by Vaseem Khan
The critic drew himself up. “I went to Burbank’s suite. I pounded on his door until he opened up. I told him that if he had touched a hair on my wife’s head I would kill him.” He seemed to deflate. “But Burbank just looked at me irritably, and told me that Layla had already come and gone. He told me that if either of us bothered him again he would call the authorities. And then he shut the door on me.”
“Why didn’t either of you tell the police about this?”
Layla Padamsee spoke up. “Because I felt guilty. The next morning we were told that Burbank had died; the rumours said that he had killed himself. I started to think that perhaps it was because of me, because of what had happened. That possibly he believed I would create a scandal, and this caused him to do what he did.”
“Burbank does not strike me as the sort of man to suffer greatly from a conscience,” said Chopra.
“Perhaps you are right,” said Layla. “But I wasn’t thinking straight. I was still upset by everything that had happened. It’s only since this morning, when Adam apologised and told me how much I mean to him, how afraid he is of losing me, that I have begun to recover myself.”
Chopra considered the Padamsees’ testimonies.
Both husband and wife had lied to him. Both now admitted going to Burbank’s room just prior to his death. Both had reasons for wanting to cause him harm.
Could he trust their pleas of innocence?
On his way back from the interview Chopra received a call from Rangwalla. “I have some information.”
Rangwalla had been busy.
Having tasked him to dig up background on the deceased American billionaire, Chopra had sent his associate private detective to visit Shakti Holdings Ltd, the Indian subsidiary of Burbank’s organisation.
The fruits of Rangwalla’s labours raised more questions than they answered.
“Firstly, Burbank,” he began officiously. “I spoke to Kishore Dubey, your journalist friend, and he made some enquiries with colleagues of his in America, not that it got us very far. The consensus is that Burbank has managed to keep his past exceedingly private. He seems to have emerged onto the scene some twenty-five years ago, made a fortune, and since then has had a happy knack of investing in the right industries at the right time. He has never given an interview, and stays in the background, employing others to run his various companies while he pulls the strings from above.
“What we were able to discover is that he claims to have been born in a place called Texas, and grew up there. Attended university in the same place, and obtained a degree in chemical engineering. His early career is hazy. In an article written a couple of years ago—written without Burbank’s cooperation, I should add—a journalist stated that Burbank’s claim to having worked in various engineering companies in the southern United States didn’t pan out. He couldn’t find any record of the man. He appears to have fallen off the map. He resurfaced in 1990, which is when he set up Westland Industries. He married a couple of years later, had a child, a daughter, and then divorced. He has never remarried, and is estranged from his wife and child.” Rangwalla paused. “And that, frankly, is all I could discover about the man.”
Chopra knew that this was strange. A man as wealthy as Hollis Burbank—he would have expected more information to be in the public record. But then, wealthy men often had the power to reveal as much or as little of themselves as they deemed judicious. He had only to think of innumerable Indian politicians who routinely behaved atrociously in private, and yet somehow managed to maintain a glistening public profile.
“What about your visit to Shakti Holdings?”
“That’s where it gets interesting,” said Rangwalla, perking up. “The man in charge, Gavaskar, tried to give me the runaround, but I told him that if he didn’t cooperate he could expect an imminent raid. I didn’t say exactly what sort of raid, but he almost dampened his trousers there and then. It is funny how the word ‘raid’ seems to terrify grown men in this country.” Rangwalla cackled evilly. “It turns out that Shakti Holdings has been very active in the Indian market, not to mention very aggressive. It has made some formidable enemies. In fact, Gavaskar told me that they are about to be taken to court by one of their main rivals—the news is going to break in the media in a few days, so he didn’t mind sharing it. He was in a big sweat about it. It’s the real reason Burbank is in town. He didn’t come here just for an art auction. He came here to sort out the mess his underlings were making of his big Indian venture. He may be a private man, but one thing everyone seems to agree on—Burbank hates to lose.”
“Who is the rival company taking Shakti Holdings to court?”
Rangwalla told him the name.
Chopra’s moustache twitched in surprise.
He knew the name. He knew the company.
And he knew the man who ran it.
HOW TO ESCAPE FROM A LOCKED BATHROOM
“So let me get this straight,” said the engineer, staring at Poppy with a frown that corrugated his forehead into a series of deep trenches, “you want me to dismantle this bathtub? Even though there is absolutely nothing wrong with it?”
They were standing in the bathroom of Anjali Tejwa’s suite: Poppy, Huma Dixit, the butler, Ganesham, the engineer—whose name tag declared him to be one R. Swadhesh—with Irfan and Ganesha crowding in behind. Swadhesh, Poppy had been mildly surprised to discover, was the same man she had seen earlier perched atop a ladder fiddling with the giant celebrity cut-outs in the wedding hall.
“Yes,” she said firmly.
Swadhesh looked at Ganesham. “And you agree with this?”
“Please do as madam asks.”
The engineer sighed, puffing out his cheeks in a gesture that suggested the whole world had gone mad.
He took the screwdriver that appeared to reside permanently behind his ear, and lowered himself to his knees in order to remove the panel that made up the side of the tub. The panel was covered in mosaic tiles, with a complex pattern of Egyptian hieroglyphs.
Ganesha shuffled closer, curiosity edging him forward.
“Stand back, little one,” muttered Swadhesh, “this could get dangerous.” A moment later his grimace turned into a puzzled frown. “Wait a minute. Something’s not right here.”
“What is the problem?” asked Ganesham.
“This panel is usually affixed to the side of the tub with a series of screws. The screw heads are covered over with putty, to give a smooth finish, and to blend into the pattern of the mosaic. But I’ve just removed the putty and there are no screws.”
“Then what is holding the panel to the tub?”
“Good question.”
He levered the tip of his screwdriver into the hairline crack between the panel and tub, and wiggled it around until the panel came loose. Using his hands, he ripped the panel away to reveal the naked bowl of the tub and the ten-inch cavity below; the cavity between the bottom of the bowl and the tiled bathroom flooring.
He set down the panel, and looked at its reverse side.
Two flat handles were visible down near the foot of the panel. The engineer peered at them with an expression of bewilderment.
“I am guessing those handles should not be there,” said Poppy.
Swadhesh scratched his moustache with his screwdriver, lost in thought. Finally, he said, “No. The panel seems to have been held to the frame of the tub by a high-strength adhesive, rather than the usual screws. But I have no idea what these handles are here for. This is all very unusual.”
“I think I have an explanation,” said Poppy. “This is how Anjali vanished from your locked bathroom.” She turned to Huma. “Tell me, after you broke in here, were Anjali’s clothes missing? The ones she removed to take her bath?”
“No. They were right there, on that chair.” Huma pointed to a bamboo bathroom seat.
“And did Anjali ever visit this suite before the wedding party arrived?”
“Well, of course,” said Huma. “Once it was decided the wedding would ta
ke place in the Grand Raj, we came here to check out the rooms.”
“And did you arrive here before the rest of the wedding guests?”
“Yes. We checked in two days ago. Anjali wanted to get the feel of the place.”
Poppy nodded as if this was the answer she had expected. “Then this is what I think happened. I believe Anjali must have planned her escape well in advance. I don’t believe she was certain that she wanted to run away, but she had decided to prepare for such an eventuality, just in case she couldn’t go through with the wedding. She checked in early, unscrewed the panel on the bathtub, attached those handles to the inside of the panel, then affixed it again, using just an adhesive instead of the screws, possibly one of those spray ones—I’ve seen my husband using them,” she explained. “She then placed putty over the screw-holes so that no one would notice. It’s hard to pick up among the Egyptian patterning.”
“That’s why she asked housekeeping not to bother cleaning the bathroom!” said Huma. “She didn’t want them to see what she had done.”
Poppy nodded, then continued. “On the day she went missing, she entered the bathroom, locked the door, ran the bath, then removed the panel. I think she must have placed a change of clothing in the cavity under the tub. She put on these clothes, sprayed adhesive onto the frame of the tub, then slid into the space below, manoeuvring the panel back into place using the handles she had attached to it. It must have taken a bit of juggling, and it wasn’t perfect, but the illusion didn’t have to last long. When you broke into the room, no one really took an interest in the bathtub itself. Anjali had vanished from a locked room—that was all that mattered.
“She waited until the noise died down. Once she felt certain the suite was empty, she pushed out the panel, wriggled out from below the tub, glued the panel back into place, then left the room.”
They all stood in silence, absorbing her words.
“But why?” said Huma. “I mean, why go to such lengths? Why not just walk out of the front door?”
“That I am not sure about,” said Poppy. “But I can hazard a guess. My understanding is that a great deal of pressure has been placed on Anjali’s shoulders to go through with this marriage. If she had simply walked away it would have put an end to the whole thing, not to mention created a tremendous scandal. This way no one could say for sure that she had fled. She has, after all, vanished from a locked room.”
“But this is worse!” cried Huma. “Her father is on the verge of calling the state’s chief minister. The Tejwas may be all but bankrupt, but they are still a royal house.”
“Yes,” agreed Poppy, sadly. “I don’t believe Anjali really thought that part of her plan through. But sometimes, when a person feels trapped, they do not consider the consequences of their actions.”
Huma’s face fell. “I’m to blame,” she said. “Her grandmother asked me to follow Anjali around, to stay by her side. I think she knew Anjali’s heart wasn’t in this.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Poppy, patting her on the arm. “When I spoke to Anjali, I am certain she herself was undecided on her best course of action. It might well be that my conversation helped make up her mind. In which case, the blame lies with me.”
“What do we do now?”
“The real question,” said Poppy, “is where has Anjali gone?”
CLASH OF THE TYCOONS
Avinash Agnihotri was pacing the carpet angrily as Chopra entered the business suite. “I was on a conference call with Tokyo, Chopra,” he said irritably. “Business is war in Japan and you pulled me off the battlefield. Your message said it couldn’t wait.”
Chopra paused before replying. “You have not been entirely candid with me in the matter of your relationship with Hollis Burbank.”
Agnihotri froze, his face growing still. Something passed behind his eyes and was gone. “I dislike your use of the word ‘relationship,’” he said eventually. “One does not have a relationship with a man like Burbank.”
“Even hatred is a form of relationship.”
“I’ve met many people in my life, Chopra, many businessmen. I understand that when people meet me they have an agenda. Even you, standing there with your good intentions, a seeker after truth. You want something from me and you will do what it takes to get it. But most people know how much they can get away with before the scale tilts too far. Well, Burbank was one of the few people I have met who I believe to be wholly without a conscience. I believe he was someone who would do anything, say anything, be anything to get what he wanted. And so, yes, I hated him.”
“Why?”
“Surely you know. Isn’t that why you are here?”
“I wish to hear it from you.”
The silence spun itself out. Finally, Agnihotri spoke. “A few years ago Burbank set up his Indian subsidiary Shakti Holdings Ltd. He had decided that he wanted a slice of the outsourcing action that has made India so wealthy of late. It didn’t bother me. My company has been around for years; we were established, and we had a strong reputation with our overseas clients. The trouble is that Burbank doesn’t fight fair. Within a year of setting up, Shakti Holdings had poached most of my top staff. Burbank offered them ludicrous salaries, well above the industry norm, topped up by lavish bonuses. It made no sense to me, but, having seen him in action at the auction, I now believe this kamikaze approach is his personal hallmark. Of course, his organisation can afford to throw money down the drain.
“In the period that followed he began what I think of as phase two of his attack. A dirty tricks campaign. My staff began to be harassed. Shakedowns by the cops. My female staff—many of whom work late to match timings in America—were intimidated, followed around by shady characters on motorbikes. Planning permissions for new ventures suddenly mired in red tape. And then there were our clients. Anonymous letters about dubious practices in our Indian workplaces. Tip-offs to trade magazines about flaws in our flagship software products.” Agnihotri’s face darkened, as his tone became angrier. “We began to lose clients, especially in America, our most profitable market. It didn’t take me long to work out that Burbank was behind it. His guerrilla warfare campaign has cost me hundreds of millions of dollars over these past few years. When I discovered that he was coming to India, I leapt at the chance to confront him face to face.”
“Is this dirty tricks campaign why you have initiated court action against him?”
“We have filed a case against Shakti Holdings for patent infringement, and a separate case for corporate espionage,” confirmed Agnihotri. “It is my belief that Burbank paid staff from my company to steal technical designs from our line of software products—core algorithms that took years to develop. Some of those designs have shown up in software that Shakti Holdings now claims as its own.”
“Do you have a strong case?”
Agnihotri pursed his lips. “Our evidence is highly technical, or based on witnesses who might easily be threatened or bribed. Given the state of our court system I have little confidence of a favourable result. Even if there is one, it may take so long that I doubt I will be around to see it.” Chopra could well understand his cynicism. The Indian court system was so slow it had been likened to a man stuck on the toilet with a case of terminal constipation.
“Then why are you pursuing the action?”
“Because it is time to draw a line in the sand. I despise bullies. And Burbank was a bully of the worst kind. If nothing else the case will blow a hole in his organisation’s reputation. Once the media get hold of some of the things I intend to say, there’ll be nowhere for Shakti Holdings to hide.”
“Some might say that all this points to a motive for you to harm Burbank.”
“We’re back to that?” said Agnihotri angrily. “Have you even managed to prove that his death was not suicide? And even if Burbank was killed, I had nothing to do with it. I want to destroy him in court. I want to reveal him for the thug that he is. I cannot do that if he is dead.”
“You have no alibi fo
r the time of his death.”
“Why should I need one? What evidence do you have that I was anywhere near his room when he died?”
Chopra had to admit that he had no such proof. But Agnihotri was a man who ran hot on anger. It was not inconceivable that he had gone from his suite to Burbank’s that night, to confront him a second time, after the altercation in the VIP toilets.
Agnihotri checked his watch ostentatiously. “I have to get back to my meeting. The next time you want to accuse me of a crime, let me know in advance. I’ll make sure to have my lawyers present.”
Chopra watched the businessman stalk back into the conference room.
THE LAUGHING INDIAN
The restaurant was packed.
Chopra followed the waiter to a table out on the balcony overlooking the harbour. Dusk had fallen, and the lights from a thousand seagoing vessels—from dhows to oil tankers—twinkled on the water.
Lisa Taylor rose to greet him, a dazzling vision in a red evening gown. Her bare shoulders glimmered in the soft exterior lighting. “What do you think?” she said, twirling the lower half of her gown. “I’ve managed to get myself invited to a society party. Hobnobbing with the rich and shameless.”
“It is, ah, very nice,” said Chopra, tripping over his tongue. “A fine fabric, and very functional for the occasion.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel special,” said Taylor. “Join me for a drink?”
“I would prefer to discuss the matter of the sketch.”
“And we shall. Over a drink,” said Taylor firmly. As she saw him continue to hesitate, she flapped her hands. “Oh, come on, don’t be such a stuffed shirt.”
Chopra lowered himself carefully onto the seat, as if perhaps an explosive had been attached to it. He glanced around the restaurant, but no one seemed to care that he was sitting here, with an attractive foreign woman, in a distinctly unprofessional setting.
