‘I don’t know,’ replied the policeman. ‘Will you remain inside your restaurant for the next three hours? These are our orders.’
The manager went inside his restaurant, utterly confounded.
Then a jeep, with a superintendent of police at the steering wheel and the police commissioner seated beside him, penetrated a lane along the Diamond Cinema, followed by a dozen armed policemen on foot. But a few yards further down the lane, the jeep had to be abandoned because the passage was too narrow. The commissioner now led his party on foot, wedging deeper into the area. The snorting of the jeep had, however, already awakened most of the residents who began to look out of their windows, astounded and terrified.
As an old bearded man, in a soiled sherwani, emerged from a dilapidated room, shuffling towards the street urinal, the superintendent of police ordered him to stop.
‘Who are you?’
‘I live over there, sir,’ the man replied, pointing towards his room across the lane. He felt almost paralysed to see armed policemen prowling all around.
‘With your family?’
‘Alone, sir,’ came the tremulous reply.
At this point, William Thornton himself stepped forward. The appearance of someone, looking like an Englishman, decorated with epaulettes and medals, scared him out of his wits.
‘There is a brothel around here, old man … Where’s it?’ The commissioner asked him in Anglicized Hindustani.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the man stuttered.
Poking him in the ribs with the butt of his revolver, the superintendent of police shouted: ‘Don’t waste our time!’
The pressure of urine deepening in his bladder, and fear gripping his heart, the old man lost his nerve. Of course, he knew where the brothel was, but he was also aware that a word from him would endanger his life. The mafia would wipe him out forthwith. So he stood there, mute and bewildered.
The superintendent of police now grabbed him by the beard and punched him hard in the stomach. The old man doubled up, and began to cry.
‘You want another?’ the superintendent asked, pulling hard at his beard.
‘They’ll kill me, sir,’ stuttered the man, looking beseechingly at the commissioner.
‘Who’re they?’ asked William Thornton.
‘Pannalal, Suleiman Ghani and the others.’
The first name rang a bell in Thornton’s mind. Wasn’t this the name his control room had picked up in the wireless message from Allahabad? The papers had put him out as ‘a Hindu pilgrim from Delhi’. Although Pannalal was a common Hindu name, the commissioner decided to link it up with the killing on the Ganges—as a strategy.
‘Pannalal is already dead,’ said the commissioner. ‘Killed in Allahabad. Didn’t you read about it in the papers?’
The old ignoramus merely blinked like an idiot, then replied: ‘There’ll still be Suleiman Ghani, sir—he’ll get me.’
‘He’s been arrested,’ said the commissioner. ‘So why are you afraid?’
‘I can only point out the house from here, sir,’ he replied, his voice a mute whisper.
‘That should be all right,’ said the commissioner. ‘You needn’t be fearful of anybody now. We’ll guarantee you full protection. So tell us—quick.’
But as the old man pointed his finger towards a large mansion further down the lane, the commissioner saw someone with a gun leap across its roof to the adjoining terrace. Immediately, he ordered a sniper from his party to shoot him down. As the bullet got the man on the housetop, a shriek slashed the air, followed by the sound of a body falling down.
‘Well done!’ said the commissioner, turning to the sniper.
‘But how could Ghani be arrested, sir?’ the old man asked, looking distrustfully at the commissioner. ‘That man just shot down was he.’
Merely grinning, the commissioner ordered his men to cordon off the brothel. Its front door was then rammed open, and the party trooped in. Within a few minutes, Ghani was captured, his leg bleeding profusely. He was carried away in a police jeep.
By now all the lights in the lane had been switched on, and stunned faces peered out of the windows and balconies. But nobody dared come out into the lane even though it was evident that the brothel had been raided.
As William Thornton and his men entered the building, they were shocked to witness a gruesome spectacle. A woman, in her mid-forties, with a bottle of kerosene oil in her right hand, was forcing a young girl into a blazing fire in the courtyard. But each time she caught hold of her, the other girls pulled her out and instead tried to shove the woman herself into the fire.
‘Take that woman into custody,’ the commissioner ordered a policeman.
She was dragged out of the house and whisked away in a jeep.
For a few minutes, all the young girls, Hindu or Muslim, couldn’t believe they’d been rescued. They looked about dazed; then a full-throated cheer broke through: ‘Shukriya! Thank you, sir!’
Like a flock of caged birds, suddenly set free, they fluttered about the courtyard, happy and excited.
‘You are our saviour, sir!’ exclaimed the tall girl who’d narrowly missed getting pushed into the fire. ‘A few minutes more and she’d have done us all to ashes.’
‘Nobody will harm you now,’ assured the commissioner. ‘It’s all over. You’re free.’
‘Are we?’ said the tall girl, still incredulous.
‘Yes, you are—free to go back to your homes. We’ll arrange everything for you.’
Suddenly, the tall girl’s brow darkened.
‘But Pannalal’s still at large,’ she said. ‘He’ll hound us down somehow. He has contacts everywhere.’
‘Pannalal?’ the commissioner pondered as he repeated the name. ‘Where’s he?’
‘We don’t know,’ replied another girl. ‘But I did overhear the other day about his secret visit to Allahabad. I told my friends he must have gone after Haseena, a girl who’d escaped from here.’
‘Haseena?’
‘Yes, sir. She’d been abducted from there.’
‘So Pannalal was in Allahabad on Friday.’ The commissioner was turning over something in his mind, making connections.
‘Possibly.’
‘Then he’s gone,’ said the commissioner. ‘He was the man stabbed to death there last Friday. Didn’t you read your Saturday paper?’
‘No papers here, sir. It’s a dungeon.’
But all the girls now looked happy and relieved.
‘What’s your name?’ the commissioner asked the tall girl.
‘Lakshmi, sir.’
‘Haseena and Lakshmi!’ the commissioner intoned; then, turning to the superintendent of police, he observed: ‘Here’s a real intercommunal home, with Pannalal and Suleiman Ghani as its heads.’
The superintendent’s response was a subdued smile.
‘Where’re you from, Lakshmi?’ the commissioner asked.
‘Multan—West Pakistan. I lost my entire family in the riots there. I was captured by some gang, then passed on to Pannalal.’
‘Do you have any relatives in India?’
‘An uncle in Bombay.’
‘We’ll send you there,’ said the commissioner; then turning to the other girls, he assured them: ‘You’ll all be back home soon.’ After a pause, he asked Lakshmi: ‘Tell me, how were these devils operating?’
Beckoning the commissioner and his men to follow her, she took them to a row of small dingy rooms, encircling the central courtyard. Each room, damp and windowless, had a bamboo cot, an earthen pitcher and some utensils. On the bare wet floors crawled cockroaches, while the roofs and walls threatened to cave in any time.
‘Death cells!’ muttered the commissioner, looking into one of the rooms.
‘Death was the penalty,’ said Lakshmi, ‘for anyone trying to escape. Death by fire! You’ve already seen how the woman wanted to kill me for eavesdropping.’
Lakshmi then led the party to a room on the first floor, which was furnished like an offic
e. On the shelves were arranged ledgers and files, while in a corner stood a steel vault.
‘There,’ said Lakshmi, pointing to the vault, ‘should be wads of currency notes. We were asked to bring in foreign currency preferably, from the customers from abroad—Americans, Europeans, the Sheikhs from the Middle East …’
‘Looks like they also operated as racketeers in foreign exchange,’ said the commissioner; then turning to the superintendent of police, he said: ‘Will you please have everything in this vault sealed for subsequent investigation?’
‘Yes, sir.’
William Thornton now realized that he’d busted a multifaceted racket—prostitution, murder, violation of foreign exchange and what not. He must ask Bob, he told himself, to thank his Indian friend, Birendra Dhawan, for putting him on to it.
‘And what about Neel Kamal?’ the commissioner asked Lakshmi. ‘Did these pimps have any links with that restaurant?’
‘Surely,’ she replied. ‘There was some dubious connection, sir. Sort of partnership. For one thing, its manager often came here to have drinks with Pannalal and Ghani. Also, we all knew that Pannalal picked up most of his customers from Neel Kamal.’
‘I see … were you allowed to go out with your customers?’
‘Never. Only as far as the Bridge Hotel.’
‘Hmm …’
As the party was about to come out of the building, Lakshmi asked the commissioner if he’d also like to have a look at ‘a special room’, near the front door. He nodded his head in affirmation.
This room was luxuriously furnished, in glaring contrast with the sordid, dismal cells he’d just seen. There were two cushioned divans, one rocking chair padded with velvet, an improvised bar with a large variety of liquors—Indian and foreign. On a side-table lay a half-filled glass, with a bottle of Scotch near it. The commissioner wondered if Ghani was having his midnight swig when he was nabbed. On the walls hung large photographs of popular film stars.
‘This is surely something exclusive,’ said the commissioner.
‘This is where Pannalal and Ghani entertained their special guests to midnight orgies.’
‘I can’t understand,’ the commissioner said, rather sharply, ‘why didn’t you use any of your customers to contact the police?’
‘Would that have helped?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The truth is that even the policemen were in league with the pimps.’
The commissioner felt stung; then he turned around to the superintendent and asked: ‘Will you look into the credentials of all the policemen posted around Neel Kamal, and the Bridge? This is scandalous. How can we inspire confidence in the public when we are to blame ourselves?’
‘But these policemen, sir,’ the superintendent replied, ‘are frequently transferred from one station to another. I think it’ll be a futile exercise.’
‘You’re right,’ said the commissioner. ‘The entire set-up is rotten to the core.’
The commissioner then ordered his policemen to help the girls pack up, and then escort them to the Parliament Police Station. Walking up the lane, at the head of his party, he saw the old man still standing near the urinal.
‘Thank you, Maulana sahib,’ said the commissioner, ‘for all your help. Don’t worry at all. In a day or two, we’re going to clean up the entire area. Just telephone my control room if you sense any danger.’
The old man felt deeply touched by the commissioner’s solicitude.
As the commissioner and the superintendent left, the policemen grumbled among themselves over Lakshmi’s disclosure about the collusion between the pimps and the police. They were worried lest some of their colleagues should be identified and sacked. Since William Thornton himself had led the raid, they knew he wouldn’t spare anyone found guilty.
Moreover, the tantalizing sight of a bevy of young and beautiful girls frustrated them utterly. They felt like small children in a candy store, who have been forbidden to touch anything.
Next morning, all the papers carried a detailed report of the raid, based on ‘eyewitnesses’ accounts’—also of the brutal murder of an old Muslim who’d acted as an informer to the commissioner. On his gagged mouth was pasted a piece of paper which said: ‘For talking too much!’
It was rumoured that he’d been killed by one of the policemen on duty, around Neel Kamal.
22
Gautam’s train brought him to Delhi early Monday morning. He felt excited to read in the papers about the police raid on the brothel. Since Berry, he thought, might know more about it, he decided to meet him before moving on to Anand Parbat. When he reached Berry’s, he saw him having his coffee, on the front lawn, a pile of newspapers scattered all around him.
‘Welcome home!’ exclaimed Berry, beckoning Gautam to a side-chair. ‘Are you coming directly from the station?’
‘Yes.’
‘Read the morning papers?’
‘The raid on the brothel?’
‘Then you know it all,’ said Berry. ‘Isn’t that great?’
‘So the den’s cleaned up.’
‘But who put Thornton sahib on to it?’ asked Berry, winking. ‘I met him at Bob’s party.’
‘I should have guessed.’
‘But first let me get you some breakfast,’ said Berry.
As Berry called Shyama, she breezed in, again dressed in one of Sonali’s saris.
‘Some coffee and toast for Mehta sahib, please,’ Berry asked Shyama.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh dear,’ Gautam said, seeing the maidservant walk away, swaying her hips, ‘that “sirring!”—very impressive indeed.’ He smiled. ‘But where’s Sonali? Away at her aunt’s?’
‘This time I really don’t know where she’s gone,’ Berry answered. ‘Just packed up yesterday afternoon and vanished.’
‘Another divorce in the offing?’
‘I don’t know … Maybe you should teach me also some Bible to get around Father Jones,’ Berry laughed. ‘Second time’s always a lot easier.’
‘Has it come to this?’
‘Well, we had a little wrangle,’ Berry said, nonchalantly. ‘You know, I couldn’t have taken her to Bob’s party.’
‘I understand.’
‘The great pity is that she’d be back soon.’
‘Oh, you callous thing.’
‘No, I’ve already started missing her.’
‘That too I can understand.’
As Shyama brought in the breakfast tray, Gautam began to drink his coffee.
‘Look,’ said Berry, ‘I’ve some great news for you.’
‘What?’
‘Mohinder and Sarita got married, the day before yesterday.’
‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Gautam, putting down his cup of coffee.
‘I got the news from Shyama, who picked it up from Purnima, who got it from Padamnath Trivedi—and he should know all the news of the world.’
‘Of course,’ Gautam said, still looking surprised. ‘What intrigues me most is why she plunged into marriage so soon.’
‘I can guess the reasons.’
‘What?’
‘It seems the man who jeeped you down to the station after your escape from the Bridge talked about your running away with a beautiful girl. The word reached Mohinder, then obviously Sarita … Provoked, she must have hustled Mohinder into it. Poor man!’
‘Well, he asked for it,’ said Gautam. ‘But how did Trivedi pick up the press gossip?’
‘Maybe he knows one of your reporters.’
‘Interesting … Well, I should then thank Bala for all his help, and for giving us the ride.’
‘Sure, you owe it all to him,’ said Berry. ‘You know, it’s only when an ex-wife remarries that she gets off your back. Otherwise, she’s always on the scent—spying, scandalmongering, weaving her little cocoon of malice and revenge.’
‘So now I should feel free to do anything.’
‘What?’
‘Marry Haseena,’ said Gautam. ‘Not
on the rebound, though.’
‘Has it gone that far?’ Berry said, a little surprised.
‘Why not? … I’ve fallen in love with her.’
‘Then I couldn’t tell your old man everything,’ said Berry.
‘Did he see you?’
‘Well, he came here the other day to ask about you. He looked very worried. You should have dropped him a word from Allahabad. But I imagine you were in bed with her all the time.’
‘Don’t be funny. Tell me …’
‘I did let him know something about you and Haseena.’
‘What did he say?’ Gautam’s gaze now settled on Berry’s face.
‘He just listened,’ Berry answered. ‘A marvellous man! I wish I had a father like yours.’
‘I should thank you for clearing the decks for me,’ Gautam said; then, after a pause, he added: ‘Look, I’ll need your help again … How close did you get to the commissioner at Bob’s party?’
‘I can’t say. But there’s always Bob.’
‘All right, let me explain,’ said Gautam. ‘Haseena’s mother and her sister have decided to migrate to Pakistan. You know there’s no security for Muslims in Allahabad, or anywhere in India.’
‘But how does the commissioner come into this?’
‘I’ll need some police escort from Delhi to Amritsar. Also some influence to get the immigration papers for them.’
‘That’s a tall order,’ said Berry. ‘But I’ll do my best, lover boy,’ he added.
‘Thank you.’
‘And Mrs Haseena Mehta will, of course, stay back,’ Berry smiled.
‘Naturally.’
Till now, Gautam had deliberately held back his encounter with Pannalal—how he’d killed him. He wanted to bring it up as dramatically as possible.
‘You may have also read about the killing of a Hindu pilgrim in Allahabad,’ Gautam said.
‘Of course. I had it straight from the commissioner, at Bob’s party. Even before the press flashed it the next morning.’
‘Well, it was our friend, the pimp.’
‘Pannalal?’ Berry asked, quite surprised. ‘If I remember correctly, it was a Muslim who killed him. That’s what the press reported—of course, in the usual journalistic euphemism, “killed by a member of the minority community”.’
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