Bad Day at the Vulture Club

by Vaseem Khan

  ‘Do you know anyone there?’

  ‘I know the head of security. We’ve shared a cigarette or two.’

  ‘I need to speak to him.’

  ‘Her,’ said Anwar. ‘Speak to her.’

  Ten minutes later they were in the air-conditioned office of Shruti Deshmukh. The small, intense woman listened to Chopra’s explanation, then rose from her seat. ‘Come with me.’

  She led them up to the second floor, then out on to an open-plan space criss-crossed by rows of corrals. Inside the corrals, men and women – mostly young – tapped away on computer screens. A buzz of background conversation rose above the sound of keyboards being hacked at with violent abandon. There was an informal atmosphere to the place at odds with the workplace environment that Chopra associated with the India of his youth.

  But then, wasn’t that the point?

  This was no longer the India he had once known.

  Deshmukh led them to a corral on the far side of the room. The cubicle abutted a window that looked down on the alley outside the Vulture Club.

  A middle-aged man sat in the cubicle, pushing a mouse around. On the screen was a detailed rendering of a tiger.

  He looked up as the trio descended on him. For a moment, a look of instinctive guilt flickered over his face, and then he stood to face them.

  ‘This is Yeshwant Dalvi,’ said Deshmukh. ‘He works a late shift, and seems to be here all the time. Perhaps he may have seen something.’

  Chopra introduced himself, then said, ‘I am investigating the murder of Cyrus Zorabian. He was the chairman of the Vulture Club. Do you recall the incident?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dalvi. ‘It was a big deal around here. The club is our neighbour, after all.’

  ‘On the night that he died, were you here in the office?’

  Dalvi nodded slowly. ‘It was three months ago, but yes, I was.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because the next day, when news of his death hit the papers, I remember talking to a colleague about it. The evening he died had been the deadline for a major graphics project I had been working on. I’d been in the office till well past midnight – liaising with our client in the States.’

  Chopra was impressed with the man’s even tone. ‘In that case, perhaps you could answer a question for me. On that evening, did you see anything unusual in the alley below? Any activity at all?’

  Dalvi considered this, then said, ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  Chopra felt the disappointment as a physical reaction. He racked his brain for another question, but there was no point.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  As he turned, Dalvi spoke again. ‘Actually, now that I think about it, there was something. Not exactly activity . . .’

  Chopra turned back.

  ‘A car was parked in the alley. I’ve never seen a car in there before – other than the occasional municipal work van – so I remember it clearly. It was there when I arrived for work around 2 p.m. Later, I noticed it had gone.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Around ten. The funny thing is, when I looked back again around midnight it was there again.’

  Chopra suppressed the bolt of excitement that flew through him.

  ‘Can you describe the car to me?’

  ‘Actually, I can. It was a red Tata Nexon. One of the new Tata models. I remember because I’m planning on buying one myself.’

  Chopra turned to Anwar. ‘Does anyone at the club own a red Tata Nexon?’

  Anwar nodded slowly, a frown on his face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There is one person.’

  And he told Chopra the name.

  Chopra made his way up to the club’s dining room.

  Here he discovered the club’s veterans Forhad and Dinshaw huddled over a green-felted poker table playing cards.

  ‘I need to ask you some questions about the night Cyrus went missing.’

  ‘You already did that,’ said Forhad. ‘Or have you forgotten? I thought we were the ones supposed to be senile.’

  Dinshaw snickered.

  ‘Cyrus attended the lecture given by Zubin Engineer,’ said Chopra, ignoring the remark.

  ‘Is that a question?’

  ‘No. Cyrus attended but left early. The question is, did you stay for the whole lecture?’

  ‘It’s not like we had a choice,’ said Forhad. ‘Engineer gets prissy if we don’t muck in.’

  ‘It lasted the whole two hours?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Dinshaw.

  ‘How would you know?’ said Forhad. ‘You slept through most of it.’

  ‘And when it was done?’ asked Chopra.

  ‘When it was done Engineer turned the lights back on, took a bow, answered a few questions, and finally led us to supper. My stomach was about to mutiny by then, I can tell you.’

  Chopra rose. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That’s it?’ asked Forhad suspiciously.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What are you up to, Chopra?’

  ‘Just trying to piece together a timeline for the evening.’

  ‘Give my regards to that elephant of yours!’ said Dinshaw as the private detective left, Anwar close on his heels.

  Chopra made his way to the lecture hall. Rows of seats had been laid out, theatre-style, facing the stage. Daylight flooded in from a succession of bay windows.

  ‘Close the curtains,’ he said to Anwar.

  Anwar did as he was bid, plunging the room into darkness.

  Chopra nodded. With the lights out, it was impossible to see a thing. The only light would come from the screen.

  He stumbled his way to the panel, and switched on the lights.

  Then he walked over to the AV console, a complicated-looking deck of equipment that controlled the screen, USB ports and speakers.

  ‘Is there someone who knows how all this operates?’ he asked.

  ‘That would be young Bilimoria. He is our resident IT genius.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘You would have to call him. He usually only comes to the club when we need him.’

  ‘Do you have his phone number?’

  Anwar hesitated. ‘Is this still part of your enquiry into Mr Zorabian’s death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. We have a register of contact details for all members. Bilimoria is a member by virtue of his father. I can dig up his number.’

  Chopra waited as Anwar disappeared, then returned ten minutes later with the details scribbled on a chit.

  He dialled the number. Once it connected, he quickly introduced himself and explained what he was looking for.

  Bilimoria was only too glad to help.

  By the end of the conversation Chopra had the information he needed.

  Finally, the killer was in his crosshairs.

  He closed his eyes and tried to piece together how the murder might have transpired. He could almost visualise everything that had happened, how Cyrus’s murderer had planned the killing down to the last detail, how he had executed that plan.

  But there was one gap in his reasoning, he realised.

  The murder weapon.

  Where would his suspected killer have obtained it? How would he have disposed of it? This killer was surely not a person used to the fine art of murder.

  His mind spun around in wild loops of conjecture. What was it the pathologist had suggested? That the murder weapon was heavy and blunt, possibly something with a rounded tip.

  A rounded tip.

  What sort of weapon had a rounded profile?

  A baseball bat.

  A club.

  No.

  Neither of those felt right. Not for the killer he had in mind.

  What else?

  He closed his eyes again, willing the thought writhing around in his subconscious mind to break the surface and flap its way into the light.

  A rounded tip. A club. Or a—

  He had it.

  His eyes snapped op
en, and he looked over at Anwar who had been watching him patiently.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Chopra.

  Minutes later, he stood in the lobby before the display housing the waxwork of the club’s founder, Rustom Zorabian. So lifelike was the sculpture that he almost expected the plough-nosed old goat to rise up from his seat to confront him.

  ‘Open this case.’

  Anwar frowned. ‘I cannot do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I do not have permission.’

  ‘Whose permission do you need?’

  ‘Well, usually only Mr—’

  He stopped as Chopra raised a hand. ‘I am giving you permission. By order of the commissioner of police of Mumbai. Do you understand?’

  Anwar looked displeased, but nodded.

  He trotted off and soon returned with a set of master keys.

  Under Chopra’s scrutiny he unlocked the glass case and swung back the doors.

  Chopra plucked a handkerchief from his pocket, then leaned in, and took the ceremonial mace from the old Parsee’s unresisting hand.

  He examined the mace minutely, until finally he grimaced in triumph.

  There, lodged just beneath the heavy circular dome, encrusted into the splice, were three tell-tale drops of dried blood.

  The meaning of duty

  He found the club secretary Zubin Engineer in his office, painstakingly composing a letter on his computer. Chopra moved over the tiled floor, then set down the mace on Engineer’s desk. The man’s eyes wobbled behind his spectacles; he exhaled slowly, then fell back against his seat, his frail body suddenly limp.

  ‘When did you find out about Cyrus’s plan to sell Doongerwadi?’

  Engineer said nothing, merely blinked slowly.

  ‘The notion shocked you to the core,’ continued Chopra, ‘shook loose something wild and uncontrollable. You knew that you could not sit by and let this happen – not you, secretary of the Vulture Club, custodian of the community’s great heritage. What I don’t understand is why didn’t you confront him? Why send him the anonymous letters?’

  Engineer finally seemed to revive. His eyes fell to the mace. A sense of resignation slumped his shoulders; his features softened into melancholy. ‘Because I am powerless here,’ he said softly. ‘Club secretary may sound like an important position, but the truth is that Cyrus has always treated me as little more than a glorified receptionist. Had I confronted him directly, he would have dismissed me. And where would I go then? This place is everything to me. My wife passed years ago. I have no children. The club is my only reason for getting up each morning.’

  ‘And what of your responsibility to your community?’

  Engineer snapped his head up. ‘Who are you to talk to me of responsibility? I have spent my life trying to uphold our traditions. When I found out about Cyrus’s plan I was horrified. He had left his jacket here at the club one eve-ning. As I picked it up the blueprints fell out for his planned new site for the Towers of Silence out in Vashi, together with a land transfer document prepared by him regarding the sale. Once I finished reading it, I put it back inside his jacket, my hands trembling. That was the moment all this began.

  ‘I racked my brain for a way to get Cyrus to change his mind. I thought of going to the other committee members, but that would have been futile. Cyrus is king here, the rest of us mere courtiers. I even considered going public – but then I realised that if I did I would give ammunition to those who have been clamouring for years for Doongerwadi to be moved to another site. After all, if the head of the Zorabian family, the ancestral owner of Doongerwadi, was willing to sell up, then what chance would the rest of us have to save the site? Somehow, I had to dissuade Cyrus without alerting the world.’

  ‘That was when you hit upon the idea of sending him the letters.’

  Engineer nodded. ‘It was the only thing I could think of.’

  ‘But why in Latin? And why keep them vague? Why not explicitly tell him to stop the development?’

  ‘I dared not risk being too direct. I did not wish to raise any suspicion in him that I was behind them. He has been reading correspondence from me for forty years. Had I been explicit, in English, he would have instantly recognised my writing style. At least, that is what I feared. Perhaps that fear was unjustified. Perhaps if I had confronted him none of this would have happened.’

  ‘At some point you realised that your letters were ineffective. That they would not dissuade him.’

  ‘Yes. I overheard him on the phone one day, at the club. He received the call while he was with me and, in typical Cyrus fashion, commandeered my office. I pretended to leave, but hung around outside with the door cracked open. He was talking to someone – I don’t know who – about how they would soon break ground on the New Haven plot. He was reassuring the other party that he would easily manage the storm that would arise after he announced the sale of Doongerwadi, that legally the Parsee community could do nothing to stop him.’

  ‘That was the moment you decided that there was only one way to stop him,’ said Chopra.

  Engineer nodded sadly. ‘He made up my mind for me.’

  ‘Tell me about that evening, the evening of his death. Cyrus came to the club for a meeting of the committee. You had scheduled a lecture afterwards. Cyrus decided to attend the lecture – or perhaps you begged him to stay. You made a point of telling me that you were on stage when he received the call summoning him to Doongerwadi. That gave you the perfect alibi. I had to rack my brain to work out how you might have been in two places at the same time . . .

  ‘The only way you could have accomplished that was if your lecture was a recording. You told me that the hall was dark, and that a slide presentation was showing on the lecture screen. It was due to last two hours – Dinshaw said that there were two hundred slides. Once it began, you bowed out to the wings. You switched on the recording you had previously made so that your voice would continue to pump through the speakers in the darkened hall. You had made sure to inform the audience that you would take no questions until the very end. That way you were assured of not being interrupted.

  ‘Once the recording was playing, you left via the fire exit, out into the lane behind the club, and then through the gate at the end of the lane – you are one of only two people who have a complete set of keys. You had left your car parked in the alleyway – a red Tata Nexon. The vehicle was spotted. It is what led me to you.’

  Engineer’s reaction to this last fact was merely to compress his mouth.

  ‘It was always a risk parking there,’ he said. ‘But I had no choice. I could not have left via the club’s main entrance. The security guard would have seen me. And I could not have taken a cab to Doongerwadi. The driver might later have become a witness.’

  ‘On the way to Doongerwadi, you phoned Cyrus. You told him to leave the lecture immediately and meet you at the eastern gate. You knew there would be less chance of anyone seeing either of you at that gate, or in that section of Doongerwadi. I don’t know precisely how you lured him there, but I suppose you must have threatened to expose him. My guess is that you also disguised your voice.’ He paused, but Engineer did not confirm or deny this. ‘What happened in Doongerwadi? Did you try to reason with him, a last-ditch effort to force him to see sense? Or was it always your intention to kill him? I suspect the latter.’

  Engineer was silent a moment. ‘Do you know, Chopra, that within these very walls, some of the greatest minds this country has ever produced plotted the road to Independence? The best jurists of the age, working to understand the complexities of the fight, and the even more knotted realities of post-Partition India. In many ways, Parsees helped define the country you now stand in.’ He got up, limped to the sideboard, poured himself a whisky, then sat heavily back down. As he drank, the whisky worked its way into his eyes, softened his careworn features. ‘Cyrus was beyond listening. There was no guilt. No recognition that he was betraying not only our community, but the storied history of the Parsees i
n India. The Cyrus I had known since he had been a boy was gone. He was no longer one of us. His soul had turned to ash.’

  ‘My guess is Cyrus told you that you were finished at the club.’

  Engineer stared into his whisky. ‘Yes, he tried to threaten me. He even suggested that should I speak up publicly about his plans before he was ready to reveal them he would have me killed.’

  ‘And that was when you took out the mace that you had brought with you and struck him on the back of the head.’

  ‘He turned away from me,’ said Engineer. ‘As if I were nothing. As if my words meant nothing.’ Fury drove up through the old man like a fist. ‘He dismissed me, Chopra.’

  ‘You planned Cyrus’s murder with great care. You knew that he would never reconsider, that any attempt to get him to change his plans for Doongerwadi would be futile. That’s why you called him there in the first place. A quiet, secluded place where no one would see you kill him. That’s why you took the mace along. What better murder weapon than a symbol of the very community he was betraying?’

  ‘I called him there so that he might be reminded of our heritage. Of what it means to be Parsee. We are keepers of the flame, the guardians of our legacy. Till the very end I hoped to sway him. That’s why I took the mace. Rustom’s mace. I wanted him to see it, touch it, be connected to that past.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Chopra. ‘Had that been the case, you would not have arranged such an elaborate alibi.’

  Engineer said nothing.

  ‘But why, having killed him, didn’t you just leave the body there? What purpose did it serve to drag him to the tower and dump him inside?’

  ‘You couldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Engineer stared into his whisky. ‘First, I thought it would make it look like a random killer had panicked and tried to hide the crime . . . But the real reason? I wanted Cyrus to end up in the same towers he had chosen to abandon. I wanted the vultures to take at least a piece of him before the last rites were administered. I wanted them to desecrate his flesh, just as he sought to desecrate our traditions. For years I had seen him put himself forward as the protector of the old ways. After I discovered his plan to sell Doongerwadi I realised it had all been a pretence, a way for him to convince our community that he had always had our best interests at heart. That way, when he broke the news of the move, he hoped to sway many of us to his argument.’