by Vaseem Khan
Returning from the bustling Mid Day offices Chopra had realised that if he aspired to make any further progress in his investigation then he had to get on board The King’s Ransom, a proposition that, under the best of circumstances, presented a considerable challenge. The more he had thought about the problem the more he had come to realise that he could not achieve his goal without assistance.
‘OK, let’s have it.’ Bomberton slouched in his seat like a shaggy hound that had just returned from an unsuccessful hunt.
Chopra frowned. ‘I was thinking we might share intelligence.’
Bomberton removed a handkerchief and mopped his face. ‘Keep talking, Chopra. I haven’t heard anything yet to make me want to share even this sweaty handkerchief with you.’
Chopra stared at the bellicose Englishman, then nodded stiffly. ‘Very well, I will begin… I believe that the theft was carried out by a gang. One of the members of the gang was this man.’ He set the photocopy of Prakash Yadav’s driving licence that Rangwalla had given him down on to the table. ‘He is the one who placed the gas canisters inside the Kali statue in the Tata Gallery.’
Bomberton squinted angrily at the photograph. ‘I won’t bother to ask how you cottoned on to Yadav. I suppose you went after the personnel records, same as us. We’ve been looking high and low for the man. Rao is determined to prove that this Yadav fellow is one of Garewal’s accomplices. But the man is a ghost. He simply doesn’t exist.’
‘I do not think you will find him,’ said Chopra. ‘Whoever he really is.’
‘You’re probably right. If I was the mastermind behind this I wouldn’t leave a loose end like Yadav alive.’
‘Then there is this man…’ Chopra now set down a photo of Bulbul Kanodia from the police file Sub-Inspector Surat had delivered to him. ‘He was in the Tata Gallery when it was hit. He is a former jewel fence. Now he runs a chain of jewellery stores.’
Bomberton slowly shook his head. ‘We vetted everyone in the gallery. None of the names we were given by the ticket office came back with a criminal record.’
‘That is not possible. Kanodia spent two years in Mumbai Central Prison. I myself arrested him. I have his old case file.’
‘He came up clean when we looked.’
Chopra was perplexed. ‘How can this be? Unless…’ He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Someone has expunged his record.’ The revelation should not have surprised him. It was one more brick in the case against Kanodia. How else could his sudden reversal of fortunes be explained? From convicted criminal to renowned businessman in the blink of an eye. Even in Mumbai this was no mean feat. And yet a clean chit was not difficult to obtain, not if you had the money and influence of the Chauhan gang behind you… At least he understood now why Rao had not brought Kanodia in for further interrogation.
‘Wouldn’t be hard to arrange in this country,’ said Bomberton dryly, mirroring Chopra’s thoughts. He mopped his brow again. ‘Look, just because the man had a criminal record, doesn’t mean he stole the crown. Maybe he had his record cleaned up because he didn’t want the smell following him around. Not after he went straight.’
‘He did not go straight,’ Chopra said stiffly. ‘It is my belief that Kanodia’s jewellery chain is financed by organised criminals. It is my belief that they are behind the theft of the Koh-i-Noor.’
A waiter arrived and demanded an order. Bomberton bristled at the man’s surly tone, but Chopra placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘The waiters here are very rude. It is part of the charm. Think of them as actors.’
Bomberton glared at the man before ordering a beer. Chopra asked for a lime water.
Around them the restaurant’s patrons raised a din that spilled out into the crowded Colaba Causeway where hawkers sold all manner of kitsch – silk scarves from Shimla, ornate hookahs from the Middle East, Kashmiri carpets, alabaster deities, pirated DVDs, sequinned handbags, Kolhapuri sandals, miniature Taj Mahals, brass bugles and even antique gramophones.
‘I went to Kanodia’s house today,’ Chopra continued. ‘I found this.’ He dug out the invitation and handed it to Bomberton.
The detective squinted at the card then threw it back on the table. ‘This could be anything.’
‘I believe this card refers to the Koh-i-Noor diamond. I believe Kanodia has invited possible buyers of the diamond to The King’s Ransom to negotiate its sale. The King’s Ransom is a yacht. It belongs to one of India’s richest men.’
Bomberton’s blue eyes evaluated Chopra. Then he picked up the card and took a second look.
Eventually he dug out a packet of cigarettes from his linen jacket and lit one. He blew a cloud of smoke over the table, then said, ‘Let’s say I go along with your theory. So, on the day of the theft Kanodia’s accomplices break in through the rear door of the Tata Gallery using explosives they may or may not have brought with them, retrieve the gas canisters from inside the Kali statue, set them off, wait for everyone to pass out, then break into the display case—’
‘Do you know how they did that?’ Chopra interrupted. ‘That is something I have not figured out.’
Bomberton seemed to weigh up whether or not to tell Chopra, then shrugged. ‘Do you know what a resonance frequency is?’
Chopra shook his head.
‘Every material has one. It is the point at which a material will achieve maximum oscillation – or vibration – when acted upon by a force. Have you ever seen an opera singer shatter a glass using her voice?’
‘I thought that was just a myth.’
‘It’s no myth. McTavish believes that the thieves used something similar. A device that created a high-pitched sound attuned to the exact structure of the glass in that particular type of display case. An unfortunate defect that the manufacturer will no doubt live to regret.’
Chopra remembered the sound he had heard just before passing out, a sound just on the edge of hearing, a sound that had set his teeth on edge.
‘So this device was also in the Kali statue?’
‘Possibly. Or else the thieves brought it in with them. It could have been concealed in any small object with an in-built speaker. A mobile phone, a camera—’
‘But those were taken away from us before we entered the museum.’
‘Something else then.’
Chopra thought about this. And then he recalled what had happened in the queue to pass through the metal scanner to enter the museum. The individual he would later identify as Bulbul Kanodia had argued with the Force One guards. He had insisted on taking in his asthma inhaler… At least this explained why Kanodia was personally present in the gallery at the time of the heist. And yet there were still questions to be answered, questions about exactly how other aspects of the plot had been carried out…
‘Have you traced the gas canisters and explosive?’
Bomberton snorted. ‘Cat in hell’s chance. McTavish says the chemical signatures are generic. Both the gas and the plastic explosive could have been picked up for a song from any black market in Mumbai. Rao tells me your bazaars are awash with Israeli surplus.’
‘What about the funds that went into Garewal’s account? Rao said one million rupees were deposited just after the robbery.’
Bomberton tapped ash into a clay bowl full of mango pickle swimming in mustard oil. ‘Hawala account set up in Dubai. The account was opened with cash by an unidentified party using forged papers. That’s where the trail runs cold.’
‘Many Mumbai gangsters have operations in Dubai,’ Chopra said. Here was one more link in the chain leading back to the Chauhan gang.
The waiter returned with their order. He handed Chopra his lime water, then slammed a frosted beer mug on to the table, spilling some onto the glass tabletop. With a last surly look he departed.
Bomberton picked up the pitcher, took a long swallow, then wiped the froth from his moustache with the back of a meaty hand.
‘I think we should work together,’ Chopra said, eventually. ‘I have a plan.’
&nbs
p; ‘Rao won’t work with you.’
‘I was not referring to Rao.’
Bomberton sniffed. ‘Hah! What makes you think I want to work with you?’
‘What is your opinion of Rao?’
Bomberton shot a dark look down his nose. ‘Rao is the worst officer I have ever met. The man is an imbecile. I wouldn’t leave him to tie his own shoelaces. When the Commissioner dropped in yesterday I thought Rao was going to do somersaults. He is convinced Garewal did it. I’ve watched him trying to sweat Garewal for days. To be frank, the things Rao has done to Garewal…’ Bomberton’s voice tailed off. ‘But I’m an outsider here. What do I know about your methods?’ His stomach suddenly gurgled. ‘Sorry. Local cuisine’s been playing havoc with the pipes. Bowels in uproar.’ He planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward. ‘Look, even though Rao is a gold-plated idiot it doesn’t mean he’s barking up the wrong tree with Garewal. I mean we did find the damned crown in his home. Now you come up with this Kanodia angle… I grant you, you have something interesting there. But it’s a long way from interesting to conclusive.’ He paused as he was overcome by a hacking cough. Chopra heard the nicotine rattling around the British policeman’s lungs. When the cough had abated he drew deeply on his cigarette again, before continuing: ‘Nevertheless, I am prepared to hedge my bets. Frankly speaking, our investigation hasn’t turned up much. We’ve rounded up all the usual suspects, combed the diamond bazaars, and put the thumbscrews on every informant in the city. Nothing, not a sniff. I cannot – I will not – leave this country without the Koh-i-Noor diamond. The crown without the Koh-i-Noor is worthless.’ Bomberton looked glum. ‘A busted flush, Chopra. That’s all I’ve got.’
Chopra’s face was expressionless. ‘We agree on one thing, at least… Rao is an imbecile.’ He tapped the invitation, still lying on the table between them. ‘I am going to follow Kanodia to the yacht tomorrow tonight.’
Bomberton slugged his beer again before setting it down. ‘Sounds like you’re asking me out on a date.’
Chopra bristled. ‘It is your choice. With you or without you, I will pursue my objective.’
Bomberton flicked his cigarette into his beer mug before lumbering to his feet. ‘Don’t get so worked up. I didn’t say I wasn’t coming.’
‘Then I will meet you beneath the Gateway of India at 10 p.m. tomorrow. And remember to dress appropriately.’
Bomberton glowered. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I mean we must not look like policemen if we hope to board The King’s Ransom.’
‘You mean we’re going in disguise?’
Chopra regarded the hulking Englishman. It would be quite a task disguising Bomberton, he thought. Like trying to disguise the Taj Mahal. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Now you are getting the idea.’
THE CULPRITS ARE UNMASKED
Augustus Lobo, principal of the St Xavier Catholic School for Boys, peered down from his lectern, his brow furrowed into an expression of intense disappointment. The gathered boys stared back up at him in collective bewilderment. ‘Gentlemen, it is with the profoundest sorrow that I stand before you this morning. Usually, at this time each year, it would be my singular honour to lead you in Christmas Mass.
‘Alas, it is not to enjoin you in prayer that I am here today, but to deliver the most scandalous news possible. Not twenty-four hours ago I stood before you and informed you of the reprehensible actions of a group of n’er-do-wells who had seen fit to besmirch the honour of our great institution by stealing school property from the office of Mr Banarjee. I told you that I had replaced the items in question. I openly challenged these goondas to attempt to recreate their crime, not believing that anyone would be so reprehensible, so audacious as to actually plunge once more into the dark pool of moral turpitude.
‘Alas, I was wrong. Lightning has indeed struck twice.’ Lobo clutched the lectern and leaned forward, fixing his students with a baleful look. ‘I now call upon the perpetrators of this outrage to recall their teachings. We are more than an institution of learning, gentlemen. We are an organisation that stands for something. Christian values. Honesty and integrity. That is what St Xavier expects from each and every one of you. I ask the guilty parties to step forward and confess. Admit your guilt and your punishment will go lightly. For forgiveness is also one of our virtues.’
A pin-drop silence echoed around the hall.
‘Very well,’ growled Lobo. ‘Brother Machado, if you please.’
One hundred and eighty heads turned to watch Brother Noel Machado draw the thick curtains over the stained-glass windows of the assembly hall, pitching the vast room into darkness. From this darkness came the disembodied voice of the principal.
‘What I have not told you, gentlemen, is that last night a trap was set. My challenge to the culprits was merely a ruse. You see, when the thieves returned to the scene of the crime, they once again broke into Banarjee’s safe. However, this time, unbeknownst to them, a hidden device had been installed. When the safe swung open, this device was activated, releasing an invisible cloud of particles into the air, particles that clung to the perpetrators of the crime. These particles cannot be seen in natural light. In order to observe them, one must employ ultraviolet light. Permit me to demonstrate… Brother Machado!’
There was the sound of a switch being flicked, and suddenly, from the stage, there blazed a bank of eerie blue fluorescents. Row by row the light swept over the assembled boys who stared in puzzled astonishment from one to another… And then, halfway along the tenth row, the light stopped.
‘Wadia! Look at your face, man!’
‘What?’ Raj Wadia looked around wildly. ‘What about my face?’
‘It’s bright green! You’re glowing!’
‘And you too, Fonseca. And look at your hands. They’re glowing too!’
‘Joshi’s got it too. They’ve all got it!’
‘And look at Baig. He’s practically radioactive!’
At the rear of the hall Poppy clapped her hands. ‘It worked!’ she exclaimed, delightedly. ‘It really worked! How did you know?’
‘It is a recent technique that is being employed to safeguard valuable items in the homes of the rich,’ explained Rangwalla. ‘Chopra told me about it a while back when orders came down that we should be on the lookout for stolen merchandise tagged by this method. Apparently it is all the rage in western countries.’
‘Well, it was a very good idea. Like you said, those boys have been caught, but not red-handed.’ Poppy sighed. ‘But what happens now?’
Rangwalla shrugged. ‘That is not my business. The school will have to discipline them. It is hardly a police matter.’ He winced. ‘Not that I am a policeman, any more.’
Poppy patted him on the shoulder. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You are better than a policeman now. You are a private detective, and a very good one at that.’
Augustus Lobo paced agitatedly behind the desk in his office, his hands clasped behind him, his cassock swishing against the flagstones beneath his feet. ‘Well, gentlemen, what have you got to say for yourselves?’
Raj Wadia, Anoop Joshi, George Fonseca and Rafeeq Baig stood to attention before the principal’s desk. Joshi and Baig hung their heads, finding something of supreme interest on the floor. Fonseca blubbered quietly into his collar, a trail of snot snaking down from his nose to his upper lip. Only Wadia remained imperious, staring coldly ahead, as if apart from proceedings. At the back of the room Rangwalla and Poppy looked on.
Lobo turned abruptly, causing Fonseca to jump. ‘Wadia, you are the leader of this gang. I demand an explanation.’
Wadia maintained his stony silence.
‘Speak, boy! I order you to speak!’
Silence.
Lobo paced the office again, before wheeling back on them. ‘By all accounts you are very bright boys. What need had you to steal those papers? Answer me!’
Further silence, broken only by another sob from Fonseca.
Lobo’s eyebrows knitted themselves t
ogether in fury. ‘If I do not have an explanation, you are all finished!’ he thundered. ‘You will be expelled, booted out, expunged! I will summon your parents and we will have it out. Do you think grand larceny is a trivial matter? Well, do you?’
Joshi and Baig exchanged glances, then shook their heads. Fonseca let out a loud wail of anguish and buried his face in his hands. Wadia’s lip curled in a supercilious smile.
‘Sometimes, I long for the old days,’ growled Lobo. ‘A good thrashing, that’s what you young goondas need.’
Poppy, who had been watching the pitiable Fonseca and had found herself overcome by a sudden mist of sympathy, now spoke. ‘Sir, perhaps I might talk with them for a moment?’
‘What else is there to say, Mrs Chopra?’ said Lobo gruffly. ‘These rapscallions have desecrated the good name of St Xavier. They have undermined everything we have attempted to teach them. They are goondas – no more, no less.’
‘Just a few minutes, sir.’
Lobo stared at her crossly before throwing up his hands. ‘Very well. Machado, come with me.’
After the two men had left, Poppy faced the boys. ‘I know that you are frightened,’ she said gently. ‘Even those of you who are pretending that you are not.’ She stared closely at Wadia, whose cheeks flushed.
‘But what I also know is that you are children. Children make mistakes. Childhood is the best time for mistakes because you can make up for them. You can learn from them. But first you have to be willing to accept that you have made an error, and you have to be willing to make amends. I will help you, if you are willing to talk to me. I promise that I will not think harshly of you. Everyone deserves a second chance. Will you talk to me?’
She watched as Joshi and Baig exchanged looks again. Fonseca stopped sniffling and wiped a sleeve across his nose, then raised his head to look at her.