Midnight at Malabar House (Inspector Wadia series)

by Khan, Vaseem

  Following that meeting she was due at the offices of the victim’s lawyers, for the reading of his will.

  Her final task was to continue to track down Adi Shankar, another of those who had left Herriot’s ball prior to being interviewed.

  She had called the number Lal had given her half a dozen times, but met with little success. Now she dialled again and was put through to his secretary. The woman, far too sharp-tongued for her own good, duelled with her for a while, before placing her on hold. When she returned, she informed Persis that Shankar continued to be indisposed. If the situation changed she would receive a call.

  She resisted the urge to hurl the phone across the room. Instead, she unlocked her drawer, took out the Partition files she had brought from home, went to the small interview room at the rear of the office, locked herself in, and spread them out on the lacquered wooden table.

  She began with the files pertaining to Bombay, reasoning that Sir James might have begun his investigations close to home.

  In each folder, she first read the statements provided by witnesses, almost all anonymous, sometimes conflicting, always harrowing. That was the trouble. These were eyewitness testimonies, and the one thing she had already learned was how dangerous it was to rely on the word of bystanders. One part truth to three parts fiction, was how a senior officer at the academy had put it.

  Partition! She remembered how the very spectre of it had set Indians at each other’s throats.

  Once Jinnah had made his position public, the poison spread quickly, the flames fanned by the British, always quick to exploit divisions among their subject populations. Their attempts at holding on to their ‘jewel in the crown’ finally collapsed following the war. An exhausted Treasury convinced Attlee’s government to end British rule in India and, in early 1947, the British Prime Minister announced a transfer of power by June 1948. However, with the British Army unprepared for the spiralling violence in the country, the new viceroy, Louis Mountbatten, advanced the date for the transfer, allowing less than six months for a mutually agreed plan for independence. In June 1947 India’s nationalist leaders, including Jinnah, agreed to a partition of the country along religious lines – the Mountbatten Plan. Gandhi absented himself from the talks; he remained bitterly opposed to the division of India until the day of his death. The predominantly Hindu and Sikh regions were assigned to the new India and predominantly Muslim areas to the new nation of Pakistan; the plan included a partition of the Muslim-majority provinces of Punjab and Bengal.

  What should have been predicted, but was wholly unprepared for, was the communal violence that accompanied the announcement of the actual line of partition, the Radcliffe Line, and the subsequent transfer of hostile populations.

  By the time the dust settled, more than two million lay dead, and ten million displaced. A litany of horror, acts of such inhuman cruelty that it seemed incomprehensible to Persis. Not just wholesale murder and rape, but the fact that those who had carried out these crimes were, by and large, ordinary people. A postman, a clerk, a farmer. She remembered attending a Rotary Club meeting at her father’s lodge on Ravelin Street where they’d played clippings of Movietone News, footage of the Delhi riots. Images of citywide curfews, deserted streets and shuttered shops, set against burning buildings and corpses littering the roads.

  Such horror! The disembowelling of pregnant women. The crushing of infants’ heads against walls of brick and stone. Blind men doused with gasoline and set alight in the streets. She recalled a statement by Mountbatten, in response to the spectre of Partition violence: At least on this question I shall give you complete assurance. I shall see to it that there is no bloodshed and riot.

  What stupendous lies had been told during those years!

  She remembered too Nehru’s momentous speech, at the very instant of India’s birth, listening to it on her father’s Bakelite, the words speaking to something unknown and possibly unknowable inside the heart and mind of every Indian:

  Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance. It is fitting that at this solemn moment we take the pledge of dedication to the service of India and her people and to the still larger cause of humanity.

  How hollow those words now sounded.

  In some of the files, there were photographs. One image, in particular, stayed with her. Three headless corpses, clearly young, female, murdered in a field, their bodies propped against a well. Where were their heads? she wondered. Had they been thrown in the well?

  She recalled a quote from Cicero. The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.

  Who did these girls have to remember them? She might be the last person on earth to speak their names. She had begun this investigation intoxicated by the belief that it might bring her honour, glory and the respect of her peers. But crimes such as these forced her to adjust her perspective. Evil could only flourish if the world colluded with it. Justice went beyond her own ambitions; it was a matter of balancing the scales.

  A knock on the door brought her back. It was Birla. ‘There are nine hotels in the city of Amritsar named the Golden Temple. Herriot didn’t stay in any of them.’

  After Birla had left, she pondered on the detail. The enigmatic code written on the sheet continued to bother her. Who was Bakshi? Why had Herriot written down that name? And what did PLT41/85ACRG11 mean? She had hoped that by discovering the location of the Golden Temple Hotel she might unravel the mystery.

  Sighing, she returned to her work.

  Chapter 10

  The tomb of Haji Ali had been built in the 1400s, a whitewashed monument perched on a tiny islet in the middle of Haji Ali Bay in mid-town Bombay, linked to the city proper by a narrow causeway that was traversable only during low tide. When the tide was up the causeway vanished, promoting the illusion that the Sufi saint’s tomb was floating on water.

  Persis parked her jeep on the coast road, then walked along the causeway towards the tomb and its accompanying mosque, shimmering in the midday sun. Pilgrims jostled along on all sides, glancing at her, some with curiosity, others with open hostility. For centuries women had been banned from the tomb; even now they were permitted only into its marbled precincts and not into the sanctum sanctorum that lay at its heart, the central shrine where the saint was interred. Recent petitions to the Bombay High Court had fallen on deaf ears. As far as the law was concerned women were still persona non grata here, which made it all the more surprising that Eve Gatsby, a woman and a foreigner, had been granted access.

  She found the American just outside the tomb, in a blazing white courtyard, examining a succession of pillars embellished with artistic mirror work: blue, green and yellow chips of glass arranged in kaleidoscopic patterns interspersed with Arabic calligraphy spelling out the ninety-nine names of Allah.

  In deference to the proscription against revealing clothing, Eve had donned a pair of khaki jodhpurs and long boots, below a white blouson, a headscarf and trendy, bug-eyed sunglasses with yellow frames. She resembled a cross between a fashion model and a jungle explorer.

  She was bent behind a tripod and camera set-up.

  Persis noted a small, intense-looking Indian standing to one side: Eve’s official escort inside the tomb, she presumed. The man, dressed in a white shalwar kameez with a white skullcap, exuded a sense of nervousness, as if, perhaps, he had brought a landmine into the complex and was waiting for it to go off.

  ‘Glad you could make it, Inspector,’ said Gatsby in the breezy accent of a native New Yorker. ‘To tell the truth I was hoping to meet you while I was out here. India’s first female detective. And now a celebrity. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get a few shots o
f you on camera.’

  Persis wasn’t sure how to respond. The American oozed self-confidence, as if the very possibility of the world not aligning itself with her wishes was something beyond the bounds of imagination. Gatsby was one of those who hadn’t bothered to wait around to be interviewed at Laburnum House.

  ‘I came here to ask you about Sir James Herriot.’

  Eve smiled, a dazzling white-toothed affair. She was a beautiful woman, tall and chic, with wisps of dark hair poking out from under her headscarf. Persis could easily imagine her gracing the silver screen; she reminded her of a young Olivia de Havilland – Persis had been a fan of the American actress ever since They Died with Their Boots On.

  Gatsby pulled out a pack of Capstans from her jodhpurs and lit one. Her minder uncrossed his arms and glanced around like a startled rabbit. Persis noted that the pair of them, the only two women in the courtyard, were attracting considerable attention.

  On the far side of the courtyard, a group of Sufi singers launched into a bout of maniacal prayer. Their singsong voices rose above the courtyard, mingling with the cawing of gulls.

  ‘You know,’ remarked Eve, ‘this place is one of the best examples of Indo-Islamic architecture on the subcontinent. Haji Ali was a wealthy merchant. Gave up all his possessions one day and decided to travel the world seeking goodness in his fellow man.’ She flashed another breezy smile. ‘It’s a shame about Sir James. What would you like to know?’

  ‘How did you know him?’ asked Persis.

  ‘Through my father. Sir James was in the States last year, on a diplomatic mission, and my father entertained him at our New York home. They became friends. He invited us out to Bombay. My father couldn’t come but I was keen.’

  ‘Are you here for business or pleasure?’

  ‘A bit of both. I’m a photographer. Well, to be truthful I’m the daughter of a very wealthy man, one who pays for me to indulge my hobbies. But I like to think that I take it seriously. The subcontinent has always held a particular allure for the lens, if you have the eye for it. You don’t know who my father is, do you?’

  Persis shook her head.

  ‘Truman Gatsby. Noted industrialist and Republican politician. That’s his official entry in the Marquis Who’s Who. My father made a fortune in New York real estate. And now he wants to run for Congress. We have a saying back home: “When a man is tired of common sense he takes up politics.”’

  ‘You sound cynical”.’

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve seen a little of the world and not all of it is to my liking.’

  ‘Was Sir James to your liking?’

  She froze, then pushed her sunglasses on to her forehead, revealing two dark and pretty eyes. ‘If I was a betting woman, Inspector, I’d say that had a certain bite to it.’

  Persis pressed forward. ‘I am told that you and Sir James were . . . involved.’

  ‘Involved?’ echoed Eve. ‘What a curious word. I take it you mean we were engaged in some sort of tawdry liaison.’

  ‘Were you?’

  She gave a short bark of laughter. ‘No. The man was old enough to be my father. He had his charms, I suppose, but I’m not in the habit of falling into bed with any old fool.’

  ‘Are you saying he was no more than a friend?’

  ‘An acquaintance.’

  ‘We have evidence that he was . . . intimate with a woman just before his death. In his study.’

  She grimaced. ‘It wasn’t me. Not for lack of his trying, I’ll grant you.’

  ‘He propositioned you?’

  ‘Of course he did. The man was a predator.’ She reached out to flick the ash from her cigarette but was stopped by a strangled cry from her minder. The man leaped forward, took off his skullcap, flipped it upside down. She frowned at him, then obliged by flicking the ash into the cloth bowl.

  ‘Why did you attend his party if you disliked him?’

  ‘I didn’t dislike him. I just saw him for what he was. Look, James had his uses. He introduced me to a lot of the city’s movers and shakers, people I wanted to photograph. It was his idea of foreplay.’

  ‘You don’t seem very distraught by his death.’

  ‘As I said, he was just an acquaintance.’

  ‘Do you know who he might have been with that night? In his study?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t a clue, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wished him harm?’

  She shrugged. ‘He was a political animal. As my father is fond of saying, if you swim with the sharks don’t be surprised when one of them takes a bite out your ass.’

  Persis waited.

  Eve sighed. ‘I have no idea. You should ask that aide of his, Lal. I don’t think he particularly liked his boss.’

  Persis dwelt on these words. It was the second time she had heard of a possible animosity between Lal and his employer.

  ‘Is there nothing at all you can tell me?’

  ‘The only thing I can think of is that he recently fell out with his business partner, the Scot.’

  Persis perked up. ‘Do you mean Robert Campbell?’

  ‘That’s the one. Big brute. Rude.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Sir James and Campbell had a disagreement? Over what?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was just gossip at the party. There seemed to be some tension between the pair of them. At least, James looked like he was avoiding the man.’

  ‘Why would he invite Campbell if they’d fallen out?’

  ‘It certainly wasn’t to celebrate anything. I’ve never seen a man so down in the mouth.’

  ‘Campbell was angry?’

  ‘Not at first. But, something happened late on, after the midnight fireworks. He got into some sort of spat with his daughter. Elizabeth.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘No idea. Then again, they were always at it. Campbell and his daughter, I mean.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There was some talk of a beau that Campbell took exception to a while back. Ended badly, apparently. Or rather he ended it for her.’

  ‘Who was this man?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I hear he might have been a native. And I thought I was the scandalous one.’ She grimaced. ‘Rumour has it that Campbell resolved the problem through violence.’

  Persis recalled the story Lal had told her about an Indian engineer that Campbell had supposedly had killed. Was there more to it than just rumour?

  ‘Do you remember when this was?’

  ‘About a year ago, I believe. They were up in Faridpur, just outside Delhi.’

  Chapter 11

  The offices of Merchant, Palonjee and Pettigrew were located on Manekshaw Lane, wedged in between an army and navy store and the premises of an ambiguous commercial enterprise engaged in ‘import and export’. The narrow road was choked with cars, tongas, cycle rickshaws and pedestrians. On the pavement a row of typists sat cross-legged on the baking paving slabs, pounding away on typewriters at ferocious speed. They were a common sight around the city, ranked outside government offices, law firms and the municipality’s various courts, catering to those in need of swiftly produced legal documentation.

  Persis trudged up a narrow flight of stairs to a first-floor reception where a secretary flapped her towards a leather sofa. On the walls were photographs of the firm’s trio of lawyers, rubbing shoulders with a roll-call of clients, mainly white men with tailored suits and white-blocked teeth. She suspected that Merchant, Palonjee and Pettigrew was another of those colonial-era enterprises trying desperately to serve two masters: the past and the future. She also suspected that not so long ago the first name on the firm’s letterhead might well have been Pettigrew.

  The secretary called inside, then led her through to a boardroom overlooking the main road. A conference table ran the length of the room. At one end a portrait of a severe-looking Britisher in a suit gazed out over the table and the four individuals gathered there. The nearest of these was Madan Lal and he rose now to gre
et her.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Inspector.’ Lal waved at the others. ‘May I present Inspector Persis Wadia? She is leading the investigation into Sir James’s death.’

  The obese man in a light grey suit sitting at the head of the table spoke up. ‘Rather unusual to have a police presence at the reading of a will. Are you sure this is necessary?’

  ‘Quite necessary, Mr Merchant,’ said Lal before Persis could speak.

  ‘Welcome, Inspector,’ said the small man to Merchant’s left, dressed in a navy-blue suit, a bow tie and eyeglasses. ‘My name is Vivek Palonjee. Please, do have a seat.’

  Persis moved around the table and sat directly opposite the white man who had observed her arrival with a steady gaze. He was young, sandy-haired and blue-eyed. He wore an Irish linen jacket over a sodden white shirt, his stomach sagging over his belt. There was something vaguely familiar about him . . .

  ‘May I introduce Edmond de Vries?’ said Lal. ‘He has flown over from the West Indies. He was Sir James’s representative there – managing his Caribbean holdings.’

  De Vries nodded solemnly and held out his hand. She took it and was immediately repulsed. She wiped the moistness on to her trousers. He noticed this but said nothing.

  An itch at the back of her mind. Where had she seen this man before?

  The room was unconscionably warm, the ceiling fan whirring above the table fighting a valiant rearguard action against the rising afternoon heat.

  Merchant, ladled into a suit that was too small for him, seemed fit to burst from it like a mango squeezed violently from its skin. ‘Now that we are all present, I suggest that we commence with our business.’ He had a rough, smoker’s voice, impassioned by a strange warble, as if a frog had become trapped in his throat. ‘For almost two decades the law firm of Merchant, Palonjee and Pettigrew has served distinguished gentlemen – both British and Indian – with dedication, faith and honesty. Indeed, those very words are the motto of our founder and guiding light, Anthony Pettigrew.’