by Aabid Surti
Taking a deep breath he added, “It's all God's will. Had He wanted, an angel would have dropped into my life too. Like your well wisher Dr. Chinwala, he too could have become my shepherd. Forget it. Destiny had already carved out my path. There is no point accusing anyone.”
He pulled out his glasses and cleaned them with the corner of his long shirt. After an interminable pause he continued with his narrative.
Iqbal crossed the road and boarded a bus for Churchgate. Gaylord Restaurant was nearby. During the bus journey, the thought crossed his mind that the person he was going to meet must be a Sikh. He guessed it from the surname 'Singh'.
Who is he? What is he? What could be his place in the world of crime? He did not have answer to any of these questions. Still, he had confidence that inspector Bhesadia's contact could not be an ordinary person...
Alighting at Churchgate, he glanced again at his wristwatch. He had arrived ten minutes before time. He spent some time at the nearby Eros Theatre watching the posters and still photographs of the film, “Chase A Crooked Shadow.”
Around a quarter past four, he crossed the road and asked the man sitting at the counter of Gaylord Restaurant for Mr. Singh. In reply, the man pointed to a table. Iqbal turned his head. He saw a broad shouldered, well-built man wearing a light brown safari suit sitting there, immersed in thought. However, he did not have a turban like a sardarji and his hair was well combed like a gentleman.
Iqbal walked steadily and came up to him. The man seemed to be deep in thought.
“Mr. Singh?”
The man lifted his head and took in, with cold blue eyes, Iqbal standing before him in his white shirt and pant.
“Mr. Bhesadia has asked me to see you,” said Iqbal, pulling out a chair and sitting down. There was a table between them with a half-filled cup of coffee on it. In the nearby ash tray, one could clearly see a couple of cigarette stubs. One cigarette was dangling between Singh’s fingers.
Generally, Sikhs do not smoke. Iqbal's brain started working This man was smoking a cigarette. Moreover, he did not have a beard and mustache like most sardarjis. On the contrary, he had a clean-shaven square face with prominent eyebrows.
“What will you have?” The Sardarji opened his lips after a while.
“I don't drink.”
Taking a drag of his cigarette, Singh decided to pull his leg. “I was asking about tea.”
“I meant that only.”
He was a bit surprised, “Don’t you drink tea in the morning?”
“Two cups.”
“Then what's the harm in having one now?”
Silence descended on both of them for a while. Iqbal took the lead now and said, “I hope Mr. Bhesadia has briefed you about me.”
“He has,” he admitted, “But I believe in first-hand experience.”
“Try me out.”
“From what he said there cannot be any doubt about your honesty.” This time Singh took a sip of coffee and stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. “He also said that you are a daredevil driver and you know how to drive a car and also how to knock off someone with a car.”
Iqbal’s beady eyes focussed sharply on Singh's face. He had uttered these same words before Bhesadia.
“Now tell me, till date how many people have you run over?”
“None.”
“Then, should I take it as a bluff…?”
Singh was surprised when he heard a negative reply. His broad eyebrows quivered. “May I know the reason?”
“Of course, Mr. Bhesadia has complete faith in me and I don’t give my word lightly. Still, if you don't believe me, as I said earlier, try me out. Whom do you want to be knocked off?”
“Not a human being,” Singh said picking up the cigarette packet and pulling out one. “Two jackets need to be disposed of.”
“Can you please clarify?”
“There are two jackets lying in an apartment on the third floor of a building; those jackets have to be picked up from there and thrown down in the backyard.”
Iqbal worked out – One jacket has 100 gold biscuits under its lining. One biscuit weighs 116 grams. Hence, 100 biscuits weigh 11 kg and 600 grams. In 1966-67 the price of gold was Rs. 180 per tola (11.5 gram). Accordingly, one jacket was worth Rs. 180,000 (In 1990 the price was Rs. 3.8 million). What circumstances compel him to discard these jackets? If it was just about throwing these away, even a child could do the job.
“No,” Singh said, “Because the cops have encircled the building for the last three days.” He flicked the lighter and lit the cigarette, gazing steadily at Iqbal’s face.
Now Iqbal could figure out the entire picture. The apartment that Singh was referring to belonged to his men. It was being used to store contraband goods. In the last trip, over 25 jackets had arrived. Meanwhile, somebody informed the police. Before they could take action, almost all the jackets had been delivered. Only two remained.
On inquiring from the neighbours, the cops came to know that no tenant lived in that apartment. Sometimes, one or two persons would come there with a suitcase and leave within an hour or so. The police got more suspicious, but they did not know how much contraband was stored inside. They were hoping for a major catch. It would be front-page news.
The question was whether to break open the door and enter the apartment or not. It was easy for them to barge in; but doing so would only yield smuggled goods, not the smugglers. Hence they decided to keep a watch on the building.
“How many cops are on duty there?”
“Six.”
“They must be in plainclothes!”
“Right. One of the six is hiding somewhere on the third floor, two are keeping watch in the porch, interrogating any suspicious-looking person found entering, and the remaining three are posted to the right, left and backside of the building,” Singh explained.
Iqbal could not help but whistle in wonderment. The building was covered from all sides. Moreover, one of the cops was somewhere outside the closed apartment keeping a watch on the door. If a fool dared to open it, he would be caught red handed.
“Now tell me, can you do it?” Seeing Iqbal quiet, Singh asked him tauntingly, exhaling a ring of smoke.
Iqbal ignored the sarcasm and said, “I want to know the geography of the apartment.”
He looked at Iqbal admiringly, tilted his head and said, “Two bedrooms, a hall, kitchen and two bathrooms.”
“Sketch the rough plan for me”
He immediately took out a filter-tipped pen, folded the tablecloth partly and started drawing on the glass top. “You will get off the lift on the third floor here. From here, you will go through the passage way straight, cross two doors and come to the third one.”
He was drawing the plan and explaining it too. “When you open the door and enter, there is a large drawing room; from here you have to go into this narrow passage. Here on the left, is the door of the bedroom. It’s in this bedroom under the mattress that the two jackets are concealed. You have to take them out and throw them down from the bathroom.”
“Is there a window in the bathroom?”
“No, but there is a ventilator. There are glass plates fitted into it at an angle.”
“That means I’ll have to remove these glass plates before throwing down the jackets.”
“What's the need to remove them?” Singh suggested a simple solution, “break them.”
“I can't do such a foolish thing.”
“Why?”
“Because the broken glass falling on the ground below will make a crashing sound.”
“Won’t the jackets make a sound when they fall down?”
“No,” said Iqbal, “The jackets are made of cloth. There is a possibility that because of the gold biscuits sewn into them, there may be a muted thud. But, that will not attract anyone's attention. Secondly, I don't want to throw away such precious jackets.”
“Then?”
“I hope to sneak them out safely and gift them to you.”
Singh's eyes
widened. Thick brows went up and remained static there. The smoke from his cigarette went up and curled. “Listen, Iqbal,” he said, addressing him for the first time by his name. “There is not just the risk of going to prison but also the risk of losing your life. And your mustache is still green.”
Iqbal remained silent.
“If you have decided to undertake this misadventure just because your future depends on it, then better know this: You have come to me with Mr Bhesadia's recommendation. To tell you the truth, I’ve full faith in his words. Till date he has never been proven wrong.”
Hanging onto his every word silently, Iqbal reminded him, “You haven’t yet given me the name of the building and its full address.”
Singh concluded that the greenhorn sitting across him was pig-headed. Knowingly he wanted to jump into the fire. If someone wants to commit suicide, even God cannot help him.
Handing over the keys of the apartment, Singh gave him the full address. The name of the five-storey building was Sagar Darshan and it was in the posh locality of Warden Road.
“One last question.” Noting down the name and address of the building in his computer-like mind, Iqbal asked, “Who are the next door neighbours of the apartment I’ve to enter?”
“To the right live a foreign couple. Their names are Suzy and John Langdon. On the left lives a Parsee gentleman whose name I don't know but his surname is Irani.” As if there still was a doubt lurking in his mind, he asked, “When will you go?”
“Tomorrow.”
“At night?”
“Only thieves operate at night. I’m a gentleman,” he remarked wittily, getting up. “I’ll see you tomorrow at this time.”
“Just a minute,” Singh stopped him. “If by chance the jackets are with you, then don't drop in here. I have a room at the Natraj Hotel at Marine Drive. Meet me there. And if the cops are after you, remember, we never met.”
Iqbal inserted the key ring in his finger and playing with it, went out.
Emerging out of the dusky Gaylord Restaurant into the open, he was reminded of the time. The sun had set ages ago and darkness had spread its wings.
For a while he stood thinking. A concrete plan had taken shape in his mind while discussing the matter with Singh. Now, the only thing that remained to be decided was the timing of his entry into the building. He proceeded further and instead of heading straight for home, he decided to visit the Taj Mahal Hotel. For that he had to go to the Kala Ghoda area after crossing the Oval Ground. It was just ten minutes' walk from there.
Stepping on the soft grass of the playground, he decided he would carry out the plan between one-thirty and two in the afternoon. That being the lunch hour, there would be a slight slackness in the watch, he figured.
After entering the Taj Mahal Hotel, he went straight to the florist's counter and taking out a hundred-rupee note, placed an order for a bouquet of flowers.
“Where do you want it to be delivered?” the florist, a Parsee gentleman, asked opening the receipt book.
“I’ll take the delivery myself tomorrow morning.”
“Would you like to place a card in the bouquet?”
“Yes, a birthday card.”
“In whose name?”
“Mrs. Suzy Langdon.”
Noting down the name, the florist asked again, “From whom?”
“Mr. John Langdon.”
“Wonderful idea!” He smiled at Iqbal. “I’m filled with joy whenever a husband remembers the wife's birthday and sends flowers to her. You can collect the bouquet anytime after eleven in the morning.”
Iqbal thanked him and went out.
Chapter 11
The taxi was going fast.
Iqbal had taken the delivery of the bouquet from the Taj florist at 01-05 PM in the afternoon. He had taken the taxi from there and was going to Warden Road. He had placed the bouquet carefully beside him on the seat.
He gave a cursory look at the bouquet and felt that it was value for money. With thirty roses were four branches of the rare Tiger Lily from Singapore. The bouquet of flowers was placed in a ceramic pot bound by thin silver wires.
The taxi was passing through Marine Drive, parallel to the sea. This October, the sun was hard enough to make you forget the heat of May. The parapet at Marine Drive was empty, the footpath was desolate and there was hardly any traffic on the road.
What worried Iqbal was the prospect of the woman not being present in Bombay and thus drawing the suspicion of the cops. Maybe she is present in Bombay and what if he bumps into Mr. & Mrs. Langdon at the entrance itself? The bouquet he had ordered from the Taj Hotel had the name of Mr. John Langdon as its sender.
The taxi crossed Chowpatty, reached Kemp's Corner and turned left. After some time, taking one more turn towards Breach Candy, the taxi stopped near the footpath across 'Sagar Darshan' building.
Iqbal did not want to get down here and cross the road. Like a lord, he wanted to take the taxi inside the courtyard and get down near the porch in front of the cops. “Driver!” he instructed, “Take a U-turn and enter that building.”
The driver grimaced but took a U-turn. The taxi entered the courtyard and stopped near the main entrance. Iqbal settled the bill sitting inside, gave a generous tip and got down with the bouquet of flowers. Two cops in plainclothes were standing before him.
Iqbal observed that one of them was short and plump while the other was well built. He was wearing blue sunglasses.
Before they could inquire, Iqbal forwarded the card of the florist and requested, “Would you please guide me to this lady?” He had asked so innocently that both the cops looked at each other, looked at Iqbal and then the shorter one took the card in his hand and glanced at it. The man with the blue sunglasses too stretched his neck over his shoulder.
The name of Mrs. Suzy Langdon was written clearly on the card. Beneath it was printed a birthday greeting in English – Many Happy Returns of the Day. At the end was the name of the sender, Suzy’s husband, in curved letters and the Taj florist’s monogram printed along with the words – With Best Compliments.
There was no place for suspicion. Everything was as clear as daylight; yet, the towering man with the blue sunglasses asked, “What's your name?”
Iqbal lied, “Michael.”
“I think I’ve seen you somewhere.”
Iqbal too was thinking on the same lines. He had seen this smart alec somewhere, but could not place exactly where. As soon as he expressed his suspicion, Iqbal remembered and his legs started shaking.
This was the same cop, who had taken part in the raid on Aziz Dilip's joint in Munda Galli three years ago along with Bhesadia. It was at the time of dawn, Iqbal had left home to offer namaaz and both had come face to face. Those days, Iqbal was studying in school and wore a half pant and half-sleeve shirt. Today, he was in whites from top to bottom, a full-sleeve white shirt, long white trousers and white shoes.
“Sir,” Iqbal said promptly. “My job is to go from place to place delivering bouquets. Perhaps I have dropped into your building too sometime….”
Before the smarty could think any further, a girl looking like a maid emerged from the building with a shopping bag. Seeing the bouquet of fresh flowers, she stopped for a while and asked, “To whom is it to be delivered?”
The shorter one looked at the card once again and said, “Mrs. Suzy Langdon.”
“She is our madam,” the maid said instantly. “Give it to me, I’ll take it to her.”
Iqbal missed two heartbeats but on the third, his brain came up with a bright idea. “Very sorry.” Before the smiling maid could grab the bouquet away, he said, “After the delivery, I need to take the signature of the madam on the receipt.”
Disheartened, she said, “OK. Go up on the third floor. It’s the last door on the left side of the lift.” Thanking the maid, Iqbal took the card from the shorter one and was heading for the lift when suddenly the maid filled with compassion said, “Wait, I’ll come with you.”
Iqbal was in a f
ix.
She marched ahead. Iqbal followed her with the bouquet in hand. After a few steps, both came to the lift and stopped. The maid pressed the switch to call for the lift.
“Why take the trouble...” Iqbal tried desperately to shake her off.
“What trouble? This is for our madam. I’d have helped you even if it was meant for some other tenant.” Saying this, the good Samaritan asked Iqbal the question he dreaded, “who has sent it?”
The lift had arrived and opening the door with one hand, Iqbal entered. The maid followed him and closed the door. “Today, it’s neither madam's birthday nor Christmas.” Pressing the switch, she asked again, “Who has sent it?”
Iqbal had to reply: “Mr. Langdon.”
“Really?” She said in disbelief
“What’s there to be surprised?”
“But....”
“If a husband loves his wife, can't he send her flowers?”