by Monabi Mitra
‘Okay,’ Montu mouthed back.
They crawled back to the durwan’s two-roomed house at the gate. One of the windows had come undone. It was banging against the iron grill each time a gust of wind blew. Montu steadied it with a dripping hand and peeped inside. The durwan was asleep, sprawled out on his bed. The mouldy smell of unwashed clothes mingled with the smell of rain and earth from outside. The room had been carefully cleared before he went to bed. No phone, no radio, no watch, because the window had been left open and the durwan, being a man of the world, had been clever enough to discourage petty thieves.
Raja pointed to a black object in the corner. Montu lifted his hands in question. As if in answer, a blinding flash of lightning lit the room and the two men saw the black bag simultaneously.
‘Get it!’ said Raja.
‘But why?’
‘Just get it.’
Montu rolled up his trouser leg and pulled out what looked like a small foldable baton from a holster strapped to his shin. The baton had been procured from a specialist’s shop on the Bhutan border for a considerable sum of money and was just the thing for such occasions. Unfolded, the baton became a flexible tool. The grill was old-fashioned, two iron rods placed vertically, with enough space between them for Raja and Montu to carry out their task. Montu lifted one end of the baton and, with infinite care, slid the end of the strap over it. Then carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration, the sweat running down and mingling with the drops of rain, Montu eased the bag, inch by inch, across the room and between the window bars till it dropped into his hands.
‘Go?’
Raja nodded.
The rain kept falling steadily and the pitted and rugged road was already filling with water. Raja kickstarted his motorcycle and Montu leapt on, clutching the bag. They roared into the pelting rain. In a little while, Raja stopped.
‘What now?’
‘I must see what’s inside?’
‘Now? Are you nuts? Let’s get dry first!’
‘Let’s take a look first.’
They stood beneath a portico that jutted out on to the pavement. A wet dog watched them sourly. They opened the bag. There was nothing inside except a five-rupee coin, a dried-up flower and a plastic packet. They rustled the plastic packet and found it empty. They searched the pockets and found only a pen with the Kingfisher Airlines logo on it. In desperation, Raja kicked at the dog.
He deposited the bag the next morning before Bikram and sheepishly explained the circumstances of its arrival.
‘Oh Raja, how could you?’
For once, Bikram looked as if he would burst into tears.
‘We thought we could snoop around and find something. But the room was like a hermit’s, no hidden booze, no money, nothing. Just this.’
‘And once he finds the bag missing, he will know that someone was up to mischief in his room and will become even more cautious.’
Raja’s eyes widened innocently. ‘Should we take the bag back?’
Marvelling at Raja’s faith in his own powers, Bikram swept the bag off the table hastily. ‘It might still come of use, leave it.’
‘Then we’ve done well?’
‘I didn’t say that …’
‘But we have!’
With great effort, Bikram stopped his desire to laugh out loud and said evenly, ‘Not bad.’
Raja seemed to wobble in what looked suspiciously like a dance step.
‘But, don’t discuss this with anyone else,’ Bikram cautioned.
Smiling affably, Raja left.
Bikram slapped at a mosquito that was annoyingly orbiting his head and dropped back on his chair. He had opened the window and shut off the air-conditioning, but now the sounds of the cars and the smell of pee from outside his office demanded a return to his air-conditioned cocoon. I’m getting too soft, he thought. And fat, eyeing his waist critically. He decided to while away the time doing some push-ups.
At the first push down, his nose touched the black bag.
Damn!
He picked it up to throw it into a corner but then took a closer look. It was an ordinary black bag, like the thousands sold along pavements and at railway stations. A fake REEBOK label had been painted on at one end. The bag was empty but Bikram felt his way through the pockets carefully. A mischievous idea was forming in his mind. A black bag from Nisha Bose’s house could always be put to good use. Something had been, no, was going on in that house, of that there could be no doubt. And if she had murdered her husband or one of the servants had done so, under her orders, this black bag could help set up the case. His long fingers encountered cloth lining and emptiness. He should have sent the bag for a forensics check up, that was a goof-up! But all that forensics would find would be Raja’s and Montu’s fingerprints. That duo was stupid, were they really capable of committing serious crime with such brains?
In desperation Bikram picked up the bag and shook it hard. A five-rupee coin slipped out and rattled on to his table. With excitement building up, Bikram patted the bag once again and slid fingers into various crannies. Through a hole in the lining he could see something white. Anxiously, yet with infinite gentleness, he pulled it out. It was a scrap of paper with tattered edges and the ink washed out to an almost indecipherable blot. He could barely make out a ten-digit series of numbers—94330-34, no, 54, was it 4 or 6? Bikram bent over the scrap of paper and reached for his cell phone. It was tricky, but it might work. He felt sure now that it would because, somehow, his luck had turned and everything would be all right from now on. Had Shona prayed for him?
While Bikram—assuming that the smudged figures on the shred of paper were telephone numbers—waited for them to turn into names and addresses, he was interrupted by Toofan Kumar on the telephone.
‘You will have to step out of your cosy office now and then, you know, Bikram, and do some actual police work. There’s a sit-in at an important road junction by the Association for the Rehabilitation of Municipality Sweepers displaced from their free lodgings at various city parks. Help the Regent Park police station regulate them.’
‘But …’
‘But, Sir! Manners, man, do I have to remind you who I am every time I talk to you?’
‘But, Sir, Regent Park has many sub-inspectors. I mean, I might be having a few leads on some of the cases and, well, I am crime branch. Sir!’
‘You will be zero branch very soon,’ growled Toofan Kumar, ‘if you don’t …’
Aware that it was useless to waste his time arguing, Bikram held the phone away from his ears and rang the bell for the peon to ready his car. The receiver squawked and spluttered, then went still, then squawked some more. ‘Hello hello, hello,’ shouted Bikram confusedly, as if the connection had suddenly become unclear.
‘Ullo, ullo,’ bellowed Toofan Kumar.
Bikram hung up, then grinned, imagining the apoplectic fit that would ensue. Then he glared at his own reflection in the antique mirror Shona and he had purchased from a shop in the narrowest lanes of old Calcutta, and prepared to give himself up to the sweepers at Regent Park.
The call came through just as he was returning from his round. Bikram took down the details on a letter pad that sat on the corduroy flap of his car seat.
‘Your speed amazes me,’ he told his contact at the telephone office.
‘And I’m amazed by the deterioration in your eyesight,’ answered his contact grimly. Every one of the digits was wrong and we had to close down all operations and pore over your stuff. Even then, it could be two or three numbers, as we narrowed it down. Do you want them now?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘It could be Mr Naren Das, Shibtala Street, Chandannagore, or Sumeet Kejriwal, Canning Street, Calcutta. The third name and number which might fit in is that of Muhammad Apple Hassan, registered to an address in Ripon Street, Calcutta.’
‘What?’
‘I know, what a name! Apple today, Pineapple tomorrow, Banana after that, quite weird! God, how do you manage to retain your san
ity, Bikram?’
Montu’s interrogation had turned up a floating dealer called Apple Hassan, and Mr Dawson and Tara had hinted at drugs in the Bose house. So, a link between the two worlds of Sheikh Hassan and Nisha and Robi might not be entirely far-fetched.
‘Anything else for me to do?’
‘You’ve done enough, thanks.’
‘How’s Shona? We need her help for a pre-puja office bash. She promised me last time but you poked your nose in.’
‘I won’t, this time,’ said Bikram and sounded as if he meant it.
‘You’d better not, or no more apples and bananas for you, only nuts.’ Cackling at his own joke, the officer in the telephone department rang off.
Raja, pacing up and down in one of the bedrooms of the Honey Grove Guesthouse, was beginning to lose patience. Negotiations had been long completed and payment was due, but the proprietor and his wife were being unnecessarily nasty.
‘You’re asking for too much,’ began the proprietor’s wife again. ‘We can manage the cops on our own, without having to make payments through you.’
‘In any case, we’ve had two from the local thana drop by twice already,’ chipped in the proprietor. ‘They hadn’t heard of you and told us to throw you out if you came in here for stuff. It’s their area, they said, and you are no one.’
Raja could feel his body quiver in rage. Play it cool, man, he told himself. He sat down on the bed and pretended to pluck idly at the scalloped bedcover. On the opposite wall was a poster of a naked white woman, who, bent over, her backside shining unnaturally, regarded Raja from between her legs. The proprietor’s wife was quick to notice this distraction. ‘Our girls can do that too, and even better,’ she said. ‘Forget this whole business and come down here once a month for a free session. Two hours, for you, with the choicest college girls. That’s a deal.’
‘You just went back on your earlier deal,’ said Raja. ‘And now you want to set up a fresh one. As for girls, this joint may not be open much longer if you don’t pay up. Will you or won’t you?’ There was an authority in his voice that went beyond plain swagger and even the proprietors of the Honey Grove Guesthouse were mildly impressed. But they refused to relent.
‘Now look here …’
‘Yes or no?’
‘We need to discuss some more …’
Then Raja’s phone rang and he couldn’t believe his luck. It was Bikram. ‘Are you busy? Can you talk?’ For once, Bikram had shed his mask and sounded excited.
‘I am in a location at the crossing of Southern Avenue and Lake Road, Sir, but it’s not important. Do you want me to go to your crime branch office or the police station?’
Out of the corner of his eye Raja could see the proprietor looking at his wife accusingly.
‘I need both you and Montu, because it’s about the bag you got from that house. There was a lead there. Can the two of you bring over Sheikh Hassan alias Apple? Montu knows him. Don’t frighten him, for heaven’s sake, this has to be done very carefully, he mustn’t go underground. Set up a meeting and let me know. You can make it the Prinsep Ghat again or, if he doesn’t agree, a restaurant, I’ll give you the name later on. Are you there?’
Raja was there, marvelling at this turn of events that would enable him to please Bikram and silence Honey Grove, two very delicate operations all in one go! He managed to keep his voice steady and say goodbye, yes, he would do whatever he had been asked and report back soon, then turned around and, pretending to lose all interest in Honey Grove, made to leave.
‘What about your payment, Sir?’ The proprietor and his wife had finished their hurried whispered consultation and now sidled up to him ingratiatingly.
‘What about it? It’s off, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all, that was a complete misunderstanding! Heh heh! If you were to get angry, where would poor people like us be? Forget the past, the present is all that matters, and this is what the present has to offer you.’
The proprietor’s wife whipped out a large sequinned purse from a flashy bag and took out a wad of notes.
‘I suppose they are five-hundred-rupee notes,’ said Raja. ‘I think I made it plain I only deal in hundred-rupee notes.’
‘No problem, no problem. Get him what he wants.’ The proprietor’s wife turned angrily on the proprietor. ‘You’re always so disorganized, why do you keep him waiting, don’t you see he’s got loads of important appointments to keep with the police sahibs. You will put in a good word for us, won’t you?’ she whined.
‘If your payments are regular and you remember to hike them every six months, I’ll try to remember,’ said Raja gleefully as the proprietor’s wife’s face fell.
Once outside he made a phone call to Montu, set up a meeting and took a taxi to the appointed place. As he passed a Kali temple he made the driver slow the taxi down, then raised his right forefinger to his lips, his forehead, his lips again, all the time whispering a thanksgiving prayer. It is all Mother Kali’s doing, he thought, that I, Raja, puny and weak, always ill and suffering as a child, expected to die any day, unwanted by all except my grandmother, am today Border Raja, king of the Indo-Bangladesh border and proud friend of the best cop in the state.
It was difficult running Sheikh Hassan, alias Apple, to ground. Raja and Montu spun elaborate webs, tapped all their resources, made umpteen telephone calls, spent a small fortune on taxi fare and on running up and down the length and breadth of the exhausting and overwhelming city. They met on multiple evenings over bottles of Kingfisher beer and tikka kebabs, argued and gave each other conflicting words of advice, broke up quarrelling and then made up.
Then, on the third day, Montu was handed a consignment to deliver to none other than Apple himself. Flushed with triumph, he demanded Bikram’s number from Raja.
‘I’ll tell him myself. No need for you to bother him.’
‘Oho, jealous in case I get closer to him. In that case I withdraw. This is a partnership, and I have a full right to contact the policeman myself!’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said Raja petulantly.
‘Do, and he’ll send you back to me in a trice,’ said Montu jubilantly.
Raja’s heart was heavy with the struggle of having to share Bikram with Montu but he knew there was no other way for it. ‘There is never any happiness when good friends and accomplices fall out, so here it is, but you must promise to let me in on every move,’ grumbled Raja.
Montu suppressed a smile and solemnly promised.
The handing over of the consignment, usually done in guesthouses and on railway platforms was, this time, to be done in the Don biryani restaurant.
Montu sat at a table wearing a scarlet T-shirt and a cotton jacket. This was his sartorial concession to the importance of the occasion. All around him waiters rattled plates, thumbed bills, shook bottles of dubious water and ladled up enormous amounts of saffron-coloured biryani with chunks of leathery meat. Outside, the trams trundled past and the bus conductors shouted out the names of stops, all the time urging new passengers in.
Montu sat serenely, betraying none of his inner nervousness. The plan was this: Bikram and Raja, seated at different tables, would join them once Apple Hassan arrived. After that, it was anybody’s guess what would happen. Montu hoped Apple would continue to be the sensible man he seemed and not create a fuss. Anything unseemly would put Montu in a far pricklier situation than ever before. He would lose his livelihood, the protection of his gang, would have to hunt for another and would be completely at the mercy of this policeman. Montu remembered his wife and his son, his family, the rent that was outstanding, the tuition that would have to be paid for, the medical bill for his mother that would have to be dealt with and the whole sombre business of life that clamoured for his attention. This Bikram seemed sympathetic, but would that sympathy extend to these other more urgent areas of life?
He tried hard not to look at his watch, but the minutes went by, and the quarter-hour, and then a half-hour. At a quarter past one, when the resta
urant was at its busiest, a heavy man with a moustache and with eyebrows joined at the bridge of his nose, entered and surveyed the room warily. He was carrying a black bag on his right shoulder. Montu, who had seen Apple Hassan from a long way off, did not rise or show any sign that he knew he was there, for fear that this might be construed as a tip-off.
The man with the knitted eyebrows stepped into the restaurant and walked up to Montu’s table. At the same time, a boy carrying a steaming hot plate of biryani towards the next table said, ‘Side, side.’
Raja, who had risen at Apple Hassan’s entry, dodged his way to the table and asked the boy, ‘Where’s my order? Why did you get this one first?’
‘But I didn’t,’ the boy wailed. ‘This is the first time I’ve heard of your order.’
A shadow crossed Apple Hassan’s face. He tried to turn quickly around not noticing that Bikram had crept up silently and stood on the other side. And now, hemmed in by Bikram on one side and Raja on the other, Apple knew.
‘What do you want?’ he asked quietly.
‘A chat,’ said Bikram. ‘And lots of information.’
They could not return to Bikram’s office, with the phone calls and the curious clerks and the stream of visitors popping in every minute or so. You cannot extract confessions from a man amongst lovers in parks and gardens, and Apple Hassan could not be interrogated in a plush coffee shop in a city shopping mall. Working in the crime branch off and on for five years, Bikram had figured a couple of handy questioning zones of his own, where he could take his informers and trusted sources without anyone knowing. His favourite one was a small room that opened out on to a jetty on the river, the Boatman’s Bay of Bengal Club, a tiny place fitted out with businesslike compasses and bunks and maps. Outside, the barges bobbed on the water and the tugboats hooted while, on the opposite shore, the warehouses stood empty with the new residential blocks towering behind them. In the distance, one could see the gleaming iron girders of Howrah Bridge.
Apple Hassan got out sulkily from Mistry’s car and struggled in the hands of Sanjoy and Debu, the two security guards.