The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  Raki cried out again, and a light came on in the window next to the bottom of the fire escape, but the curtain didn’t move as she dropped her suitcase to the ground and jumped down behind it. White-clad figures, huddled asleep in the alley, stirred as she passed. Finally, she was out on the street. Barefooted, her suitcase banging against her legs, she ran as fast as she could away from the Hotel Rama.

  25

  The mother and baby who had been sleeping near Marina on the floor of the Victoria Terminus stirred, and the baby began to fret. Other sleepers, too, made tentative, restless movements. Dawn was coming. Marina leaned her head back against the wall.

  She had stumbled through the unfamiliar streets a long time before she dared stop even to put on her sandals. When she slowed to a walk, panting, convinced at last that nobody was following her, she happened across the extravagant, minareted railway station. It would be as good a shelter as any. She chose a place next to the wall, propped her suitcase beside her, wrapped her arms around her bag, and settled down to wait out the night. Sometimes she dozed for a few moments. More often she tried to think, her brain circling ceaselessly, monotonously.

  Nagarajan escaped from the Halapur jail. He’s alive. I should’ve realized he’d never kill himself. Not if there was anybody left he could con. No, he’s out there, somewhere. On Elephanta, maybe. Catherine is with him, or he knows where she is.

  Marina was supposed to meet Vijay at ten o’clock at the Rama. She’d have to alert him not to go there, and that meant telling him what she’d done. He wouldn’t be pleased. I’ve screwed this up, just like I screwed up the Loopy Doop investigation. She looked at her scratched and filthy feet, the smudges of dirt on her pants. Pathetic.

  A train came in, causing a flurry of activity among the lounging porters, and in a few minutes the disembarking passengers streamed past. One of the men hurrying by, gray-haired, wiry, clutching a bulging briefcase, reminded Marina of Professor Chaudhuri.

  That was back in the days when she still thought Catherine could be swayed by rational argument. She had seen the professor in his office in the Institute for Asian Research at Berkeley. Hoping for ammunition, she had asked him if he had ever heard of Nagarajan.

  “Most certainly I have heard of nagas,” the professor said, in a precise British accent. “They are an ancient and powerful part of Indian religion and culture. As for this fellow calling himself Nagarajan—a common name in South India—I have not heard of him. That means very little. I don’t investigate every so-called holy man who comes searching for followers and money in the gullible West.”

  “You sound as if you don’t approve.”

  He shrugged. “Some are sincere, some are outright charlatans. From what you tell me of this Nagarajan, he has picked a few elements out of Indian tradition, mixed them with a great amount of mumbo jumbo, and is using it to snare unwary searchers such as your sister.”

  “So there’s no basis—”

  “Indeed there is a basis,” he said, sounding annoyed. “That is what exists. A basis. Serpent-worship was one of our earliest religions, and it continues today.”

  His eyes unfocused slightly, and Marina thought he was moving into a lecture he had given before. “Nagas are associated with water— pools, wells, and so on. Supposedly, they live beneath the earth in a kingdom called the Nagaloka, where they guard a huge treasure of gold and precious gems. They take human form when they choose, but they are most definitely animal, and belong to the serpent world.

  “Consider the serpent,” said Professor Chaudhuri, now intent on his subject. “Where else but in the serpent do you find such a combination of the dangerous and the auspicious? The serpent is deadly; his bite kills. Yet, he sheds his skin, a symbol of rebirth. He raises himself, like the phallus, and so is a symbol of fertility. He is feared, yet considered a good omen. The naga, then, is the cobra who has become a divine being.”

  “And there are people who really believe—”

  Professor Chaudhuri held up his finger to silence her. “In art, you will recognize the naga by the hood or umbrella of serpents which frames his head like a halo. The upper body is human, the lower is snake. In Hindu religion, the cobra is associated with Shiva, the destroyer, and Shiva is often depicted as garlanded with snakes. Shiva’s symbol, the lingam, is a stone of phallic shape, another serpent association. We have also Sesha, the World Serpent, who holds the earth in his coils. There is a great deal more besides.”

  He looked as if he would be glad to continue, but Marina didn’t encourage him. She had gained one paramount impression from his remarks. “It sounds as if Nagarajan has tapped into something with real power behind it.” She felt let down, as if Professor Chaudhuri had destroyed one of her most cherished illusions.

  “Indeed he has,” the professor said.

  Light from outside was getting stronger, and the station was beginning to bustle with early-morning activity. Marina rubbed her face. Her eyes felt gummy, her body weary and sore. She dragged her suitcase to the rest room and rinsed her face and hands, then drank a cup of tea at the tea stall while she considered her next move.

  She felt a great longing for comfort, for insulation, for something that was the opposite of the Rama. Once, on a day she wouldn’t think about right now, she had taken a bus tour of Bombay. Herded out of the bus with her fellow tourists at the Gateway of India, she had looked across the road to a palace, all curved lines and arcades, that seemed, in her state of wound-up anxiety, to represent an unattainable, dreamlike tranquility. Marina picked up her suitcase, left the station, and got a minicab to the Taj Mahal Hotel.

  26

  Several hours later, she had showered and washed her hair in copious hot water, taken a nap, and eaten breakfast. As she dressed, she looked out the window of her room in the Taj toward the imposing stone arch of the Gateway of India overlooking Bombay harbor. The area around the Gateway was swarming with hawkers, food-sellers, and tourists. Crowds waited at the water’s edge to get on tour boats for excursions to Elephanta. Watching the brightly painted, open-sided boats come and go, she thought about Raki’s Elephanta Trading and Tours papers with their jolly elephant logo. She wouldn’t know what to look for if she went there, but maybe— The phone rang, Vijay calling from the lobby. Now she’d have to explain why she’d moved, as she promised she would when she’d called him earlier.

  She found him looking at a scribbled-over piece of paper, tapping the end of his pen against his teeth. He was as sartorially perfect as yesterday, this time in beige linen, and seemed excited and pleased with himself. “I have discovered something,” he said. “I have been all morning with the map of Ahmedabad, where Anand Kumar wrote in the register that he lived, and with the telephone. I have discovered conclusively that the address this Anand Kumar put down is false. Such a street does not exist in Ahmedabad. What I am thinking is, perhaps the name is false also.”

  Marina sat beside him. “You mean it’s a dead end? We won’t be able to trace the call?”

  “Not at all, not at all. You remember that underneath Anand Kumar’s name, in Raki’s hand, was written the name Vincent Shah, of Delightful Novelty Company. Now, I believe that this man registered as Anand Kumar, but that Raki discovered that his real name was Vincent Shah, and he wrote it underneath. Do you see?”

  “How would Raki find out he’d given a false name?”

  “The man wanted to call the States. Raki was worried about payment. Perhaps he searched the man’s room, or somehow found a piece of identification. From what we’ve seen of him, I’m sure he would be capable of learning such a thing.”

  Of course he would. “What you’re saying is Anand Kumar is Vincent Shah, so we look for Vincent Shah.”

  “Yes. I have found already that Delightful Novelty Company exists, and that a man named Vincent Shah works there.”

  “Fantastic.” He looked so triumphant, his dark eyes shining behind his glasses, that she had to smile. The expression felt odd, unaccustomed. It was pleasant, this mome
nt when she and Vijay beamed at each other. It was a shame to spoil it.

  “I got into some trouble last night.”

  His face clouded. “What happened?”

  He looked increasingly pained as she described breaking into Raki’s office and going through his files. As she described her flight from the hotel, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “This is very bad, Marina. I won’t say you shouldn’t have done it, since you know that. It puts me in an awkward position.”

  “Surely you don’t think Raki’s going to complain to the consulate?”

  “No, but you have gotten into a dangerous situation, which is exactly what I was assigned to prevent. I think I must ask Mr. Curtis to have someone else take over.”

  She’d expected remonstrations, warnings, but not desertion. What was this wrenching sensation, the pleading tone that entered her voice so unexpectedly? “You can’t, Vijay! We’re getting somewhere. In Raki’s chest there’s a picture of Nagarajan. I know there’s a connection. You can’t deny that, can you?”

  He put his glasses back on and studied the knee of his slacks, with its crisp crease. “I don’t deny anything, but I don’t want to encourage you on this course.”

  “It isn’t a question of encouraging. What you say isn’t going to change what I know is the truth. If you back out now, and get Mr. Curtis upset, you’ll make things harder for me than they were before you started to help.”

  Vijay said nothing and didn’t look at her. He’s going to dump me. All the frustrations of the past weeks seemed to have rolled themselves into a ball and lodged in the back of her throat. To hell with him. I never wanted him around in the first place, with his pretty-boy clothes and his enthusiasm.

  “You weren’t honest with me,” he said.

  She shook her head, staring at her clenched fists in her lap.

  “I can’t help you if you do things behind my back, can I?”

  “No.” She flung the word out. Marina didn’t believe in excuses and she hadn’t intended to speak again, but she heard herself adding, “I was— desperate.”

  Another silence. Then he said, “Suppose we do this. You will tell me your plans, which will not include breaking into places, and I won’t report to Mr. Curtis just yet. We’ll continue just a while.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d understood. When she looked at him he met her eyes with a small, inquiring smile.

  It seemed silly to feel so relieved. “All right.”

  “Now, what shall we do?” he asked.

  “Let’s call the Delightful Novelty Company and get an appointment to see Vincent Shah. Then, let’s take a trip to Elephanta.”

  27

  Monkeys skittered along the wall beside the steps and chased each other through the trees. One crouched and regarded Marina with bright black eyes and she stopped to look at him. Two women on their way downhill, brass water jars balanced on their heads, picked their way through the crowd climbing toward the cave temple.

  According to a very correct secretary at the Delightful Novelty Company, Vincent Shah was away on a business trip and would be back in a week’s time. Marina had said she’d call again, and she and Vijay crossed the road and plunged into the crowd surrounding the Gateway of India.

  As soon as they approached the water’s edge, they were assailed by boys waving tickets and calling, “Elephanta? Elephanta?” The touts swirled around Marina. “Best price, madam. Best boat.” The glittering expanse of the harbor was full of vessels— not only the gaudy Elephanta tour boats, but huge tankers with rust-streaked sides, sailboats, fishing smacks. As Vijay negotiated for the tickets, Marina had the inexplicable feeling that she was on vacation, and she and Vijay were friends out for a pleasant afternoon’s excursion. That she believed Nagarajan was alive and she was going to Elephanta to search for his traces seemed like a bothersome detail she could almost ignore in the bright sun, with the air full of whirring mechanical pigeons and the smell of salt water.

  When they found a seat on the flat-bottomed boat Vijay took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, and Marina could see the holiday atmosphere had affected him too. Like a tour guide, as the boat slid away he pointed to an equestrian statue near the Gateway and said, “That is Shivaji, a great warrior and hero of the Hindus.”

  She had heard the name. The memory of tumbled rock seen through the greasy window of a bus came back to her. “Didn’t he and his followers have forts in the hills not far from Halapur?”

  “Quite right. It is too bad, really. Once that land was Shivaji’s kingdom. Now it is the home of thieves and bandits, these gangs of dacoits.”

  “What do they steal?”

  “Whatever they can. They terrorize villages, sometimes they kidnap also. I myself call them simple thieves, but some claim political basis— against caste, or the tyranny of the rich. One named Baladeva is said to be the Robin Hood of India— at least by some of the newspapers.”

  “Does he rob from the rich and give to the poor?”

  “Certainly he robs from the rich. I think that is the only similarity. Although some of the poor people, because they are ignorant and probably afraid, do venerate him. Occasionally he comes from his stronghold in the hills and shows himself openly in the villages. The people bring him food and gifts.”

  “Why doesn’t he get arrested?”

  “That is the question they are asking in Parliament also.”

  They had chatted companionably throughout the trip. Vijay talked about his life, which included, in addition to his job, seeing a great many films and going to parties with what he called his “set.”

  Vijay was calling from up ahead on the path. There was only a snack bar at the boat landing, and no sign of any entity called Elephanta Trading and Tours. Confirming this had taken them no more than three minutes. As Marina berated herself for her stupidity in imagining they would uncover anything here, Vijay had suggested they make the climb up to the cave temple the island was famous for. “We must see the temple,” he had said. “It is a Shiva temple, very ancient, very beautiful. Who made it and when, nobody knows for sure.”

  “A Shiva temple?” Disquieted, she had almost refused, but Vijay looked so eager she consented.

  As she left the monkey behind, her breathing began to speed up more than was warranted by the mild exertion. “We’re almost there. Not much farther,” Vijay called. She waved at him and resumed her leaden climb.

  The steps widened, stone elephants marking their borders, and ended in a broad courtyard. The temple was carved out of the rock of the hill, its low columns stretching back into the cave. Small groups straggled through it after guides, and people wandered individually or in twos and threes.

  Marina conquered an impulse to turn and run. It was ten years ago. I’m back in India, and there are lots of Shiva temples in India. I was bound to see one sometime.

  She followed Vijay past the stone doorkeepers into the twilight of the cave. He led her from one to another of its large sculpted panels depicting Shiva in various guises: as half man, half woman; killing a demon; as Nataraja, king of dancers; as the bringer of the Ganges to earth. Vijay told her their significance, obviously repeating stories he had known from childhood.

  They stopped in front of a huge three-part face that loomed out of the rock. “This is the most famous,” said Vijay. “People say Brahma is creator, Vishnu preserver, Shiva destroyer. Here, Shiva has all three aspects.”

  “The serpent is most beloved of Shiva,” whispered Nagarajan.

  Marina blotted her face. Dazed, she walked with Vijay to the temple’s central enclosure, which contained a cylindrical stone shaft, rounded at the top. “That is the lingam, symbol of Shiva,” Vijay said. “It represents the phallus, but also the sacred fire.”

  Nagarajan was kneeling beside her bed mat in the darkness. He was naked, his penis erect. “You will come with me, Marina,” he said.

  Surely she hadn’t gone with him. Surely she hadn’t. But yes, she had gone. His room smelled of incense. Sh
e remembered his hair falling around her face, and a feeling like showers of sparks igniting, burning, fading beneath her skin. His voice spun a melodic web inside her head. “The serpent is beloved of Shiva,” he whispered. “It can stand by itself” —he laughed and indicated his penis— “which means it is very powerful.” He had tasted like unknown spices, and his body was strong and sinuous. The dweller in the deep well, the guardian of the great treasure. Nagarajan, Eternal Giver of Happiness.

  She put her hands to her face. She and Vijay sat on an outcropping of rock bordered by a low stone wall. Across the water was distant Bombay. “I should have thought,” said Vijay. “Of course we should not have come here.”

  “I betrayed my sister. Betrayed her in every way.” Marina’s face felt hot and swollen. “I played both sides. I told her Nagarajan was a fraud, I complained to the consulate. I swore every day that I would leave, would never go to him again. But at night—”

  “No, please. You must not tell me this.”

  “At night, I couldn’t stop myself from going, and she knew it, all of them knew it. He’d had them all, played with them. Do you know what? If he had had a little more time, if he hadn’t been arrested, I would have been dressing in saris and chanting along with the rest of them. I probably would’ve stood by while he killed that young boy, Agit More. I probably would’ve helped him.”

  “Please—”

  “Somebody saw a pariah dog dragging Agit More’s head down Palika Road. They found the rest of him buried beside the house. Buried so shallowly dogs could dig him up. Maybe Nagarajan was trying to prove he could raise the dead, but the dogs beat him to it.”

  “Marina, I—”