Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

Dark Eyes by R. T. Lawton

“Armenian, come with me. The Russian requests your presence.”

I left off sorting the bright silk scarves the southern traders had brought in the day before and glanced up. The schoolteacher for the Tereski Cossack Regiment stood in the doorway of my hut, a hut that I had rented on a previous trip for my business here. During the few other times I’d seen the teacher, he had carried himself with the air of authority, but on this early morning he seemed perturbed over some weighty matter that occupied his mind. Ah, those sorts of things were for the local officials to handle. I had no wish to meddle in the affairs of the tsar’s representatives, nor to be drawn into them. I was merely a seller of goods in this foreign land.

“If His Honor wishes a silver dagger from Turkey or some trinkets for the village girls, then pray let him come here. I cannot carry my entire shop around on my back.”

The regimental schoolteacher cast a hard gaze on me.

“He doesn’t wish to buy.”

“Then what does he want with me?” I asked.

In answer, the schoolteacher grabbed my elbow and hurried me out into the yard.

“I can’t tell you much for now, he only said to bring you.”

I yelled over my shoulder for the Nogay boy whose sun-browned face displayed the stolid features of his Mongol forebears. The youth had somehow attached himself to me in the last year and found ways to assist in my trading concern. In return, I fed him and taught him the business. But for right now, I wanted him out on the front steps with an eye on the goods. If anyone came to buy, he should tell them to come back in the late afternoon after the Cossack girls drove the cattle through the main gate and into the yards of their owners. I should return by then and have everything ready for sale.

The schoolteacher led me up the wide dirt street, past the wattle fences that enclosed every Cossack yard, with its hut set up on posts a few feet above the ground. A dirt embankment then surrounded each hut. Few people were about the village at this time of day. Most of the Cossack men were out on expeditions against the Chechens or stood guard at one of the cordons along the brown waters of the Terek River sweeping down from the snowy Caucasus. As for the women, they worked in the vineyards with the ripening black grapes or else kept an eye on the cattle in the fields.

Along our way, the schoolteacher spoke very little other than to say that something of importance had happened during the night, something upon which the Russian staff captain wished to consult with me. Further than that he wouldn’t explain, even though I tried to draw him out with small talk.

“Where are we going?”

“To my second house.”

“The one that you rented to the staff captain after he and his orderly were quartered on you by the army?”

The schoolteacher glanced at me, then seemed to ignore my presence as much as possible under the circumstances. We passed two more huts before coming to his yard and entering through the arched gate.

As we approached the house, I observed the staff captain sitting calmly in a wooden chair on the front porch. His right leg was crossed over his left at the knee, and his right foot, encased in a brightly polished black leather riding boot, swung lightly back and forth. He was young, with a stern look of self-importance and a reckless black mustache. From a lit pipe in his mouth drifted white tendrils of smoke.

We were all the way up the stairs before I noticed a body — it looked like the staff captain’s orderly — stretched out on the porch to the far side of the Russian officer. Judging by the knife protruding at a slant from the orderly’s chest, I was fairly sure the man was dead. And recently so. But what did this have to do with me?

The Russian spoke first.

“Is this the Armenian?”

The schoolteacher nodded.

“Good. Now listen to me, Armenian. It seems your reputation precedes you in your travels. I am told that you are good at finding things that have been lost.”

I had trouble taking my eyes off the dead orderly, but the Russian officer had fixed his attention on me and I had to answer.

“I’ve had some luck in the past. Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” He reached into the pocket of his scarlet Circassian coat and brought out a small stack of gold coins. Selecting one off the top, he held the coin out toward me. “This is advance payment.”

Gingerly I took the coin.

“For what, Your Honor?”

“My favorite horse was stolen last night. He’s a Karbada horse, sixteen hands high, with dark color and a long, low stride. I named him Karagyoz, Turkish for ‘black eyes.’ Find where he is and more of these coins will be yours. You would be wise not to fail me.”

My gaze kept drifting back to the dead man on the porch.

The staff captain deigned to look at the limp heap lying at his doorstep.

“Whoever stole my horse also killed my orderly with his own knife. The serf I can replace, but Karagyoz is one of a kind.”

“Chechens,” spoke up the schoolteacher. “It was those Abreks from the Tartar side of the river. I’ll tighten the cordons and see if we can catch them before they cross back.”

“Not so,” replied the staff captain in a dry voice. “I think it was one of your local Cossacks, and when I find him out, I will whip him, then hang him.”

The schoolteacher turned away in the direction of the Caucasus Mountains off in the distance, south across the river. From the little I knew of the man, he appeared to be engaged in some inner turmoil.

To break the silence, I inquired, “What has been done so far?”

It was the Russian that answered. “My Moscow soldiers have searched every hut, shed, and yard, one at a time. Not a trace was found. But they can’t hide him for long. See if you can find my Karagyoz.”

I wasn’t sure where to begin.

After some parting words with the Russian officer, the schoolteacher grabbed my elbow again and led me off the porch. We were through the gate and back onto the broad dirt street before I ventured a question in his direction.

“The Russian disturbs you?”

“He is a noble and is closely related to the tsar. We must be especially careful around him.”

“And beyond that?”

“We Cossacks were a free people once. That’s the meaning of the word cossack from the old kazak. At one time or another we successfully fought off the separate armies of Poland and of Russia and of the Turkish sultan. In the end, we allied ourselves with Russia because they are of the same faith, Old Believers, like us. Even so, they squeezed us tight. But after we Cossacks lost the rebellion, Moscow took away many of our freedoms. Now we have Russian troops quartered in every village. They pollute our homes with pipe smoke and treat us like underlings.”

I pondered his statements and wondered.

“You dislike the Russians, but they are your allies. And your Cossacks dress like Chechen braves, yet you fight these same Chechens across the river.”

“In the beginning, our Cossacks intermarried with the hill tribes. We respected the Chechens and adopted their dress, but today’s politics demand that we fight against them.”

These machinations of governments were not my concern, except as possible pieces to the puzzle of a crime. Personally, I wanted nothing more than to trade with both the Cossacks on this side of the river and the hill tribes on the far bank of the Terek. Now I found myself dragged into the middle. And I had the feeling that neither the Russian nor the schoolteacher had told me everything.

At the next intersection of dirt streets, the schoolteacher left me alone with my thoughts, not even a farewell, just a meaningful glance that I couldn’t interpret.

I stood in the dusty road, wanting to return to my unpacked trade goods, but the gold coin in my pocket said I had to look for a stolen horse. The best person I knew for information in this village was Daddy Eroshka, a giant Cossack with a long white mane and full beard. Most of his time was spent hunting and fishing, the rest in drinking parties with the Cossack girls where he heard all the latest gossip. He’d be the one.

I found him still asleep in the back of his two-room hut. The walls of the bigger room in front were covered with brass basins, weapons, fishing nets, drying animal skins, and a couple of blankets. On the floor under a wooden bench rested pumpkins and melons. Three hunting dogs lay on a pile of rags in the far corner. In the back room, amongst rugs and bedding, sat a well-worn camp bed where the old man lay snoring. His musket stood against the nearest wall. I gently shook his shoulder.

His eyes opened and fixed on me.

“What do you want so early in the morning?”

“I would like to talk with you.”

“If you want me to be sociable at this time of day you will have to stand me to a pail of chikhir.”

For myself, I too like a good wine, but with my supper — this was not yet breakfast. However, if that’s what it took to loosen his tongue, then so be it.

I nodded.

Daddy Eroshka immediately sat up on the camp bed. His voice roared out into the yard. “Lukashka, come quickly. Your uncle has money for a drink.”

With grimy hands, he reached under the camp bed and picked two bottles off the floor. Blowing a light film of road dust off the bottles, he held them up by their necks in one hand, then stuck out the callused palm of his other hand. It took me a minute to realize what he wanted.

As I counted out several small coins into his palm, a young boy rushed into the room. With the two bottles, the coins, and instructions to go to Auntie Ustenka’s hut, the boy left in a hurry. Daddy Eroshka lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Not sure what I was supposed to do, I waited quietly until the youngster returned. At this point, the old Cossack resurrected himself.

He handed me a cracked porcelain cup with brown streaks on the inside and made as if to pour wine into it for me. I quickly wiped it out with my sleeve. He filled my cup halfway, then he drank straight from the bottle. I noticed that the second bottle had gone under the bed, presumably for later.

He wiped his lips on the back of his sunburned hand and raised his bottle again.

“To your health, Armenian.”

Having no wish to buy more wine, I began my questions.

“You hear all the gossip in the village. What have you heard about the staff captain?”

“Ah, the Russian noble, related to the tsar they say.”

“Yes, that one.”

“Of course. It is said that he receives a large monthly allotment from his family estates back in Russia. And it must be true because he parties with the prettiest girls, buys them sweetmeats and silver trinkets, drinks to all hours of the night, and plays their games. He lives well.”

“Any problems there?”

“Not as far as the Russian himself is concerned. He favors one girl, beautiful Marushka, who carries herself like a queen. Oh, the captain spends a lot of money on her, but she is undecided. You see, sometime back, her mother spoke to the mother of one of our Cossack lads, Yermack, and the two of them were to be married some day. You should know this, our Yermack is a fine lad. After his father was killed by the Chechens, I trained him myself to ride a horse in the Cossack way. I taught him everything he knows about horses.”

“Anything else for me?”

The old man drank from the bottle again and screwed up his face as if he were trying to remember something important so I could get my money’s worth.

“There’s some of the other village girls, who are not as pretty as Marushka and her friends. And I hear that the staff captain’s orderly sells some of the household silver bowls and cups for money to party with those girls. But then, all the Moscow soldiers quartered here flirt with the village girls, if that means anything to you.”

I wasn’t sure it did, but there wasn’t much else the old man seemed willing to give up. I thanked him and left. Out on the broad street, my stomach complained about how high the sun had risen in the sky, which settled the matter of priorities.

Back at my hut, I brewed tea, munched on a piece of bread, and mulled circumstances over in my head. Marushka herself probably wouldn’t talk to me about Yermack, but maybe one of the other girls would... especially if I had something to offer.

Once again, I left the shop in the hands of my Nogay helper and walked up the main street. This time I continued out the village gate and less than a verst up the road to the vineyards. Lowing of the oxen that pulled the grape-laden carts, interspersed with the voices of the girls calling out to each other, rose above the dusty vines.

Eventually, I found one of Marushka’s friends. She was cutting bunches of the sugar black grapes and piling them into an ox cart.

“Good morning, Bela. How is the harvest?”

She paused to wipe the sweat off her handsome face.

“Armenian, you’ve come to help me.”

“No, no, I merely wished to talk.”

Immediately, she returned to cutting the next bunch of grapes.

“No time to gossip. I have work to do.”

I whisked a bright yellow silk scarf from out of my sleeve and dangled it in front of her face.

She stopped cutting and looked at the scarf, then me, then back to the scarf. Cleaning her hands on the hem of her smock, she reached for the yellow silk.

I let her have one end.

“Tell me about the Russian and Marushka,” I said.

“Oh that.” Bela laughed. “That’s nothing. The captain buys all of us sweetmeats and silver lockets, but he wants only Marushka for his ‘little soul,’ his mistress.”

“And what does Yermack say about that?”

Bela’s smile faded.

“In front of Marushka, he pretends it doesn’t matter. He laughs and says there are plenty of other beautiful women in the next village to love him, so what does he care.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

She puckered up one cheek.

“Because in private he mutters that the Russian stole something he loved away from him, and therefore he will steal away something that the Russian loves.”

“Could that something have been a horse?”

Bela snatched the scarf out of my grasp and turned away.

“I have grapes to cut before they dry on the vine. Go ask your questions of someone else.”

She was right, and I had a fair idea whom to speak with. Only this time, I would be better prepared.

In the late afternoon as the heat of the day began to cool, I was seated on Daddy Eroshka’s porch, waiting for his return. Down the street he trudged, with still-wet nets thrown back over his shoulder, his naked back carrying the weight of both fish and equipment. A pelt of snowy white hair covered his massive chest and he walked barefoot with his pants legs rolled up to his knees.

I knew he saw me sitting there on his porch, but he ducked his head as if to give himself time to consider what business I might have with him now. His whistling stopped, but his outward appearance seemed cheerful enough as he came up the steps.

“Armenian, you’ve come back to me.”

He unslung the nets and dropped them onto the porch.

I held up the small pail of vodka I’d had the foresight to bring along this time.

His voice boomed.

“And you’ve brought me a present. We may become kunaks, yet. Yes, we may become very good comrades.”

Using the only drink container in the hut, I scooped up some of the vodka and held the cup out to him. He toasted my health, downed the liquid in two swallows, and returned the empty porcelain. This time, after refilling the cup, I held it in sight, but made no proffer.

“You forgot to tell me about the horse. But then it was early morning when I came to your hut, and it’s possible that you were still groggy from your sleep.”

He stared at the vodka.

“Which horse is that?”

“The Karbada horse that belonged to the staff captain, the one that Yermack stole. As I recall, it was you that taught Yermack everything he knows about horses.”

The old Cossack had a troubled look on his face.

“I wish no evil on the lad. He is a brave one like the Cossacks in my youth.”

“There will be no worries from me. I will only speak with Yermack and then he can do whatever he wishes.”

I extended the cracked porcelain halfway.

Daddy Eroshka’s large hand wrapped around the cup of vodka, but I wasn’t ready to let it go yet.

“I’ve heard rumors,” he said at last, “that a dark-colored Karbada horse, much like the staff captain’s, might be found tethered in the dense woods along the Terek.”

I released my grasp.

“And when will Yermack come to the village again from the cordon?”

The old Cossack eyed the pail of vodka on the floor at my feet.

“Tonight,” he replied, “at sunset. Some of the girls are having a party and he will be there.”

I handed him the pail and left.

By early evening, I had stationed myself by the main village gate. The girls in their beshmets and smocks with their hair tied up in colored kerchiefs had already herded the cattle through the gate and into the yards. All the ox carts with their loads of black grapes had also come home. I’d seen Marushka with her long black hair, bold figure, and dark eyes, and knew why both the Cossack lad and the Russian captain sought her affections. Now I waited for Yermack.

As the sun began to set, a young rider on a gray horse came down the road. He wore a tattered, light brown Circassian coat with the coat’s long skirts covering down to his knees. A white cap sat back on his head like a Chechen brave. His musket was strapped to his back in a warrior’s carefree manner, and it made no noise as he rode.

When the horseman approached the gate, I stepped into the road and inquired, “Yermack?”

He stopped the gray horse with its shoulder almost touching mine.

“I am. Who are you?”

“I’m a friend.”

He leaned forward on his saddle.

“I know all my friends, but I think you are the Armenian trader from the south.”

“I know about the Karbada horse, Karagyoz, hidden in the forest.”

Yermack shrugged the musket off his shoulder and into his hands.

“You picked a poor place to die, Armenian.”

“And you would be killing the wrong man.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have an answer to your problems,” I replied.

His countenance remained stern; there was no joy in the hard smile on his lips.

“Go on.”

“First, take the Karbada horse across the river and sell him to the Chechens.”

“He’s an excellent horse; I will keep him.”

Ah, I had forgotten the stubbornness of youth. I now reconsidered the situation before us.

“Then is there a Chechen on the other side that you trust to hide the horse for a while?”

“Yarbay Khan is my kunak, we’ve raided the horse herds of the Nogay together. He will do anything I ask.”

“Good. Take the horse across the river to him tonight. Second, find an elder from the pro-Russian Chechen village near your cordon, and send the man to me at this gate just before the sun rises tomorrow. He and I will take care of the rest. Now go.”

Yermack had a disappointed look on his face.

“There’s a party tonight.”

“You’ll have several parties if we do this right. Otherwise, you may lose both of your ‘dark eyes’ to the staff captain.”

He brandished his musket. A frown creased his forehead.

“I would gladly shoot that Russian right off his porch, but then I would become an outlaw with no village, no family.”

His horse stood motionless for a while before Yermack spoke again.

“Maybe I will try your way this one time.”

Reining his horse partway around, he suddenly stopped, his head turning back in my direction.

“You and I have not known each other that well. Why do you do this for me?”

“I have an inherent distrust of Turks and Russians. Besides, who knows what the future holds, perhaps sometime you will do a favor for me.”

Yermack nodded and rode off up the road toward the woods along the Terek. He had no idea how soon I might request this favor I’d mentioned, but with the manner of man we were both dealing with, I felt sure I would be in need of Yermack’s services, probably within a day. There was nothing else to do now except sleep and see what the morning brought.

As the stars winked out of the fading night and the sky grew pale blue in the east, I once again stood at the main village gate.

Red streaks had covered the bottom of the distant clouds hanging on the mountaintops before I saw the old man walking out of the morning mist along the river. When he drew closer, he hailed me.

“Are you the Armenian?”

“I am. Are you the friend of Yermack?”

He greeted me in Chechen fashion. In turn, I pressed silver coins into his palm and explained his part in what we were about to do. He agreed and asked no questions.

From there, we walked to the schoolteacher’s house and I roused the teacher from his morning samovar.

“We must speak with the staff captain,” I said.

“He may still be sleeping,” replied the teacher. “Perhaps we should wait until he stirs.”

I shrugged.

“We can wait until tomorrow if it pleases you. But yesterday, the Russian noble seemed anxious to hear word about his horse. The choice is yours to make.”

The schoolteacher pursed his lips.

“I see. And this is a matter of great importance?”

I assured him that it was. Also, that I needed himself and one other male as witness.

The teacher glanced at the Chechen elder, then studied my face as if he could read my mind. And perhaps he could, for he immediately sent his oldest son to get fully dressed, and bawled for his old wife to get his regimental coat ready. The one with all the medals. As he slid into his jacket, his daughter hurried forward with his black leather riding boots.

Made ready, the four of us trooped across the yard and up the steps of the second house. The staff captain must have heard the thud of the regimental schoolteacher’s boot soles on the porch boards. He slung the door open and leaned insolently against the door frame.

“So much noise. Must be important.”

“We know where your horse has gone.” This I could say without a lie upon my lips because I had made these arrangements myself. And since the Chechen elder had come to me at dawn, I could assume that the rest of my message was true, therefore I could speak with a relatively clear conscience. I tugged on the elder’s sleeve until he stood beside me on the porch. “This old man from a village across from one of the cordons has word of your Karagyoz.”

The village elder proceeded to relate a story of watching a Chechen Abrek ride across the Terek leading a dark-colored Karbada horse while yesterday’s morning mist was still upon the water. Horses and rider then disappeared in the direction of the foothills.

The staff captain stared at me.

“How does he know it was an Abrek and not one of the local Cossacks?”

I gently prodded the old man.

“Because I saw his blue trousers; shaved head with the long tuft of hair on the right side; and his red-dyed, short-cropped beard and trimmed mustache. Truthfully, an Abrek has your horse.”

This had been the easy part.

The Russian grunted his displeasure at the news.

I turned the old Chechen around and pointed him down the stairs. I had more business to conduct with the captain.

“You wished me to find your horse and I have done as you requested.”

“True,” replied the Russian, “but since the horse cannot be recovered, you should not expect further reward from me.”

He made a shooing motion with his fingers.

With a shrug, “So be it,” I turned for the stairs, but made sure I was the last to depart. When the teacher, his oldest son, and the Chechen elder were what I judged to be far enough away to hear a normal voice, yet not so close as to understand a whisper, I stepped back onto the porch.

The Russian eyed me warily.

“One more matter.” I spoke in a low voice. “About your orderly...”

“He was obviously killed by the Abrek,” interrupted the captain, also in a low volume. “The same one that stole my horse.”

“No. The orderly knew his killer. No Chechen could have gotten close enough to kill him in such a manner. There was no struggle, no defensive cuts on the hands or arms, no blood splattered on the front wall of the house.”

“So?”

“So the killer stood directly in front of him and thrust the orderly’s own knife in an upward motion under the rib cage to reach the heart. I remember the slant of the knife in the body and the empty knife sheath. The orderly knew his killer, but didn’t realize he was about to die for stealing the household silver.”

A noticeable pale swept over the Russian’s face. He started and quickly recovered. His voice didn’t carry beyond me.

“I am kin to the tsar. Be careful about starting malicious rumors.”

I glanced over my shoulder to ensure that my three witnesses waited nearby. They stood in a clump halfway across the yard, obviously wondering what was being said. That was all I required of them at the moment.

“Rumors have been known to tarnish a reputation,” I replied to the captain, “but fortunately, one frequently forgets what one no longer sees.”

“What do you mean?”

I held his glare.

“It is said that your regiment is going on expedition next week. Perhaps your place is now better spent at your colonel’s side in regimental headquarters. With you gone from the village, everyone will soon forget your orderly’s mishap.”

We stood facing each other in the ensuing silence.

Finally, the Russian spoke again in a low murmur.

“Perhaps, you’re right. I am needed by my colonel in these troublesome times. I’ll ride out by noonday.” He pointed his index finger at me. “But you, Armenian, are too clever by far. Take care not to be near me in the days to come. You might find you have something in common with my orderly.”

With a slight bow, I left the porch and rejoined the waiting trio.

“The staff captain is leaving for his regiment,” I told the teacher. “I’m afraid you will lose the six rubles he pays in rent for the second house.”

The schoolteacher barely concealed a smile. His oldest son spat on the ground. We parted and I sent the Chechen elder on his way. I had one more visit to make.

Once more, I found myself in Daddy Eroshka’s hut, waking the white-maned Cossack.

“Did you bring vodka or chikhir?” he muttered as his eyes opened.

“Not this time, my friend. But give this message directly to Yermack at the cordon and maybe he will stand you to a pail. You should tell our young Cossack friend that the Russian leaves today for his regiment. Make it known that the staff captain’s route will take him through a rough gorge where Abreks and lawless Circassians sometimes prey upon travelers. Tell Yermack this message comes from me, the Armenian. He is a smart lad and will know what to do.”

Daddy Eroshka sat quietly on the camp bed for a while. Then a sly grin crept across his face.

“Armenian, you should have been a Cossack with me in the old days. What great kunaks we’d have been then.”

At last I could get back to my trade goods. After all, trading was my business and it had long been interrupted. At least now I would soon be free to trade on both sides of the river and not have to worry about who I met on the road “in the days to come.”