The Mayor's Abduction

by Noah Alexander

  “Do you have any idea where Kerry could have gone yesterday. Any small clue or hunch?” she asked Tracy.

  “As I said, she was in a hurry and did not tell me where she was headed to,” said Tracy, “But I think it would be worthwhile to ask Khudabaksh outside. He is a cab driver who generally parks out on the street under the Tamarind tree and more often than not it is he who ferries the girls of the orphanage.”

  Maya noted the name and thanked Tracy.

  “You were very helpful,” she said heading out of the door, “I am sure you would become a great detective one day.”

  SIX

  The Mayor's Mansion

  The imposing wrought iron gate to the Mayor’s Mansion was ajar. Two young scraggy Greycoats stood at the entrance chatting animatedly with each other. They stopped Ernst as he tried to enter, forming a dramatic cross with their hands to bar his path.

  “Where do you think you are going?” said one of them arrogantly flicking out a cigarette and popping it in his mouth. He was slightly more than a boy, with a sun-tanned face and a faint line of mustache upon his lip.

  “I am Lieutenant Ernst Wilhelm of the Vasco Constabulary. I’ve been assigned to assist Director Rostum here.”

  “Can we see your badge,” said the young Greycoat.

  “Can you not see my uniform?” Ernst asked irritated. He produced his Constabulary badge nonetheless and handed it over to the man.

  The Greycoat studied it intently before returning it, “It is not as hard to procure blue shirt and trousers as you might think,” he said making way for Ernst.

  Ernst took back the card and walked past the two, sulking.

  He hated Greycoats.

  Greycoats (so named because most of them draped themselves in dull-colored suits) were detectives from the Tripoli Force, one of the two divisions of the Cardim Police, the other being the High Guards. While the High Guards were generally expected to maintain law and order in the city, the Tripoli Force was responsible for crime investigation and other delicate cases considered too tricky for the High Guards. This apparent superiority of role made most of the Greycoats think of themselves as an elite force, above in designation and ability from the High Guards and, just like the two men standing on the gate to the Mayor’s Mansion, many Greycoats reeked of snobbishness.

  The effort to find Mayor Norman Sinclair, who had been last seen in the evening yesterday, was being led by Director Leonard Rostum, chief of the Tripoli Force, who had mobilized almost half the city police to aid him in his endeavor.

  Director Leonard Rostum had a legendary reputation in the police circles. He had handled the hostage crisis in the Free Bank of Cardim, dealt with the missing English Ambassador which threatened to spill into a war between Cardim and East India Company, and also had been the one to find the Koh-i-Noor, the great Mogul Diamond which had been stolen by renowned robber Wilfred Shakiro on its way to the Queen of Britain.

  Ernst, who had been assigned as a representative of the Vasco Constabulary, to assist the director coordinate the efforts in the area, was looking forward to meet the detective in person. He only hoped that his years of experience had given the Director a greater degree of humility than his junior colleagues at the gate.

  The Mayor’s Mansion was a large cream-colored building located in the middle of a verdant 10 Acre compound. It consisted of three separate wings arranged in a rough triangle, the middle wing was the biggest among the three and housed the Mayor’s office as well as his army of secretaries and assistants. On the left was the mayor’s residence while on the right was the visitor’s area where the mayor hosted official guests.

  Ernst walked through the main door of the middle wing and emerged into a large hall which functioned as the waiting room for people who had an appointment with the mayor. It had now been invaded by an army of Greycoats, young and old, in their distinctive rumpled summer coats and top hats, who swept all over the place with notepads and pens in their hand and a look of unmistakable arrogance on their faces.

  It seemed like the Greycoats had rounded up all the workers and servants of the house and put them in different corners of the hall where they sat huddled, presided over by the hawkish detectives.

  Ernst tried to locate Director Rostum. He had not seen the man before but was sure that the tall, grey-haired man standing in the center of the hall surrounded by half a dozen men and a woman with a notepad scribbling vigorously by his side was the person he was looking for. Ernst squeezed his way through the packed congregation and tried to extend a hand to introduce himself to Leonard. But the director was too busy to acknowledge.

  “Have you gone through the office of the mayor, Bane?” Leonard asked one of the older men in front of him.

  “Yes Sir,” said the old man nodding, “I have seized all the documents in the office as also the posts which have arrived in the last week. We are yet to get a key to the safe in the office, though, and are still trying to open it.”

  “And what about the servants, who is interrogating them?”

  Two men raised their hands.

  “Our team has divided the servants and we are recording their statements. Overall, there are 28 women and 14 men employed in the mansion. We are already done with around half of them.”

  “Good, you come to me if anything important comes up. Now, what about the mayor’s house?”

  “We have a couple of men there, who are trying to find out anything of importance. As you had instructed, we have not interrogated the First Lady who is in her room.”

  “Yes. This reminds me I have to talk to her,” Leonard motioned to the lady beside him, who scribbled something in her notebook.

  The director stayed silent for some time trying to think if he had missed anything.

  “What about you young man,” he asked Ernst suddenly, “What do you want?”

  “Sir, I am Lieutenant Ernst Wilhelm of the Vasco Constabulary,” Ernst extended his hands towards Leonard once more, “And I am here to help you coordinate the search efforts in the Vasco area....”

  Ernst was suddenly pushed aside and a bulky Greycoat burst through to address the director.

  “Sir, we have found the mayor’s driver,” he said panting, “He is the last person to have seen the mayor. He is waiting outside with his hansom.”

  Leonard’s eyes lit upon hearing this.

  “Come with me,” he breathed to Ernst and swept past the crowd and out of the building.

  “Lieutenant Wilhelm,” he said taking quick strides to the gate where the driver was waiting, “how long have you been in the force?”

  “Three months, sir”

  Leonard wasn’t impressed.

  “I expected Horace to send someone more experienced. I am sure I made it clear to him that this was not a job suitable for kids.”

  Ernst’s face burnt. He wanted to say that just a month ago he had busted the biggest smuggling syndicate of Cardim, but figured it was better to stay quiet and keep on the director’s toe.

  The mayor’s driver was a short fat man, 50 years of age with brown hair and a weather-beaten face. He stood beside a black, single horse hansom at the gate, rubbing his hands anxiously.

  “Name?” asked Leonard as he reached the gate.

  “Mo… Moran,” said the man rubbing his hands together even more vigorously.

  “You are the mayor’s driver?”

  “Yes, sir. He has two other boys employed as drivers as well, but they are generally for the other members of the family, and I take care of the mayor’s hansom.”

  “When did you last see the mayor?”

  “Yesterday, Sir. In the evening. Perhaps at around 5, the mayor’s attendant came to me in the stable and asked me to get the hansom ready, the mayor wanted to go to the council office. You see, yesterday was a Sunday and Mr. Sinclair does not usually leave his house on Sunday evenings, so it took me around ten minutes to latch the horse and get the hansom ready. The mayor was waiting at the gate when I came in and we started immediately. I
t takes around 20 minutes to the council office. But when I reached there and opened the hansom, I found it empty. No one in it apart from a piece of paper. The same one which this gentleman has right now.”

  A Greycoat handed a note to Leonard.

  The mayor had been warned. It was foolish not to pay heed.

  Leonard gave the note to another man beside him.

  “Get handwriting samples of all the people you can find in this house and compare this to them. Let me know if you get any match.”

  The man nodded and disappeared with the note.

  “Did the mayor usually travel like that? Without security?”

  “A lot of the times, a guard traveled with him,” said the driver, “but it is not unusual for him to travel alone.”

  “Tell me more about the journey. Did you not realize at any point that your cab was empty?”

  “No sir, usually Mr. Sinclair tries to sleep during his travel, he keeps so busy. So I try not to talk to him. That being said, I did talk to him briefly in the middle of the trip. We were turning from the Broad Road to the Victory Avenue when I saw that there was a blockage on the street ahead. Two cabmen were haggling with each other blocking traffic. Mr. Sinclair heard it and asked what the commotion was about and I told him it was two idiots fighting. When the matter did not sort out for a couple of minutes, I decided to get down and talk them out of it. I managed it fairly easily, the men became rather amiable when they found out that they were keeping the mayor waiting. I continued onwards and in five minutes we were in the council building.”

  “Can you describe how the cabmen looked?”

  “Ye…Yes. I believe I can. More or less.”

  “Good. Oram, take this gentleman and get a sketch of the two men. Then circulate that sketch to all constabularies and let’s see if we can find any information about the two. It seems that they were deliberately planted to obstruct the mayor’s hansom.”

  The director looked at the men surrounding him and sighed.

  “It is clear now,” he said grimly, “the mayor has been kidnapped.”

  SEVEN

  The Devout Cabman

  Khudabaksh, the cabman was snoring languidly upon his Tanga carriage under the tamarind tree outside the orphanage. His tongue poked out of his open mouth, while a couple of flies hopped upon his face. He was a tall man, heavily built, with a rugged face and a thick, jet black beard upon it.

  Khudabaksh’s tanga, a single horse carriage, seemed like it had seen some rough days. The wheels were slightly bent, the once black paint had faded in patches and the canopy had holes in it.

  Maya rapped the wood panel above the wheel and the man jumped awake.

  “Hello madam,” he greeted her warmly, exposing fully his tobacco ravaged teeth, “where do you wish to go?”

  “Wherever you took the girl called Kerry yesterday evening,” Maya said and noticed an immediate change in the man’s features. There could be no doubt that he had indeed ferried Kerry.

  “I…I don’t understand madam,” he said straightening up, “I do not know of anyone called Kerry and I don’t remember ferrying a girl yesterday evening.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “By Allah I am sure,” said the man loudly, trying to go on the offensive, “And who are you to question me like that?”

  “I am Detective Maya of Tripoli Force,” barked Maya at the man, “and you keep your voice low if you do not want to spend the night in the Sophia Gaol.”

  The native cabman was taken aback by Maya’s fake credentials.

  “A Greycoat,” he mumbled almost inaudibly, “Pardon me madam but I am a silly tanga driver and I did not recognize you. Actually, I did not know that the detectives had started employing women or I would not have spoken a word. But believe me, I have nothing to do with the girl you are talking about. I am a devout Muslim and lying is haram for me.”

  “That is something coming from the mouth of a drunkard,” quipped Maya, “and not to mention a regular at the Scarlet Street pleasure houses. Aren’t those acts haram as well?”

  “I don’t understand why you are accusing me of betraying my religion, madam,” said Khudabaksh scandalized, “but rest assured I am not a drunkard and I keep at least 100 yards from prostitutes. I don’t know who told you all that but it is not true.”

  “At least get rid of that stash of country liquor bottles under your seat if you want to propagate your lie. And if you stay at least a hundred yards away from prostitutes how do you justify the presence of the small pink card slipping out of your pocket. If I am not much mistaken that is an annual discounted pass that some of the brothels on Scarlet Street issue to their most regular customers.”

  Khudabaksh quickly stuffed the card back inside his pocket and pushed the liquor bottles under his seat with his feet.

  “You are very observant, madam,” said he sheepishly, “I do have my weaknesses, but please believe me I did not ferry the girl you are talking about.”

  Maya, convinced that the man was lying, stepped inside the tanga to examine it properly.

  “How many kids do you ferry to school every day,” she asked stepping out after a couple of minutes.

  “I am sorry?”

  “I saw the wood panels on the back seat had been defaced by scribbling and drawing. The handiwork of small children who you ferry to school.”

  “Yes, you are right. I ferry seven children every day to the convent school near Temple Bridge.”

  “How would the families of those children feel if they find out that a pervert drunkard ferries their kids. Think about it.”

  Maya turned to walk away. She had taken a couple of steps to the street when Khudabaksh suddenly changed his mind.

  “Wait, madam,” said he scratching his beard, “I think I now remember faintly the girl you are talking about. It may be possible that she boarded my tanga yesterday.”

  Maya turned again to face the cabman who had clambered down from his seat

  “I am sorry madam,” he joined his hands respectfully, “I sometimes have trouble remembering things. I am growing old you see.”

  “What about the girl? Where did you take her?” Maya asked, her mind twitching at the prospect of a promising lead, “And make sure you remember each detail correctly or I can make some arrangements in the Sophia gaol for you. I am familiar with a few techniques that sharpen memory quite dramatically.”

  “No, no, madam, I don’t think that would be necessary,” Khudabaksh tried to smile, “the girl came from this orphanage at around 7 in the evening, boarded my cab and asked to take her to Rabitsnare”

  “Where in Rabitsnare?”

  “Nowhere in particular madam, she just asked me to take her to the South Bank square, then she directed me to the Anthill Bridge and asked me to take a dirt trail towards the river, I dropped her there on the dirt road and came back.”

  “Near the river, a mile from the Anthill turn?”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “Was there someone waiting for her there?”

  The man thought for some time

  “No,” he answered, “not that I could see, it was a lonely place.”

  Maya scratched her head. Why would Kerry go alone into the wilderness? Was it to meet someone? But who?

  Maya clambered upon the tanga.

  “Take me there,” she commanded Khudabaksh.

  EIGHT

  The Riverbank

  Maya stepped out of the carriage and scrutinized the surroundings. She was standing on a dirt track in the middle of a lonely wilderness overgrown by shrubs, mango trees, and thorny acacias.

  “I dropped her here,” said Khudabaksh, “and she went in there,” he pointed towards a thin trail towards the left which extended towards the river.

  “It must already be dark when you dropped her?” asked Maya gazing into the distance where the track led.

  “Yes, it was quite dark. I could hardly see 50 yards.”

  “And yet you did not think of leaving a girl alone in this lo
nely wilderness. Didn’t you ask her why she was here?”

  “Look, Madam,” said the man, “I am a cabman and the first thing we learn in our job is to do as the customer tells us. And I am not new to young ferrying girls to lonely places. You understand what I mean. Now, I have nothing against their business, and I prefer to do my job and let others do theirs. So I took my fare from the girl and went home.”

  Maya found it hard to believe that Kerry was the sort of woman that Khudabaksh suspected. She also doubted that Khudabaksh was as straight a man as he claimed to be.

  “Wait here as I inspect this trail,” she said to Khudabaksh and drifted into the forest. The trail was short and extended only around two dozen yards till a sandy clearing beyond which lay the murky Kali river, flowing languidly towards the Arabian sea. Maya looked around the river bank for any clue to Kerry’s purpose here and indeed validate her presence, she did not fully believe Khudabaksh's story. But there was nothing on the bank which caught her eye. The clearing had no footsteps either. She suspected that the river swelled during the high tide and submerged this part of the forest. Maya turned back towards the trail disappointed. Was it possible that Khudabaksh had a hand in Kerry’s disappearance? He could have just made up a story and brought Maya to a random place to mislead her. It made no sense for Kerry to come to this lonely wilderness alone and then send the cab away. She wouldn’t have any chance of finding a means of transport back home at night and Maya already knew that Kerry hadn’t packed to stay the night. Was Khudabaksh lying to her then?

  Halfway back towards Khudabaksh’s waiting carriage, Maya’s glance was captured by something glittering in the shrubs. She reached over to find a pocket watch. Its hook, where the watch must have been joined to a chain, had broken. She opened the watch and found KB scratched upon it. The watch was a poor quality brass piece that sold for a Cowrie in Flea Market. She possessed one herself.

  Maya walked swiftly over to Khudabaksh who was reading a magazine seated upon his perch on the carriage.

  “Did you find anything?” he asked keeping the magazine down and taking the horse reins in his hands.