Midnight at Malabar House (Inspector Wadia series)

by Khan, Vaseem

  She saw his grief, how it subsisted in the valleys of his soul. He lived with it, but it did not diminish him. In many ways, it was what gave him his extraordinary power.

  Her anger dissolved. Was he really asking the impossible?

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I shall spend the evening with Darius. But that is all.’

  His avuncular features broke into a smile. ‘You aunt will be over the moon.’ He frowned. ‘The woman will be insufferable, I suppose.’

  A short while later, she stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom staring at her reflection. She had put on a knee-length navy dress with white trim and a plunging surplice neckline. ‘A dress to seduce any sailor!’ the breathless – and brainless, in Persis’s opinion – store-girl had trilled. White patent leather shoes, and a white straw disc hat completed the ensemble.

  Doubt assailed her. The prospect of dinner with her cousin was hardly terrifying in itself. Darius was an amiable enough soul, though a trifle full of himself, increasingly so as he found his footing in the world. It was more the fact that she had never considered him in anything but a familial light. She still remembered him as the snotty boy in shorts too small for him, invariably picked on by his older cousins. Once, she had found him hiding in his mother’s almirah, sucking his thumb, wearing nothing but a small bib. His tormentors had stripped him to his skin, crowning his humiliation by forcing him to don the child’s apron.

  He had been eighteen at the time.

  She heard the phone ringing in the living room.

  She walked out, found that her father had vanished, picked up the phone and answered curtly, expecting Aunt Nussie, calling ahead to ensure the sacrificial virgin was staked to her rock.

  ‘Yes?’

  It was Adi Shankar’s secretary. ‘Mr Shankar will meet you tonight at his place of business. At 9 p.m.’

  ‘Nine p.m.?’ said Persis. ‘What sort of office opens at nine in the evening?’

  ‘The sort of office that employs a jazz band,’ came the pert reply. ‘Mr Shankar runs the Gulmohar Club. Please be prompt. Oh, and Mr Shankar politely requests that you wear something appropriate for the evening. He would prefer that his clientele do not see him questioned by a uniformed officer. I am sure you understand.’

  Chapter 13

  Persis climbed out of the taxi and yanked at her dress. She felt acutely self-conscious, strangely naked without her uniform. Around her, late evening revellers spilled from a cavalcade of tongas and motor cars heading towards the magnificent gulmohar tree that had been planted just outside the front doors of the club. Petals from the tree’s red crown smattered the pavement, continually kicked up into the air like little puffs of fire.

  ‘Hello! There you are.’

  She turned to see Archie Blackfinch advancing along the pavement. He was dressed in an ill-fitting tux, his hair Brylcreemed back over his head, his spectacles reflecting the lights that festooned the club’s rose-coloured façade. ‘My goodness,’ he said, as he drew alongside, ‘you look different.’ He blinked owlishly at her. ‘What I mean to say is that ah, you look very, um, presentable.’

  Presentable? She hadn’t expected him to remark on her appearance, but presentable seemed an odd sort of compliment, if indeed that is what it had been. Children readying themselves for inspection were ‘presentable’. An anxious husband headed for an important meeting was ‘presentable’.

  She coloured and hoped he couldn’t see it.

  Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea to call the Englishman and ask him to accompany her. For some unfathomable reason, she had balked at the idea of entering Shankar’s jazz club alone, in her navy swing dress, to question the man. Not because she was afraid or felt the need of an accompanying presence; but simply because in a place like the Gulmohar she was a fish out of water.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘You look very presentable also.’ He flashed her a smile, oblivious to her sarcasm. His teeth were small and neatly aligned, she saw.

  A bovine smell assaulted her nostrils. She turned to find a cow at her elbow, staring at her sadly as it urinated on to the street, droplets splashing her right shoe. It lowed gently then wandered away. She cursed, shook out the shoe, then headed towards the front doors, Blackfinch following close behind.

  At the doors two turbaned doormen wielding ceremonial spears nodded their heads as they passed.

  The club opened into a vast space, sprawling over two levels. A dance floor took up the centre of the lower floor, crowded on three sides by round tables. On the upper floor couples leaned over the railing, cigarettes and champagne flutes in hand, tapping their feet to the jazz band playing on the stage below. A series of enormous chandeliers hung above the dance floor where a mix of British, Americans, Europeans and Indians swayed to the music.

  Persis had rarely been in nightclubs like the Gulmohar, but she imagined there were places like this all over the country, little strongholds of displaced time, where westerners continued to act out the illusion of empire.

  A short maître d’ in a smart black Nehru suit approached them, bouncing along on the soles of his feet as if gently electrified by the music.

  Persis quickly explained their errand. The man led them to an empty table on the edge of the dance floor. ‘I will inform Mr Shankar of your arrival. In the meantime, feel free to order refreshments. Compliments of the house.’

  Blackfinch ordered a Black Dog; Persis declined. A strange anxiety oozed around her stomach. She realised now that she had made a mistake. She should have come here as herself, as a policewoman. She had surrendered the most vital part of her identity and in so doing had given up the one advantage that someone like her might have in an environment such as this.

  She glanced at Blackfinch who was humming along to the music. What was going through his head? Why had he agreed to come with her?

  He caught her look and his mouth bent into an awkward smile.

  The waiter arrived with his drink. He thanked the man, lifted the glass to his mouth and took a tentative sip. ‘Something the matter?’

  Before she could reply, a chattering group descended on them. To her astonishment she saw that Robert Campbell and his daughter, Elizabeth, were among the party. Accompanying them were a trio of Indians: a round, jowly man in a dinner jacket too small for him; a tall, good-looking gentleman in a flashy white tux; and a graceful Indian woman in a gold and black sleeveless sari. The tall man, sporting a head of dark hair and a finely groomed moustache, transferred the elegant white cane he was carrying from his right to left hand, and held out his free hand. ‘Inspector Wadia, I presume? I am Aditya Shankar – Adi to my friends. Delighted to make your acquaintance. And may I say that your picture in the papers does you no justice.’

  She rose to her feet and stretched out her fingers. With a suddenness that shocked her, he ducked in and planted his lips on the back of her hand. A wave of flame swept across her cheeks and she glanced at Blackfinch, but he seemed not to have noticed.

  Shankar straightened. ‘This is my fiancée, Meenakshi Rai.’ He nodded at the beautiful Indian beside him.

  Rai smiled and brought her hands together in pranaam. Persis recognised her from the newspaper cutting she had found in Herriot’s desk.

  ‘I believe you are already acquainted with Mr Campbell and his daughter.’ He indicated the pair with a poke of his cane. Persis noticed that it curved towards a jewel-encrusted handle. Shankar was clearly a man of style and not afraid of displaying his obvious wealth.

  Campbell grunted, swilling a whisky glass around in his right paw. ‘I trust you’ve got a wee bit further than when we last met, Inspector.’

  ‘Don’t be such a bore, Father,’ said Elizabeth, aiming a smile at Persis.

  The young woman was dressed in a black gown that accentuated her figure. Her bare shoulders, powdered and buffed to a creamy white, gleamed. Her mass of auburn hair was piled into a mound of curves and creases; her lips were carmine; her eyes delicately blue. Having first encountered h
er on the tennis court, sweating and heaving in the indelicate exertions of sport, Persis saw now Elizabeth Campbell in her element. Here, in the Gulmohar Club, she was a quite perfect thing of beauty.

  ‘Lovely to see you again, Inspector,’ she continued. ‘And may I say how wonderful you look. One would hardly recognise you as the same woman.’

  ‘Thank you,’ mumbled Persis. ‘Ah, you look very beautiful too.’

  ‘And who is this?’ asked the Scotswoman, turning her gaze to Blackfinch.

  ‘This is my colleague, Archie Blackfinch,’ supplied Persis. ‘He is a criminalist.’

  ‘A criminalist?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ stammered Blackfinch. ‘I, ah, examine crime scenes.’

  ‘You poke around cadavers and the like?’

  ‘Well, no. That would be a pathologist. But I encounter them routinely. Occupational hazard.’

  ‘How intriguing.’

  Blackfinch blushed. ‘If you should die in the open the first insect to arrive at your corpse will be a blowfly.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘They lay eggs, you see,’ he burbled. ‘Maggots will emerge within two days.’ He blinked at her from behind his spectacles.

  ‘May I introduce Ram Acharya?’ interrupted Shankar, gesturing at the overweight man beside him. ‘He will be fighting for Mumbai North Ward on behalf of Panditji’s Congress in next year’s elections. A man to watch.’

  Acharya gave her a dull look. ‘So you are the famous lady police officer?’ His tone indicated a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘Well, at least they picked an attractive one.’

  The retort sprang to her lips instinctively. ‘Thank you. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for your seniors in the Congress Party.’

  Acharya blinked owlishly, as if he hadn’t quite heard. And then his brain caught up with his ears. His thick eyebrows lunged ferociously towards each other; his moustache danced above his lip. Before he could speak, Campbell let out a great bark of laughter, defusing the tension.

  Shankar swept them back into their seats. A waiter leaped to attention and drinks were ordered. Once again, Persis declined.

  ‘Surely, you’re no longer on duty?’ protested Shankar.

  ‘I did not come here for personal reasons,’ said Persis stiffly.

  ‘There is no harm in mixing business with pleasure.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ growled Campbell. ‘This Indian desire for formality is killing the entrepreneurial spirit. Time was a man could get things done with a handshake and a word in the right ear. Now it’s all forms in triplicate and enough red tape to strangle a horse. We’re all at the mercy of the bloody babus.’

  ‘These babus you refer to,’ retorted Acharya, ‘are simply continuing in the best traditions of the British. You established a monolithic structure of administration – so that every anna you looted from the subcontinent might be accounted for. Well, sir, the boot is now on the other neck.’

  ‘Looted?’ bristled Campbell. ‘I never took a penny from this country that wasn’t earned. I’ll no’ be slandered by the likes of you, Acharya.’

  ‘Gentlemen, calm yourselves. This is a nightclub, not a debating chamber.’ Shankar turned to Persis as the Scot subsided, still glowering.

  Acharya, for his part, exhumed a tobacco pouch from his pocket and rolled himself a cheroot, tamping it down into the paper with the thumb of one hand as he held it in the palm of the other. His first puff of acrid smoke collapsed Blackfinch, seated beside him, into a coughing wreck.

  ‘Are you okay, old chap?’ asked Shankar.

  ‘I’m afraid the smoke bothers me.’

  ‘What kind of man can’t handle a little tobacco?’ muttered Campbell suspiciously. His tone indicated that no better might be expected from an Englishman.

  ‘Inspector, perhaps we should get to your questions?’ said Shankar.

  ‘I was hoping for somewhere more private.’

  ‘This is a nightclub, Inspector. I’m afraid this is about as private as it gets.’

  She frowned, then nodded. ‘Of course. But before I do may I ask why Mr Campbell is here?’

  ‘Some law against me being here?’ bristled Campbell.

  ‘What I meant was that I am surprised to find you both together.’

  ‘It’s no secret,’ said Campbell brusquely. ‘Adi and I are going into business together.’

  ‘You know each other?’

  ‘We met at James’s ball, as a matter of fact. Adi is one of those rare Indians who kens that old saw about the baby and the bathwater.’

  ‘What Robert means,’ supplied Shankar, ‘is that we live in a time of great opportunity. After centuries India has the chance to redefine itself. Where once the British were our oppressors, we now have the opportunity to make them our partners.’

  Acharya snorted loudly. ‘So speaks the new face of India!’

  ‘Come now, Acharya. There is no one way to achieve Indianness. Your way, Pandit Nehru’s way, is to herd the masses towards a future they do not have the capability to understand. But men like me, we are not sheep to be herded. We make our own future. And in so doing, the nation benefits.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Campbell. ‘If we listened to the likes of you, Acharya, the whole country would be overrun by the Reds. You ask me, there’s a bit of the Commie in Nehru. He seems to relish all this land-grabbing. Won’t be content until every man of substance in India is beggared in the streets.’

  ‘The Congress is the party of the people,’ retorted Acharya. ‘We are merely returning to the people what was long ago taken from the people.’ He emphasised his point by puffing on his cheroot, and knocking back his gin.

  ‘One might ask what a man of the bloody people is doing juiced to the eyeballs in a nightclub,’ growled Campbell. ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, you Congresswallahs have done bloody well out of this new utopia of yours.’

  Before the pair could launch into a hot dispute, Shankar intervened. ‘As Robert says, Inspector, we are venturing into business together. I invited him here tonight. I thought he might help with your enquiries, in case my own memory isn’t up to the task.’

  She frowned but realised she had no choice but to forge ahead. ‘How well did you know Sir James?’

  ‘I have known him for these past couple of months. We met here, shortly after the Gulmohar opened. He introduced himself and we hit it off. I would like to believe that we became friends.’

  ‘He came to see you prior to his death. On December 29th. What was that meeting about?’

  His warm brown eyes rested on her. ‘It was a private matter.’

  ‘I would still like to know.’

  He hesitated, then: ‘Very well. Sir James wished to discuss a matter of investment.’

  ‘What sort of investment?’

  ‘He was considering taking a stake in the Gulmohar.’

  Her surprise was evident. ‘You’re looking to sell?’

  ‘Not exactly. But it does no harm to my future interests to have a man like Sir James as a partner. India may be Indian now, Inspector, but a white face still counts for something.’

  Elizabeth Campbell gave a gentle laugh that irked Persis. She ran the rim of a long finger around her champagne flute. ‘I, for one, believe that greater mixing of whites and natives is all for the best.’

  Campbell gave her a look that would have curdled milk. Persis’s thoughts flashed again to the story of the Indian engineer the Scotsman was rumoured to have had killed up near Delhi, a man his daughter may have courted.

  Her mind churned. Was Shankar telling the truth? Why would Sir James Herriot be flirting with the idea of investing in the club? How could he afford it? Supposedly, he was bankrupt. At least this explained why he had held on to that newspaper article about the Gulmohar’s opening.

  The thought bothered her. Herriot had been engaged in a serious endeavour, the investigation of historical crimes. Surely, he had had more important matters on his plate than investing in a nightclub?

  Perhaps
he had been planning ahead, for life after the investigation. He had maintained business interests abroad; perhaps he wished to expand his empire into India, a country he knew well. Everywhere you turned these days people talked of the endless opportunities unleashed by independence. Why shouldn’t an Englishman loyal to the subcontinent benefit from those same opportunities?

  Persis turned to Campbell. ‘Are you also investing in the Gulmohar?’

  ‘No,’ said Campbell, a little too abruptly. ‘I have no interest in running a club. Shankar wants to get in on the construction business. He has contacts in the north that might be of use to me. So here we are.’

  ‘The old pecking order has gone,’ elucidated Shankar. ‘Take a look at that chap over there.’ He waved his glass at a nearby table. She turned and saw a slim, youngish Indian in a dinner jacket laughing with a group of friends. ‘He’s heading up a new division at Godrej, manufacturing ballot boxes for independent India’s first general elections. Two years ago, he was a junior assistant to an Englishman who hadn’t the brains he has in his right finger. Independence has thrust us into the spotlight. Some will sink while others swim. But at least it will be on our own merits.’

  ‘Many people died to earn this independence,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t freedom always come at a price?’

  ‘Tell that to those killed by their own countrymen. I doubt that anyone expected the bill for independence to include the dead of Partition.’

  Shankar’s expression froze. For an instant something else looked out at her from behind his eyes, something dark and haunted. And then he smiled and she wondered if she had seen it at all. ‘You’re an intelligent woman, Inspector. Partition was the by-product of vested interests.’

  ‘Well, those Muslims are getting it in the neck now,’ piped up Acharya. ‘I hear conditions are terrible in their Land of the Pure, this Pak-i-stan.’

  ‘Some might say the same for many Muslims in India,’ said Persis. Her hackles were up. Perhaps it was the odour of ignorance and unthinking partisanship. ‘We’ve hardly made them welcome.’