The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  He stubbed out a cigarette. A woman was weeping against the shoulder of her tight-lipped husband. “Those are all rationalizations after the fact, pseudo-explanations for what was basically an irrational act,” Mr. Hayes said.

  “My son is dead, and you talk to me about irrational acts. It was murder,” the man said. He and his wife had later brought suit, charging that the investigation had been mishandled. Marina had gotten a letter asking if she wanted to join them. She hadn’t answered.

  Marina’s last memory of Mr. Hayes was of his seeing her off. She hadn’t expected it, and was surprised to see him at the airport, a nondescript little figure in his usual white short-sleeved shirt and tightly knotted tie. They had waited for her boarding call. When it came, he shook her hand and said, “I’m sorry, Miss Robinson. We were too late.”

  “None of it was your fault.”

  As she walked toward the plane she turned once and looked back. When he saw her looking, he waved. She had waved back and turned to leave India, as she thought, forever.

  This man, James Curtis, did not look like Mr. Hayes. He was plump and fortyish, with reddish-blond hair and beard and a floral tie loosened at the neck of his pink candy-striped shirt. What he had in common with Mr. Hayes was an air of being harassed. “I don’t know about letting you in the files,” he was saying. “I’d have to check with some people.”

  The close air in the office was made closer by the smoke from his pipe, which he puffed steadily while looking at the letters from Cloud Sister.

  “I thought the files might tell me something helpful.”

  “Yes, so you said.” Mr. Curtis placed his still-smoking pipe in an ashtray. “You didn’t say helpful with what, exactly.”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know what I’d be looking for. I do know that either my sister is alive or somebody wants me to think she is. You understand that I’d like to find out more.”

  “Yes. I understand. And yet— let me try to explain our point of view.” He picked the pipe up again, toying with the bowl. “I was fairly new in the service when the Palika Road incident occurred. I can tell you that it is still considered the textbook case of the worst possible peacetime civilian occurrence. People cringe when it’s mentioned. You see what I’m driving at?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What I’m driving at is, nobody wants it stirred up again. We don’t, the Indians don’t. You come over here with absolutely no warning, go through the files, ask questions. Pretty soon, all the old wounds start to bleed again. Would you like to see that happen?”

  “You’re forgetting that I was perfectly willing to leave it alone. It wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  “You said it yourself. Some crank saw your name in the paper.”

  “A crank who knows details of my personal history.”

  Mr. Curtis sighed. “Let’s have some coffee.”

  When the steaming cups had been served, he scratched his beard and said, “I don’t suppose you’d want to take my advice.”

  “Not if it’s to go home.”

  “It is.”

  “Then no.”

  “We can’t have you running around the countryside asking about Palika Road. We just can’t have it.”

  Time to take the gloves off. “Forgive me for putting it this way, but is there anything you can do to stop me? I mean, without causing some of the trouble you’re so eager to avoid?”

  He looked at her keenly over the top of his cup. Finally he said, “If I let you look in the file, will you promise not to make me sorry?”

  “I promise not to make you sorry deliberately.”

  “OK. Follow me.”

  It was hot in the file room, despite a rattling air conditioner. Perspiration trickled through Marina’s hair as she sat at the wooden table with stacks of documents in front of her. Here was the police report of Nagarajan’s suicide. The guard testified, “When I made my round at eight o’clock in the evening, he was sitting on his bed mat with his head on his knees. When I returned at nine o’clock, he was hanging from the bars of his cell. Around his neck was a noose he had made from strips of his clothing.” An attached page noted that Nagarajan had been cremated the same night.

  Dizzy with jet lag and bad memories, she picked up another sheaf of papers. This was the dossier about the riot and fire on Palika Road. The few witnesses whose testimony was recorded had avoided specifics. The story of a tenant farmer was typical:

  We were drinking tea at the shop of Govinda when two men came in. I do not know their names. They were talking about the evil that was done to Agit More. They said this evil had polluted Halapur. We heard voices outside and went to see, and there were people with rocks and sticks, talking of the evil at the ashram. Someone said, “Why should we not go there?” and everyone said, “Yes, yes, we must go there.”

  As we went along, others joined us. I wanted to go away, but I was afraid. When it started to burn, I ran away. I didn’t see.

  The accounts were confused and fragmentary. Nobody knew the whole story, and because all the principals were dead there had been no trial. The people who had gone through the burned-out ashram had thought they found the remains of three bodies, but couldn’t they have been mistaken? Such mistakes had been made before. Her head was throbbing.

  Before she left, she stopped to thank Mr. Curtis. He nodded. “What do you plan to do now?”

  “I don’t know. I have a couple of leads to follow up. Then, I don’t know.”

  “Let me ask you again, formally, not to pursue this.”

  “All right, you’ve asked.”

  “Let me warn you, formally, that you can get into a lot of trouble and cause yourself and us embarrassment.”

  “OK. I understand.”

  “Let me formally dissociate myself and the consulate from whatever you undertake in the matter of Palika Road.”

  “Fine.”

  “One final request. Would you leave your home and Bombay addresses with the secretary for our files?” He stood to see her out.

  Marina returned to the Rama. The lobby was as deserted as before, and she couldn’t summon the strength to inquire about Raki. She felt almost sick from the effort of going to the consulate, reading the files, dragging herself through it all again. She fell on her creaking bed and slept.

  She was awakened at dusk by a tap on the door. After splashing water on her face she answered. Standing there was a young Indian man. He wore a beautifully tailored blue suit, a starched white shirt, a striped tie. His short hair was brushed neatly back, and he wore black-rimmed glasses and carried a briefcase. “My name is Vijay Pandit,” he said. “Mr. Curtis sent me to help you.”

  21

  Marina bit into her samosa, chewed, and felt her mouth begin to burn. She took a large swallow of beer. “So Mr. Curtis sent you to be my keeper,” she said.

  Vijay Pandit was chewing an idli. Except for a table of men drinking tea in a corner, the two of them were the sole patrons of the Kumkum Cafe. “A helper only,” he said.

  Marina had checked his identification, which said he worked for the United States Information Agency. Not satisfied with the card that looked perfectly in order, she called James Curtis’s office to make sure they had heard of this very proper-looking young man. A secretary confirmed that Vijay Pandit, who worked for USIA, was on temporary assignment to Mr. Curtis. Through all this, Vijay Pandit stood patiently in the hall, obviously unwilling to cross the threshhold of her room. When she handed his card back he said, “Shall we discuss over tiffin?”

  Her mouth was anesthetized by now, and she was able to continue eating. “I don’t understand. Mr. Curtis made a point of dissociating himself formally from anything I plan to do.”

  “Yes. Formally, I am not here.”

  Marina thought Mr. Curtis had a hell of a nerve. She should have realized at the consulate that he was letting her go too easily. Now he had saddled her with a prim, toe-the-line civil servant who would be a direct pipeline on her every move. She studied Vi
jay Pandit, who was the picture of a company man, with his exquisite manners, his neat grooming, his sincerity. Having him around would be like having a ball and chain on her leg.

  He looked up, noticed her examining him, and smiled, tentatively. She looked away. She could get rid of him. If she simply told him to go away, what could he do? He couldn’t force himself on her.

  “You would like something else? More beer?” he said.

  “No thanks.” She pushed her plate away and turned to him. “What’s your assignment, exactly?”

  “Simply to aid you in your inquiries.” He smiled again, more broadly. “And, as you have probably guessed, to be in touch with the consulate immediately if you get into trouble.”

  At least he was honest about it. A thought occurred to her. “What languages do you speak?”

  “English, as you already know. Also Marathi, the language of Maharashtra, the state we are in. Also Hindi, our other national language besides English. I studied a bit of French at university, but I don’t really speak.”

  “You read those too?”

  “Yes.”

  He would probably have no trouble reading the pages she had photographed from the hotel register. Having admitted one advantage to having him around, she thought of others. He knew the territory. He would probably have access to a car and driver. If he got to be a problem, she could always ditch him. “Maybe I should tell you what I’m doing, Mr. Pandit,” she said.

  “Please. You will call me Vijay,” he said, and leaned forward.

  She started with Catherine and ended with photographing the register and being surprised by the old woman. By the time she finished talking, the cafe was full, and bright lights illuminated the smoky interior.

  Vijay listened closely, interrupting only a few times with questions. He sat back. “So you must speak with this Raki,” he said.

  “Yes, but he doesn’t seem to be around very much.”

  “Shall we go now? Perhaps he has returned.”

  The lobby of the Rama was more alive than Marina had ever seen it. Two men in loud print shirts conversed rapidly by the door. A massively fat man sat on the couch, pudgy hands resting on his knees. The old woman she had seen earlier stood half-hidden in a doorway. At the switchboard sat a small, dark, misshapen man whom she guessed must be Raki.

  He climbed laboriously from the stool he was sitting on and walked to the registration desk with a limping, scraping gait. His chin barely cleared the top of the desk. His face was mobile and alive with intelligence, and despite his twisted body, his arms and chest were full and muscular. When she asked about the January fifteenth call he tilted his head to one side. “A call to the States? That would have been very expensive call, madam.”

  “I guess it would. So do you—”

  “For such a thing we would have required guarantee of payment. We are small hotel, Indian hotel. Not like larger, Western-style hotels, where such calls are made on daily, even hourly, basis.”

  “I know. That’s why I was hoping you’d—”

  “But madam, for that I must check my records.”

  “You mean you can’t remember?”

  Raki’s eyes widened. “So much goes on. Every day, every day. I will look in the records.”

  The registration book, Marina noticed, was no longer on the counter. Raki spoke in another language to the old woman, who went down the hall. She returned in a few minutes, clutching the book. As she gave it to him, she darted a look at Marina.

  Raki climbed on a chair behind the counter, deposited the book on the desk, and bent over it. “It is January you were saying?”

  “The fifteenth.”

  He opened the book, leafed through, then hesitated. “The pages are gone.”

  Marina was so surprised she couldn’t react for a moment. The old woman, she saw, had moved into the lobby and was standing near Vijay. “Gone?”

  “Someone has pulled them out. You can see.”

  Raki pushed the book toward her and she saw the uneven edges where several pages had been ripped out. “How could it have happened?” she said.

  Raki didn’t seem upset or perplexed. “They tear them out sometimes, use them to start the fires,” he said blandly. “I tell them not to do it, but they are ignorant.” He spoke to the old woman, a sharp tone in his voice, and she left the room.

  “Does this mean you can’t remember the call, and you don’t know who made it?”

  His eyes were limpid and sincere. “So many things, madam. So many things. Now the pages are missing. I cannot say.”

  Marina turned away, and Vijay said in her ear, “It is too bad. Shall we go drink some tea?”

  As they emerged on the sidewalk Marina said, “He didn’t even bother to think up a plausible story. He knows who tore those pages out, and why.”

  “I expect you are right,” Vijay said, glancing up and down the street. “Lucky you have your photographs.”

  Marina gnawed her knuckle. “Those torn-out pages mean there’s something to hide. Don’t you think?”

  “Possibly. There may be other explanations.”

  Marina realized they were standing once more in front of the Kumkum Cafe. “I don’t really want any tea.”

  “Nor do I.” Vijay sounded amused. “But I think we had better have some anyway. I think we must wait a little, to see what will happen.”

  As they sipped their tea, Vijay kept glancing toward the street. “What are you looking for?” Marina asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think—yes, I am right. There she is.”

  Marina followed his nod and saw, across the jammed, noisy street, the old woman from the hotel standing in the mouth of an alley. Vijay stood up. “Let’s go quickly.”

  The old woman drew them farther down the alley, speaking rapidly and breathily to Vijay. He answered, then turned to Marina. “She says she can tell you what you want to know about the telephone call. She also says her daughter is very sick. That means we must offer to pay something. We shall say it is for medicine.”

  “Of course.”

  A low-voiced flurry of conversation followed. Then Vijay said, “I have told her we will give her twenty-five rupees now. If she gives good information, we will give her another twenty-five.”

  “Some bribe. Not even five dollars.”

  “For her it is a great deal. All right?”

  “Sure.” Marina dug in her bag.

  When the money had disappeared somewhere in the folds of the woman’s sari, she spoke again to Vijay. He interrupted a few times. When she stopped speaking, he said, “She doesn’t know much. She says someone did make a call to the U.S. It was a man, she doesn’t know his name. There was discussion about paying for the call. Although the man paid for the call and for his room also, he left the same day and didn’t stay the night.”

  The old woman watched Marina anxiously during this explanation, her head bobbing up and down.

  Marina’s mouth was dry. “She says a man made the call. Ask her if she’s seen a— a woman. A Western woman with yellow hair, who wears a sari.” Or is terribly scarred and wears a veil. Or who has dyed her hair red and wears jeans, or Paris gowns. As she listened to their exchange she realized she wasn’t breathing.

  “She doesn’t remember such a woman,” Vijay said at last.

  Wilting, she asked, “Does she have anything else to say?”

  “One thing. Raki tore the pages out of the book himself. She saw him do it, and hide them in a tin trunk in the office where he keeps papers.”

  “I thought he’d done it. I wonder why. Is that all?”

  Vijay and the woman spoke again, briefly. “That’s all.”

  Marina handed him another twenty-five rupees. “Tell her I hope her daughter gets better.”

  When the woman had taken the money and scurried down the alley, Marina said, “How did you know she would come after us?”

  “While you were talking with Raki I watched her. I thought I could see that she understood some of what was going on.
After she brought the book I walked away in case she wanted to make a sign to me. She did, or I was fairly certain she did.”

  “Why did she do it?”

  “How much money does she make, do you suppose? Perhaps fifty rupees a month, perhaps less. She saw an opportunity. It’s even possible her daughter really is sick.”

  “Did she see me photographing the pages this morning?”

  “She didn’t say so, and of course I didn’t ask her.”

  They had been walking along the bright, smoky street, elbowing past the knots of people buying food and drink at the open-air stalls. “The next thing is to get my film developed, so we can see what was written on the register,” Marina said.

  “Yes. In fact”—Vijay consulted the bulky digital watch on his wrist—”a man who does some photographic work for USIA is probably still in his shop. We will tell him it is an emergency.”

  22

  Until now, it hadn’t occurred to Marina that what she was doing could be dangerous. As she and Vijay waited in the stifling cubbyhole that was the photographer’s shop, though, her foreboding was as pervasive and strong as the chemical smell. Raki tore the pages from the register because of me, because I asked about the telephone. Couldn’t that mean somebody knows what I’m doing, doesn’t want me to do it?

  Somebody doesn’t want me to see Catherine. She stirred, trying to rid herself of the panic the thought aroused.

  “It will not be long now,” Vijay said.

  “Good.” My ally, Vijay. An ally who, if I go against his mandate, will turn into a hindrance or even an enemy.

  To keep from thinking, she said, “What do you do when you aren’t protecting the consulate from embarrassment?”

  “Less interesting things. I try in various ways to smooth interactions between your people and mine. I arrange, I explain. Many difficulties demand the attention of— how is it said?— a minor functionary.”