Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

“The Kurds are a problem here?” Rand asked.

“Not usually in this area, but if the bomb was planted hours ago, it was probably done at an embassy or consulate.”

They drove along the winding road in silence for a time, until they reached a crossroads and overtook a battered truck carrying a camel in the back. Two ropes around its neck secured the large beast, looking so incongruous in the truck. There was a muzzle over its mouth. “A fighting camel,” Omar Goncah observed, “on its way to Selçuk, no doubt. They are muzzled so they can’t bite each other.”

“The poor things,” Leila said. “I detest all staged fighting between animals.”

“They are hardly ever injured,” Goncah assured her as they passed the truck. “They crash into each other with much pushing and shoving. When one is pushed to the ground or runs away, the other is the winner of the match. That driver is Jobar, one of the best trainers of fighting camels.”

“I suppose there is betting on the outcome,” Rand said.

“Of course, but these people are not wealthy. It is merely a winter diversion for them.”

After another hour’s drive they came to the village of Selçuk, a small outpost of the country’s Asian heritage, close to the Aegean Sea. Omar had arranged for rooms at a small inn. It was a two-story house with many windows, built of wood on a stone ground floor. An outside stairway led from a courtyard to the second-floor rooms.

They were greeted by the innkeeper, a black-bearded man named Sevret who wore a traditional red fez. Rand realized it was the first one he’d seen since their arrival in the country. At one time it had been the country’s national headdress. “Greetings,” the bearded man said, bowing slightly to Omar Goncah and then shaking his hand. “I have two rooms at the top of the stairs. Your party is here for tomorrow’s camel fights?”

“That’s correct,” Omar responded. He glanced around. “Are we the only guests?”

“Most people come by car or bus, just for the day. But I am expecting another, a man from the Greek consulate in Istanbul.”

Rand and Omar exchanged glances. “We passed a fatal accident on the highway about an hour north of here,” Omar told him. “The car had diplomatic license plates.”

“Ah! I pray it was not Mr. Berk.” He emphasized the words by placing his palms together in prayer. “But you have arrived in time for dinner, and I invite you to join my wife and me on the first floor when you have had time to freshen up.”

Rand glanced back at the car, where the driver was unloading their bags and Omar’s carpet from the trunk. Omar called out to him in Turkish and the rolled carpet was returned to the trunk. “It’s safer there,” he told Rand. “Aytekin will call for us in the morning and drive us to the camel fights.”

“He’s not staying here?”

“There are friends in the village.” He smiled. “A woman, I think.”

The innkeeper’s wife proved to be a charming half-English woman named Beth who was an excellent cook. She and Leila became instant friends, discussing their mixed heritage, and after dinner they helped clean up together while Beth’s husband supplied cigars for the men. Rand demurred, but Omar lit one with their host. He leaned back in his chair as if still at the dinner party in Alexandria where Rand and his wife had first met him.

“This is so relaxing,” he told the innkeeper. “But Mr. Berk has not yet appeared. I fear it may have been him in that accident we passed.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Sevret told them. “He was to take part in the ceremonies.”

“Perhaps I can fill in,” Omar suggested. “I have a carpet in the trunk of our hired car. It has some value, and I plan to offer it as a prize.”

Sevret nodded slowly. “That would be most kind of you, Mr. Goncah. My wife and I have been working all day at food preparation and there has been little time to plan the ceremonies, informal as they are.”

Rand and Leila retired early, and in the morning they were awakened by the sound of buses passing in front of the inn. When Omar joined them he commented on the sunshine. “This is perfect weather for a camel fight, with the temperature in the forties. Sunny days are rare here in January.”

Beth Sevret brought them breakfast and stayed to chat. “The buses come each Sunday during the fighting season, bringing thousands of fans from other villages. It is good for our business. There is a makeshift arena a few miles down the road and the fans set up picnic tables. When the fighting starts they watch from the surrounding hillsides. They have most of their own food, but they always need extra salads or kebabs or yogurt. And, of course, they need raki. It is the national drink here, very potent. Sevret and I will be at the fights to fill all their needs.”

“Do you have any trouble with Kurds?” Rand asked her.

“Kurds? Not in this part of the country. They are in the eastern regions.”