Malik removed the thick file from the cabinet, placed it on the counter top and slowly began to turn the pages. He didn’t need to read the details a second time to know that he’d hit the jackpot.
He scribbled down the name, address and telephone numbers neatly on a slip of paper, and then returned the file to its place in the cabinet. He smiled. During his tea break, Malik would call and make an appointment to see Mr. H.H. Patel.
With only a few weeks to go before his retirement, Commissioner Kumar had quite forgotten about his prodigy. That was until he received a call from Mr. H.H. Patel, one of the city’s leading bankers. Mr. Patel was requesting an urgent meeting with the Commissioner—to discuss a personal matter.
Commissioner Kumar looked upon H.H. not only as a friend, but as a man of integrity, and certainly not someone who would use the word urgent without good reason.
Kumar rose from behind his desk as Mr. Patel entered the room. He ushered his old friend to a comfortable chair in the corner of the room and pressed a button under his desk. Moments later his secretary appeared with a pot of tea and a plate of Bath Oliver biscuits. The Deputy Commissioner followed in her wake.
“I thought it might be wise to have Anil Khan present for this meeting, H.H., as he will be taking over from me in a few weeks’ time.”
“I know of your reputation, of course,” said Mr. Patel, shaking Khan warmly by the hand, “and I am delighted that you are able to join us.”
Once the secretary had served the three men with tea, she left the room. The moment the door was closed, Commissioner Kumar dispensed with any more small talk. “You asked to see me urgently, H.H., concerning a personal matter.’
“Yes,” replied Patel. “I thought you ought to know that I had a visit yesterday from someone who claims to work for you.”
The Commissioner raised an eyebrow.
“A Mr. Raj Malik.”
“He is a junior filing clerk in the—”
“In a private capacity, he was at pains to emphasize.”
The Commissioner began tapping the armrest of his chair with the palm of his right hand, as Patel continued. “Malik said that you were in possession of a file that showed that I was under investigation for money laundering.”
“You were, H.H.,” said the Commissioner, with his usual candor. “Following nine/eleven, the Minister of Internal Affairs instructed me to investigate any organization which dealt in large sums of cash. That included casinos, racetracks and, in your case, the Bank of Mumbai. A member of my team interviewed your chief teller and advised him about what he should be on the lookout for, and I personally signed the clearance certificate for your company.”
“I remember, you briefed me at the time,” said Patel, “but your fellow, Malik—”
“He’s not my fellow”
“—said that he could arrange to have my file destroyed.” He paused. “For a small consideration.”
“He said what?” said Kumar almost exploding out of his chair.
“How small?” asked Deputy Commissioner Khan calmly
“Ten million rupees,” replied Patel.
“H.H., I don’t know what to say,” said the Commissioner.
“You don’t have to say anything,” said Patel, “because it never crossed my mind, even for a moment, that you could be involved in anything quite so stupid, and I told Malik as much.”
“I am grateful,” said the Commissioner.
“No need to be,” said Patel, “but I did think that perhaps others, less charitable . . .” He paused. “Especially as Malik’s visit came so close to your retirement . . .” He hesitated again. “And were the press to get hold of the story, it might so easily be misunderstood.”
“I am grateful for your concern, and the speed with which you have acted,” said Kumar. “I will remain eternally in your debt.”
“I want nothing more than to be sure that this city rightly remains eternally in your debt,” said Patel, “so that when you leave office it will be in a blaze of glory, rather than with question marks hanging over your head, which, as we both know, would linger on long after your retirement.”
The Deputy Commissioner nodded his agreement as Patel rose from his place.
“You know, Naresh,” Patel said, turning to face the Commissioner, “I would never have agreed to see the damn man, if you had not spoken so highly of him in your speech to the Rotary Club last month. He even produced the article in the Mumbai Times. I therefore assumed that the fellow had come with your blessing.” Mr. Patel turned to face Khan. “May I wish you luck when you take over as Commissioner,” he added, shaking hands with the deputy. “I don’t envy you having to follow such a fine man.” Kumar smiled for the first time that morning.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” the Commissioner said to his deputy as he left his office to accompany Patel to the front door.
The Deputy Commissioner stared out of the window as he waited for the Chief to return. He munched on a biscuit as he mulled over several possible alternatives. By the time the Commissioner walked back into the room, Khan knew exactly what had to be done. But would he be able to convince his boss this time?
“I’ll have Malik arrested and behind bars within the hour,” said the Commissioner as he picked up the phone on his desk.
“I wonder, sir,” said Deputy Khan quietly, “if that’s the best course of action—given the circumstances?”
“I don’t have much choice,” said the Commissioner as he began dialing.
“You may be right,” said Khan, “but before you make such an irrevocable decision, perhaps we should consider how this is all going to play—” he paused—”with the press.”
“They’ll have a field day,” said Kumar as he replaced the phone and began pacing around the room. “They won’t be able to make up their minds if I should be hanged as a crook who’s willing to accept bribes, or dismissed as the most naive fool ever to hold the office of Commissioner. Neither scenario bears thinking about.”
“But we have to think about it,” insisted Deputy Khan, “because your enemies—and even good men have enemies—will happily settle for someone who’s willing to take kickbacks, while your friends will not be able to deny the lesser charge of naivety.”
“But surely after forty years of service, people will believe . . .”
“People will believe whatever they want to believe,” said Khan, confirming the Commissioner’s worst fears, “and certainly you won’t be able to send Malik back to prison until he’s been given the chance to appear in a witness box and tell the world his side of the story.”
“But who would believe that old—”
“No smoke without fire, they’ll be whispering in the corridors of the law courts, and that will be tame compared with the headlines in the morning papers once Malik has spent a couple of days in the witness box being questioned by a friendly barrister who sees you as nothing more than a stepping stone in his career.”
Kumar continued to pace around the room, but didn’t respond.
“Let me try and second-guess the headlines that would follow such a cross-examination.” Khan paused before saying, “‘Commissioner accepts bribes to destroy friends’ files’ might be the headline in the Times, while the tabloids will surely be a little more colorful—’Bung money left in Commissioner’s office by delivery boy,’ or perhaps ‘Commissioner Kumar employs ex-con to carry out his dirty work?’ “
“I think I’ve got the picture,” said the Commissioner, as he sank back into the chair next to Khan. “So what the hell am I supposed to do about it?”
“What you’ve always done in the past,” Khan replied. “Play it by the book.”
The Commissioner looked across at his deputy quizzically. “What do you have in mind?”
“Malik,” shouted the supervisor at the top of his voice, even before he’d put the phone down. “ Commissioner Kumar wants to see you, immediately.”
“Did he say why?” asked Malik nervously
“No,
he’s not in the habit of confiding in me,” replied the supervisor, “but don’t hang about because he’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”
“Yes, sir,” Malik replied. He closed the file he’d been working on and placed it back on the supervisor’s desk. He walked across to his locker, removed his bicycle clips and left the building without another word. It wasn’t until he was outside on the pavement that he began to shake. Had they caught on to his latest scam? Not that it had proved that successful. He unlocked the chain that was attached to the railings and began to consider his options. Should he make a run for it, or simply try to brazen it out? He hadn’t been left with a lot of choice. After all, where would he run to? And even if he did decide to run, it would only be a matter of days, perhaps hours, before they caught up with him.
Malik slipped on his bicycle clips, mounted his third-hand Raleigh Lenton and began to pedal slowly toward the city center. The dusty brown roads were teeming with other bicycles, cars and countless numbers of people, all heading in different directions. The incessant honking of horns, the multitude of different smells, the beating down of the sun and the bustle of everyday life ensured that Mumbai was like no other city on earth. Street traders thrust out their arms as Malik passed, trying to sell him their wares, while beggars with no arms ran by his side, not assisting his progress. Should he come clean and admit what he’d been up to?
He cycled for a few more yards. No, never admit to anything, a golden rule that he’d learned after long years in prison. He swerved to avoid a cow and nearly fell off.
Assume they know nothing until you’re cornered. Even then, deny everything. As he rounded the next corner, police headquarters loomed up in front of him. If he was going to make a dash for it, it would have to be now or never. He pedalled on, until he was only a few yards away from the steps leading up to the front entrance. He tugged firmly on the tired brake handles until his bike came to a slow, unsteady halt. He climbed off, and padlocked his one asset to the nearest railing. He walked slowly up the steps to police headquarters, pushed his way through the swing doors and headed nervously toward the reception desk. He told the duty officer his name. Perhaps there had been a mistake.
“I have an appointment with—”
“Ah, yes,” the duty officer replied ominously, without needing to consult his roster. “The Commissioner is waiting to see you. You’ll find his office is on the fourteenth floor.”
Malik turned and began walking toward the lifts, aware that the duty officer’s eyes never left him. Malik glanced at the front door. This would be his last chance to escape, he thought, as the doors of one of the lifts slid open. He stepped into a crowded elevator, which made several stops on its slow interrupted journey to the fourteenth floor. By the time Malik reached the top floor, he was sweating profusely, and it wasn’t just the crowded space and lack of air conditioning that caused his unease.
When the doors finally parted, he was on his own. Malik stepped out onto the only thickly carpeted corridor in the building. He looked around and then recalled his last visit. He began to walk slowly toward an office at the far end of the corridor. The word Commissioner was printed in bold stencilled letters on the door.
Malik knocked quietly—perhaps something more important had arisen, causing the Commissioner to leave the office without warning. He heard a female voice invite him to enter. He opened the door to find the Commissioner’s secretary seated behind her desk, tapping away furiously. She stopped typing the moment she saw Malik.
“The Commissioner is expecting you,” was all she offered. She didn’t smile and she didn’t frown as she rose from her place. Perhaps she was unaware of his fate. The secretary disappeared through another door and returned almost immediately. “The Commissioner will see you now, Mr. Malik,” she said, and held the door open for him.
Malik walked into the Commissioner’s office, to find him seated at his desk, eyes down, studying an open file. He raised his head, looked directly at him and said, “Have a seat, Malik.” Not Raj, not Mr., just Malik.
Malik slipped into the chair opposite the Commissioner. He sat in silence, trying not to appear nervous as he watched the second hand of the clock on the wall behind the desk complete a full minute.
“Malik,” the Commissioner eventually said as he looked up from the papers on his desk, “I’ve just been reading your supervisors annual report.”
Malik remained silent, although he could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his nose.
The Commissioner looked back down again. “He’s very complimentary about your work,” said Kumar, “full of praise. Far better than I could have hoped for when you sat in that chair just a year ago.” The Commissioner looked up and smiled. “In fact, he’s recommending that you should be promoted.”
“Promoted?” said Malik in disbelief.
“Yes, though it may not prove that easy, as there are not too many appropriate jobs available at the present time. However, I do believe I have come across a position that is ideally suited for your particular talents.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” said Malik, relaxing for the first time.
“There is a vacancy—” the Commissioner opened another file and smiled—”for an assistant in the city morgue.” He extracted a single sheet of paper and began reading from it.
“It would be your responsibility to scrub the blood off the slabs
and clean the floor immediately after the bodies have been dissected and stored away I’m told the stench is not all that pleasant, but a face mask is supplied, and I have no doubt that, in time, one gets used to it.” He continued to smile at Malik. “The appointment comes with the rank of sub-supervisor, along with a corresponding rise in salary. It also has other perks, not least that you would have your own room directly above the morgue, so you wouldn’t have to bed down any longer at the YMCA.” The Commissioner paused. “And, should you continue to hold the post until your sixtieth birthday, you would also be entitled to a modest pension.” The Commissioner closed Malik’s file and looked directly at him. “Any questions?” he asked.
“Only one, sir,” said Malik. “Is there any alternative?” “Oh, yes,” replied the Commissioner. “You can spend the rest of your life in jail.”
In the Eye
Of the
Beholder
Other than the fact that they had been to school together, the two of them had little in common.
Gian Lorenzo Venici had been a diligent child since
his first roll call at the age of five, whereas Paolo Castelli somehow managed always to be late, even for his first roll call.
Gian Lorenzo felt at home in the classroom with books, essays and exams, where he outshone his contemporaries. Paolo achieved the same results on the football field, with a change of pace, a deceptive turn and a shot at goal which beguiled his own team as well as the opposition. Both young men progressed to St. Cecilia’s, the most prestigious high school in Rome, where they were able to display their talents to a wider audience.
When their school days were over, they both graduated to Roma: Gian Lorenzo to the nation’s oldest university as a scholar, Paolo to the nation’s oldest football club as a striker. Although they didn’t mix in the same circles, they were both well aware of the other’s achievements. While Gian Lorenzo collected honors in one field, Paolo won them on another, both achieving their goals.
After leaving university, Gian Lorenzo joined his father at the Venici Gallery. He immediately set about converting those years of study into something more practical, as he wished to emulate his father and become the most respected art dealer in Italy.
By the time Gian Lorenzo had begun his apprenticeship, Paolo had been appointed captain of Roma. With the cheers and adulation of the fans ringing in his ears, he led them to championship and European glory. Gian Lorenzo only had to turn to the back pages of any newspaper, on an almost daily basis, to follow the exploits of his former classmate, and to the gossip columns to discover who was the latest beaut
y to be found dangling from his arm: another difference between them.
Gian Lorenzo quickly discovered that in his chosen profession long-term reputation would be built not on the occasional inspired goal, but on hours of dedicated research, combined with good judgment. He had inherited from his father the two most important gifts in any art dealer’s armory—a good eye and a good nose. Antonio Venici also taught his son not only how to look, but where to look, when searching for a masterpiece. The old man only dealt in the finest examples of Renaissance painting and sculpture, which would never appear on the open market. Unless a piece was exclusive, Antonio didn’t venture out of his gallery. His son followed in his footsteps. The gallery bought and sold only three, perhaps four, paintings a year, but those masters changed hands at around the same price as one of Roma’s strikers. After forty years in the business, Gian Lorenzo’s father knew not only who possessed the great collections, but more important, who might be willing or, better still, needed to part with the occasional masterpiece.
Gian Lorenzo became so engrossed in his work that he missed the injury Paolo Castelli sustained while playing for Italy against Spain in the European Cup. This personal setback placed Paolo on the sidelines of the football field, as well as the newspapers, especially when it became clear that he had reached his sell-by date.
Paolo left the world stage just as Gian Lorenzo strode onto it. He began to travel around Europe representing the gallery in an endless quest to seek out only the rarest examples of genius, and, having acquired a masterpiece, to find someone who could afford to purchase it.
Gian Lorenzo often wondered what had become of Paolo since he’d stopped playing football and the press no longer reported his every move. He was to discover overnight when Paolo announced his engagement.
Paolo’s choice of marriage partner ensured that his exploits were transferred from the back pages to the front.
Cat O'Nine Tales (2006) Page 19
