Murder at the Grand Raj Palace

by Vaseem Khan

  When Taylor arrived she was dressed in a white sleeveless blouse, pinstriped black trousers and glossy red shoes. Her corn-blond hair was pulled back, and red lipstick set off her fine features. If anything, she looked even better fully dressed, Chopra thought, than in her bathing suit.

  The thought made him flush, and he coughed loudly to cover his discomfort.

  Taylor slipped into a chair, waved at a waiter and ordered breakfast, an exotic meal of Keralan coconut rice crêpes served with pomfret molee—a fish curry from the south. She asked the waiter to bring some mangoes for Ganesha, who couldn’t believe his luck when a loaded tray was placed under his trunk.

  Chopra explained that he was a special investigator tasked by the police to look into the case. “What case?” said Taylor. “Burbank killed himself, didn’t he?”

  “That is what I must determine,” said Chopra. “The circumstances of his death have raised certain doubts.”

  Taylor arched an elegant eyebrow. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so,” she said. “To be frank, the idea that Burbank committed suicide hasn’t felt right to me from the beginning. I tried to tell the man in charge of the investigation, but he seemed hell-bent on brushing the whole thing under the carpet.”

  “You are talking about Assistant Commissioner of Police Gunaji.” Chopra sighed. “I am afraid that the death of an American has set alarm bells ringing. No one wants this situation to become political. A suicide would be the most convenient explanation.”

  “But not necessarily the right one?” said Taylor.

  Chopra shrugged. “It is too early to say.”

  “It was that writing on the wall, wasn’t it? ‘I am sorry.’ Written in blood.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Burbank’s PA told me about it. He was the one who found the body. Is that why this Gunaji is so adamant it’s a suicide?”

  “It is one reason,” said Chopra. “Though I am certain the statement was not written in blood. Burbank could not have stabbed himself and then got up to write those words.”

  “Could he have done it beforehand? If it was suicide, I mean?”

  Chopra shook his head. “After I saw the bathroom I called my police colleague. I asked him if any other wounds were discovered on Burbank’s body other than the fatal one to his heart. There were none.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  Chopra shifted in his seat. “Please tell me about him. Burbank, I mean. How did you know him?”

  “I’ve known Hollis—Mr. Burbank—for a number of years. You see, I am the head of client relations for the India and Middle East region at Gilbert and Locke. That means it is my job to handhold the bigger collectors who want to buy art from this region. Burbank was a serious collector. He’s had a special interest in Indian art for a long time; he’s bought many speculative pieces in the past that are only now going up in value.”

  “So he was a regular visitor to the country?”

  “Actually, no. This was the first time I’ve been able to entice him here.”

  “Yet you say he has been collecting Indian art for years?”

  “Yes. But he would always buy from overseas exhibitions, or based on pictures I sent him online. He trusted my judgement.” She said this with just a trace of pride.

  “I must confess I am no expert in this area,” said Chopra. “But it was my impression that Indian art is not highly thought of on the world stage.”

  “Up until a few years ago you would have been right. But the truth is that art follows money. It’s not always the other way round. India is booming. Overnight the subcontinent is crawling with freshly minted millionaires. And do you know the first thing the nouveau riche always want to buy?”

  Chopra shrugged.

  “Acceptance,” said Taylor, her blue eyes sparkling. “Nothing screams ‘I’ve arrived, I belong’ more than a very tasteful and, above all, very expensive painting hanging on the eggshell-washed wall of your swanky new pad. I came here a few years ago with the head of Gilbert and Locke and we were astounded at the clamour for art among Mumbai’s jet set. That was when I had the idea of putting together an auction here. I was convinced I could get some of the world’s biggest collectors together, if only we could put on a lavish enough production. At the same time, it would be a shot in the arm for artists from the region who I have long felt were undervalued.”

  Chopra sensed that Taylor had developed a genuine affection for India. It often happened with foreigners who spent any length of time on the subcontinent.

  “It’s such a magical place, isn’t it?” she said, as if reading his thoughts.

  Chopra was tempted to nod, but stopped himself. The trouble with most Westerners was that they lived a rarefied life in India, cossetted by wealth, enthralled by the snake-charmer-and-swami “mystique” of the subcontinent. It was the rare foreigner who got their hands dirty in the slums, the poverty, the myriad other malaises that plagued the country.

  “So Burbank was only here for the auction?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “When did he arrive?”

  “He flew in the day before the auction. We normally arrange a private viewing for the big collectors. The exhibition itself has been going on for a week.”

  “Exhibition?”

  “Yes. All the paintings have been on show to the public.”

  Chopra recalled seeing something about it on the news.

  “Weren’t you—Gilbert and Locke, that is—worried about security?”

  Taylor smiled. “Believe me, it’s the first thing we think about. We have a very experienced private security firm who deals with all of that. They know what they’re doing.”

  Chopra considered this. “So you don’t believe Burbank’s death had anything to do with the auction? Or his purchase of what I am told is now India’s most expensive painting?”

  “If only that were the case.” Taylor sighed. “It would make things very simple. But if someone did kill Burbank for the painting, then why didn’t they take it?”

  Chopra had no answer to this. “Could there have been a personal motive? Assuming he was killed?”

  She shrugged, running her fork around the edge of her plate, monogrammed with the hotel’s logo. “I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Hollis Burbank was, shall we say, an acquired taste.”

  “Are you suggesting that he was not well liked?”

  “That would be the understatement of the century. The man was positively loathed. Not that he cared. I suppose when you are as rich as he was why would you?”

  “Please explain.”

  Taylor was silent a moment. A froth of conversation rose and fell around them in the restaurant. Beside the table, they could hear Ganesha slurping on his mangoes. “Hollis Burbank was the most driven man I have ever met. He ran an industrial conglomerate, producing everything from toothpaste to tractors. Last I checked, he was personally worth in the region of seven billion dollars.” She paused, as if to let this enormous number sink into Chopra’s brain. “By all accounts he was ruthless in his business dealings. That was my experience of him, anyway. Once he set his heart on a particular piece he would stop at nothing to acquire it. It’s one of the reasons I find it hard to believe that he killed himself. He wanted this painting more than anything I’ve ever pitched to him. And he paid a record fee to obtain it. Why would he commit suicide, just when he’d got his hands on it? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Chopra rose to his feet. “Perhaps it is time I took a look at this painting.”

  As they made their way up to the Khumbatta suite, Chopra asked Lisa Taylor about the auction.

  “Have you ever been to an art auction?”

  “I have not had the privilege,” said Chopra dryly.

  “Well, I can tell you that this one was a major production. I mean, we left no stone unturned. You see, like most things in the art world, it’s all about presentation. You put a piece of cheese on a cracker and serve it at a kids” party—it’s
just cheese on a cracker. But you serve the same thing at an auction, and tell everyone one of the world’s greatest chefs prepared it, and they’ll gush over it as if you’ve just served them ambrosia.

  “An auction like this is what you might call a high-society event. This is where the crème de la crème come out to be seen, not necessarily to buy something. We had film stars, business barons, professional socialites, even a couple of princesses. I have to admit I’d hardly heard of any of these people before I got to India, but in this business you have to do your homework. There’s nothing a very wealthy art virgin likes more than to have their ego stroked. Of course, most of them wouldn’t know a Monet from a Manet.” She gave Chopra a dazzling smile. “There’s no real secret to this business, Chopra. Frankly, it’s all smoke and mirrors. I mean what makes Cézanne’s The Card Players worth three hundred million dollars? No one could really tell you. But if enough so-called art experts say such-and-such painter is one to watch, you’ll suddenly find serious collectors jumping on the bandwagon. And as soon as even one blue-chip investor makes a purchase, then the artist’s price tag jumps through the roof. Rags to riches in the space of an evening.”

  They had arrived at the top floor.

  The security guards sprang out of their seats like a pair of jack-in-the-boxes. Chopra used the keycard that the general manager had given him and, for the second time that morning, entered the scene of Hollis Burbank’s death.

  “As I was saying: we had a fantastic turnout for the auction,” continued Taylor. “The room was packed. Art whales and their reps; art assayers, dealers, critics, scholars and last—and usually least—the artists themselves. There was an incredible energy in the room. When you’ve been doing this for a while you get a certain feeling. As soon as the first few lots sold—all for well above the lot price—I knew this was going to be a big night.

  “We moved through the sale quickly. Sculptures, bronzes, miniatures, and then on to works by lesser-known artists. Tomorrow’s stars. And finally we got to the Rebello.”

  They had entered the master bedroom.

  Taylor stopped before the bed, a shudder passing through her as she gazed at the bedspread where Burbank’s body had been found.

  She shook herself, and then moved forward, climbed onto the bed and removed the cloth covering the painting above the headboard. The painting was secured behind a glass display case, a numerical keypad set below it. A red light winked on the keypad, indicating that it was alarmed.

  Taylor returned to the foot of the bed and stood beside Chopra—and Ganesha—as all three regarded the painting.

  “Behold!” said Taylor. “Zozé Rebello’s masterwork: The Scourge of Goa.”

  Chopra stared at the enormous canvas.

  It was painted in a distinct visual style, reminiscent of the miniatures favoured by the Mughal emperors, depicting hundreds of tiny but highly detailed human figures. The background of the canvas was a deep yellow with reds and umbers running through it, giving the impression that the protagonists were wading through a lake of fire. As he focused on different sections of the canvas he realised that the figures all appeared to be engaged in violent or aggressive behaviour.

  “Disturbing, isn’t it?” said Taylor. “It gets everyone that way the first time. You start off by thinking it’s harmless, and then you actually focus on what all those little people are doing to each other. I confess I gasped the first time I understood.”

  “Understood what?”

  “That this is Rebello’s depiction of hell. Or, more accurately, hell on earth. Art experts think this is an indictment of the tumultuous past of Goa, his home state, the fact that it was ruthlessly plundered by various factions throughout history, both Indian and foreign. Hindus, Muslims and, most notably, the Portuguese, who turned Goa into a governing seat for their ‘Empire in the East.’ They converted the locals to Christianity—at the point of a sword, naturally—and transformed Goa into a major seaport for the spice trade. Spice was the gold of that era, and whoever controlled the spice routes became enormously powerful. No one asked the Goans whether they wanted any of this. Whether they wanted to speak Portuguese, or worship at one of the three hundred churches they were forced to build. Whether they wanted to be tried, tortured and executed by the Goa Inquisition on the flimsiest of pretexts.”

  Chopra mused on how history had a way of smoothing over even the worst of humanity’s excesses.

  Goa was now recognised as a tourist paradise for those seeking sun, sand and sea. For decades, it had been popular with the hippy trail; now it had become a retirement Mecca for many Mumbaikers, a place for the wealthy to keep a second home that they could jet down to in an hour on the many domestic airlines that now clogged the subcontinent’s airways.

  He wondered just how many knew of the region’s turbulent past.

  Chopra focused again on the canvas. Each figure was precisely drawn, he noted, down to the expression on each face. In all there must have been a thousand individuals depicted on the canvas: Hindus, Muslims and Christians; Portuguese and native Goans.

  Death was the common motif that drew them together.

  There were a great many bodies, strewn over the canvas like corpses over a battlefield. Rebello had found every conceivable manner of death to inflict upon his cast: shot, strangled, clubbed, stabbed, impaled, beheaded or simply hacked to pieces. Some were already dead, sightless eyes turned to a roiling sky, others caught in the act of dying. He saw one figure kneeling on the ground, grasping at his intestines as they spilled from his torso. What made this particular scene so horrific was that the man’s apparent killer was a nun, a grey-clothed woman in a white wimple whose face shone with beatific light.

  An involuntary shudder passed through him.

  Ganesha’s trunk slipped into his hand, and he gave the elephant a reassuring squeeze. No doubt his ward was experiencing a similar feeling of disquiet. He wondered briefly why anyone would want to buy a painting like this. Who in their right mind would want this hanging anywhere in their home?

  “Did Burbank have any trouble in acquiring the painting?” he asked eventually.

  Taylor smiled as if he had said something foolish. “The Rebello was the highlight of the auction, Chopra. Every collector worth his salt wanted this. We had a real bidding war. The lot price was set at two million dollars. Burbank had to pay ten to get his hands on it.”

  “Had to pay?”

  “Yes. The bidding went on for nearly an hour. We had collectors calling in from all over the world. But, in the end, it came down to a battle between Burbank and an Indian businessman, Agnihotri. He’s been quite vocal about not letting the Rebello go out of India. Vowed to buy it, but in the end Burbank simply outbid him. To be frank, Burbank paid a ridiculous sum for the painting. The previous record for an Indian artwork was for an abstract by Gaitonde, which sold for over three million.”

  “How did Agnihotri react, after Burbank outbid him?”

  “Badly. In fact, I saw his face when the hammer came down. The man was livid. He tore up his auction catalogue, and stormed out of the room. There was an ugly rumour circulating that he confronted Burbank, but I don’t know if there’s any truth to that.”

  Chopra made a note to check this out. Agnihotri’s name sounded familiar. He recalled that it was on a list that Tripathi had given him of individuals he had briefly questioned or had intended to question before ACP Gunaji had started interfering with his investigation. “And what happened next? After the auction, I mean?”

  “Well, there was a champagne reception, of course. A chance for the big bidders to preen a little. We also find it’s a good way to prevent buyer’s remorse from setting in. There’s nothing that helps calm an art virgin’s insecurity after he’s just blown a few million pounds on what looks like a child’s doodle than a roomful of sycophants telling him what a cultural maven he is. You could say my livelihood depends on it. I earn a commission on each artwork I sell. And the Rebello estate is one of my most prestigious cli
ents.”

  “Has the sale gone through? In spite of Burbank’s death?”

  Taylor looked glum. “I’m afraid not. It’s in what we’d call art auction limbo. You see, once the hammer came down, Burbank was technically the owner of the piece. He certainly thought so—that’s why he insisted that the Rebello was moved up here, into his suite, right after the auction. He was planning to be in Mumbai a few days, and he didn’t want the painting out of his sight.”

  “Was he not worried about security? Weren’t you?”

  “I am always worried about security. But as you can see, we had the painting installed by our security team. It’s fully alarmed. No, the real problem is that Burbank purchased the painting through one of his company accounts. An offshore shell company to be precise. It’s a common way for richer collectors to minimise their tax liability when they buy major works. And that means the payment hasn’t yet been processed. It requires a second director from this particular company—which is registered in the Cayman Islands—to sign off on the transfer of funds. And given that Burbank is now dead—and the painting is being held as evidence—this other director has decided to put things on hold until he understands exactly what happened to Burbank. Which is bad news for me, because it means that my commission on the deal is now stuck.” She gave a grim smile. “We—and by that I mean Gilbert and Locke—need to know exactly what transpired here.”

  Chopra led Taylor to the bathroom.

  He wanted to take another look at the writing on the wall.

  Taylor raised a sceptical eyebrow. “I’ve known Burbank for years. And I can tell you that in all that time I never once heard him apologise.”

  “You do not believe that he wrote this?”

  “All I can say is that if he did, then it must have been something truly earth-shattering he was sorry about.”

  Chopra allowed a moment’s silence to pass. “You mentioned that the body had been discovered by Burbank’s personal assistant. Do you know where I can find him?”