The Mayor's Abduction

by Noah Alexander

  “I cannot agree more, sir,” said the young man, “Especially given the hard work that you’ve put in over the last month, if there’s one person in this city who deserves rest, God knows it’s you.”

  Though Jabbar's comments were meant to ease him, they did the opposite. Norman Sinclair, who had forgotten it in the effort of reading the posts of the day, was reminded of the impending Council elections, scheduled in two weeks, which Norman hoped to win and get another term as the mayor. He felt like someone had scraped a healing wound.

  “I wish you hadn’t reminded me of the elections,” he said wistfully to his assistant picking up the last letter on his table, “I was looking forward to a peaceful slumber tonight. Untroubled by any worries.”

  Jabbar looked up from his letter, feeling apologetic for causing distress to the mayor.

  “But sir,” said he, determined to ease the mayor’s heart, “there is no reason why you should worry about the elections. The campaigning is all done and I’ve talked to more people than there are in this city. It is clear that you are romping to a victory. I anticipate a bigger margin than in the last elections. Just wait for two more weeks and when swarms of people would tumble out of their houses shouting your name in the streets then you would have no trouble believing me.”

  Norman chuckled. Though it was clear to him that his re-election was hardly that apparent, his assistant's confidence gave him some warmth.

  “You think I would easily defeat Claude?”

  Claude Labarthe, the Minister of Order, and the Deputy Mayor was his biggest competitor in the elections.

  “Oh, for sure, sir,” said Jabbar with a flourish, “With no disrespect to Minister Labarthe, he hasn’t exactly inspired confidence as the Minister of Order. I am sure people still remember the blunder of the ministry which led to the escape of that native man, the occult cutthroat who went on to murder 5 men after breaking out of the Mavinton Prison. I also hear that in the north, the law and order situation has become so desperate that people would vote for a rabid dog before Claude. Again, no disrespect, but if you ask me, against you it’s not even a match.”

  There was some truth in Jabbar’s statements. Claude's five-year tenure as the Minister of Order had had its fair share of lows. Cases of mismanagement and misuse of power had turned up every now and then. There had even been some serious allegations of corruption against him, by journalists and other council members, but they had been easily swept under the carpet by the Minister. That was what really worried Norman. Claude Labarthe was a rich man, he had a huge family fortune to spend on his election campaign, and from what the mayor had heard, Claude was also friends with some very influential people. People who could be a great help in his quest to become the mayor.

  But there was nothing that Norman could do about it, of course. And it was also true that the trends in the newspapers still predicted a win for him. He convinced himself that if anyone ought to worry it was Claude.

  The mayor tore open the envelope of the last letter. He had been holding it for so long that it had grown damp under his fingers. The envelope had no name upon it and it was addressed simply to Norman Sinclair and not, as was usually the case with official letters, to the Mayor of Cardim.

  Inside was a letter, penned in a very shabby hand and with a lot of corrections. For a moment the mayor felt inclined to hand the letter to Jabbar. He had been receiving a lot of letters from children lately. They were filled with suggestions ranging from making candies free to banning mathematics in school.

  But it took only the first two words to convince Norman that the letter was not a child’s handiwork.

  Dear Sol,

  The mayor’s eyes widened. He hadn’t heard that name in 14 years. Jabbar noticed the expression on the mayor’s face and was concerned.

  “What happened, sir? Is there a problem?”

  The mayor tore his eyes from the letter with difficulty. “N…No,” he said, sweat drops already quivering upon his forehead, “It’s nothing. There has been a fire in Anthill.”

  Jabbar chuckled.

  “5 years in the job,” he said smiling, “and one would expect that you deal with the news of a fire in Anthill with more composure. That place is a matchbox. I doubt there is a single day when black smoke does not rise above its shabby hutments.”

  “You are correct, this is nothing to worry,” said the mayor, “Listen, Jabbar, can you please give me a moment alone.”

  The assistant was taken aback.

  “Sure, sir,” he said scooping the letters in his hands and getting up, “I’ll finish these letters outside. Just cry out for me if you need me.”

  Norman Sinclair took a deep breath once his assistant had left the room and glanced once more at the letter.

  Dear Sol,

  I suspect you might have forgotten me, but rest assured I haven’t.

  I learned recently, of the progress you have made in your life. The Mayor of Cardim! What an unexpected turn of events. At first, I couldn’t believe it when I saw your sketch in the newspaper, but then I figured that most crooks and swindlers often end up as politicians, so why not.

  I was only disappointed that I came to know so late, that too from a newspaper. At least you could have let me know. But I suspect you had your own reasons for keeping your distance from me.

  But don’t worry, I am aware of your progress now, and you cannot imagine how happy this news makes me. I also have some news for you, but I don’t think you would be particularly overjoyed to hear that. I am out of jail now.

  I think you understand what that means for you and your re-election bid. But rest assured I have no plans to ruin your political career, at least not immediately, but I would need your cooperation for that. You’ll need to agree to my demands. For now, I have three.

  There is a man called Rattan Singh in the Sophia Prison who is about to be shifted to Vasco prison. I hear that the Peacocks there have arranged a rather rough welcome for him. I have cultivated a strong friendship with this man, you see he was the one who showed me your sketch in the newspaper and told me that you had become a mayor. That poor man has an ache in his leg. I want you to shift him to a hospital and suspend the inquiry about his smuggling syndicate.

  I need to know where Salome is. As you can probably understand, I have a few questions for her.

  I want to meet you in person. In a place shorn of any of your guards and Greycoats. I will send you the location soon. Be prepared.

  If you don’t meet the 1st demand by evening you would see your political obituary in tomorrow’s newspapers.

  Regards,

  Your Oldest Friend,

  Thaddeus Cormac

  The mayor crumpled the piece of paper and clenched his fists tight. Norman Sinclair had anticipated some obstacles to his re-election, but Thaddeus Cormac was not one of them.

  THREE

  Lieutenant Ernst Wilhelm

  Ernst cracked his fingers and smiled. He had a light bruise on his left knuckle, a little swelling where his hand had struck Rattan Singh’s knee, and there was a purple patch just above his elbow where Rattan’s jaw had made its impression. But the young high guard barely felt any pain. At the most, he felt a tinge of joyous, almost ecstatic sensation, like when someone scratches an itch too hard. Lieutenant Ernst Wilhelm, who had been in the Vasco Constabulary for only three months, was new to the experience of interrogation, and he had come to realize in his first attempt that he had a particular talent as well as an appetite for the exercise.

  Rattan Singh was a part of the biggest smuggling syndicate of Cardim and Ernst had arrested the old man last month when a piece of good fortune had led him to a warehouse under the control of the smugglers. Rattan Singh was the manager of the warehouse and had been injured in Ernst’s raid when a crate of blasting powder had exploded in the underground structure, flinging stones and wooden beams on the old man. He had spent the last month in the military hospital in Emilia guarded by an army of five Longstaffs throughout the day. Rattan
Singh was a key cog in the smuggling business, perhaps one of the most important men in the organization, and it was clear to Ernst that he held information that could implicate many other men involved in the business. The roots of the syndicate dug deep and wide, and it was Ernst’s intention to uproot the plant completely. From what he had found, the smugglers were influential men. They had deep connections inside the police organization as well as the ministers. So, it was important to keep Rattan Singh, his sole outlet to the army of smugglers, safe. The old man had been declared fit a week ago, and after spending some days in a transit jail, had been shifted to the Vasco prison, where Ernst waited in anticipation. Just arresting the man had brought him a slew of laurels and medals, including the Young High Guard award, the Council Medal of Bravery 2nd Class, and honorary membership of the Old Cardim Trading Council. If he could find out crucial bits of information from the old man and break the backbone of the organization, he could only imagine the impact that would have on his career. Ernst could bet his monthly salary that Rattan Singh, though he fiercely denied it every time the Lieutenant had attempted to interrogate him in his hospital room, held details of the most important members of the illicit organization and how they could be apprehended. Now that he was in Ernst’s custody, it was only a matter of coercion. And the jail cells of Vasco Prison gave him a lot more room to maneuver than the hospital. There were many other methods that he could use here.

  His hour-long session today had been fairly successful as a warming exercise. Rattan Singh had revealed the names of 5 men and 2 locations. Though Ernst had a feeling that all these men were merely porters who knew nothing about the load that they lugged to and from clandestine ships, it was an encouraging start. With time, and Ernst thought that he could have another session today before going home, he would surely have some big fishes in his net. The ones who ran the business, who financed the ships from America or Europe and who bribed policemen to ignore their operations and paid off the judges to get the cases against their men brushed away under a carpet of legal loopholes.

  Not this time.

  Ernst entered the large constabulary hall where around 30 small tables sat arranged in half a dozen neat rows. It was early afternoon and the place was bustling with people. High Guards with urgent cases in hand sat buried in files of evidence on their table, while others, who had nothing pressing on their mind, sauntered from table to table, tea tumblers in hand, chatting and exchanging jokes. Ernst sat down on his chair and looked grimly at the bundle of files on his table. The clerical work involved in his role bored him to death. He could spend three nights waiting in a dark street trying to ambush a wanted criminal, but expending an hour every day working on the files – documenting evidence and signing off letters, felt unbearable. He picked up the first file and was surprised to find his father’s sullen face swim abruptly into his head.

  If the old man had had his way, Ernst would have spent his whole life poring through files and signing documents and account books. Thank god that hadn’t happened.

  Ernst was, until his father disowned him 3 months ago, the only child of Friedrich Wilhelm and the heir apparent of the Wilhelm Bank, the third-largest bank in Cardim. Ever since his birth 21 years ago, Ernst’s father had spared no effort to groom his son to succeed him one day as the chairman of the bank. So, it was no surprise that Ernst’s sudden decision to become a police officer had disappointed the old man to such an extent that he had publicly disowned Ernst and barred him from having any claim to his family wealth until he left the abominable job in the High Guards and joined the bank.

  Ernst couldn’t help a chuckle as he imagined his grumpy father in a plush leather chair in his cabin at the bank, still red in the face, seething at his rebellious son and rejecting loan applications out of spite.

  “Why are you chortling like a girl about to get married,” Horace Ibrahim’s cutting voice hit Ernst in the face breaking his reverie.

  “Nothing, sir,” said Ernst straightening himself, “I was just…”

  “Follow me to my cabin,” commanded the Director and walked away. Horace Ibrahim was the director of the Vasco constabulary and the single most despised man for miles around. The director had a reputation of getting irrationally upset at even the mildest of mistakes and doling out punishments by the pounds to his subordinates. Ernst could see the proof outside the window of the hall. Second Lieutenant Brigand stood in the sun, his rifle held above his head. The young man had been sentenced to spend a day standing in the stifling heat for being found taking a brief siesta in office.

  Ernst got up lethargically, wondering if he would be punished for smiling without reason. That would be harsh even by the director’s standards. Horace Ibrahim’s cabin was wrapped, as usual, in a strange red glow from the scarlet blinds upon the windows.

  “Take a seat,” said the bald man pulling out a glass vial full of colorful pills from his table drawer and popping one in his mouth.

  “How is work going, Lieutenant?” asked Horace.

  Ernst felt slightly wary. Horace wasn’t the one for idle talk.

  “Going well, sir,” he said, “I just had my first interrogation session with Rattan Singh, the man from the smuggling gang. It went well, he was able to give me some names and locations which I am sure would lead us to better things.”

  “Good. I can see how well it went on your knuckles and elbow.”

  Ernst stiffened. Beating convicts was hardly legal, but he had been made to believe that it was the only way to interrogate criminals in this city. Had someone complained to Horace?

  “Listen, Ernst,” said the director taking an even grimmer appearance, “I have some news for you. Rattan Singh would be shifted to a hospital once more. It seems he has not fully recovered from the injuries sustained during the raid on the warehouse.”

  “But that is not true,” Ernst burst forth more loudly than he had intended, “He is perfectly healthy. Healthier than most High Guards in the building.”

  “Take it easy, Lieutenant,” said the director, “Doctor Carlos Cunningham from the Emilia Hospital does not share your views. He has sent in a letter stating that Mr. Rattan Singh suffered from severe internal injuries and he is not fit enough to stay in prison. He should be shifted immediately to a hospital.”

  Ernst snatched the letter from the director and glanced at it. The letter spanned two pages and was full of medical terms which made it seem like Rattan Singh was days away from death. It was signed by the medical officer of the Emilia Military Hospital.

  “But, sir,” said Ernst too disappointed to not let it show on his face, “I am very close to a breakthrough in this case. We have a golden opportunity to break the back of the smuggling syndicate. We’ll not get a better chance.”

  “Rattan Singh,” said the director disregarding Ernst completely, “would be transferred to the hospital today. I have asked Sergeant Porter to handle that responsibility. I will also ask you to hand over the case of the smugglers to him, I have decided to put him to the case.”

  Ernst rocked his head in disbelief.

  “But why,” he asked, red in the face.

  “You are new to the force, boy, and it would take a long time for you to fully understand,” said the director scratching his head, “but remember this, you are a Lieutenant, you do what your Director tells you, I am a Director and I do what the ministers tell me. That is the boundary of our job, and we need to work inside that.”

  Ernst understood nothing of what Horace said, he didn’t want to understand anything. The truth was that all his hard work of the last month was about to be put to waste.

  “What about me,’ said Ernst gruffly, “What will I do now that you have taken my case away?”

  Horace Ibrahim thought for a while, “Give me some time, I am sure there is work for you around. In the meantime get some rest, take a leave. A young diligent man like you deserves to have a break. And please send in Brigand when you go out. It seems like he would need some other punishment, that idiot was
sleeping standing up.”

  Ernst got up, reluctantly saluted the director, and turned to leave. At the door, he ran into a Longstaff who was in too great a hurry to even acknowledge him. The Longstaff went straight to the director and whispered something in his ear.

  “Lieutenant Wilhelm,” called Horace Ibrahim as Ernst was about to step out of the door. The High Guard turned around. “The leave that we just talked about,” said the director, “forget about it. I have something very urgent for you. It seems like the mayor has gone missing. I want you to be a part of the task force to look for him.”

  FOUR

  The Bombay Detective Agency

  “There are a few very important questions,” said Detective Henry Camleman, standing on the podium in the circular deliberation hall of the Bombay Detective Agency office, “that we must aim to answer if we are to solve this mystery and find the mayor.”

  He looked around the hall with his dull brown eyes to observe the impact that his statement had made on the two dozen detectives of the agency who sat around the podium, their faces glowing in the bright sunlight pouring through the window.

  Henry Camleman, a retired professor of psychology at the University of Cardim, was the chief of Bombay Detective Agency, the biggest private detective agency in Cardim. Maya sat on her chair near the reception, pretending to be busy reading posts, while actually listening intently to the chief. She worked part-time in the agency as an administrative assistant, taking care of accounts and logistics. But it was her aim to be much more. Maya secretly aspired to become a detective, she had joined the agency with exactly that purpose six months ago, to learn from the investigators working here, and one day graduate to the position herself. But a promotion had proved harder than she had envisaged. She hadn’t even been able to venture into that discussion with Camleman yet. Whenever she gathered enough courage to amble into Camleman’s cabin and express her ambitions, the old man, without allowing her to speak a word, would invariably begin to reprimand her for some or the other mistake that she had made recently. Maya was a clumsy worker and prone to errors. Sending cheques to wrong people, mixing up bills, forgetting monthly payments were a regular part of her workday. Since she could not hope to have a meaningful career discussion with a man already furious at her, she would have to postpone her discussion to a more suitable time. That time had never come.