The Mayor's Abduction

by Noah Alexander

  But a failure to become an official detective hadn’t stopped Maya from solving cases. Just last month, she had pretended to be a detective of the agency and uncovered a necrophiliac doctor while also helping bust a smuggling syndicate.

  She secretly harbored a hope to solve the mystery of the mayor’s disappearance as well, and for that reason, Maya was very interested in what Mr. Camleman had to say about the sudden crisis that had wrapped Cardim. But she had to be careful, Camleman was very particular that she keep her nose firmly outside the cases that the agency handled.

  Usually, the chief came to the office only on Sundays to attend the weekly deliberation of all the cases currently being taken care of by the agency, but he had called an emergency meeting on Monday when the news of the mayor’s disappearance had broken. The Council had announced a reward of 50,000 Cowries for any lead on the mayor, and the chief was intent on bagging that. He had immediately suspended all other work and commanded all the detectives and researchers in the agency to focus solely on this case.

  “The first question is, and this is the most basic one” continued Mr. Camleman, “Where is the mayor? Has he been kidnapped, or, has he been murdered and his body dumped in the river or buried deep in some wilderness so that it can never be found? Or has the mayor met with some accident, or indeed killed himself.”

  There was a hubbub in the assembly. A detective raised his hand trying to voice his opinion but Henry Camleman brushed him aside, he was not finished.

  “The next question is,” said he, “if the mayor has been kidnapped, as is the most likely possibility, who is responsible for this? And why did they do it? What was the motive? Was it ransom or do the kidnappers want to influence Council decisions? And if the mayor has been murdered, who murdered him and why? And if the mayor has killed himself, again, we should aspire to answer the why.”

  Henry Camleman scratched his long grey beard and produced a piece of paper from his trouser pocket to take a cue on what to say next.

  “There is a reward,” he said, “of 50,000 Cowries for any details which lead to the mayor. And more than that is the prestige of finding the most important man in the city. I don’t need to tell you how crucial this case is to us. Our agency has been in business for well over a decade but never has it been presented with a better opportunity to make a name for itself. If we are successful in finding the mayor, there would be no dearth of cases for us in the future. In fact, I will go so far as to say that we would then have the luxury of choosing the cases that we want to pursue. So, friends, from now all of you would try and answer these questions. Gather your network of informers, get us as many facts about the case as you can, buy all the guards and the servants in the mayor’s mansion a drink but I need these questions answered, and soon.”

  “I have an answer already,” said a young detective from the crowd, “The mayor has been kidnapped by the Choir.”

  There was a murmur of disbelief from the crowd. The Choir, or more officially, The Choir of Christian Boys, was a disbanded society of white men who killed natives and colored people in the city for fun.

  “How do you know that?” asked Camleman.

  “It is clear, isn’t it? Last week he passed the citizenship laws which grant natives in Anthill voting rights to the council, and the Choir had published an advertisement in the Dorado Express that if the decision was not rescinded, they would be forced to act. So far as I am concerned, they have acted, and the poor mayor now lies tied to a chair in some dump in the Flea market. In all probability, a couple of fat men in hoods and black robes are at this moment trying to scoop his eye out of his eye socket.”

  “These are the exact conclusions,” said Camleman unimpressed, “that we should refrain from making. If we deduce something without facts, there is nothing that separates us from the idiot writers of those preposterous novels that sell for a quarter Cowrie on the pavements. We don’t deal in fantasy, gentlemen. Let’s find the truth.”

  There was a near-unanimous snigger of ridicule at the young imaginative detective as the assembly broke up and people began to flit out of the hall. Most went out of the office, preferring to start work on the case immediately, while a few stayed back to discuss it amongst themselves. Henry Camleman, meanwhile, drifted to his cabin.

  Maya straightened herself and hurriedly pushed her chair back towards the reception. She hid the notes that she had made and busied herself in the pile of letters that had arrived for the agency in the past week. It was her job to segregate the letters, pay the bills and rents, and hand over correspondence on cases to the appropriate detectives.

  Most letters today were bills, rent receipts, and account statements. There were a couple of letters regarding new cases as well which Maya duly chucked in the bin. She had been instructed by Camleman to not entertain any new cases for the next two weeks. Maya flitted languidly through the letters until one captured her attention.

  URGENT. PLEASE SAVE ME! was written in big bold letters upon the envelope. It wasn’t addressed to any particular detective but directly to the Bombay Detective Agency. The author of the letter was not a recurring client and had found about the agency in a newspaper advertisement, as the address on the envelope mentioned the wrong floor of the building (which was a mistake that Maya had made while sending the advertisement copy to the newspaper). Maya felt inclined to open the letter, but she wasn’t authorized to open any letters which were not bills or rent receipts. Any correspondence from prospective clients was to be opened only by Henry Camleman. But she was sure that if she took the letter to him, the old man would throw it back to her without even bothering to glance through it. He had clearly instructed her to ignore any new cases for the next two weeks, or until they found the mayor.

  But this was not any ordinary case, someone’s life was in danger. Maya sat still, thumbing the envelope from all sides. The letter had arrived 3 days ago, so whoever was in trouble must already be very desperate for help.

  She stood up. She had to take the letter to Camleman, she could not afford any delay. If he decided that the case wasn’t important enough, Maya would explore it herself, but she needed to show it to the chief first.

  Henry Camleman was busy reading at least a dozen newspapers and making furious notes when Maya knocked at his cabin door.

  “What?” he barked, “I told you I need peace.”

  Maya was slightly annoyed by his unwarranted reaction but controlled herself.

  “I have something important to show you, sir,”

  She stepped forward and handed the envelope to the old man, “We received this letter last Friday. It seems like somebody is in trouble and needs the agency’s help.”

  Camleman snatched the envelope from her hand and studied it for a few moments.

  “I thought I made myself clear,” he said at length without even opening the envelope, “that we cannot take any other cases for two weeks. I believe you can understand and follow commands?”

  “I understand, sir,” Maya tried to protest, “but the letter seemed important. Someone thinks his life is in danger.”

  “You would be surprised to know how many people in this city think that. It’s called paranoia, and a detective is not the right person to solve that problem, a doctor would prove to be of more help. Now if you would excuse me.”

  Camleman crumpled the envelope and chucked it in the waste paper bin under his table. Maya stood motionless, eyeing the dustbin in grave disappointment. She shouldn’t have brought the letter to him in the first place. Camleman had made sure that even she would not be able to open the envelope and explore it.

  “Do you want anything else,” the Chief asked suddenly.

  Maya shook her head and turned to leave.

  Back on her chair at the reception, Maya sat rocking her feet feverishly. She could not get the letter out of her mind. She was sure it held something important, a mystery too stimulating to be ignored and languish in a bin. And the author of the letter was in serious danger. But why would someon
e fearing for his life write to an unknown detective agency instead of going to the police? Could it be that he feared harm from someone in the police? Or was it because the police had refused to heed him?

  Maya could only speculate. She needed the letter to get those answers.

  But how? It lay in a dustbin in Camleman’s cabin, she could not go there and nick it from under his eye. She could wait for Camleman to leave the office at which point she could easily break into his cabin and get the letters. But it was still only afternoon and Camleman usually left the office late into the evening. Maya did not think she could wait that long to get her hands on the letter. The anxiety of an unsolved mystery would sear her brain. She had to find some other way.

  Could she just barge in and collect the bin? Say that she was cleaning the office. But it wasn’t her job and Camleman would ask a lot of questions. That wouldn’t do.

  Her train of thought was suddenly broken by a new arrival in the office. A topless, famished boy dressed in filthy khaki trousers and with a large reed broom in one hand and a squalid jute sack in the other sauntered gaily into the office. The sweeper boy usually came in early in the morning to clean the office and collect garbage before the detectives arrived, but he seemed to be late today. That was it. Luck had smiled on Maya.

  The boy headed straight to the hall and with his long broom leisurely swept each corner of the place, oblivious to Maya’s restless glances from near the reception. He then emptied the dustbin in the hall in his jute bag and ventured into the first of the four client rooms that flanked the hall. After cleaning each of the four rooms, he finally made his way to Camleman’s cabin. The boy, used to working in an empty office, did not bother to knock on the door and barged straight in. Instantly, Camleman’s angry booming voice reverberated through the office building.

  “Can I not have a moment’s peace to work in this office,” screamed the chief and the boy skittered out of the cabin, empty-handed and scared out of his wits. He collected his garbage bag from the hall and hurried to the door. Maya stopped him at the reception.

  “You did not collect the bin from Camleman’s cabin,” she whispered.

  “That old man is crazy,” said the boy, still visibly shaken, “he will kill me if I go in again. I will collect the bin tomorrow.”

  Maya fished a quarter Cowrie coin from her bag and handed it to the boy.

  “Collect it today,” she said.

  The boy considered her offer for a long time before pocketing the coin and turning to the cabin once more. He stopped at the door for a few moments gathering his courage before stepping inside. Once more he was greeted by an angry Camleman who, uncharacteristically, lost all self-restraint and shouted profanities at him. In a few moments the boy made his return, jogging lightly, but he still did not have the bin in his hand.

  “What happened?” enquired Maya as he reached the reception, “where is the bin?”

  The boy looked quizzically at her.

  “In here,” he said pointing to his bag, “I have collected the garbage. Now let me go or the old man will eat me”

  “No wait, you have something I need.”

  Maya stood up from the chair and looked around to make sure no one was noticing her. She then took the jute bag from the boy and opened it. A suffocating smell of decay wafted at her face. Squinting her nose, she put her hand inside the bag and felt around for the letter. It took her a few banana peels, scores of cigarette butts, and what felt like betel spit to finally get the crumpled ball that was the envelope. She fished her prized possession out, removed the bits of rubbish sequined on it, and kept it on the table. The boy eyed her doubtfully for a few moments before realizing that he was still in the same office as Camleman and bounded out.

  Maya wiped her hands in her handkerchief and tore open the envelope which now smelled of spoiled food. Inside was a hastily written note.

  Hello,

  I am in danger. Please help me.

  My name is Kerry and I am an orphan girl living in the Sophia Home for Destitute Girls in Santa Clara. I think a man is after me, he wants to kill me.

  Every year at around my birthday, I receive an anonymous letter. There is some money with the letter and a single note. “Beware of the bald man with a half-burned face. If you see him ever, hide and save your life.”

  Over the years, this warning was repeated in so many letters that I almost thought of it as some sort of joke.

  But no longer. For yesterday, I saw the man that the warnings mention. A bald man with a half-burnt face was lurking near the orphanage and I believe he was looking for me.

  I tried to approach the Santa Clara constabulary, but the guards there refused to help me, they say that I am being paranoid. But I am quite certain that he is the same man from the letters and he wants to kill me, I could see it in his eyes. I found your address in the newspaper and am writing to you for help. Please don’t disappoint me.

  Kerry.”

  FIVE

  The Sophia Home for Destitute Girls

  Maya was impressed by the Sophia Home for Destitute Girls in Santa Clara. It was an imposing yellow stone structure built in gothic style with an orange gabled roof and numerous pointed arch windows that peered haughtily towards the Sophia Boulevard. The orphanage where Maya had spent her childhood compared rather unfavorably with this institution. She didn’t think girls here would be starved three days a week and beaten if they spilled water on the floor. Or if they were locked in damp underground rooms for complaining about the food.

  An old lady draped in a white house dress opened the large door to the orphanage. She had a short stature, grey hair, and rounded features which made her seem happier than she actually was.

  Maya smiled at her.

  “I am Maya Mitchell from the Bombay Detective Agency and I am here to meet Kerry.”

  The pleasantness on the lady’s face turned instantly into worry, and she clutched the door tightly to hold herself firm.

  “Kerry? Is she all right?” she asked gravely.

  “I am sorry I don’t understand,” said Maya, slightly confused “I received a letter from Kerry which said that she needed my help and so I came here to meet her. She said she was in danger.”

  “Oh dear lord,” the lady grew weary still and dragged Maya inside by her hands. The two had emerged into a large prayer hall. Most of the space was occupied by rows of long wooden benches facing a wall with a mural of Jesus on a cross. A few young girls in light blue dresses sat on the bench reading what seemed like prayer books.

  “Did she say she was in danger?” asked the lady, taking Maya as far away from the girls as possible.

  “Yes, she did,” said Maya, “but where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” whispered the lady in a scandalous tone so that no one else could overhear her misfortune, “We haven’t seen her since yesterday evening. Tracy, her roommate, told me today that she hadn’t been here the whole night. I didn’t think too much about it then, you see Kerry is already 18 which means that as per the rules, she is no longer the responsibility of the orphanage and has to vacate her room soon. I also knew that she has already rented a room somewhere. I thought she must have spent the night there. But you say that she wrote to you saying she is in danger?”

  “She did, Mrs…”

  “Crompton. My name is Claire Crompton and I am the caretaker of this orphanage.”

  “Alright. Mrs. Crompton, I fear that something has happened to Kerry.”

  “Oh dear lord, poor child. But what?”

  “I am afraid I don’t know that,” said Maya. She didn’t want to reveal the exact contents of the letter to Mrs. Crompton. There was a possibility that she had something to do with this affair, “Kerry sent me a letter saying that she was in trouble but did not reveal anything more. But, don’t worry, I am sure that with your help I can figure that out.”

  Mrs. Crompton poured herself a glass of water from a tapped pitcher kept on a small table in the corner of the prayer hall. Once she had dr
unk half the glass and regained some color on her face, she seemed to remember her guest and offered Maya a glass as well. Maya declined her politely.

  “Take all the help you need,” said Mrs. Crompton wiping water from her lips, “but please, find my dear Kerry.”

  “I’ll try my best,” said Maya, “for now I will need to know more about her. All the details that you can give me.”

  Maya took out a notepad and pencil from her bag and the two settled on a bench.

  “She is a lovely girl, god bless her,” said Mrs. Crompton, “very well-mannered and kind.”

  Mrs. Crompton stopped speaking and burst into tears at the thought of Kerry.

  “My dear Kerry,” she wailed, loud enough for the two girls in the hall to look up from their prayer books.

  “What happened Mrs. Crompton,” asked the younger of the two, “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh nothing really,” said Maya, “I am her niece and she just became emotional at seeing me after such a long time, you two carry on.”

  “Grab hold of yourself, Mrs. Crompton,” said Maya softly when the two girls had turned to their prayers once again, “we don’t need the whole orphanage to know about Kerry. Not yet anyway.”

  “Yes,” sobbed Mrs. Crompton, “You are right, these girls shouldn’t know, they are too young.”

  “So, you were telling me how lovely Kerry was. I would also appreciate if you can add some more details about her. You know, things like how long she has been here, if she has any known relatives or guardians, who are her friends. That sort of thing would help me a lot.”