed in our motorcar.
'If this man is our assassin, where do you believe he is heading?' Bonheur asked.
'That we shall discover shortly', I replied.
'How do you propose we trap him?'
'My general impression is that he will lead us to the true culprit'.
'Do you mean the mastermind?'
We continued to follow the tram as it passed from one street to another until it reached the Cağaloğlu quarter near Topkapı Palace, where he disembarked. There, a familiar figure was waiting. It was the German diplomat, Herr Adolph Grossman, whom we had met at the American Boarding School with Sir Redfield. This was an alarming revelation I had not anticipated. Bonheur, too, was astonished by the unfolding situation.
To Bonheur, the German diplomat had instantly become the number one suspect. I was not convinced that Herr Grossman was the mastermind behind the murders. While I did not doubt his complicity in the plot, I was confident that the German diplomat was merely another pawn in the conspiracy. There was no time yet to elaborate on the theory I had begun to develop.
I told him that we were close to solving the case. When Bonheur insisted on knowing more essential details, I urged his patience. Bonheur insinuated that we should have informed Captain Özgün about the new revelation, as we needed his assistance. I understood Bonheur’s point of view, and his argument was justifiable; nonetheless, I preferred to wait until we could discover the identity of the mastermind.
I suggested to Bonheur that we immediately follow the assassin. He agreed, and we followed him to the neighbourhood of Ortaköy. Bonheur recommended that we inform the Constantinople Police to arrest him before the assassin fled again. I told Bonheur we did not have time; instead, we entered the eerie neighbourhood in secret.
The assassin then entered a house. We prepared our pistols for the deadly encounter. Afterwards, we entered, and the assassin, upon hearing us, scurried off into the streets. It was evening by then, and our vision was impeded by the lack of sunlight and by the Moslems, who were approaching the nearby mosque. The call to prayer could be heard in the distance. We returned to the house where we had found the assassin.
There was no clear description of him, as his face was covered. Bonheur was anxious to find an important clue of substantial substance that could lead to his identification. Fortunately for us, we found evidence of significant consequence. There were notes that had been prepared in advance, identical to the Hashashins' notes in Arabic calligraphy. We knew at that moment that the assassin had stayed in this house.
We located objects left behind that supported this assertion, and we also found government documents and itineraries of Western diplomats. Amongst those official documents were payments made by none other than Herr Grossman. I knew the implication and what it meant.
The only thing that remained unresolved was the specific reason for his direct involvement in the murders. Why was he involved? Bonheur was flabbergasted when he read the receipts. Why would he want Western diplomats to be brutally murdered in a succession of killings? There were still pieces of this intense mystery that remained undetermined.
Bonheur was then even more adamant about reporting our findings regarding the assassin to Captain Özgün of the Constantinople Police. I told him that we would stop by the Police Station and present our proof. Thereafter, we took all the incriminating evidence we had found at the assassin’s place and showed it to the captain.
At first, he was reluctant to accept our evidence, until he examined the payments bearing the name of Herr Grossman with the German Embassy seal. This was convincing evidence of Herr Grossman’s involvement in the murders of the Western diplomats. The question was: where was he?
‘What do we do now?’ Bonheur uttered.
‘We must pay a visit to the home of Herr Grossman!’ I responded.
‘What if he is not there, or worse, has escaped?’
‘Let us hope we are not too late!’
Captain Özgün and the officers of the Constantinople Police accompanied us to the home of Herr Grossman. We travelled by automobile, whilst Captain Özgün and his men followed in carriages. The prevailing thought was that Herr Grossman was probably aware of our recent discovery of his involvement in the scheme. Something was telling me there was much more to this unfolding plot of murdered Western diplomats than we had yet uncovered.
When we arrived at Herr Grossman’s home, he was not present. It appeared that he had fled Constantinople swiftly, after being warned about our awareness of the developing situation. Bonheur was certain that Herr Grossman was the great mastermind, but I was not so sure of that apparent inclination.
Although the evidence seemed to suggest Herr Grossman’s presumed guilt, I was still troubled by a lingering suspicion that he was not the primary mastermind behind this tangled web that was our investigation. I intuited the involvement of another sinister individual who possessed more ingenuity than Herr Grossman. For some inexplicable reason, my thoughts converged on Sir Redfield.
Captain Özgün ordered his officers to patrol the city and search for the culprits. He immediately instructed that the port be closed and the roads leading out of Constantinople be blocked until the culprits were discovered and arrested. Bonheur and I left the Police Station and headed to Sir Redfield’s villa. Bonheur was unaware of my sudden supposition and naturally enquired.
‘What are you musing about that your circumspect mien appears troubled?’
‘We shall soon know, once we speak to Sir Redfield!’ I exclaimed.
‘Know what, inspector?’
‘Hush, Bonheur, let me concentrate on the road; otherwise, we shall not reach Sir Redfield’s villa!’
‘D’accord!’
When we arrived at the villa of Sir Redfield, like Herr Grossman, Sir Redfield was absent.
‘Where could he be?’ Bonheur asked.
‘That I do not know. Let me think’, I replied.
‘Where are the servants? I do not see anyone here!’
‘True, and that is indeed peculiar!’
‘What do we do next?’
As we were standing outside the home, I noticed a particular cigar lying on the ground. I picked up the cigar with my glove and examined it.
‘A Turkish cigar. Whose cigar could this be?’
‘It looks familiar to one I’ve seen before’.
I cogitated, as I observed the cigar. ‘I found one of these cigars at the murder scene at the home of the French diplomat, Monsieur Guerin’.
Bonheur examined the cigar. ‘This cigar could have been smoked by anyone. What does it prove?’
It was then I recalled another instance of this same Turkish cigar. ‘It matters, Bonheur. This is the most relevant clue we have to our mastermind!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is a gentleman’s cigar, favoured by Western diplomats. If my theory is correct, then this cigar could lead us to solving the case’.
‘How?’
‘There is no time for a disquisition! Let us be off!’
‘Where?’
‘To the Police Station’.
‘What for?’
‘To speak to Captain Özgün!’
We left Sir Redfield’s villa and returned to the Police Station to talk to Captain Özgün at once. I requested that he investigate the schedules of the Western diplomats before the murders occurred, while we attempted to locate Sir Redfield.
We headed to the building of the Sadrazam, where foreign diplomats met the Grand Vizier. He was not there at all. Then we visited the British Embassy to enquire about Sir Redfield, and we received information that was shocking. Sir Redfield had left the city of Constantinople for Austria. We returned to the Police Station, where we were informed of the diplomats’ schedules. I perused the daily itineraries and saw that in each case, the murdered diplomat had had previous engagements with Sir Redfield.
‘Good God, Bonheur, we have now found our mastermind!’ I ejaculated.
‘Sir Redfield?’ Bonheur muttered.
‘Precisely!’
‘He cannot leave; we have the port and the roads out of Istanbul closed and monitored!’ Captain Özgün responded.
‘There is one other avenue of escape, gentlemen, that we have forgotten: the train. Do you have men at the train station, Captain Özgün?’ I asked.
‘Not yet, inspector!’ Captain Özgün answered.
‘Then we must go now to the train station!’
The Orient Express, sir! He could already be in one of those places that stop along the way!' Bonheur suggested.
'Indeed, Bonheur!'
We hastened to the International Rail Service from Constantinople. We checked the passengers and discovered that Sir Redfield's name was on the list. He had departed the city of Constantinople a day earlier. Captain Özgün had remained behind to continue the difficult search for the assassin and Herr Grossman, while we left the city and boarded the train to locate and apprehend Sir Redfield.
He had assigned a faithful Kavas, a military guard, to assist us. He was dressed in trousers, a vest, and a jacket, with a splendid red fez on his head and a long Turkish sword at his side. His thick moustache and piercing, watchful eyes were striking, along with his composed features.
We departed from Constantinople's Sirkeci Terminal, connected with the terminus of the Orient Express, bound for Budapest, stopping in Varna, Bulgaria. From there, we would travel to Vienna, Austria, our ultimate destination.
We consulted the schedule of the Orient Express and noted the daily stops of the train. It was almost impossible to know where Sir Redfield might have disembarked, if he had. He could have alighted in any of the designated cities along the route. We were not even certain whether he was ultimately heading to Austria. Bonheur was extremely eager for answers, but there was nothing I could offer to calm his excitement, except for the incontrovertible facts established so far.
At Bucharest we received a telegram from Captain Özgün informing us that they had captured and arrested Herr Grossman, who had confessed his participation in the murders. We were also told that Sir Redfield's final destination would indeed be Vienna, Austria. One troubling matter remained: the assassin had still not been caught. That meant he was still on the loose. Our plan was to reach Vienna and search for Sir Redfield there.
The train continued its journey towards Vienna, and with each passing moment, the weight of the situation grew heavier. The steady clattering of the wheels beneath us was almost hypnotic, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the case that had consumed us for so long.
Bonheur and I sat across from each other in the small compartment, the tension in the air palpable. We were nearing the end of this relentless pursuit. Sir Redfield, the elusive mastermind, was mere moments away from being arrested, but despite this, I found it hard to shake the feeling that the end of this case might not be as satisfying as we had hoped.
Bonheur broke the silence first, his voice quieter than usual. ‘It’s almost hard to believe, isn’t it? All this time, all the clues, the pursuit…and now, we’re about to close the book on it’.
I glanced up at him, trying to gauge his mood. Bonheur, always eager to catch the villain and bring justice, seemed to be struggling with the finality of it all. It wasn’t like him to hesitate.
‘It doesn’t feel like a victory, does it?’ I said slowly, my voice filled with the same uncertainty. ‘I’ve been chasing this man for weeks, and now that we’re so close, I can’t help but wonder...is it really over? Or is this just the beginning of something else?’
Bonheur shook his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. ‘You’re saying that even after everything we’ve uncovered, after all the lives lost, after capturing him...it’s not over?’
I leaned back in my seat, staring out the window as the passing landscape blurred into the background. ‘What I mean is, we’ve been solving the pieces of a puzzle for weeks, but the puzzle isn’t finished yet. We know Redfield’s involvement in the murders, his machinations with Grossman, the assassination attempts... But there’s something deeper here, something that’s been driving him all this time. I can’t help but think that catching him won’t be enough’.
Bonheur looked thoughtful. ‘You think there’s more? That even after he’s arrested, the truth won’t be fully uncovered?’
‘Exactly.’ I nodded, my eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘Redfield’s role in all of this is only a part of the greater picture. We’re not just dealing with one man, we’re dealing with a web of corruption, deceit, and power plays that extend far beyond him. We may catch him, but what about everyone else involved? What happens then?’
Bonheur’s expression softened slightly as he considered this. ‘I suppose you’re right. There are still questions that need to be answered, even if we do apprehend him. What about Grossman’s connections? What about those diplomats Redfield was meeting with? There’s still so much we don’t know’.
‘Exactly,’ I replied. ‘This case may be reaching its conclusion in terms of Redfield’s capture, but the implications are far from settled. There are people in high places who would do anything to keep this entire affair under wraps. And what about Redfield himself? Will he ever confess to everything he’s done? Or will he remain as elusive in his final moments as he was throughout the investigation?’
Bonheur sighed, running a hand through his hair. ‘It’s strange. We’ve been focused on Redfield for so long, but now that we’re so close, I can’t help but wonder if we’ve overlooked something crucial. What if, after we arrest him, we still don’t have all the answers?’
‘That’s what worries me,’ I muttered, feeling the weight of it all. ‘We may arrest him, but it might not be the end of this case. Not in the way we’re hoping. We need to be prepared for whatever comes next. If we think catching Redfield will give us closure, we’re gravely mistaken. This case has layers. The truth is never as simple as it appears, and the end of one chapter doesn’t always mean the end of the entire story’.
For a moment, neither of us spoke, the quiet settling between us as the train continued its journey. The station was fast approaching. Vienna. The place where this chapter would end, but where so many unanswered questions remained.
Bonheur broke the silence, his voice soft but resolute. ‘So, we finish this, and then what? We keep digging?’
I turned my gaze to him, meeting his eyes with a mixture of resolve and caution. ‘Yes. We finish this, but we don’t stop looking. Not until we know everything. Until we know the full scope of what’s been happening, and who else might still be pulling the strings’.
The train began to slow as we neared the station, the noise of the brakes screeching through the stillness. It was time. The end of our chase. The capture of Sir Redfield. But as I stood and prepared to exit the train, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the case was far from finished.
We were merely stepping into the next phase. The finality of this investigation was still unresolved.
Upon our arrival in Vienna, we were about to reach the city when I suddenly spotted those familiar eyes of the assassin. He was dressed in Western clothing. I quickly informed Bonheur, and we followed him, unnoticed.
When he stopped, he spoke in broken English to an unidentified gentleman, who replied with an English accent. I recognised the gentleman's voice immediately—it was Sir Redfield. Slowly, we approached them, with our pistols drawn inside the train. The compartment was empty except for them. When we reached them, they were startled to see us standing before them with our weapons. Sir Redfield addressed us with a devilish grin as he smoked his Turkish cigar.
'Inspector Cauvain. I was not expecting you so soon! Do you have tidings of the investigation for me?'
'It is over, gentlemen! We know everything, Sir Redfield. You are under arrest!' I told him.
He laughed. 'Do you think you can arrest me here? You have no actual jurisdiction!'
The Vienna Police entered the train and were present both inside and outside. Their voices could be heard clearly as they advanced.
'How did you know? How did you find me?'
'I admit you were a daring challenge, Sir Redfield, but like all criminals, there are always the smallest clues left behind. First, there were the meetings with the Western diplomats—you were the last person reported to have seen them. Second, your clandestine meetings with Herr Grossman. Third, the mysterious deposits in your bank account indicating a lucrative agenda—evidence we received by telegram from Captain Özgün. And finally, your familiar Turkish cigar, found at the crime scene at Monsieur Guerin's home. It was the assassin who had been inside the house before the murder—you signalled him from the garden outside. Your fingerprints were discovered afterwards and matched by the Constantinople Police, in conjunction with the British Embassy. Did you truly think you would get away with it? You planned to kill the Sultan and Kaiser in Ankara, using the pretext of the Hashashins, and sought to blame the anarchists for your elaborate subterfuge. Checkmate!'
Sir Redfield's expression changed to one of urgent desperation. He rose to his feet in an attempt to distract us, while the assassin lunged at Bonheur, who was closest to him. They grappled on the ground, while Sir Redfield threw laudanum powder at me, temporarily blinding me. I chased him through the other compartments until he leapt off the train.
Unfortunately for him, an oncoming train passed, killing him instantly. I returned to where Bonheur was still fighting with the assassin. I managed to shoot the assassin before he could kill Bonheur. There, on the ground, lay the dead assassin, and outside, the remains of Sir Redfield. The case of 'The Poniard of Death' was finally resolved.
We later learnt that the ultimate plan was to assassinate the Sultan and blame the murders on the rising anarchists in Constantinople. Sir Redfield had been secretly meeting with Herr Grossman, and Kaiser Wilhelm II was also a target. A meeting had been scheduled a week later in Ankara between the Sultan and the Kaiser.
The German and Turkish authorities were duly informed. With the Sultan and Kaiser dead, Sir Redfield and Herr Grossman's influence would have grown through corruption. We returned to Constantinople and expressed our gratitude to the Turkish Police, especially Captain Özgün, for their collaboration. He reciprocated the noble gesture, and we departed Constantinople the next day on the Orient Express to Paris.
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