by Vaseem Khan
“But I’ve just begun to make progress,” protested Chopra. “Your instincts were right. I think there may be more to Burbank’s death than suicide.”
“Believe me, if I had my way, we’d see this through to the bitter end. But I really don’t have a choice. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” Tripathi hung up.
Chopra stared at the phone, his jaw grinding with anger and disappointment. “Hello?” It was Lisa Taylor. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” said Chopra.
“Not many men put me on hold,” said Taylor. But she sounded more curious than angry. “Must have been important.”
“It was.”
“You were asking about Padamsee.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” said Chopra. “I’m afraid my investigation has come to an end.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Chopra quickly explained.
“But that’s ridiculous!” protested Taylor. “You’re the only one who’s really taken this seriously.”
“It’s out of my hands. My client has terminated my services.”
Taylor was silent. When she spoke it was with a curious excitement. “Don’t give up just yet. Meet me in the restaurant in twenty minutes. I may have a solution.”
Precisely twenty minutes later, Chopra entered the Banyan restaurant. Immediately, he heard Ganesha’s bugle, and then the little elephant shot past him in a grey blur.
“Poppy!” he said, staring in astonishment at his wife seated at a table with Irfan, with what looked like half the restaurant’s menu spread out before them. A sweating waiter hovered at Poppy’s elbow, nervously awaiting a verdict. “What are you doing here?”
Poppy rose to greet her husband. “I have found a solution,” she announced.
“A solution?” Chopra was nonplussed. “What was the problem?”
“The fact that you don’t know what the problem is, is itself the problem,” said Poppy, her tone stiffening.
Chopra’s mouth flapped open, but any words therein appeared to decide that rushing out into the line of fire was not worth the risk, and stayed right where they were.
“Look,” said Poppy, her expression softening, “I understand that your job is important to you. I understand that you feel responsible for everyone who asks for your help. But you need to understand that, right now, this is important to me. Our anniversary is not just another day. And since you cannot be at home to participate in it with me, I have decided to come to you instead. If the camel will not go to Mecca, then Mecca must come to the camel, yes?” Poppy smiled.
Chopra’s eyes crinkled.
He had always understood that his wife was an emotional person, and that was fine. It balanced out their relationship. But this, this was…
“Don’t worry about the expense,” said Poppy hurriedly, the words floating from her mouth in a nervous rush. “We have been given a complimentary suite.” She hesitated, perhaps sensing her husband’s real consternation. “And don’t worry about us getting under your feet. Irfan and I will enjoy our stay here until you are ready to join us. Perhaps we can have dinner together? You can stay in the suite with us, of course.” She looked hopefully at her husband, as did the waiter, and a number of other diners who had stopped eating to listen in on the developing melodrama.
“Poppy, we cannot accept this suite,” said Chopra gently.
“But the general manager said it was not a problem.”
“It does not matter what he says. It is a matter of principle.”
“But—” Poppy began, but was cut off by Lisa Taylor materialising at her husband’s elbow.
“Hello, Chopra. Have you spoken to Padamsee yet?”
The young Englishwoman was wearing a short red satin dress with spaghetti straps, and designer heels. She had showered and changed after her workout, and was now dressed to the nines. Or, at least, partially dressed, whispered a hot little voice in Chopra’s ear.
“No,” said Chopra. “As I said on the phone, I am no longer charged with this investigation.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Taylor brightly. “I’ve just got off the phone with the managing director of Gilbert and Locke. We would like to retain your services. To investigate Burbank’s death.”
Chopra’s jaw slackened. “Why? How?”
“Burbank was one of our biggest clients. We want to get to the truth about his death.” She lowered her voice so that only Chopra could hear. “We need to know exactly what we are dealing with, Chopra. If it was suicide, fair enough. But if it was murder, then we need to be armed with the facts. The good name of Gilbert and Locke must be protected at all costs. Somehow I don’t believe that that is foremost on the agenda of ACP Gunaji.”
“This… this is—” began Chopra.
“No need to thank me,” said Taylor. “I should warn you that there is a clock ticking here. My boss wants this all tied up in the next few days. Before the police can make a statement.”
Chopra nodded. “I understand.”
“So you accept?”
“Yes. I accept.”
“Splendid! Now, since you haven’t yet spoken to Padamsee, why don’t we go together? I’d like to see what that oaf has to say for himself.”
Chopra suddenly sensed the pressure of Poppy’s stunned gaze, as well as the goggle-eyed scrutiny of the lookers-on. He flushed in the sudden silence.
“Yes, Chopra,” said Poppy icily. “Why don’t you carry on? In the company of—I’m sorry, madam, I did not catch your name…”
“Lisa. Lisa Taylor.” Taylor gave a photogenic smile. “I’m helping him with his investigation.”
“Is that so?” said Poppy. “He did not mention that he was working with a partner.”
“She’s not my partner,” said Chopra hurriedly. “Lisa is an auction director. She, ah…” He glanced around at the impromptu audience. “Perhaps this isn’t the place to discuss this.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” said Poppy flatly. “As you told me last night, this is a very important case. I can see that you have much to keep you engaged. Why don’t you run along? I shall go back to my suite.”
“But Poppy, I thought we had discussed the matter of the suite—”
“You had discussed it,” interrupted Poppy, curtly. “That is not the same thing as we.”
“Perhaps I can help?” said Taylor. “Gilbert and Locke will be happy to pick up the tab. For your suite, I mean.”
Chopra stared at the woman. “That is very generous, but—”
“Then it’s settled. Now, I don’t see Padamsee around.” She smiled breezily at a waiter. “Hello, Shiva. Do you know where Adam Padamsee is? He usually drinks his lunch here.”
“Yes, madam, he was here.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“Yes, madam.”
They waited.
“Well, are you going to keep us in suspense?”
“Oh! Sorry, madam. I believe he has gone to the Nehru Room.”
Taylor turned to Chopra. “That’s where we’re exhibiting some of the artwork that wasn’t sold at the auction. I’m due to show a collector around now, actually. A millionaire dung baron from Kerala. I’ve always been fascinated by how you can make so much money out of dung. Fertiliser, apparently.” She turned and patted Ganesha on the head. “I still can’t get over the fact you’ve got your own little elephant. No one would believe me back home in Oswestry. Right, let’s go, Chopra.”
She walked off briskly towards the exit.
Chopra hesitated, vacillating between leaving and staying to smooth things over with Poppy. He could sense that his wife was unhappy, though she had no cause to be.
“Go on, Chopra,” said Poppy archly. “She does not seem like a woman who likes to be kept waiting.”
“Poppy—” he began, but his wife raised a hand.
“There is no need to explain. You have work to do. Clearly it is much more important than standing here wasting time talking to me.”
She turned, sat down and went back to her meal.
Not knowing what else to say, Chopra nodded, then followed Taylor out of the restaurant, slipping out his phone so that he could apprise Tripathi of developments. It was important, Chopra felt, that his friend knew he hadn’t yet abandoned his quest for the truth.
The Nehru Room was a sumptuous space with monstrous crystal chandeliers, shimmering maroon wallpaper and a brilliant white marble floor. Artwork had been set up around the walls, with various pieces of sculpture and pottery displayed on stands in the main space. A number of well-dressed people were being shown around the gallery.
They found Adam Padamsee standing before a painting consisting of a large white canvas with a single black dot in the very centre. He clutched a notebook, and was scribbling in it furiously.
Padamsee was a squat man with a protruding gut, a widow’s peak, a pointed goatee and bloodshot eyes. He wore beige chinos above tasselled loafers, and a breezy sports jacket that hung awkwardly across his rounded shoulders.
“And whose career are you destroying today?” said Lisa Taylor, by way of greeting.
Chopra sensed the hostility and instantly regretted allowing Taylor to join him.
Padamsee gave Taylor a sour look, his eyes lingering for a moment on her bare legs, then said: “Who’s this? Another fool you’ve found to palm some worthless piece of rubbish off on?”
Chopra realised that Taylor had not been exaggerating when she had described Padamsee as rude and obnoxious.
“You wouldn’t know a real work of art if it came and bit you on the backside,” responded Taylor hotly.
“Really?” Padamsee waved his notebook at the white canvas with the black dot. “Do you know how the so-called artist of this ‘masterpiece’ describes his work? I quote: ‘A reflection of infinity in the eye of the Creator; a journey into the soul of oneness; a mote of dust adrift in the cosmos.’” Padamsee looked unimpressed. “It is a dot.”
“Context is everything,” said Taylor, defensively. “I happen to know that the artist meditated for three years on a mountaintop in the Himalayan foothills eating only boiled grass and fermented yak’s milk before the inspiration for this work came to him.”
“Next time tell him to stay there.”
Chopra interrupted before Taylor could reply. “Mr. Padamsee, my name is Chopra and I am investigating Hollis Burbank’s death. I’d like to talk to you about the evening of the auction.”
Instantly, Padamsee’s face underwent a change. He became uneasy, blinking his reddened eyes rapidly. “What for?”
“My understanding is that there was an altercation between yourself and Burbank. You tried to assault him.”
“Assault!” Padamsee’s eyes widened in alarm. “I never touched the man.”
“That’s a lie!” said Taylor. “You took a swing at him. We all saw you.”
Chopra had had enough. He turned and faced the auction director, fixing her with a stern look. “Lisa, I must ask you to allow me to handle this. Please.”
She continued to glare at Padamsee. “Fine,” she said eventually. “I have to see to my buyer anyway. But don’t say I didn’t warn you—he’s a habitual liar.”
She turned and stalked away.
Chopra focused on the art critic. “What was your fight with Burbank about?”
“Why do you care? The man killed himself.”
“That is what I am trying to determine.”
Padamsee looked uneasy again. “Look, unlike most of the people who knew him, I won’t pretend that I’ve been shedding tears for Burbank. I’m not glad he’s dead, but neither am I sorry about it. He was a terrible human being, and believe me I know something about that. I have never pretended to be a saint, but there are lines even I would not cross.”
“What line did Burbank cross?”
Padamsee hesitated, then said, “Fine. You will probably find out anyway… After the auction we both attended the after-party. One of those post-coital soirees where the Lisa Taylors of this world fawn over the likes of Burbank, stroking his ego, telling him what a discerning eye he has for buying the latest piece of garbage she’s managed to foist onto him.”
“You believe The Scourge of Goa to be garbage?” said Chopra, with a raised eyebrow.
“Of course not,” snapped Padamsee. “For once Taylor managed to get her hands on something worth selling. It was just a shame that Burbank prevailed in the bidding. I am no weeping nationalist like that Agnihotri, but to see such a work in the hands of a boor like Burbank made my blood boil.”
“And yet you went to this post-auction party with him?”
“It’s part of my job, Chopra. We humble art critics don’t get paid much for our opinions,” he said bitterly. “We have to play the game to earn our crust. We labour for years to become experts, and then spend the rest of our lives being treated like lapdogs. When we deliver an honest review we are accused of being vicious, bitter. If we offer flowery praise for worthless rubbish we are fools. Well, I’ve spent my life calling it exactly as I see it. It has made me many enemies. And yet no major art event would be complete without my presence, hovering about the edges like a leper.”
Chopra realised that Padamsee’s resentment ran deep. He wondered what would possess a man to continue to work with a community of people who despised him.
He must have the hide of a rhinoceros.
“What did you and Burbank argue about?”
Padamsee sighed. “If you must know, Burbank insulted my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes. Her name is Layla. Layla Padamsee.” He looked expectantly at Chopra.
Chopra hesitated. “I am sorry. Should I be familiar with her?”
“She is a renowned sculptor,” said Padamsee testily.
“How exactly did Burbank insult her?”
“You have to understand that my wife is not like me. She is a warm and gregarious person. And she is very attractive. Well, Burbank had been flirting with her all evening. I say flirting, but what I really mean is letching. The man had a reputation for that sort of thing. I warned Layla, but she just laughed it off. Said she could handle herself. Towards the end of the evening he managed to trap her in a corner. He was drunk, leaning in to her, breathing all over her. When I came over, instead of backing off, he grinned at me, told me what a ‘talented’ wife I had. I told him that if he thought she was so talented why didn’t he buy one of her sculptures. That’s when he leaned over, and said: ‘Why don’t I just buy her?’” Padamsee’s face flushed with anger at the memory. “I stood there for a second, not sure if I’d heard him correctly, and then he said: ‘I’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars. For one night with your wife.’ I can’t tell you how terrible I felt right then. It was like that movie, the one with Robert Redford, I can’t remember the name now. This man, with all his money, felt he could buy my decency. Well, when it comes to Layla, my blood runs hot. And so, yes, I took a swing at him. But the truth was I was as drunk as everyone else there that night. I missed him by a mile. But he got the message. He left—without a mark on him. You can check that with whoever you wish.”
“I shall,” said Chopra. “And I would like to start by speaking with your wife. Do you know where I can find her?”
“She’s running a sculpting workshop in one of the gardens.”
Chopra paused. “Can you tell me what happened after Burbank left?”
“Nothing happened. I stayed at the party for a while longer, then went to my room.”
“You never left your room again?”
“No. Like I said, I’d had a lot to drink, and needed to sleep it off.”
“Was your wife with you?”
“Of course. Where else would she be?” But his eyes drifted away, unable to meet the detective’s searching gaze.
“Thank you for your time,” said Chopra.
THE WEDDING OF THE SEASON
While Chopra headed off to find Layla Padamsee, Poppy found herself drifting into the Mughal Ba
llroom on the ground floor, the largest space in the hotel. Irfan and Ganesha followed behind her, engrossed in their own play.
An odd feeling of listlessness and despondency had fallen over Poppy.
The encounter with her husband had not gone as she had hoped.
She had, of course, anticipated that he would be less than overjoyed to discover that she had followed him to the Grand Raj Palace—she had not really stopped to question the wisdom of her strategy, fearing that if she did she would simply surrender to the inevitable and remain at home.
But that was often the way with her.
She acted first, and thought later.
Nevertheless, she had hoped that, once he got past the initial shock, he might appreciate the fact that his wife—who had graciously stepped aside while he charged off on yet another of his never-ending investigations—was close by on the occasion of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
But the encounter in the restaurant had proved discomfiting, and had left her feeling inexplicably upset. It wasn’t even the presence of the very beautiful Englishwoman that her husband appeared to be gallivanting around with. She knew him well enough to trust him implicitly, though the woman’s carefree familiarity with him had almost caused her to give the underdressed strumpet a piece of her mind.
No. What really bothered Poppy was the tiny sliver of suspicion that perhaps her husband was embarrassed at having her around.
During the years that he had run the Sahar station, he had been a stickler for the rulebook, a dedicated and incorruptible policeman. These traits had set him apart—his solemn nature, his moral rectitude—and she had grown to love him as a personification of these same ideological idiosyncrasies. Yet now, she found herself wishing that, for once, he would bend his mighty principles and simply embrace the fact that the woman he had been married to for a quarter of a century wished to be near him.
“Hey, look where you are going, madam!”
Poppy stopped short, having almost walked into a giant cardboard cut-out of Sachin Tendulkar, India’s legendary cricketer. The sight only served to remind her of her husband—Chopra was a big fan of the game and had avidly followed Tendulkar’s batting exploits for years. Glancing around her, she realised that Tendulkar was just one of a gallery of colossal cut-outs stationed around the ballroom.