Free A Dead Man in Istanbul by Michael Pearce

said, ”pull out of it.” “I can’t,” she said, “not now.” “You’re crazy,” I said. “Well, I am a bit,” she said.
    ‘You see, she was gone on that man Cunningham. ’Ad been from the first. I mean, ’e was a real charmer. Made ’er think she’d dropped out of ’eaven, just to please ’im. Well, she liked that. It was a bit of a change from the usual men she met. And, to be fair, ’e seemed quite keen on ’er.
    ‘But then one evening ’e brought that Prince along, and ’e took a shine to ’er, too. Now you would ’ave thought ’e’d ’ave told ’im to clear off, although maybe you can’t do that to a Prince. But ’e needn’t ’ave gone as far as ’e did.’E seemed positively to encourage it. ’E just laughed and said: “’Ere’s your chance, Lalagé! Make a few bob out of ’im. Oh, and by the way . . .”
    ‘I don’t know what ’e wanted ’er to do by the way. Chat ’im up, certainly. But I think there was more to it than that. But I don’t know what. She never said. Besides, I don’t think she minded. In fact, she quite liked it, ’aving the two of them on a string, I mean. It made ’er fancy she was someone. Two men like that! One a Prince, the other, well, I don’t know, but I’ll tell you what, you don’t see blokes like ’im in the East End! So she enjoyed ’erself and went round with ’er ’ead in the clouds.
    ‘But I could see the others didn’t like it. They didn’t mind Cunningham, because ’e’d brought business in to the theatre. We’d shifted to a new level since ’e’d taken an interest in the theatre. Rudi was quite crazy about ’im – ’e’d eat out of ’is ’and. But the others, the ordinary people, the Turks, the porters and so on. They didn’t like it.’
    ‘What exactly was it that they didn’t like?’ asked Seymour.
    ‘’Er going around. Not so much with Cunningham, that didn’t matter, but with the Prince. And doing it so openly! They thought she was flaunting it. You know, thrusting it in their face. I could see trouble coming and I said, “Lal, you want to watch it!” “I’ve got a powerful friend,” she said. “’E’ll take care of it.” “You’re earning yourself some powerful enemies,” I said, “and they’ll take care of you .”’
    Seymour asked her who the powerful enemies might be but she turned vague. She just felt it, she said. She knew . You ought to steer clear of these high-up blokes. Go too near the sun and you get burnt. Keep to your own level. Keep your head down. Don’t stick your neck out. That was what she had learned, in Bermondsey as in the theatre. And out here, she said, it was even worse. Women didn’t count for much out here. They were disposable. ‘I mean, to the Sultan and them ’igh-ups. You get out of line and they send the Fleshmakers round.’
    ‘The Fleshmakers?’ said Seymour. ‘I thought they were all in the past.’
    ‘That’s what Cunningham said. “They’re all dead and gone, love,” ’e said. “You can forget about them.” But she shouldn’t ’ave forgotten about them, should she?’
    ‘I think there’s something you should have told me,’ said Seymour, as they were going back up the hill in the landau.
    ‘Oh, yes, old chap?’ said Rice-Cholmondely.
    ‘About Lalagé. And Cunningham. What was she doing for him?’
    ‘Don’t quite know what you mean, old chap.’
    ‘She was spying for him, wasn’t she?’
    Rice-Cholmondely was silent for a moment. Then:
    ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, old boy.’
    ‘No? How would you put it, then?’
    ‘More, gossip-collecting. Spying’s not part of our job. Not as diplomats. But gossip-collecting is. Gossip can be very useful to us. It gives you a feeling for what’s in the air, how you weigh things, read policy. A lot of a diplomat’s work, you could say, is picking up gossip.’
    ‘And that’s what Lalagé was doing for you? Picking up gossip?’
    ‘Yes. And the gossip that Lalagé picked up