Hotel Bosphorus by Esmahan Aykol Read Free Book Online

with pedestrians at red lights. I tell you, I was totally at peace and content with my lot.
    When I entered the shop with two toasted cheese sandwiches in my hand, I had a pleasant surprise. Petra was sitting in my rocking chair. The moment she saw me, she jumped up. “Where have you been?” she cried out almost hysterically.
    I didn’t say, “And where have you been?” She might have been waiting there for a long time. To be honest, I was surprised that I hadn’t thought of calling the shop.

    â€œWhat’s going on?” I said, biting into my toasted sandwich.
    Petra had gone out to eat with the film crew the previous night. She hadn’t stayed out long before returning to her room to go to bed. Later, she learned that the others didn’t stay up late either; they’d split up at about twelve thirty. The plan for the following day had been to do some filming outdoors, so they needed to get up early in order to meet in the lobby at four thirty. The whole crew turned up at the appointed time except for the film director. They waited awhile, assuming he hadn’t managed to wake up. Five minutes later, they called his room. When there was no answer, they waited some more. They couldn’t do any filming without the director, so there was nothing else to do but wait. At about five fifteen, after many telephone calls, one of them suggested going up to his room, saying, “He put away a lot of drink last night. If he’s unconscious, he won’t hear the telephone.” Everyone thought this was a sensible idea. It was no secret that the man drank like a fish. At reception they were told that a hotel room could not be opened if the client was inside. They then consulted the hotel night manager, who in the end agreed that the wardrobe mistress, who was the director’s closest friend, could go up to the room with a member of the hotel staff.
    The wardrobe mistress had barely left before she returned looking flushed, shouting, “They’ve murdered Kurt!”
    Petra didn’t know how he was killed; she hadn’t asked. The fact that she wasn’t even curious made me uneasy to be honest, and my mind started working. Bearing in mind that even the wardrobe mistress had said, “They’ve
murdered him,” and she had only been in the room long enough for a glimpse, it must definitely be murder. Based on my experience from novels, I was in a position to say categorically that if a murder was as obvious as this, it was carried out with a gun. Yet even if it was a gun, you’d think an ordinary wardrobe mistress might think it was suicide before jumping to the conclusion that it was murder. Why didn’t she say “He’s committed suicide”, or “He’s dead”? I had more than one answer to that question:
    1. The wardrobe mistress killed the director.
    2. The murderer had just not bothered to dress it up as suicide.
    3. The wardrobe mistress was a reader of thrillers and so didn’t believe people could die a natural death or commit suicide.
    4. The director was killed by a gun, but the location of the bullet wound meant it was impossible for him to have fired the shot himself, and the wardrobe mistress had realized that with a single glance, which meant the wardrobe mistress must have more expertise than that of a mere reader of crime fiction. I had no idea whether retired doctors and homicide detectives found employment as wardrobe mistresses these days.
    5. No murder weapon was visible and the retired homicide detective-cum-wardrobe mistress noticed that at a single glance.
    After reviewing all these possibilities, I came to the conclusion that my thought processes were getting me nowhere.
    Â 
    To be honest, I don’t like the police. Some might claim that it goes beyond mere dislike, but let’s not get into
psychoanalysis. Suffice it to say, I will go out of my way to avoid a cop. My mother has always impressed on me,