A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  ‘Please, sir,’ she said, ‘breakfast is not served till half past six.’ I must have looked a particularly wretched sight as she seemed to have a change of heart. She looked towards the clock on the mantelpiece, then at the door behind me. ‘Come through,’ she said. ‘I can make you some toast and tea?’

  ‘Is Mrs Tebbit awake yet?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Memsahib will not come down for another half an hour, sir.’

  ‘In that case, I’d very much appreciate some toast and tea.’

  I wolfed down the toast, partly through hunger and partly from a desire to be out of there before Mrs Tebbit made an entrance. I managed it too, exiting the premises just as I heard her footsteps on the first-floor landing. Salman was at the corner of the square, sharing a smoke with a few of his rickshaw wallah chums. I called over to him. He nodded and took a final drag of his bidi before sauntering over with his rickshaw. He noticed my arm in the sling, looked like he was about to say something but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he lowered the rickshaw and helped me up.

  ‘Police station, sahib?’

  The streets were still quiet, with few Europeans about. At this hour, it was the menial workers of the Calcutta City Council who predominated, clearing gutters and washing down pavements. We went along in silence. You get precious little in the way of conversation from a rickshaw wallah. That’s understandable. It’s not easy making small talk while you’re pulling twice your own body weight.

  On reaching Lal Bazar, I went straight down to the holding

  cells. To my surprise, Surrender-not lay snoring on a bench in the corridor outside. He was dressed only in a thin cotton vest and a pair of shorts, his shirt rolled up under his head. Around his body hung a thin cotton string: the sacred thread, symbol of the priestly, Brahmin caste. It looked like he’d been there all night. I considered waking him, just to see his reaction to being roused by a sahib officer while dressed in his underwear, but I feared the shock might have killed him. Instead, better angels persuaded me to let him sleep a little longer and I continued on to the holding cells.

  Fifteen feet by ten, with barred doors fronting onto both sides of a long corridor, the cells weren’t quite the Ritz, though they did boast en suite facilities in the form of a bucket in the corner. Sen was lying on a cot in a cell at the far end, a police blanket pulled up around his chin. The doctor assigned to monitor him dozed quiet-

  ly on a chair outside. Not far away the duty officer, a pot-bellied Indian, sat slumbering behind a desk, fat arms folded over a vast gut, his head resting on his chest. I walked up and rapped loudly on the desk, waking both him and the doctor. Startled, he heaved his bulk onto his feet and in a single deft movement, raised one chubby arm, wiped the dribble from his chin and saluted. It was surprisingly graceful for a fat man.

  I walked over to the cell and gestured to the duty officer, who rushed over with a ring of large iron keys. He unlocked the door and it swung open with a metallic clang. Sen turned to face me. A slight smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. He tried to sit up, but the effort was too much. The strain showed in his face and the doctor, who’d followed me in, forced him to lie back down.

  ‘How is he?’ I asked.

  The doctor’s reply was acerbic.

  ‘As comfortable as can be expected for someone who’s spent a night in a cell, hours after surgery.’

  ‘I need him to answer some questions.’

  He looked at me in horror. ‘This man almost died last night. He’s in no state to be interrogated.’

  Sen raised a hand and beckoned us closer. The doctor and I broke off our conversation.

  ‘May I have some water?’

  His voice was just a whisper. I nodded to the guard who left the cell and returned with a jug and a battered enamel mug. The doctor helped Sen to sit up, then took the mug from the guard and held it gently to Sen’s lips. The prisoner took small, shallow sips, then nodded his thanks.

  ‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘can you tell me where I am?’

  ‘You’re in a holding cell at Lal Bazar,’ I said.

  ‘Not Fort William, then? A pity. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of Fort William.’ He gave a small laugh, which ended in a fit of coughs and caused the doctor to rush to support him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘there’s a good chance you’ll get to see it before too long.’

  The doctor turned angrily towards me.

  ‘This man is obviously not fit to answer any questions now. Please leave.’

  I admired his determination, but the man he was protecting was a terrorist, and an Indian one at that. He was about to go down for the murder of an Englishman. The idea that this doctor could keep me from questioning him was laughable. Still, I preferred to wait till Digby and Surrender-not were present, and there was no point in antagonising the man needlessly.

  ‘He can rest for a few hours more, Doctor,’ I said, ‘but I will question him later this morning.’

  I left the cells and returned to the corridor. Banerjee was no longer on the bench but as I stood there he returned, his face and hair wet. He still wore only his vest and shorts.

  ‘Not in uniform today, Surrender-not?’ I asked.

  He might have asked me the same question, but instead he froze on the spot, water dripping from his head onto his vest.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he stammered. ‘I was just washing my face.’

  ‘Have you been here all night?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I thought it best. In case there was some deterioration in Sen’s condition.’

  ‘So you’re a doctor now?’

  ‘No, sir. What I mean to say is that I thought I should be close by in case there was any emergency. You yourself stressed the importance of questioning him quickly.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, ‘because I don’t need you showing concern for the man. What with the attitude of the doctor in the cell there with him, to say nothing of the medical staff last night, I’m beginning to think we’ve arrested the Dalai Lama rather than a terrorist. I trust I don’t need to remind you that this man most likely murdered a British civil servant, to say nothing of his other crimes?’

  His face fell. ‘No, sir.’

  It was harsh of me, and, I quickly realised, unwarranted. I hadn’t meant to tear a strip off the sergeant, but I was dog tired. I’d had precious little sleep since the night I’d visited the opium den and it was affecting my mood. Getting shot probably hadn’t helped either.

  That reminded me of something.

  ‘Sergeant,’ I asked, ‘you remember when I was climbing up the back of that house last night? When one of Sen’s accomplices was about to fire at me from the window?

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Was it you or Digby who shot them?’

  Surrender-not fiddled with the cotton thread hanging from his shoulder.

  ‘It was me, sir. I was the one with the rifle. I’m sure the Sub-inspector would have done the same, but he only had his pistol and that wouldn’t have been as accurate.’

  ‘Well,’ I said briskly, ‘I’m glad you paid attention during training. Get some rest now. We’ve got a few hours before we question Sen.’

  I felt embarrassed. I was indebted to him, but somehow found it hard to say ‘thank you’. That was the thing about India. It’s difficult for an Englishman to thank an Indian. Of course, it’s easy enough to thank them when they do something menial, like fetch a drink or clean your boots, but when it comes to more important matters, such as when one of them saves your life, it’s different. The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.

  I walked wearily up the stairs to my office and dropped into my chair. The pain was getting worse. Fishing out the bottle of morphine tablets, I placed them on the desk and contemplated the worst of trade-offs. The pain in my shoulder was intense, yet I needed to keep a clear head. Lal Bazar wasn’t Scotland Yard, but even here, interrogating a suspect while out of your head on morphine was probably frowned upon. Reluctantly, I return
ed the bottle to my pocket and instead telephoned Daniels to arrange a meeting with the Commissioner. He answered on the second ring and went out of his way to be helpful, so much so that I thought I might have dialled the wrong number.

  ‘Lord Taggart is expected in at eight o’clock, Captain Wyndham. I’ve put you in his diary and I’ll inform you as soon as he’s ready.’

  I thanked him and replaced the receiver. My stock was rising. News of the previous night’s arrest must have reached the secretary. I afforded myself a dry smile. With luck, we might get a confession out of Sen and I’d be able to close the case. Even if the bastard didn’t confess, the testimony from Digby’s snitch, together with Sen’s attempt to evade capture, would be enough for me to bring charges. It might have been too flimsy a case for an English jury, but under the Rowlett Acts there was no need for one. Terrorists like Sen were supposed to feel the full force of British justice. Building a case beyond reasonable doubt would merely complicate things.

  Once he’d been charged, the matter would be out of my hands and what happened afterwards wasn’t my concern. Taggart would most likely hand him over to Section H. They’d extract whatever other information he possessed, like squeezing the juice out of a lemon, and then would come a jury-less trial and a swift execution. All in all, a nice efficient process.

  I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. The lack of sleep must have caught up with me as the next thing I knew, Digby was shaking me awake.

  ‘Come on, old boy, we’ve got to get a move on. Taggart’s waiting for us.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I asked, groggy with sleep.

  ‘Just gone eight thirty.’

  ‘I thought Daniels was going to telephone me?’ I said, shaking the cobwebs from my head.

  ‘He tried, but you didn’t pick up. So he telephoned me. By the way, old boy, you do realise you’re in civvies?’

  ‘I only had the one uniform,’ I said, ‘and there’s not much left of it. I haven’t had time to get any more made yet.’

  ‘It’s probably best if you borrow one of mine, then. I’ll get you a spare jacket from my office. By the way, there’s a good tailor in Park Street that’ll do you a special.’

  I followed him out of the room and down the corridor. He ducked into his own office, reappearing with his spare jacket, which he helped me put on over the sling.

  Daniels was waiting in the corridor outside his anteroom. He gave me a nod as we approached.

  ‘The Commissioner’s waiting for you,’ he said, leading us through to Taggart’s office. The Commissioner had his back to us, staring out of the French windows, but when he turned to greet us, there was a broad smile on his face. He ushered me to a Chesterfield.

  ‘How’s the arm, Sam?’ he asked.

  ‘Not too bad, sir.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, my boy. You were lucky last night. You’re not planning to make these sort of heroics a regular occurrence, are you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I hope so, for your sake. This isn’t England, Sam. There are a lot more guns here. Us, the military, the terrorists – everyone’s got them. Stunts like the one you pulled last night could very easily end up with you being killed, if not by the terrorists then very possibly by our friends in Section H. I dare say you’re not their favourite policeman right now.’

  ‘I’ll watch my step, sir.’

  ‘Make sure you do, Captain. I didn’t bring you all the way out here just so you could get yourself killed within a fortnight. You’re no use to me dead.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d not wish to cause you any inconvenience, sir.’

  He eyed me for a moment before letting the comment pass. ‘Right then,’ he continued, ‘let’s get down to business. That was some good work by you both yesterday.’ He turned to Digby, ‘I haven’t forgotten it was your informant who put us on Sen’s trail in the first place.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Digby with a nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘As for putting a tail on Colonel Dawson,’ Taggart continued, ‘that was a rather inspired course of action.’

  ‘We got lucky, that’s all,’ I replied.

  ‘Never underestimate the value of luck, Sam. I’d rather have a lucky officer than a brilliant one. The lucky ones tend to live longer. Be that as it may, I don’t think we should advertise the fact that you put a tail on a senior Section H officer. The L-G might not approve. You’ll need to come up with a more acceptable explanation for how you just happened to come up on the scene so quickly.’

  ‘We could tell them that we learned of Sen’s location from a tip-off from one of our own snitches,’ I said. ‘After all, it must be how Section H found him. Hopefully it’ll make them think more highly of our own network of informants.’

  Taggart took a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly cleaned his glasses.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘that’ll work. All the same, the next time you consider putting a tail on a high-ranking military officer, please let me know beforehand.’

  I nodded.

  ‘So where are we with Sen?’ he continued.

  ‘He was taken to the Medical College Hospital,’ said Digby. ‘They patched him up last night.’

  ‘When can we move him from the hospital?’

  ‘He’s already here,’ I replied. Both men stared at me in surprise. ‘He’s in the cells downstairs. We moved him last night.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’ asked Taggart. ‘I’d have thought the doctors would have screamed bloody murder if you tried to shift one of their patients into a cell so soon after an operation.’

  ‘I appealed to their common sense.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Taggart, ‘the last thing we needed was for a potential stand-off at the hospital with Section H. If they want him now, they’ll have to go through the L-G.’

  ‘How long do you think we have, sir?’ I asked.

  Taggart shook his head. ‘Hard to say. I expect Dawson would have spoken to his superiors last night; they’d be on the telephone to the L-G first thing this morning. The L-G will probably check with his advisers. If they think we should hand Sen over, we’ll probably get an order some time this afternoon. We can probably stall them for a while. I’ll speak to Daniels, make myself “uncontactable” for the day, but we’ll have to hand him over by tomorrow morning at the latest. You should work from the assumption that you’ve got twenty-four hours at most.’

  ‘I plan on questioning him as soon as we’ve finished here,’ I said.

  ‘Good. I want him charged by tonight. Get him to cooperate if possible. Tell him that if he doesn’t, we’ll hand him straight over to Section H. It’ll happen anyway, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that. Is there anything else, gentlemen?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Digby, ‘what should we tell the press? By now they’ll have got wind of last night’s fireworks. They’ll want us to comment.’

  ‘If they ask, tell them that we’re progressing with our inquiries and that we’ll have a fuller statement soon. I don’t want anything specific getting out until we’ve charged Sen. Now, gentlemen,’ he said, rising from his chair, ‘if there’s nothing further, I’m going to have to make preparations to “disappear” for the rest of the day. Let Daniels know if you need to speak to me urgently. Otherwise, I’ll contact you for a progress report at six p.m. sharp.’

  ‘Interview commencing at ten o’clock, 12th April 1919.’

  The room was small and airless and twenty degrees too hot. Five of us were crammed into a space better suited to two and the tang of sweat punctuated the air. Sen, his doctor beside him, sat staring at the floor. I was flanked by Digby. Between us, a battered metal table. Banerjee, with a yellow pad and a fountain pen in his hands, sat to one side.

  The introductions were entered into the record: Interview led by Detective Inspector Captain Samuel Wyndham. Detective Sub-inspector John Digby and Sergeant S. Banerjee, assisting.

  Lack of sleep and a hole in my arm were not exactly ideal prepa
ration for an interrogation. If there was a consolation, it was that Sen looked worse. He was dressed in the standard-issue prison clothes, loose draw-string trousers and shirt. Khaki with black markings. His hands were manacled in his lap.

  ‘Please state your name for the record.’

  ‘Sen,’ he said, ‘Benoy Sen.’ He sounded tired.

  ‘Do you know why you’ve been arrested?’

  ‘Do you need a reason?’

  ‘You have been arrested on suspicion of murder.’

  Sen didn’t flinch.

  ‘When did you return to Calcutta?’

  No response.

  ‘Can you explain your movements on the night of 8th April last?’

  Again silence.

  I didn’t have the time or the inclination to indulge him.

  ‘Look, Sen,’ I said, ‘maybe you don’t appreciate your good fortune. You’ve been lucky enough to be arrested by the police rather than the military. That means you get to be questioned in these pleasant surroundings with a doctor by your side and everything is written down for the record. If you don’t afford us some cooperation, I may as well turn you over to our friends at Fort William and they’re somewhat less keen on playing by the rules the way we do.’

  Sen raised his eyes from the floor and gave a snort of derision.

  ‘You talk of rules, Captain. Tell me, why don’t your rules apply to them?’

  ‘You’re not asking the questions here, Sen.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I’ll ask you again, when did you return to Calcutta?’

  He stared at me, as though sizing me up, then raised his hands and rested them on the table. There was a soft scrape as metal hit metal. ‘I arrived in the city last Monday.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And why did you return?’

  ‘I am a Bengali, born and raised in Calcutta. It is my home. Why should I need a reason to return?’

  I wasn’t interested in polemics. ‘Just tell me why you came back. Why now?’

  ‘I returned because I was invited.’

  ‘Invited by whom? And for what purpose?’