by Monabi Mitra
‘Robi’s drug overdose was very different from the other kinds of overdoses in that house. You can tell me more about it.’
‘I can tell you nothing.’ The smile had left the doctor’s face and a cold fury had taken its place. ‘Had anything been otherwise, I would have told the police obviously. You can’t sit here in my office threatening me.’
Bikram shrugged his shoulders delicately and spread out his hands. ‘I haven’t said a thing and yet you’re so agitated. I hope you really aren’t hiding anything, because if you are there might be trouble. You see, even as I talk to you, Buro, Robi’s trusted attendant, is being put under arrest. Very soon the newspapers will get wind of it. Once we start briefing journalists—you know how we policemen love to talk. We let out that Buro is confessing and mentioning names, and among them is that of a famous doctor. Do you think your cosy little practice can withstand the nosy press, digging deep into your past, your assets, your lifestyle?’ Bikram took a deep breath, lifted the coffee mug, took a sip and watched the doctor who had gone absolutely quiet. The nurse knocked, entered the room and presented the doctor with a cordless receiver. ‘Mr Tekriwal on the phone, Sir. He wants to have a word with you.’
The doctor raised his head brokenly and the nurse, with admirable insight, sensed trouble. ‘I’ll tell him you’re in an important meeting,’ she intoned breathlessly and scuttled out of the room.
‘If I tell you what you want to hear, will you promise that I won’t be dragged to court as a witness?’
‘I cannot make any such promise, because you know as well as I do that a criminal suit, especially one of homicide, is too deep and entangled for one to make empty assertions. However, once the charge sheet is given and the trial starts, it may be a long time before matters get to the stage where you will be required in court. The press will have forgotten the case by then and you can slip in and out of the matter anonymously. The time to be feared is now, and I can help you, if I desire, depending on my satisfaction with your responses.’
The doctor knew when he was beaten. But defeat somehow revived his spirits. Settling himself comfortably on the sofa, he began: ‘I don’t know whether Nisha did drugs in her youth or not, but I suppose she did, in a casual kind of way. Of course, she was too aware of her beauty to let anything harm her looks. Robi was a good catch, good because he was presentable and had a fair amount of money without being unnaturally overbearing and bullying. Nisha had a husband to fall back on and she had her little flings. But she always had them with men who could give her something material in return, not money, like an ordinary harlot, but an introduction to someone powerful, or a tip-off on shares, or someone who could dig out money outstanding to her. She had a succession of small businesses: designing, art gallery, travel agency, all those things where one can escape tax and make quiet money. Her house soon became a kind of intimate boudoir where a select group of clients could drop in for chats and services rendered in a genteel manner.’
‘Were you one of them?’
The doctor went on speaking without a pause, as if he had not heard Bikram’s question. ‘Robi knew, of course, but never let on. At least I never heard of any big quarrel or accusations of infidelity. Perhaps it was the fear of scandal or that he was too much in love with his wife to give her up. His stroke could easily have happened, though, from all the strain and emotion, the rage at being constantly cuckolded.
‘I don’t know how the drugs started. They did party drugs, cocaine and meth, and partook of the illicit pleasures of Proxyvon and alcohol cocktails. The women went for it more than the men. Nisha, perfect businesswoman that she is, began to charge a fee, especially for the use of her house. Then Robi became ill and Nisha was a free bird. And fortuitously for her, Robi’s attendant appeared to have access to an almost limitless supply of drugs. All at once Nisha’s life opened up to new possibilities. I warned her, time and again, about what she was doing, especially because she was now part of what was obviously a well-run racket, but she was too far gone to care. And her friends loved it—who wouldn’t? There was now no need to hunt high and low for safe places to score from. I think the parties got wilder and the set of people became dangerous, with new entrants she couldn’t have screened personally. So I began to distance myself from her. And the answer to the question you just asked is, yes, I was her lover once, but no, never in these circumstances.’
‘Did she call you when the police investigation began and make any statement?’
‘She was very angry about Sudip Pyne’s obstinacy. She was scared, because she was sure that with the police all over the place, one of the servants might say or do something to arouse their suspicion. There had been trouble amongst the staff, I think, between Buro and her maid, I can’t remember the name …’
‘Mithu,’ said Bikram.
‘Yes. Mithu and Buro had been fighting over the drug profits. Mithu had also probably been stealing money and blaming it on Buro. Nisha was unable to control them and she had asked for help from Toofan Kumar, I think, and he sent you down.
‘But Nisha was afraid and asked me for help, which I could not give, considering I had drifted out of her life for quite some time by then. I felt sorry for her but I couldn’t say I told you so, though that was the most appropriate comment under the circumstances. And, Mr Chatterjee, that is all I know. I’m sorry I don’t know whether Buro did his master in or Nisha, her husband.’
Bikram was finding the room and the speaker, including his tale, oppressive and disheartening. He was also conscious of the fact that, though the things that had been going on in the Bose house were easily established, he was in no way nearer to the actual hand behind Robi Bose’s death. The day’s activities had been wearying and his leg ached. Also, he was beginning to feel dizzy and at times the doctor’s face seemed to come from some way off.
‘Go home and rest.’
Bikram lifted his eyes and found that Geo Sen’s face was swimming in and out of focus.
‘You need a shot of Tramadol yourself, I think.’
Bikram mumbled something, rose and stumbled to the door. Exhaustion bore down upon him and the nurse looked curiously as he gripped the door and walked heavily to the lift. Traffic was thick, and they fought their way through the evening crowds and reached home at nine. Without bothering to eat, Bikram changed and dropped into bed like one dead.
Ghosh was sitting uncomfortably on a swivel chair in a room in the crime branch. The door flew open and Chuni Sarkar entered, followed by Sheena Sen, looking vivacious and inviting in her uniform in spite of the fact that it was close to midnight. Then a man walked in, his face downcast, wearing a pair of dark trousers and a grey checked shirt. His hands were tied at the wrists. Behind him trooped in two constables and two others whom Ghosh found familiar but could not place till he realized that one was the liftman and the other, the canteen superintendent.
‘Leave,’ he said pleasantly, then shut the door.
They stood ringed round Buro, the five of them—Ghosh, Chuni Sarkar and Sheena Sen forming the inner ring and the two constables, the outer circle.
Then the constables scraped chairs and set up water in glasses and Ghosh, avoiding the uncomfortable swivel chair, settled himself on an ordinary wooden one.
‘Is the DSP coming?’ asked Sheena Sen.
‘No, I’ll take the first round. Let’s see what happens,’ said Ghosh.
Chuni Sarkar began the proceedings. ‘Why were you resisting arrest, pretending you hadn’t murdered your master? Yes, we know, and we have witnesses in the house who will swear that you did.’
Buro, surveying the floor, looked up and there was fear in his eyes. ‘What witnesses?’
‘That’s not for you to ask. Now confess and we’ll get you a competent lawyer who can state your case properly in court and help you. You slipped an overdose of painkillers and tranquillizers into his Horlicks, didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t, Sir, believe me.’
‘Who stole petty cash in the house? Think
well before you say you don’t know because we have one reliable witness who swears she saw you do it.’
Buro’s eyes glazed over with terror, the kind of look Ghosh had seen in many eyes.
‘Mithu! I knew she would,’ whispered Buro. He slid down to the floor in a heap. Ghosh frowned. Chuni should have allowed him to sit.
The constables rushed and dragged Buro to a chair. Water from one of the glasses was sloshed over him and he came to, shaking his head and spraying droplets over Ghosh and Sheena Sen. Ghosh took out his all-purpose handkerchief and wiped his face and neck, then took over.
‘How long have you been doing drugs?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Ghosh leaned over to a drawer and carefully took out one of the packets they had found in the shoebox.
‘We know everything. Sheikh Hassan, also known as Apple Hassan, has been arrested and has confessed. Shiv Ram Prasad Tewari, the guy to whom you made payments, has also ratted on you. You’re in for a long haul with us, Buro, so you’d better come clean and tell us all about the murder. We’ll see what we can do after that.’
‘I didn’t murder Robi Bose, I swear I didn’t.’ Buro’s voice quavered. His hands were still tied at the wrists, he lifted them as best as he could and attempted a namaste. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Sheena Sen took out a piece of gum and put it delicately into her mouth. Chuni Sarkar smiled, leaned forward and aimed a sharp blow at Buro’s shaking hands. Ghosh’s cell phone rang. He looked at the screen and his heart sank. It was his wife.
‘Don’t wait up for me, I’ll be late,’ he said, hoping fervently she would be too displeased to continue the conversation further.
‘And how will you get in? Like Superman, through the window? Don’t you know that it’s the guard’s day off and there’s no one to open the front door?’
Damn, thought Ghosh. He said, ‘You go to sleep and I’ll wake you when I reach.’
‘You will sleep in the park if you are a minute later than 1 a.m.,’ said his wife and slammed the phone down.
The cross-examination was proceeding along expected lines. Chuni Sarkar read the charges again and Sheena Sen repeated them, embroidering them with what Mithu had told her. But Buro’s defence was unyielding. He hadn’t murdered Robi Bose and knew nothing of what had killed him. It was a frame-up. For what? He didn’t know, couldn’t think, he implored them to set him free. Ghosh looked at his watch. 12.30 a.m. Perhaps, with luck, they would wear him down soon and he could go home. But the minutes crept by and 12.30 a.m. wound on to 1.15 a.m. and to 1.30 and, horror of horrors, 1.45 a.m. Buro’s face took on a ravaged look but he stuck resolutely to his guns. The consolation was that, midway, he admitted to knowing Apple Hassan and Shiv Ram Prasad Tewari, so Ghosh knew they could gradually close in on the drug angle. But what about the murder? That was the case at hand and if they couldn’t pin it on him, the weakest link, they would have to start all over again.
At 2 a.m, Chuni Sarkar opened the window and stared out moodily. What a bother! There was only one man who could break him down and that man was happily dreaming in bed, perhaps with that starlet girlfriend of his! If only they could leave off and go home too. He could hear Ghosh droning on in the background. Sheena Sen joined him at the window.
‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘Only Sir can do it. Let’s call it off.’
They both shot a quick look at Ghosh who looked haggard and worn out too. ‘Why don’t you make the suggestion?’
‘All right,’ said Sheena Sen and slipping up to Ghosh, said something in low tones. Ghosh listened, then nodded. The three clustered at the window and looked out to where a dog was scratching itself at the deserted ATM booth and a sentry paced down to the urinal.
‘The lock-up might actually help,’ said Chuni Sarkar. ‘I’ll bunk him with a difficult partner who can ruffle him. Maybe the bird will sing.’
Buro was led out into the night air, hot and stifling, and he looked up once at the great big moon that hung over the leaves of a pipal tree. The guards were angry at being kept awake so long and shook and dragged him roughly to the van and half kicked him into it. The van roared off and Chuni Sarkar followed angrily, determined to give the oaf a cosy cellmate for the night. Ghosh stepped dejectedly into his car and wondered if his wife would be merciless enough to create a scene at 2.30 a.m. for the neighbours to enjoy.
18
Bikram was awakened at 7.30 the next morning by the insistent buzz of his telephone. It was a journalist. ‘Has the Robi Bose case been solved? I heard that the crime branch arrested the culprit last night from the Bose residence. His personal attendant, who confessed to murder almost immediately at headquarters. What are your comments?’
Bikram tried to sit up and felt a violent throbbing in his leg and in the arm in which he had been given the injection. He tried to see the time through the mosquito net but the room was too dim for him to make out the clock. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse. ‘I don’t know, because others have been working on it last night. You’ll have your answer once we produce him in court today.’
‘Will you be handling this case personally?’
‘We all are.’
‘Is it true that if you are unable to produce a conviction on this one you might be transferred out of crime and to a remote district?’
‘From where did you get that one?’
‘Sources,’ said the reporter cagily.
‘Tell me more?’ asked Bikram chattily.
‘Is there any suspicion against any other servant of the household?’
‘Staff would be a better word, I think.’ Bikram was trying to raise the mosquito net and hoist himself out of the bed, which only made the pain worse.
‘Is there any other statement you would like to make?’
‘What’s the point? You will, in any case, fabricate all kinds of statements and attribute them to me. So you’d better get to work.’
‘At least you should thank me, Bikram! You didn’t even know about the confession.’
After the journalist had hung up, Bikram phoned Chuni Sarkar. ‘When did he confess?’
‘He confessed nothing, Sir. This one will take some time.’ Briefly, Chuni Sarkar outlined the course of events of the night before.
‘Well, we’ll have to hurry up, because the press have got the story wrong, as usual, and might force our hand.’
‘It’s not just the press, Sir, but others too.’
‘Hmm, yes. Has he rung you up?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Can you do me a favour and give him a preliminary report, exactly as you outlined it to me just now? If you do it well, he might not be too nasty.’
‘As you wish.’
Chuni Sarkar, who wanted desperately to stay on in his present posting, would have loved not to make this particular call, for reporting to Toofan Kumar was like playing a nerve-racking game of passing the parcel, and this time the parcel had dropped in his lap.
Bikram limped through his shave and bath, rummaged in his cupboard, swallowed a muscle relaxant, and read the morning papers. Nothing in them yet! Then he nervously switched on the television and zapped through a few news channels and ‘breaking news’ banners. Nothing there either! With a feeling of relief, he dressed with something of his old fastidiousness, matching clothes and shoes perfectly and cringing in pain now and then, before leaving for the office.
At 11 a.m., he rang up Ghosh. ‘Where are you?’
‘At home.’
‘Why? I thought you had taken Buro to court?’
‘Not I. If we do all the work, Chuni will have nothing to do.’
‘Let me know when he’s been brought back. And set up a meeting between the three of us, I’d like you to be there too.’
‘And Sheena Sen, I suppose, since she was there too.’
‘If you must,’ said Bikram unkindly.
At 2 p.m., Bikram, Chuni Sarkar and Ghosh assembled in the same room to which Buro had been brought the night before. Sheena ha
d been called off on another assignment but promised to hurry down as soon as possible.
Bikram spent exactly fifteen minutes with a bedraggled Buro. He must have had some tough luck with his cellmate for he only cried, pleaded innocence and begged for freedom. He also stuck steadfastly to his original line of defence. Yes, he had been associated with drugs once, but he had not murdered Robi Bose. When Bikram gave up, he found the others waiting for him. A look at his stony face told them what had happened.
‘This affair is at a complete deadlock,’ said Ghosh mournfully. ‘I had hoped that this Buro would confess and put an end to it but it seems like there’s no end in sight. What are we to do now?’
‘Think,’ said Bikram.
‘Of what?’ objected Ghosh.
‘Of everything, which is what we haven’t done till now,’ said Bikram. ‘We have only been running around hopelessly from one dead clue to another.’ Bikram stared at his fingers, then embarrassedly fished a mini notepad out of his pocket and opened it. Ghosh tried to peep in but could not see much. At any rate, what there was seemed to be handwriting rather than pictures. No drawings, thought Ghosh. He must have been really distressed.
Bikram cleared his throat and began. ‘Suspect number one was, as we all agreed, Buro. Obvious motive, robbery, but nothing was missing. Deeper motive, hired by someone else, probably the dead man’s wife. Had means of procuring poison, had all the means of tampering with drinks—either earlier in the drawing room or later on in the dead man’s own room or when the food was being made in the kitchen. Evidence, links to gangs, was a petty criminal himself. Mithu the maid says he stole money, which presents an additional motive in that Robi Bose may have challenged him over it.’ He waited, and when no one said a word, went on. ‘The second suspect is Tara Bose, the cousin. Obvious motive, gains control of the house by removing Robi Bose. The widow has an inheritance too, but the girl may not have realized that. Deeper motive, has had a quarrel with Robi, feels insulted and humiliated by the way he and his wife treat her, loses her head and kills him. Means of procuring poison: purchased medicines herself and has done so in the past. Often went and kept the deceased company, so no one would keep too sharp a watch on her. Evidence: she too has abused prescription drugs and I myself have seen drugs and alcohol in her own house.’