Murder at the Grand Raj Palace

by Vaseem Khan

  Ganesham approached the man in charge, and said, succinctly: “A false alarm, I’m afraid.”

  The fire chief gave the butler a suspicious squint. “We will still have to check it out.”

  “You must do your job.” Ganesham nodded.

  He left the fire chief to bark orders at his men, and then went to investigate the staff.

  By the time he had made his way through the mass, he was certain.

  Anjali Tejwa was not there.

  Chopra found Poppy huddled with Irfan, Ganesha, Huma Dixit and the woman who called herself Big Mother.

  Irfan’s eyes were glowing.

  Like most children, he was fascinated by the idea of the fire service and its dashing agents. His elephant companion seemed equally dazzled. It was all Poppy could do to stop them from tearing after the firemen who plunged into the hotel as if it were a towering inferno, instead of the staid old building it had always been.

  “Are you okay?” asked Chopra.

  “Yes,” said Poppy. She lowered her voice, and said: “It is not a real fire alarm.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What madam means,” said Ganesham, arriving on the scene, “is that I set off the alarm.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” growled Chopra.

  “It was the simplest way I could think of to get everyone out of the building and in one place. So that we could search for Anjali Tejwa.”

  Quickly, Poppy brought Chopra up to speed on developments.

  He shook his head, frowning. This sort of thing did not sit well with the former policeman. He had dealt with enough prank calls at the Sahar police station to make him believe that hanging was too good for those who indulged in such hi-jinks.

  “What do we do now?” said Big Mother.

  Ganesham glanced up at the hotel. “Perhaps she has really gone.”

  “She wouldn’t just vanish,” said Huma. “I think Poppy was right. I think she’s close by, waiting to see what happens, making up her mind.”

  A gloomy silence descended on the group.

  Finally, the firemen re-emerged, the fire chief casting around with a disgusted look. Chopra watched the man zero in on the hotel’s general manager, and engage in a short, terse conversation, before bellowing at his men.

  The fire trucks roared off in a blaze of exhaust smoke. Shortly thereafter, the guests began to file back into the hotel.

  Chopra turned to his wife. “I must get back to my own investigation.”

  Poppy was about to reply when Lisa Taylor materialised at her husband’s shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you’re okay,” she said.

  She was dressed in a pair of shorts and a clingy halter top.

  “It was a false alarm,” said Chopra, stiffly.

  “Well, I was worried for you,” said Taylor. “Oh, how are you, Mrs. Chopra? Didn’t see you there.”

  “I am fine,” said Poppy, grinding her jaw.

  Taylor faced Chopra with a serious expression. “I am afraid time has run out. Has there been any progress? My boss is arriving shortly. Unless we can tell him something significant I have a feeling he will bring matters to a close. It is becoming impossible to keep the press at bay any longer. A statement will have to be made. Either suicide or murder. One way or the other, things won’t look good for Gilbert and Locke. Is there anything concrete we can tell him?”

  “There have been some developments,” said Chopra cagily. “But I need a few more hours.”

  “That is probably all we have,” she said grimly. “Why don’t we meet later, and you can fill me in?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Let’s say six-thirty. In our usual place.” With that she turned and strode purposefully off into the hotel.

  “Your usual place?” said Poppy. Had her voice been any cooler it might have solved the problem of global warming there and then.

  “Popp—”

  Poppy held up a hand. “I suggest you get on with it. Six-thirty is not far away.” She turned and stalked off.

  Big Mother wheeled her chair forward. “Your wife is a remarkable woman.”

  “Yes,” agreed Chopra, with a sigh. He had no idea what had just happened, but knew, with that innate instinct bred into the male species since the dawn of time, that he had done something wrong.

  “It’s a shame she is married to such an oaf,” finished Big Mother, with a glare.

  She powered her chair past Chopra, almost running over his foot.

  He stood there, mouth hanging open, obliquely wondering at the unfairness of it all.

  A FAKE ARTIST

  The cow was gone.

  In the lobby of Shiva Swarup’s studio Chopra found cleaners shovelling away another mound of excrement. He guessed that perhaps the manifest symbol of the cosmos had pushed its luck too far.

  When he reached Swarup’s studio it was to discover the dwarf model sitting in one corner, half-moon spectacles perched on his round nose, reading from an iPad. “If you’re looking for Shiva, he’s up on the roof,” he said, peering at Chopra from above his spectacles. “I get the feeling he’s a bit suicidal. Wouldn’t surprise me if he jumped.”

  “Shouldn’t you be trying to stop him?” said Chopra, sternly.

  “He’s an artist. It’s their prerogative to be dramatic. Cut off an ear, leap off a building. Can you imagine how much his work will be worth if he splatters himself all over Marine Drive?”

  “You don’t sound very sympathetic.”

  “I’m a silver linings sort of dwarf,” said the dwarf, smiling grimly.

  On the roof terrace Swarup was leaning against the railing, smoking and staring out to sea. Light had fallen out of the sky. The sun was now a blood-red ball, dipping into the ocean, a perfect scene for any amateur painter worth his salt.

  He glanced up as Chopra approached.

  “Kunal Karmarkar,” said the former policeman, by way of an opening. “You ran an art studio with him in the village of Ramgarh. Do you remember him?”

  Swarup’s eyes widened. He looked away. “Yes. He died. There was an outbreak of disease.”

  “That is a lie. He did not die of disease. He died in a chemical accident, an accident caused by a man called Roger Penzance. The man who later became Hollis Burbank. The authorities covered up the incident.”

  Swarup turned back. His expression was troubled. “I-I didn’t know. I heard rumours, but they made no sense to me. Why would the government cover up something like that?”

  Chopra hesitated. Perhaps Swarup really did not know. “You left the village after Karmarkar’s death, became a famous artist. Your Laughing Indian cycle set you on the path to that fame.” Chopra took out the sketch of the old man found inside Burbank’s suitcase. “But those paintings were copied from this sketch. A sketch by Karmarkar. A sketch found in Burbank’s possessions after his death. Can you explain that?”

  Swarup’s expression changed. A haunted look came into his eyes. “Somehow I knew this day would come,” he said eventually. “Secrets have a way of working their way to the surface, no matter how deep you bury them.” His face seemed to glow red in the sunset. “Yes, Kunal was my friend. We met at art school in Pune, realised we lived in neighbouring villages. We decided to set up a little studio in Ramgarh. Kunal met Penzance—the man you call Burbank—at our local doctor’s clinic, Dr. Radhika Sen. Kunal sketched something for her, and it must have impressed Burbank because later he came calling at our studio. He had a keen interest in art even then. He bought some pieces from us—including that sketch you are holding. Or from Kunal, I should say. He dismissed my work, called it amateurish. I overheard him say to Kunal that he should branch out on his own, that I was ‘holding him back.’ But Kunal was loyal, a good friend.

  “And then he died. In that tragedy. I heard the rumours, about the chemical leak, but, like most people I decided to believe what the government was telling us. I was an artist, not a revolutionary.

  “A few weeks later I went back to live in Pune. I set
up a tiny studio, but the well of my inspiration had run dry. I’d spend days just staring at the canvas. Kunal had always been my inspiration. It was true what Burbank had said: he was the one with the talent. I had brought some of his work with me. I told myself it was as a reminder, of my friend. It began to whisper to me. I was slowly starving. Desperate. I needed to paint, I needed something to sell, so that I could eat. And so, yes, I began to copy his work. That’s when I painted the Laughing Indian cycle. They were all copied directly from Kunal’s sketches. I told myself I was doing it as a tribute to him.

  “But it was my signature I put onto the canvases.

  “And then the strangest thing happened, one of those twists of fate that none of us can explain. A famous art critic was visiting Pune at the time. He stumbled across my studio. For some reason the Laughing Indian paintings fired his imagination. He was the one who recommended me for the internship with Zozé Rebello.” A thin smile played over Swarup’s lips. “You know, he was actually working on The Scourge of Goa when I went to stay with him. It was incredible, to watch this master craftsman at work. I remember thinking: if only I could capture a fraction of that genius for myself!

  “But, of course, talent is a cruel mistress. You cannot train yourself into the Gift. Nevertheless, I learned something important. In the world of art, talent doesn’t matter as much as originality. Anyone can draw sunflowers. Anyone can imitate the doodles of a Jackson Pollock. What matters is that you are the first! The Laughing Indian paintings were something new, and they made my reputation. I became successful on the back of another man’s genius. But once I had run out of things to copy, once I was left to my own meagre talent, I began to churn out rubbish.

  “Rebello quickly realised that I was a fraud, of course. That’s why he threw me out.

  “In the perverse way of things in this country, that made my reputation, so that whatever else I produced afterwards, no matter how bad it was, simply made me more famous. The simple truth is that I have spent my life as an imposter.” Swarup’s voice was hollow.

  “Tell me about Burbank,” said Chopra.

  “I never really knew him. He came to the studio a couple of times, but it wasn’t my work he was interested in. I knew that he worked up at the Fermi plant, but I had no idea he was involved in the chemical accident you claim wiped out Shangarh.

  “And then, a month ago, out of the blue, he called me. From America. Told me who he was, how he had left India and changed his identity, created a new life for himself. He didn’t tell me why. Just told me that he was coming back, to buy Rebello’s painting, a work he had coveted for decades. He told me to make sure I was at the auction. He wanted to see me. He said if I wasn’t there he would reveal to the world how I had copied the Laughing Indian paintings from my dead friend.

  “And so I came to the auction. And we spoke. He wanted me to paint his portrait. Without charge, of course. He showed me that sketch, the one in your hand. Threatened me with it. The proof that my career was based on a lie. He knew that in the hands of the media that sketch would destroy my reputation, everything I had built over a lifetime. An artist can be forgiven many things, Chopra, but not the blatant theft of another’s work.”

  “Is that why you killed him? To preserve your secret?”

  Swarup shook his hoary head. “I admit I was stunned, angry, afraid. At first. I spent the night in the hotel—like the other artists, they’d given me a suite, even though I live in the city. I told Burbank that I would sleep on it, and give him my answer the next day. It was a way of stalling, of buying myself time to think, to bring my whirling emotions under control.

  “But then, once I had calmed down, I realised that it wasn’t Burbank I was angry with. It was myself. You see, the truth is that I do feel guilt over Kunal, over stealing his work, stealing the life of fame and fortune that, by rights, should have been his. It has eaten away at me all these years. Burbank’s return merely brought those feelings to a head. His death hasn’t changed anything. I don’t feel relief that he has gone. The mud that he raked up can never settle again. Everywhere I look I see Kunal’s ghost. Everywhere I turn I see the spectre of my own self-loathing.”

  “Is that why your dwarf friend thinks you are contemplating suicide?”

  “It would be a fitting end for an artist, don’t you think?”

  “There are better ways to make amends. Use your fame, use your wealth. Help others. Dwelling on a past you cannot change is simply self-indulgence.”

  Swarup looked back out to sea. “What happens now?”

  “Now?” said Chopra. “Now I must decide whether I believe you are innocent of Burbank’s murder.”

  “And there really is no sign of her?”

  Big Mother hesitated. “No. She is gone.”

  Prakashrao Tejwa Patwardhan, Anjali’s father, slumped down onto a chair in the grand ballroom, his turban clutched forlornly in his hands. The giant cut-outs had been reinstated, and loomed over them all. “It’s all my fault,” he said. “I have been a fool. I forced her into this. If I’d been any better at managing our finances, we wouldn’t need this marriage.” His round body shook with gusts of anguish.

  Big Mother said nothing. It was not her habit to offer false solace. The royals of India had weathered greater tragedies than this. And worse was to come. They would need strong hearts, and iron wills, to thrive in the new world order.

  To her surprise, it was Shaktisinghrao, the groom’s father, who stepped forward and put a hand on Prakashrao’s shoulder. “I have no daughters,” he said. “I can only imagine what you are going through. My son’s happiness means everything to me. He has reminded me that you too are a father. I am afraid that I have been a boor.”

  Prakashrao looked up with genuine surprise in his eyes.

  He lifted himself to his feet, coughed and stuck out a hand. “We have both acted like children.”

  “On that we can agree,” muttered Big Mother.

  “The question is: what do we do next?” said Huma Dixit.

  “We must find her,” said Shaktisinghrao. “Whatever it takes. Ensure that she is safe. Perhaps it is time to inform the authorities.”

  “But what about the scandal?” said Prakashrao glumly.

  Shaktisinghrao grimaced. “We will weather it together. Come, let us go and think about what we must say.”

  Poppy watched the two men walk away, Big Mother wheeling after them.

  Huma sat down. “I should have done more.”

  “You could not have known,” said Poppy.

  “She is my best friend.”

  “Sometimes it is those closest to us who can most easily conceal their true intentions.”

  Huma grimaced, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. “I miss her. Her intelligence. Her wit. Her common sense. Even that horrible perfume of hers.”

  “Perfume?” said Poppy.

  “She used to douse herself in it. Some sort of fancy French scent. You could smell it on her, no matter what she was wearing, even when she took off her clothes.”

  Poppy recalled the heady scent surrounding Anjali when they had first met. “Well, they do say a good perfume never fades—” She stopped.

  An idea had streaked through her mind. “Huma,” she said, her voice suddenly urgent, “do you have the clothes that Anjali took off in the bathroom? Before she changed into the uniform she’d had made?”

  Huma blinked. “Yes. I put them back in the wardrobe in the bridal suite. Why?”

  Poppy looked across the room to where Ganesha and Irfan had their heads buried in an enormous flower display. “I have an idea,” she said.

  THE SECRET IN THE STAPLES

  “You stood me up.”

  Chopra looked up.

  He was back in the business suite, head bent once again to his notes, waiting for the scattered papers to whisper to him, something, anything, a glimmer of inspiration.

  The investigation had stalled once more.

  He had plenty of suspects, and motives multi
plying by the second. And yet, that moment of clarity, that singular insight that was the hallmark of a genuine breakthrough eluded him.

  He made as if to stand, but Lisa Taylor waved him back into his seat. She threw herself down onto the sofa before him, and crossed her bare legs. Her blond hair cascaded around her shoulders, and her blue eyes glowed with—what? Anger? Acceptance?

  “I apologise,” said Chopra.

  She waved a hand at his notes. “And here’s me thinking gentlemen preferred blondes.”

  “How did your meeting with your boss go?” said Chopra.

  “Oh, the usual. He roared. He slavered. As if all this is somehow my fault.” She shook her head. “He’s old-fashioned, you know? Oxbridge education, father is a peer of the realm. The slightest whiff of scandal sets his ancestors spinning in their family crypts.”

  “It is unfair to blame you.”

  She spread her hands. “Quite correct. Which is why I quit.”

  Chopra’s moustache twitched. “You left your job?”

  “Spectacularly,” said Taylor. “And, for good measure, I threw my wine in his face. A very expensive thirty-year-old Montrachet Grand Cru, I might add. But it was worth it. No one treats me like that, Chopra. I have my dignity.”

  An awkward silence passed. “So what will you do now?” said Chopra eventually.

  “I’m not sure. I think I’ll travel a bit. Take a break. There’ll always be a job waiting for me. The art world is a small place, and there aren’t that many around with the sort of skills I have.”

  Chopra could well believe it.

  “When do you leave?”

  “I’m booked on a flight out later tonight.”

  He nodded automatically, feeling a sudden inexplicable sense of… vacuum.

  “I do have one regret though,” said Taylor. “Not staying around long enough to find out who killed Burbank.” She reached into her bag and handed Chopra her card. As he took it from her, her index finger brushed his knuckles, like a moth fluttering against his skin. “I would appreciate it if you gave me a call once you know the answer. Or even just because you want to.” She smiled. “I meant what I said earlier—you really are a most intriguing man.”