by Josh Pachter
* * * *
Mahboob Chaudri was no longer bored.
Bahrain’s greatest treasure was missing—stolen and not lost, as a careful check around the small room quickly revealed. The prime suspects were four young men whose fathers were so high-placed that even to question their sons would be the gravest of insults, and the idea of searching the boys for the stone was absolutely unthinkable. And he had less than a quarter of an hour before it would be time to reboard the bus for the brief ride back to the mainland.
No, Mahboob Chaudri was not bored.
But he would have given a great deal to be bored once again, instead of mired in this, the most hopeless, desperate situation of his career.
Sheikh Ibrahim was gaping at him. Megan McConnell had her notebook out again and was scribbling furiously. The Indian photographer was taking pictures of him now, and Chaudri could imagine the caption that would appear in the Gulf Daily News: “Mahboob Ahmed Chaudri of the Public Security Force,” it would say, “baffled by the theft of the most important relic of Bahrain’s ancient history.”
Luttay gaye, he thought bitterly. What a disaster!
The four boys, meanwhile—Jamil, Mohammed, Talal, and Rashid—were talking softly amongst themselves. Chaudri would have sorely liked to have been able to overhear their conversation. The McConnell woman and her photographer had been working all the while that the seals were being handed around; there had been no time for either of them to have pocketed the Beer Drinkers. And it was inconceivable that Sheikh Ibrahim himself had stolen the stone: the thing would be impossible to sell, and if—like certain mad collectors—all he wanted was the knowledge that a unique and priceless piece was in his possession, why, the piece was already in his possession, safe in its niche in his museum. There was no reason to steal it: he could enjoy it safely and privately, whenever he chose.
No, the awful truth was that the only valid suspects in the case were the eldest sons of four of the GCC’s strongmen, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could not search them, he could not ask them to turn out the pockets of their thobes, he could not ask any question which implied that one of the boys was guilty while admitting that he did not already know which one. For if the three innocent youngsters saw that their integrity was in doubt, at least one of them would be sure to report the matter to his father.
Chaudri didn’t really want to think about the consequences of that.
If only he had been watching more closely, if only he had seen which of the four had taken the stone.
If only....
If only he had a magic box, like the Grand Vizier in the old fairy tale. It had been one of his favorite stories as a child: the Emperor’s wonderful golden ring is stolen, and the Vizier is ordered to uncover the identity of the thief. He gathers the suspects outside one of the palace’s smaller apartments and instructs them to enter the darkened room individually, unaccompanied by guards. In the center of the room, they will find the Vizier’s magic box, and they are to put one hand into that box as deeply as it will go, then leave the apartment by a second door, where the Vizier himself will be waiting for them. The box will have no effect on the hand of an innocent man, but its magic will stain a criminal’s skin a damning black.
So, one by one, the courtiers enter the darkened room. One by one, they leave by the opposite door. And, one by one, their hands are examined by the Grand Vizier.
At last: “This is the criminal!” he cries.
“But my hands are clean!” the accused man protests.
“Exactly,” smiles the Grand Vizier. For his magic box is not magic at all, merely an ordinary wooden box filled to its brim with soot. The innocent suspects, their consciences clear, have obeyed the Vizier’s instructions and come out of the room with blackened hands. Only the guilty man, fearful of the box’s magic, has disobeyed, and his immaculate hands reveal him to be the thief.
If only I had a magic box, Mahboob Chaudri thought sadly. If only I had been watching!
But—but wait. He knew he had seen nothing, but he was the only one in the room who possessed that knowledge. And perhaps they did have a magic box of sorts there with them, after all. Yes. Yes. It would be a gamble, but it was all he could think of. And if the Indian photographer was clever enough to catch on and play along, there was a chance it might work.
In any case, it was worth a try. Even if it failed, the situation could hardly get any worse than it already was.
Chaudri drew himself up to his full height, calmly projecting an air of what he hoped would pass for confidence. Less than two minutes had passed since Sheikh Ibrahim had announced the disappearance of the treasured seal. The Sheikh, the boys, Megan McConnell, the photographer—they were all turned toward him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.
He spoke. “I saw who took the stone,” he lied. “You thought my attention was elsewhere, but you were wrong. I saw you take it, and I saw where you hid it.”
He watched their faces hopefully, praying for the guilty boy to give himself away.
But it was not to be that easy.
And it was too late to back away from it now. He had committed himself. He could only go forward. “Your first mistake,” he went on, “was coveting that which does not belong to you—a minor sin, true, but a sin all the same. Your second mistake was stealing the stone, repaying Bahrain for her hospitality by robbing her of her dearest treasure. That, of course, was a graver sin and a more serious error. Your third mistake was larger still: you allowed me to see you as you claimed the Beer Drinkers for your own.”
The silence in the room was hot and stifling in spite of the museum’s air conditioning.
“But I am only a simple policeman,” Chaudri admitted, his voice now humble. “If I accuse you, here or in front of your father, it will be my word against yours. Even if the stone is found in your possession, then perhaps you will say I planted it there in an attempt to discredit you. My word against yours—and your word, obviously, will be worth much more than mine. What I need,” said Mahboob Chaudri firmly, “is proof.”
Now is the moment, he thought, pausing to let them consider the things he had said. Understand me, my friend, and give me your help!
“And I have proof,” he said, “for you made a fourth mistake, and that was the largest error of all.” He whirled to face the stocky little photographer and pointed a finger straight at the man’s startled eyes.
“You,” he intoned dramatically, his mind imploring the other to comprehend, “you saw the theft take place as well—not only saw it, but snapped a photograph of it with your camera at the very instant it happened.”
The Indian blinked nervously, clearly confused.
Don’t deny it, Chaudri thought fiercely. You can help me trap the thief!
“I—” the man stammered.
It’s not going to work, Chaudri realized. He doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And then the swarthy Indian countenance cleared. “Why, yes, sir,” the man said firmly. “That is completely true. I did.”
Chaudri flushed with joy. Praise Allah for those beautiful, blessed words!
“I don’t want to cause an embarrassing incident,” he told the children confidently. “All I want is for the Beer Drinkers to be returned. So I have a suggestion to make.”
He moved to the panel of light switches by the door—the only entrance to the room—and swung the door shut.
“If all four of you will gather around the display case, one on each side of it, I will turn off all the lights in this room. In the darkness, the boy who took the seal can set it back down on top of the case without being seen. I will leave the lights off for one full minute. If the stone is there when I turn the lights back on, then I will return you all to your hotel and nothing further need ever be said about what has happened here today. Sheikh Ibrahim, is that acceptable to you?”
The assistant
curator bobbed his head eagerly. “Yes, of course,” he agreed. “All I want is the seal!”
“Miss McConnell?”
To her credit, the reporter understood him and nodded her acquiescence immediately. That would mean two marvelous stories lost in a single day, but she was a seasoned enough journalist to recognize that some tales are better left untold.
“And you, Mr.—?”
“Gogumalla, sir,” the Indian supplied. “Solomon Gogumalla.”
“Mr. Gogumalla, will you swear to say nothing about this incident and to destroy the incriminating film in your camera without developing and printing it if the Beer Drinkers is returned?”
The little photographer swallowed noisily. “Yes, sir,” he promised. “Of course. I won’t say a word. You can rely on me.”
“Well, then.” Chaudri turned to the boys.
They themselves seemed willing to cooperate, and Chaudri deferentially arranged them around the sides of the glass display case. Ibrahim al-Samahiji, Megan McConnell, and Solomon Gogumalla he guided to positions along the wall farthest from the case, so they would be well out of the way.
“Now I will shut off the lights,” he repeated, “and I will leave them off for 60 seconds.”
With hope and prayer in his heart, he hit the four switches and plunged the room into darkness.
* * * *
The room was empty of light and sound. Mahboob Chaudri held his breath and listened for the faint rustle of cloth that would be a hand reaching into a pocket, for the sharp click of stone touching down on glass.
But there was nothing: no rustle, no click, no noise of any kind.
And time floated by, as slow yet intense as one of the emir’s golden peregrine falcons drifting steadily across the sky in search of its prey.
Then the sounds began. There was a cough from the corner of the room that could have come either from the assistant curator or the photographer. There was the abrupt crack of a joint flexed after too long a time held stiff. There was a shuffle of impatient feet and a long, tired sigh—and the rapid pounding of Mahboob Chaudri’s own anxious heart.
“I will now turn on the lights,” he announced, when he judged that a full minute had gone by. He felt for the switches in the darkness and pressed them all at once. When his eyes had readjusted to the brightness, he looked hopefully to the surface of the display case in the center of the room.
There was nothing there.
His bluff had been called.
Disgrace, dismissal, and banishment back to Pakistan. His children would be ashamed of him, his wife would despise him, his friends would abandon him. It was over, all over—his career, his happiness, his life.
He would see his assignment through, of course—escort the children back to their hotel, then go straight to the Police Fort and prepare a letter of resignation. He could at least do that much, and quit before they could throw him out....
No! He was Mahboob Ahmed Chaudri—not a quitter, not a coward. He was a police officer with a job to do, a case to solve, a criminal to apprehend.
His bluff had failed, true—but before he would admit defeat he would play one more card, the only card that was left to him.
He would bluff again.
“Very well, then,” he said, “you have chosen to hold onto the stone, which leaves me with no choice at all. I will have that film developed, and I will present the incriminating photograph to your father. Mr. Gogumalla, may I have your camera, please?”
“Certainly, mahsool,” the Indian replied. “But may I offer you my services, as well? I have a small darkroom of my own, right here in Muharraq. Allow me to develop the roll for you and to make a large print of the picture in question, which I can present to you very quickly and with my compliments.”
“A kind offer,” said Chaudri, pleased—and a nice touch, he added silently. “But in a case like this one, it would be best to have our own men do that job.” He put out his hand for the camera, but the photographer held onto it. “Don’t worry about your camera,” Chaudri reassured him. “Our specialists will be quite careful with it.”
Gogumalla shook his head stubbornly and took a step backwards, and at that moment Mahboob Chaudri realized what had really happened to the Beer Drinkers.
* * * *
I should have seen the truth immediately, Chaudri wrote to his wife Shazia late that evening. Usually his weekly letters were filled with questions about the children and wistful dreams of the future, when he would have saved enough money from his salary to return to Pakistan for good. But this week he had news to report.
Miss McConnell and the Indian, Gogumalla, were busy working while the theft was being committed, he wrote, forming the Punjabi words slowly and carefully, and I was certain that neither of them could possibly have been guilty. Instead of looking only at the fact that they were working, though, I ought to have considered what exactly it was that they were doing. The woman was writing and drawing in her notebook all that time, and the photographer was taking pictures. But at one moment Gogumalla stopped to put a fresh roll of film into his camera, just after shooting a series of exposures of the Beer Drinkers. And, as it turned out, new film was not all that he was loading into the body of his camera—he hid the Dilmun seal there as well, in the hollow cavity inside the lens.
It was not in his mind to commit a crime when he set out today—he was just a simple photographer on assignment. But when Sheikh Ibrahim explained how valuable the stone was and he saw the opportunity to take it, the temptation was too much for him to resist.
The poor fool—he was too ignorant, Shazia, to know that, for him, the Beer Drinkers had no value at all: unique and instantly recognizable as it is, there is no way he could ever have sold it.
Of course, none of the photographs he was taking after the theft were any good, with the Beer Drinkers lodged between his lens and his film. If I had accepted his offer to process and print the roll himself, he would have gone off to his darkroom, taken the seal out of the camera and hidden it, and come back to me with the sad story that the film had accidentally been ruined. And since he knew that I knew there really was no incriminating picture, he doubted that, once we had left the museum, I would even bother asking him to do the developing and printing. When I carried my bluff to the extreme, though, and insisted on taking the camera myself, he saw that the game was up and confessed.
He is out on Jiddah now, the prison island, in a cell awaiting trial, and I have been commended by my superiors for solving the case without insulting or embarrassing the four boys, who by now are back in their home countries and tucked safely away in their beds. Sheikh Ibrahim has promised me a golden reproduction of the Beer Drinkers as an expression of his gratitude. When I receive it, I will buy a chain for it and send it to you as a memento of your husband’s triumph.
Not really a very satisfying triumph for me. If I hadn’t happened to remember that old fairy tale and think of the Indian’s camera as a modern-day magic box, Solomon Gogumalla would now have the seal and I would be —
Well, the less said about that the better.
It is getting late, dear Shazia, and I must sleep. Kiss the children a hundred times for me and think ever fondly of your own
Mahboob
Afterword
A visitor to today’s Bahrain National Museum, which opened to the public in 1988, will find a modern complex of several lovely white stone buildings, erected overlooking the water where the Al Fatih Highway intersects with the Sheikh Hamad Causeway to Muharraq Island.
What’s described in this story is the old museum, which has long since either been repurposed or razed. It was much smaller than the new one, much darker—and I imagine quite probably much less interesting. But I loved the original structure, and visited it many times during my year in Bahrain.
The Dilmun seals described here are real, and “The Beer Drinkers” remains the most
important surviving artifact of the ancient Dilmun civilization. All of the history presented in the story was carefully researched and is, to the best of my knowledge, accurate.
The story appeared in the December 1984 issue of EQMM, and Eleanor Sullivan introduced it like this: “A lovely second story in Josh Pachter’s new series about Bahraini policeman Mahboob Ahmed Chaudri. The illustration of the Beer Drinkers, which really is the best known and most valuable of the Dilmun seals, was drawn from a photograph by Piet Schreuders, a Dutch graphics artist whose book, Paperbacks USA, the author translated from Dutch into English.”
Like “The Dilmun Exchange,” this story also made Ed Hoch’s Best Mystery and Suspense Stories of the Year Honor Roll. The following year, Bill Pronzini and Martin H. Greenberg reprinted it in their excellent anthology The Ethnic Detectives: Masterpieces of Mystery Fiction (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1985). In his introduction, Pronzini wrote: “Mahboob Chaudri is one of crime fiction’s most delightful new detectives. ‘The Beer Drinkers’ and several other of his cases have appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine over the past two years, and more are planned. Happily, his creator is also considering a Chaudri novel for the not too distant future. A teacher by profession, Josh Pachter has lived in Bahrain … and writes from first-hand knowledge of the island and its people.”
I really was thinking about trying my hand at a Chaudri novel at the time, but, when I finally did get around to writing a book-length piece of fiction, 30 years later, it was set in one of the other “B” countries—Belgium, not Bahrain. Of course, I’m still alive and kicking, so who knows what the future might bring?...
The Tree of Life
This is a privilege, he kept reminding himself as he bounced and jounced and feared for his life. Oh, dearie me, Chaudri, don’t forget it is a privilege!
Since all of the camels in the tiny island emirate of Bahrain were owned by the royal family, an invitation to ride one as a reward for service to the al-Khalifa government was indeed a privilege.
It was not, however, a pleasure.
