The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  “You grew up in Bombay?”

  He seemed pleased to talk. “Yes. My father is a judge of the high court. I live with my parents and my two older brothers and their wives and children. I have two older sisters, too, who are married. I am the youngest.”

  “Your sisters and their husbands live with you, too?”

  “They live with the families of their husbands. It is the Indian custom, you know, for families to stay together. In America, they tell me, families move apart. Which is better? I don’t know.”

  “I live alone.”

  He seemed shocked. “If you are sick, or need help, or money, who helps you?”

  Patrick’s image came briefly into her mind. “I have to take care of myself.”

  After a moment’s silence he said, “My parents are looking for a wife for me.”

  Marina was shocked in her turn. “You mean you won’t have any choice about who you marry?”

  “These days many marriages are not arranged. Since I am the youngest, and my parents have grandchildren already, they were in no hurry. I suppose I might have had someone of my own choosing. Now that I am twenty-five, though, they say they have waited long enough. They want to see me settled, with a family.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “All right.” Marina thought she saw unhappiness flicker across his smooth, pleasant face.

  The photographer emerged from the darkroom holding curling sheets of still-damp paper. Marina took one. The writing looked slightly grainy from being blown up, but it would be legible.

  “Now we shall see,” said Vijay.

  They took the photos across the street to a nondescript concrete-block building where some USIA offices, including Vijay’s, were located. Marina followed Vijay up a dim flight of stairs to the small room that housed his desk and a filing cabinet. He turned on the desk light, and she spread out the photos. Vijay circled his forefinger over the prints and selected one. “Here is January fifteenth.” He adjusted his glasses.

  He leaned back in his chair and rocked gently, staring at the page. A long time seemed to pass. At last he said, “Yes, yes.” He beckoned her. “I think I have found it.”

  The page was a hodgepodge of cramped, wavery lines, items crossed out, arithmetical calculations, and words scribbled in the margin. Looking at the section he indicated, the first thing she noticed was that some of it was in English. Sandwiched between lines in a language she didn’t know were the words “Vincent Shah, Delightful Novelty Company,” and a Bombay address. Vijay put his finger on the name and said, “I believe this was written by Raki, or someone else at the hotel. It is the same hand in which other notations are made— how many days someone will stay, costs— do you see?”

  “Right.”

  “This”— Vijay pointed to the line above Vincent Shah’s name and address—” is another name, Anand Kumar. For profession he has listed commercial traveler, and he has given an address in Ahmedabad. The call, you see here, a hundred and fifty rupees, was charged to Anand Kumar. And then this”— he pointed to the last line— “is also written by Raki.” He ran his finger under the line. “I do not know what to make of it. It says, ‘I have told the rope with teeth’—or you might say the toothed rope, something like that. I’m not—”

  “No,” Marina said.

  She saw the heavy-lidded eyes, heard the voice in a rhythmic singsong: “I come from the deep well, from the rich kingdom Nagaloka. I am the wind-eater, the cardamom leaf, the conch shell, the oleander flower, the rope with teeth.”

  The stumbling response came from Catherine and the others: “The wind-eater, the cardamom leaf, the conch shell, the oleander flower, the rope with teeth.”

  Another time he had said, teasing, “If a serpent bites you, Marina, it is most taboo to say, ‘A serpent has bitten me.’ You must say instead, ‘A rope has touched me.’”

  A rope has touched me.

  Somebody was talking. She watched Vijay’s lips move, but couldn’t separate his words from the roaring in her ears. Not another one. What is this, Resurrection Day, all the dead rising up? Will I walk outside and run into Mother and Dad on the street?

  She finally heard, “—matter?”

  And in a few moments was able to say, “It’s Nagarajan.”

  23

  “The wind-eater was because of the way a snake’s tongue darts in and out,” Marina said. “The oleander flower because it’s poisonous like snakes are. I forget why the conch shell and the cardamom leaf. I think they had to do with legendary naga kings. The rope with teeth is obvious.”

  Indian waiters in knee-length red coats, glossy black boots, and elaborate turbans suggestive of regimental uniforms moved among the tables in the bar. Most of the patrons were American or Western European, probably guests at the posh hotel where the bar was located. On a bandstand a combo played a wavering version of “Yesterday.”

  Marina felt woozy from shock and from the beer she had drunk to combat it. “It’s the only explanation.”

  Vijay toyed with his glass. “I said before. It is an expression only. There is no reason to think it means anything.”

  “No, no. It’s significant. It has to be significant.”

  “How can you be sure? You have been thinking a great deal about this Nagarajan. You may see something where there is nothing to see.”

  He was wrong. “It’s written there, ‘I have told Nagarajan.’”

  “Nagarajan died, killed himself in prison.”

  “That’s what they said. Maybe it wasn’t true.”

  Vijay regarded her soberly. She could see he was worried about what he’d gotten into. First she thought her sister hadn’t died. Now she was saying Nagarajan might have survived too. She felt as if her life were unfolding into something that, when fully displayed, would look very much like a nightmare. If Nagarajan’s alive— I can’t think about it. Only, if Nagarajan’s alive, he’ll know about Catherine. If there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s that she would never forsake him.

  “Can you tell me,” said Vijay carefully, “any possible explanation—”

  “No. I can only say he sometimes called himself the toothed rope, and the Rama is the hotel he and his followers stayed at before they established the ashram at Halapur. There is a connection. It isn’t something out of the blue.”

  As she spoke she felt more persuaded herself. According to the files at the consulate, the guard had seen Nagarajan hanging in his cell and the body had been cremated the same night. Because of the climate, it was common to dispose of dead bodies quickly. She wondered how many other people had seen the body, or would have known whether or not a body was actually Nagarajan’s if they’d seen it. He could have bought his way out. Perhaps all he’d have had to do was bribe one guard. He might even have talked his way out. He could be extremely persuasive.

  She remembered arriving at the Halapur ashram for the first time, at the mud-colored house that squatted among other mud-colored houses on Palika Road. Her head had swum from the heat as she paid the minicab driver and stood with her suitcase at the gate. Giggling neighborhood children, Agit More no doubt among them, had gathered to stare as she stood organizing her thoughts. Catherine had come out on the veranda and stood leaning on the railing, watching her.

  Marina had gotten the Halapur address from Nagarajan’s followers in San Francisco. She hadn’t told Catherine she was coming. When Marina crossed the bare earth and climbed the veranda steps she saw that Catherine looked pale and gaunt. Her hair was pulled back, and there was an angry-looking rash behind one of her ears. She looked at Marina without expression. “So you came,” she said.

  Marina put down her suitcase. “I came to take you home.”

  “I am home.”

  “We have to talk, Catherine.”

  Catherine’s lips curved. “Wait here,” she said, and went into the house’s shadowy interior.

  Marina waited a long time, facing the road. Down the way, at a vegetable stand, a m
ound of oranges looked molten in the fierce light. The group of children at the gate slowly dispersed. A man in a white dhoti drove a herd of goats past, their bleats lost in the cloud of dust raised by their hooves. From somewhere came a drone she recognized: Guru Nagarajan, Parama Sukhadam. Guru Nagarajan, Chrana Shranam.

  At last a skinny young man with short brown hair and pimples appeared in the doorway. “Come with me,” he said.

  She followed him through a room that was empty except for rolled mats against the wall, and down a short hallway. He stopped in front of a door across which a curtain hung, motioned to her to wait, and went inside. She heard low voices. In a moment he emerged and said, “You can go in.”

  The shuttered room was close, but not as hot as Marina had expected. On a low table was a statue of a Hindu god— Shiva, the destroyer, she later learned, the god who garlanded himself with cobras. Marigolds littered the table in front of the statue, and their faint fresh odor mingled with the heavier smell of incense. Nagarajan reclined on one elbow on a mat on the floor. He smiled when he saw her and sat up gracefully. “You have come to see me. Most delightful,” he said. He waved his hand at another mat. “Please.”

  As Marina sat down she said, “I didn’t come to see you. I came to take my sister home.”

  Nagarajan looked interested. “Yes,” he said. “But have you never set out to buy apples, and when you reached the market found that the pears were more beautiful, so bought pears instead? Have you never set out for the ocean, but found the mountains so interesting you stayed in the mountains? Of course you have.”

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  “Perhaps not. I see you are very clear about what you want. The bitterest, most worm-infested apple, you say, is better than the plumpest, sweetest pear. I admire such single-mindedness.”

  “You make it sound like—”

  “No, it is how you have heard it, not how I have made it sound.”

  Nagarajan’s face was serious, but she saw a suspicion of laughter in his eyes. His curly black hair, glossy and healthy-looking, fell to his shoulders. The mottled scar on his neck almost gleamed against his golden-brown skin. “I want to take my sister back home,” she said.

  He leaned toward her, and Marina smelled the not-unpleasant odor of his body. “We want and we want. That is where our trouble starts. Is it not so, Marina?” He reached out and, not actually touching her, outlined the side of her face with his fingers. She could feel the warmth emanating from his hand. “Isn’t it?”

  She felt heavy, unable to move. “Yes.”

  He withdrew his hand. “You will stay as our honored guest.”

  “I want to talk to Catherine.”

  “You will talk to Catherine. You see how easily wishes are granted? Yet granting one wish is like brushing one gnat from a piece of overripe fruit. What is one gnat out of a swarm?”

  “When can I see her?”

  He made a sweeping gesture. “Whenever you choose. Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. All of these. You have simply to ask her.”

  Marina got to her feet. “I’ll do that.”

  He bowed over his pressed-together palms. “Welcome to Halapur.”

  “You are sad?” said Vijay.

  Marina finished her beer. The combo was playing “The Isle of Capri.” “I was thinking about when I first went to the ashram. I should have known Catherine would be beyond my reach. The problem wasn’t my having a chance to talk to her, but her being willing to talk to me.”

  “She was lost to you already.”

  “Lost.” She shook her head. “My God, Vijay. What if Nagarajan is alive?”

  “You must not speak like this.” Frowning, he fidgeted with the red foil matchbook from the ashtray.

  “You’re thinking it’s time to call Mr. Curtis.”

  “Yes.”

  She considered, then said, “Can’t you give it a little longer? We haven’t tried to figure out who the others mentioned in the register are. Anand Kumar, the one who made the call. Vincent Shah, too. We won’t push the Nagarajan angle. Let’s see where the rest lead.”

  Vijay shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Vijay, if it weren’t for you we wouldn’t have gotten this far. Don’t call a halt now, before we know what’s going on. Please.”

  His consent was grudging. “All right.”

  Good. The two of them would concentrate on Anand Kumar and Vincent Shah. She didn’t have to tell him about any private plans she might make. Those she could keep strictly to herself.

  24

  Marina sat cross-legged on her bed in the Rama. Enough moonlight sifted into the room for her to be able to see the dial of her watch. It was three in the morning. Her packed suitcase sat next to the door with her canvas shoulder bag and her sandals on top of it. She’d decided to go barefooted, to cut down noise. An hour had passed since she had heard anyone stirring. The throat-clearing of the other guests had ceased, and the radio downstairs was silent. The bed groaned as she slid off it and crossed the room to the dressing table, where her flashlight, screwdriver, Swiss Army knife, and the plastic card for her automatic bank teller were laid out. She put the screwdriver and knife in separate pockets of her loose cotton pants so they wouldn’t hit against each other. The flashlight and card she kept in her hand. She stood for a few moments gazing at her barely distinguishable reflection in the blistered mirror, then left the room, leaving the door unlocked and slightly ajar.

  A feeble bulb cast a pool of yellow light in the stairwell at one end of the hall. At the other end was an open window that led, she had discovered a few hours ago, to a fire escape whose bottom few steps had rusted away. She moved silently toward the stairwell, feeling the rough material of the carpet runner under the soles of her feet. The smell of insecticide reminded her of bugs, and the thought made her toes curl.

  Climbing the stairs earlier, after leaving Vijay, she had noticed that the fifth stair from the top creaked loudly. She avoided it on her way down. At the foot of the stairs she could turn left toward the door to the lobby, from which a faint night light was shining, or go right and make her way down a now-unlit passage that led to the office and, beyond that, to what she guessed were the quarters for the staff. She had looked into the passage earlier, when the lights were on, and had seen three empty Campa Cola bottles along one wall. She stayed clear of them. When she was well into the passage she pushed the button on her little flashlight and the beam showed her the closed door of the office.

  She allowed herself an instant to hope nobody was sleeping on the other side before she maneuvered the door’s flimsy lock open with her bank card. The door opened almost noiselessly, and she felt the day’s trapped heat on her face. She stepped quickly into the room, shone the light around to make sure nobody was there, and closed the door behind her.

  Her light flickered over wooden crates stacked along one wall, a desk piled with papers, a bicycle frame without wheels. Next to the desk was the battered tin trunk where the old woman had said Raki kept his papers. She knelt beside it. Locked, of course, but is that a problem for a lady engineer? She propped the light to shine on the lock and got out her screwdriver. No problem at all. This is something I can deal with, for a change.

  Screws tight. Put a little body English on it. There. Now the other one. She removed the lock, placed it on the floor, and opened the trunk.

  The pages from the register on top. Get those out of the way, and we’ve got— more paper. The trunk was jammed with file folders. She pulled one out. Bill receipts, with “Hotel Rama” imprinted at the top. Have I gone to all this trouble just to rifle the Rama’s back files? Another folder, and another, held more of the same. Marina pushed moist hair off her forehead and sat back on her heels.

  Try here at the back. This folder had more paper, more incomprehensible notations, but these were written on sheets headed “Elephanta Trading and Tours” and decorated with a sketch of the head of a smiling elephant. There’s a poster for Elephanta in the lobby, too. I could ma
ke some inquiries about Elephanta Trading and Tours.

  None of this was what she really wanted, but soon she found it. A folded piece of paper was half-wedged in a crack where two sides of the trunk met the bottom. She unfolded it and found herself staring into the eyes of Nagarajan. It was a copy of the poster that had hung on the walls of the San Francisco ashram, the larger version of the picture Catherine had in her bedroom. Under the beam of her light, first one eye and then the other flashed at her, then the full mouth was illuminated. She switched the light off and refolded the poster in the dark, not wanting to look at it any more.

  What does this mean, really, Vijay will say. You knew he stayed here. He left a poster. So what. I’ll say, so Raki kept it. Here, where he keeps important things. Raki told the toothed rope. Raki keeps a picture of Nagarajan.

  She switched the light back on and, fumbling, suddenly in a hurry, screwed the lock back into place. Damn that picture. In her rush to get away, she bumped into the bicycle frame, which thudded against the wall. Oh no.

  As she was going out the door she heard another door close, and Raki’s scraping steps in the passage. She rushed toward the stairs. Forgetting the cola bottles lined up near the wall, she kicked one, knocking over the others. Raki’s steps quickened, and she ran. At the top of the stairs she glanced over her shoulder and saw him at the bottom. He glared at her, his face distorted, and started to haul himself laboriously up by the bannister. She ran down the hall, accompanied by the sound of his thumping climb. From behind one of the doors came sleepy, inquiring voices. She reached in the door of her room, grabbed her suitcase, bag, and sandals, and ran for the window at the opposite end of the hall as Raki reached the top of the stairs and started toward her.

  Pushing her suitcase through the window ahead of her, she climbed out. Raki shouted, a hoarse roar in a language she didn’t understand. The rusting steps scraped the bottoms of her feet as she ran down.