Murder at the Grand Raj Palace

by Vaseem Khan

  “But Santosh and Laxmi Dashputra were not the only ones to die in that accident. A young artist, Kunal Karmarkar, also died that day. Your friend, and the man whose work you stole to launch your own rise to fame as an artist. Burbank knew your secret and tried to blackmail you. Did you kill him to protect your reputation?”

  Swarup stared at his feet, unable to meet Chopra’s gaze.

  The former policeman allowed the silence to stretch, become something tangible and full of shadows.

  “All of you had the motive and opportunity to murder Hollis Burbank.” He paused. “Yet there was only one killer.”

  “Why don’t you just spit it out?” snapped Agnihotri. “Tell us who it was.”

  “My mistake,” continued Chopra, ignoring the irate businessman, “was in assuming that the motive behind Burbank’s killing was hatred. But the truth is that this murder had nothing to do with Hollis Burbank at all.” Chopra reached into his pocket, and threw something onto the table.

  The staples rattled on the glass, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room.

  Agnihotri’s brow twisted into an incredulous frown. “Staples? What have they got to do with anything?”

  “These staples led me to Burbank’s true killer,” replied Chopra. “They were found in Burbank’s room. These staples were used to bind the canvas of The Scourge of Goa to its frame. Hollis Burbank was killed because of a painting worth ten million dollars.”

  Chopra’s words seemed to rebound from the walls, stunning those gathered before him.

  “That night Burbank’s killer came to his room. The killer drugged him—with Valium—then stabbed him through the heart. The killer then removed the original Scourge of Goa painting from above Burbank’s bed, where it was housed inside a protective glass display case. The killer loosened the canvas from its frame—by taking out the staples binding it to the frame, probably with a pair of pliers. This had to be done with some force. For a person not regularly used to it the process proved tricky—some of the staples fell unnoticed behind Burbank’s mattress, between the mattress and the headboard. Once the canvas was removed, the killer then substituted a replica of the canvas, and placed the painting back in the display case.

  “With the room now set, the killer left.”

  “Are you saying The Scourge of Goa has been stolen?” barked Agnihotri, incredulously.

  “My God, man, is that all you care about?” said Padamsee. “He’s just told us how Burbank was killed. And that someone in this room did it.”

  “To answer your question,” snarled Agnihotri, “yes. That painting is all I care about. As for Burbank’s killer—it wasn’t me, I know that much.”

  “You’re right,” said Chopra. “It wasn’t you. Hollis Burbank’s killer was someone who knew him well enough for him to let them into his room in the middle of the night. Someone he permitted to prepare him a drink. Someone for whom he was willing to lie back on the bed in his bathrob—”

  “It was a woman!” exclaimed Agnihotri. “He let a woman into his room. That randy goat was having an intimate encounter.”

  “Yes,” confirmed Chopra. “Hollis Burbank was known for his roving eye. His killer took advantage of this fact… Isn’t that right, Miss Taylor?”

  Chopra turned to Lisa Taylor, whose eyes widened fractionally, then narrowed, clouding to an impenetrable murk. “And just when I thought we had something special,” she murmured. She drew herself up with a grim smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You killed Hollis Burbank in order to steal The Scourge of Goa,” said Chopra, simply.

  Taylor’s smile stretched. “And, of course, you can prove this?”

  “You planned this meticulously, for months,” continued Chopra. “In fact, I believe that as soon as you were given The Scourge of Goa to auction you made up your mind to steal it. But you knew that stealing a painting as valuable as Rebello’s masterpiece was one thing, getting away with it another thing entirely. You needed a distraction. And what better distraction than the murder of one of the world’s richest men, the very man who had bought the painting? You knew Burbank collected Indian art; you knew he coveted that Rebello. You spent months priming him, to make sure he would do anything to get that painting.

  “You had to ensure he came to India for the auction, something he had always refused to do. My guess is that you didn’t know about Burbank’s past on the subcontinent, his time with Fermi Engineering, the fact that he had changed his identity. You could not understand his reluctance. Yet, somehow, you found a way to overcome his resistance. Perhaps you promised him certain favours? A prize that he had been pursuing for years. You are, after all, a beautiful woman.

  “After the auction, my guess is that you whispered in Burbank’s ear, convinced him to have the painting moved up to his suite. You promised to join him later, to help him celebrate as you both gazed at the canvas that was now worth ten million dollars. The prospect of such an encounter was more than Burbank could resist. He let down his guard. He invited you in. You flirted with him, toyed with him, all the while rehearsing his murder in your mind.

  “You see, Miss Taylor, I have no doubt that you planned everything, down to the smallest detail. I know that you chose the Khumbatta suite for Burbank. You knew there was a large knife in the kitchen unit—there would be no need for you to bring a murder weapon to his room. You knew there were two bathrobes in the suite—and that was something that bothered me, subconsciously, from the beginning. Why did the police only find one robe in Burbank’s suite, when every other suite has two? That missing robe was important. That night, in the suite, you undressed, changed into one of the robes. You poured a drink for Burbank, and mixed in the Valium that you had brought with you. You asked him to lie down on the bed. He complied, believing that he was about to finally fulfil a long-held fantasy. But as the Valium kicked in, he slipped into a stupor. You straddled him, and plunged the knife into his chest. Any blood that may have sprayed from the wound onto your clothes was caught by your bathrobe. Burbank was too far gone to resist, to do anything but pass quickly into the dark.

  “Once you were certain he was dead, you got to work. You wiped the knife handle and pressed Burbank’s fingers on to it. Then you took down the Rebello painting—you are one of just a few people who have the code to the alarmed display case—and switched the canvas. Finally, you made sure the scene was set. I have no doubt that you wore gloves—but even if your prints were found in the room you knew that it would not arouse suspicion. After all, you had already been in the suite many times, to ensure it was ready for Burbank, and to meet with him after he arrived. You changed back into your clothes—the clothes that had not a drop of blood on them, even though you had just stabbed a man to death. You took the painting and the bloodied robe with you, to be disposed of the next day. You didn’t think anyone would notice a missing bathrobe, not with the furore raging over Burbank’s death.

  “And that same confusion was integral to the final element of your plan.

  “Because you knew that with everyone’s attention on Burbank, it would be a long time before it was discovered that the Rebello was a fake. Had Burbank taken the painting back to America he might well have had it authenticated by his own people. But what if his death was declared a murder? Having spent so much time in India, you knew that murder investigations can drag on for months, sometimes years. And the longer the investigation went on, the longer the painting would be held as evidence. Which would give you the opportunity to dispose of the real Scourge of Goa and vanish from the scene.”

  Taylor gazed coldly at the former policeman. “There is a fatal flaw in your theory, Chopra. If I did steal The Scourge of Goa, where is it? You can search my room. You won’t find it. And without the painting, you have nothing to connect me to Burbank’s murder.”

  It was Chopra’s turn to smile. “You are correct. We will not find the painting in your room. In fact, we will not find the painting anywhere in Mumbai, or even in India. B
ecause it is no longer here.”

  “What!” Agnihotri exploded, but was motioned to silence by the policeman Rohan Tripathi.

  “The morning after Burbank’s death you visited this business suite. You used the courier service to send an artist’s carry tube abroad. On the courier slip—a slip that bears your signature—you stated that the tube contained reprints of famous artworks. There was nothing unusual in this—you had already set the pattern by mailing a number of such tubes out during the past week. The courier had no idea that inside that morning’s tube was a painting worth ten million dollars.” A pause. “The tubes were all sent to an address in the United States. An hour ago, following a tip-off to the Los Angeles police department, that address was raided. The Scourge of Goa has been recovered, as has the tube that you used to courier it.”

  A gasp escaped Taylor.

  Beside her Ronald Loomis stepped towards Chopra, a look of rage flashing over his handsome features. “That’s nonsense!” he said. “The police can’t just barge into my hom—” He stopped as he realised what he had unconsciously admitted to.

  “Yes, Mr. Loomis,” said Chopra softly. “The painting is no longer in your home.” He allowed a moment’s silence, then, “I am guessing that a maid or a friend has been taking receipt of the tubes for you. I am also guessing that you and Miss Taylor planned this venture together. I have checked with the airlines and I believe you are both booked on the same flight back to L.A. tonight.”

  Loomis blinked, rapidly. Chopra could almost see his brain ticking over. “No,” he said finally. “It was her plan. All of it. I just went along for the ride.”

  “Because you were in love with her,” said Chopra. “And because she promised to share the spoils.”

  Loomis’s eyes betrayed nothing. And then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Chopra turned to Taylor. “I checked with your boss at Gilbert and Locke. Nine months ago, after you gained approval for the auction in Mumbai, and knew that The Scourge of Goa would be available, you went to Los Angeles, ostensibly to meet Burbank and other collectors, to pitch the auction to them. You spent three weeks out there. I am guessing that was when you convinced Loomis to join your plan.”

  “He didn’t take much convincing,” said Taylor, her eyes suddenly flashing with anger. “He’s not quite the innocent he’s making himself out to be. He told me he hated working for Burbank. The man rode him into the ground, made his life a living hell. Burbank hired him right out of college, thought he could treat him like a slave. He threatened to ruin him if he tried to leave. I showed him how he could get out from under Burbank’s thumb and get rich into the bargain.”

  “Because you needed him,” said Chopra. “To help get the painting out of the country. And to keep you updated on Burbank. After going to such trouble setting this all up, you couldn’t risk Burbank unexpectedly pulling out at the last second. Loomis’s role was to let you know if Burbank started to get cold feet about coming to India, or did anything else that might endanger your plan. After all, he was Burbank’s PA. He was your inside man.

  “You couldn’t anticipate everything, of course,” continued Chopra. “The fact that Dashputra wrote the words “I am sorry” on the bathroom wall after you had already killed Burbank. That was a stroke of bad luck—it immediately convinced ACP Gunaji that Burbank had committed suicide. But you didn’t want a suicide. A suicide would be quickly put to bed. The sale would go through and the painting would be released to Burbank’s estate. And that meant there was a risk of it being authenticated before you had had a chance to sell the original.

  “No. It had to be murder. That was why you didn’t slit Burbank’s wrists—that would have looked too much like suicide.

  “That was also why you financed my parallel investigation. So that I could convince the authorities that Burbank had been murdered. Of course, you didn’t believe that I would actually unmask the murderer. You thought you had been too clever for that. But, just in case, you asked for regular reports. You wanted to reassure yourself that I hadn’t discovered anything leading back to you. I must have seemed quite the fool.”

  “Oh, but you are nobody’s fool, are you, Chopra?” murmured Taylor, a high colour rising to her cheeks.

  “Out of interest, where did you get the fake?”

  “An old acquaintance from the art world,” said Taylor. “One with few scruples, and enough talent to paint a convincing Rebello.”

  “One thing I still don’t understand,” said Chopra. “Who would buy such a painting? Once it came to light that it was stolen, it would be impossible to hang anywhere that it might be seen.”

  Taylor snorted. “Where do you think stolen artworks go, Chopra? There’s a whole world out there, in the shadows. Collectors who will pay a fortune just to possess something that no one else has. Just because they can.” She drew herself up, held out her arms, hands balled into fists. “Are you going to put the cuffs on me now?” Her tone was mocking.

  “No,” said Chopra. “I am not a policeman. That would not be appropriate.”

  Tripathi stepped forward. “Miss Taylor, may I have the honour of this dance?”

  After Loomis and Taylor had been led away, Chopra found himself staring after them, a flush of mixed emotions coursing through him. Paramount was relief, that the investigation had been successfully concluded. Yet the satisfaction he usually derived from such a result eluded him. A lingering sense of regret gnawed away at him. That Lisa Taylor had proved to be both a murderess and a thief, a cold, manipulative woman willing to do anything for personal gain… the thought sat heavily in his stomach.

  Guilt.

  That was the true nature of his feeling.

  He hated to admit it, but he had allowed himself to be momentarily beguiled by the intelligent and beautiful woman. He had not seen her for what she was. Had that clouded his judgement? Would he have resolved the case earlier if he had not been distracted by her dazzling smile, her winsome personality?

  It didn’t matter now. What was done was done. Hollis Burbank was dead, and his killer caught. What was the point of dwelling on his own fallibility?

  “They say the female of the species is deadlier than the male.”

  Chopra turned to see the art critic Adam Padamsee at his side.

  “Thank you for organising the appraiser at such short notice,” said Chopra. “I needed to be sure that the painting in Burbank’s suite was a fake before accusing Taylor.”

  “It was the least I could do,” said Padamsee. He sucked in his cheeks. “Frankly, I’m amazed she had the balls to go through with it. Not that I’m shedding any tears for Burbank.”

  If Padamsee had expected Chopra to agree, he was to be disappointed.

  Because, for Inspector Ashwin Chopra (Retd), even a man like Hollis Burbank, a man with the deaths of so many on his conscience, did not deserve the fate that had ultimately found him. Gandhi’s words chimed in his mind: “An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.” If, on some cosmic level, justice had been served, then that was between the universe and Hollis Burbank.

  It was not a notion Chopra subscribed to.

  Perhaps that was what made him who he was.

  A man apart.

  A FEUD IS BURIED

  “Gautam!”

  Big Mother’s exclamation was mirrored only by Poppy’s own gasp of surprise.

  Gautam Deshmukh Patwardhan stood in the doorway dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, gaping at the scene before him. His eyes travelled the length of the corridor and back again, finally coming to rest, guiltily, on the eyes of his own father, staring at him from behind Big Mother’s wheelchair.

  “Son?” said Shaktisinghrao, jaws agape. “What are you doing here? Whose room is this?”

  Gautam opened his mouth to reply, but before he could do so Ganesha bundled past him.

  “Hey, wait!” The young man turned and plunged after the little elephant.

  There was a moment of perf
ect stillness as those gathered in the corridor looked at one another… and then a stampede ensued, with everyone attempting to cram through the doorway at the same instant. To a chorus of grunts, shouts and the occasional shriek of pain, the invaders steamed into the room, to find…

  Ganesha pacing in front of the door to the bathroom, Gautam attempting to herd him away by waving his hands as if conducting an orchestra.

  And then the door swung back, causing a deafening silence to fall over the jostling crowd.

  A tall, slim figure dressed in a green Grand Raj Palace porter’s uniform, a turban, thick spectacles and a close-trimmed beard stepped out into the room. The figure surveyed the ranks of people before it, and then looked directly at Gautam, who shrugged helplessly.

  The figure gave a rueful smile, then reached up and pulled off the glasses, beard and turban.

  Shaking out her hair, Anjali Tejwa faced her audience with a brittle smile. “Welcome,” she said.

  “Anjali!” Prakashrao Tejwa rushed forward and swept his daughter into an embrace. “You’re safe! Thank God!” He stepped backwards, his face quizzical. “But what are you doing here? And where did you go? If you don’t want to marry this boy I won’t force you. All you had to do was talk to me.”

  Anjali gave a grimace. “I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that now,” she said.

  “What?” The old man’s face creased in puzzlement.

  Anjali and Gautam exchanged glances, but before they could say anything further, Poppy’s voice sang out into the room. “Everyone, can I have your attention please! This is a family matter. Thank you for helping us, but now it’s time to leave!”

  Grumbling and muttering, the crowd began to leak from the room.

  “Well, is there going to be a wedding or not?”

  “I was promised a wedding, dammit, and I’m not going home till I get one.”

  “Where are the dancing girls? They told me there’d be dancing girls! I didn’t come all this way not to see dancing girls.”