by Monabi Mitra
‘Now, now,’ said Raja. ‘Be a good boy and don’t give us any trouble. Sa’ab here simply wants to ask you a few things.’
Sheikh Hassan shot Raja a venomous look and a longer, more inscrutable look at Montu, at which the latter’s disquiet increased. He hung back and beckoned to Bikram. ‘If this gets out, and Hassan turns me in, I’m finished.’
‘Have faith in me,’ said Bikram. ‘He won’t touch a hair of your head.’
‘He won’t need to. Half a word here and there and I’ll be dead before I know it.’
‘Relax, Montu. Go out and have a cup of tea. There’s a hotel nearby called Scoop, or you can try the tea at the bus stand, that’s good too.’
‘But you should not have any of that stuff, Sir,’ said Raja unexpectedly joining them. ‘Remember how you had a cup once after your walk at Eden Gardens and nearly died of a stomach upset.’
‘How on earth do you …?’ Bikram stared at Raja.
Raja winked. ‘I do my homework well. Now here’s Ghosh Sir. Right glad I am to see him after so long.’ Raja bowed down before Ghosh, who was still trying to extricate himself from his car, in an elaborate gesture of pranam and was met with a cynical humph. ‘Are you well, Sir? Have you forgotten me, Sir? At your service, Sir!’
‘Still the same comedy show, I see,’ puffed Ghosh, annoyed. Ghosh entered the room where Bikram was already at work on Sheikh Hassan. In front of them was the crumpled scrap of paper taken from the bag Raja and Montu had filched from the durwan’s room, the bag itself, and Apple’s own bag which he was carrying today. There was also a packet full of white powder and a bundle of what had looked like paper but turned out to be currency notes. Bikram was doodling ferociously on a slip of paper while Apple Hassan sat in front as if carved in stone.
‘And if I refuse?’
Ghosh looked around for a place to sit. Bikram said in a friendly tone, ‘Then this officer here will explain what happens to you. Ghosh, Sheikh Hassan wants to know what happens to him if he refuses to answer my questions.’
‘If that’s hundred grams of heroin, he gets ten years, and if that’s fake currency, he gets ten years more. Either way, we’ve got his bag and can plant enough evidence to put him out of the way for many years to come. Raja and Montu will swear in court to some other crimes, so, even if he can arrange bail on two counts, he’ll have to keep arranging more bail and we’ll keep convicting him. This goes on and, in the meanwhile, there’s enough hue and cry in the media for some judge to come down really heavily on him and refuse him bail. If I were Sheikh Hassan, I’d take the alternative.’
‘Very well,’ said Apple Hassan shortly. ‘I’ll talk.’
17
‘When Buro joined service at a hi-fi house in the city, he vowed he would never do anything stupid again. He had already got into trouble once before when he was an electrician’s apprentice—couldn’t restrain himself and picked up a brooch from a dressing table on his way out. Totally unnecessary, but that’s Buro for you, thinks himself damn clever.’
They were still seated in the tiny room at the Bay of Bengal Club. Beyond, the plaintive chug-chug of the steamers, blended with the roar of the buses skittering towards Howrah, and was occasionally punctuated by the shush of the flush as someone used the toilet outside. Now that Sheikh Hassan had begun to talk, his sass came back. Hassan had a pear-shaped body and a look of undue ferocity because of the knitted eyebrows. ‘Looking back, I now realize that Buro never had much luck with anything. His father died early and he had three sisters to marry off. Usual story, of course. I think he tried his hand at waiting in a tea stall, but the stall was burnt down in some election clash. He tried to ingratiate himself with the local panchayat but was too scared to handle a revolver, or so he told me. So he came to Calcutta and got too greedy too soon, as I just told you. After Buro went underground, following the brooch incident, a man from his village brought him along to me for some small jobs. I gave him a couple of roving assignments, occasionally ferrying an envelope, booking a room in a hotel for a client and such like, because I take my time over new chaps, especially drifters like him. I helped set him up, however, so that in a few months he found work as a masseur. Nothing much, about one hundred rupees a sitting, till he found better work at a physiotherapist’s clinic, where he learnt his trade a little more professionally. He used to come and meet me now and then, grumbling about money and wanting better things to do. His mother was nagging him over the sisters and their marriages and he was unable to cough up the money. But he didn’t want to join a factory in one of the cities either, as a common labourer. He wanted to become a contact man here but I said that life begins at the carrier stage, contact is level two, and he would have to make trips across the border with my stuff and slog it out before I upgraded him. But Buro was unwilling.’ Sheikh Hassan sniffed. ‘Always the softie who wanted quick and easy money. In a way, I’m happy to be here ratting on him today.’
‘He stopped coming for about six months and I thought he’d gone off to Delhi or Mumbai. Then one day he turned up, very excited, wearing jeans and an expensive T-shirt. He had squirted perfume on himself and looked very happy and smug. I thought he had been taken in by some rival gang and he had come to preen before me, but that was not so. He said he had found employment in a rich household as a male nurse and the man’s wife had the hots for him. I usually let these gawky youngsters ruin themselves without interfering, but Buro was such an ass I felt sure he would be entangled in something bad soon and would trap me too. So I took him aside and gave him words of advice, such as I have never done, and told him there would always be disaster if he tried to clean out the household or rape the mistress. Things are different in cities elsewhere in India. One can always pull off something there and have our organization help one go underground in Bengal, but it is impossible to pull off a caper in Calcutta and expect to hide in Bengal.
‘Buro laughed, which I found very insulting, and patted me on the shoulder. He laughed at me, can you imagine, me, who has been in this business while he was still drinking his mother’s milk and shitting on her lap!’ Apple Hassan’s lips curled at the remembrance of this indignity and he stopped talking.
‘He boasted about drugs, I suppose,’ Bikram broke the silence.
‘Yes. He said the mistress of the house was fond of rough parties, with crack for the more daring and pills for the newbies and the not-so-brave. Buro had fixed up with the local pharmacy but they were asking for too much money and their supplies were irregular. Buro had it all figured out: he would set up a laboratory and manufacture the stuff, take over production and delivery, and become the kingpin in his area. Then I laughed at him, reminded him of some of the names he would be up against and some of the men with whom he would have to cross swords. But he was adamant. He asked me for an advance, which is a measure of his stupidity. I refused and he went away. He must have managed the money somehow, because I heard he had set up his lab and was doing some work there. And that’s all I know, in the name of Allah, so you must let me go now.’
‘The address, please.’
Bikram pushed forward a slip of paper, but Apple Hassan was cannier than he thought. ‘I can’t write, and can barely read. You’ll have to take it down yourself.’ He dictated an address in an obscure lane in a northern suburb of Calcutta which Bikram took down.
Then Ghosh stirred and felt in his pockets and took out a crumpled piece of paper, covered with tissue, of the kind that expensive clothes shops use for wrapping their merchandise. ‘And now, kindly explain to us, Mr Apple Hassan, why you go around terrorizing innocent ladies by forcing yourself upon them unannounced?’
‘I don’t understand.’ Sheikh Hassan was the picture of innocent bewilderment.
‘Who went to a flat owned by Lily Lahiri and frightened her so much that she was forced to call the police?’
Apple Hassan continued to be puzzled. ‘I didn’t do a thing like that, why should I? That’s stupid.’
Ghosh roared, ‘Do I have to knock you on the
head to make you confess? Look at these scraps of paper left behind by you, or your men, with your name on them, at Lily Lahiri’s residence a few days ago this month.’
Apple Hassan stared at the scraps of paper, then turned to Bikram. ‘I swear by Allah, Sir, I had nothing to do with this. The sari business is a front. I would be a fool to commit theft or murder as a sari seller! This must be someone else!’
Bikram and Ghosh exchanged significant glances. ‘I think,’ said Bikram, ‘you’d better review your business partners and underlings and find out how many of them are disgruntled. Clearly, someone was trying to trap you.’
Sheikh Hassan sat frozen.
‘And now,’ said Bikram gently, ‘thank you for all your help, but I do have to arrest you.’
Sheikh Hassan looked up sadly and his eyes were pleading.
‘No,’ said Bikram. ‘You can never turn informer; you know this as well as I do. Besides, you know the tricks of the trade, and will know how to wriggle out of this one, just when we need lots more information out of you. Not just I, but my colleagues in other departments as well. You’re too well known to be simply let off like Montu.’
Sheikh Hassan, alias Apple, smiled. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I’m almost relieved. If I can go out of circulation for some time now, I can work from jail and reset my network. The minute I go in, the traitors will expose themselves and I can weed them out. And yes, it is my good luck that I have been caught by a DSP, Bikram Chatterjee no less, and not a lowly constable. Now at least I can hold my head high!’
Two mangled Tata Sumo cars bumped and pushed their way over a battered road. The little bylane branched off from the main road and they could barely squeeze themselves between tiled mud huts and scum-filled ponds.
Ghosh and Bikram were intoxicated with pre-raid adrenaline but tried hard not to show it. The house had been scouted out beforehand, its location noted and the constable who had done so, now sat in front issuing instructions, left, right, left again, down by the tree, right, alongside Jagabandhu Sweets, beside the Corporation School, beyond the Milon Sangha, yes, there it is, Sir, that old house over there, up behind the locked gate. The house stood alone, with no signs of habitation around it. It was 2 p.m. but all was sleepy and quiet.
Brakes screeched and doors were flung open. From the Tata Sumo at the rear, constables tumbled out and took up positions around the house, slipping and cursing as they went. Bikram walked calmly over to the gate, vaulted over it and disappeared inside. Ghosh, sweating and fuming, shouted at the constable beside him to break open the padlock and hurry. He looked around him. The house was old and shut and looked completely empty and abandoned. A narrow patch in front was overrun by weeds and bushes. The unmistakable crack of a pistol shot came from within the house. At the same time, Ghosh’s phone rang. It was Bikram.
‘Don’t worry, it was just me, firing at the lock to open it.’
The line went dead. The constable rattled and pushed at the lock with his implements and Ghosh aimed a kick at the gate. Crash! The right section of the gate collapsed and Ghosh jumped back in surprise. He stopped and mouthed a silent thanks that the gate had not fallen as Bikram was jumping over it.
The front door was open. He’s agitated, thought Ghosh, or he would never have made the mistake of firing at a door behind which people could be living. But there seemed to be no one inside except rats and lizards. The red floors were covered with weeks-old dust. A pair of chappals lay abandoned in a corner and a dirty mattress in another.
Ghosh moved cautiously to the next room. There were two iron chairs before a table with an aluminium top. On the table were three chipped cups, four cracked saucers, two dirty red flannel rags, a China teapot and a sheet of newspaper. There were also four bottles of locally made alcohol, empty and lolling forlornly on the floor.
The sound of footsteps sounded and Ghosh looked up. Bikram entered, looking a picture of misery. There were cobwebs on his shirt and collar and an ugly tear in his trousers where it had caught the rusted gate. He was pocketing his revolver and looked so dejected that Ghosh felt a twinge of pity for him. ‘Beg your pardon, Sir, but I think you should check if you are bleeding or not. That gate was really bad. Perhaps you should take an anti-tetanus shot.’
He could have spoken to the table. Bikram collapsed on a chair and sat back, with his eyes closed. ‘And all along I had visions of a sophisticated amphetamine factory, Ghosh, with Buro and his gang furiously cranking out the stuff. Do you think Sheikh Hassan deliberately misled us?’
‘We misled ourselves, Sir, because we let our imagination run. We should have realized that it was not possible. Buro could never have set up on his own. Meth manufacture is sophisticated and beyond Buro. We knew all this, and yet persuaded ourselves to dream a bit.’
Bikram had been massaging his temples as Ghosh spoke, now he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. ‘You’re right, Ghosh, and we fell into a nightmare. But even the worst nightmares have an end and sometimes idle dreams do come true, but in an unlikely way. For look you, Ghosh, there, above me, I can see what may take us somewhere nearer our destination.’
He’s gabbling, thought Ghosh. Had the strain got too much to bear? He followed Bikram’s gaze, not knowing what to expect, and then held his breath.
Perched on the iron beams above was a shoe box.
Sanjoy and Lalbahadur, scouting around the interiors and flashing torches in a show of efficiency, were hailed by Bikram. ‘Get that box down carefully.’
Someone found a high stool and dragged it in, while Sanjoy and Lalbahadur argued who would climb, till, after a bellow from Ghosh, both tried to climb it together. Finally, the box was brought down.
It contained ten packets of white powder.
‘Not bad,’ said Bikram. ‘Not bad at all. This and that black bag Raja and Montu picked up from the durwan’s house, together with Apple Hassan’s testimony, should help us tie it in. Pick up those bits of cup and plate as evidence also and send them along for a forensics test. We are sure to find fingerprints that will match Buro’s. The thing to do is to shape all the evidence tidily, organize it well and then present it to Buro. If we do it properly, he should crack and confess.’
That afternoon, two addicts who were sliding into cold turkey in the airport thana lock-up were in for a pleasant surprise. They were taken out of their cell into an adjoining room where two policemen, one fat and sweat-drenched and the other very obviously a senior officer, offered them a sampling such as they had never imagined in their wildest dreams.
Currency notes were rolled into columns and the powder laid before their bewildered eyes.
‘Now tell us how it is.’
Addict number one, younger and newer, was at first apprehensive, but addict number two leaned over and whispered. ‘Even if it’s some kind of torture and they want some confession, take the stuff first before they jerk it out of reach.’
The heady fumes sank in slowly and the familiar tingling came back. Elated, they looked up with glazed eyes.
‘Tell us, you fool, how it is. Is it good? Is it the real stuff?’
‘Real good,’ whispered one.
‘Excellent,’ mumbled another.
‘How would you rate it on ten?’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘I didn’t ask you to pay me, you shithead. I said, how would you rate it? Is it fake, or adulterated or genuine?’
‘It’s good stuff.’
The elder addict, more worldly-wise, knew he would have to make a few noises before slipping into torpor. ‘It would fetch a good price in the market. Must have come in from Nepal or Bangladesh, it’s got that right kind of blend about it. May we have some more?’
But the fat man was already gathering the powder back together. The elder addict watched him plaintively for a while and then slumped down beside his partner.
Bikram came home, washed, dabbed antiseptic on the wound which was throbbing malevolently and looked bad, then looked at his watch. It was 5
p.m. Another hour or so and Dr Geo Sen, having preached temperance and regulation all day, would be out to glut himself. He dialled Geo Sen’s number and waited, three quick rings and then Geo Sen’s carefully cultured voice, ‘Yes, Mr Chatterjee, how goes it with you?’
‘I need your help professionally.’
‘Yes?’ The voice sounded doubtful.
‘I need an anti-tetanus injection and then a quick consultation. My physician is out of town.’
‘Dear me, nothing serious I hope.’
‘It was at a raid. I jumped over a gate and hurt myself.’
‘What exciting lives you lead! Be here at 7.30 p.m. and I’ll keep things ready for you.’
At precisely 7.35 p.m., Bikram presented himself at Geo Sen’s chamber and was ushered into the sumptuous inner room, where he sat for ten minutes on a plush sofa inhaling the smell of cappuccino and leafing through the month’s copy of Cosmopolitan.
At 7.55, Dr Sen bounded in. He was followed by a nurse looking natty in her uniform. The wound was examined and the nurse applied some ointment on it and covered it with a gauze bandage. Then she finished off with the anti-tetanus shot and coffee was brought in.
The doctor plied Bikram with cookies and leaned back, smiling. His smile indicated that he was not displeased with Bikram’s visit. It was always useful to add a policeman to your list of contacts and it was clever of Bikram to have turned an acquaintance formed over an uncomfortable investigation into a friendship.
‘How is everything?’ The doctor was still beaming.
‘Everything’s just fine,’ said Bikram sunnily. ‘We are, in fact, putting the finishing touches to the Robi Bose case. It’s probably all over by now.’
‘Probably?’
Geo Sen continued to smile but Bikram could see that the news had startled him.
‘Yes! The whole thing was very flat, very banal, in the end. Drugs.’
‘What about them?’ The doctor’s lips were still stretched in a smile but a shadow had crossed his face. ‘Robi dosed himself on an excess of painkillers, right? Isn’t that what we all knew from the beginning?’