HIMALAYAN STUDIOS REDUX

Chopra was led inside the palatial home of P. K. Das by a burly manservant, down into an expansive basement where he discovered the producer sitting in his private viewing theatre watching a black-and-white movie.

Das looked up as he entered. “Isn’t it a bit late for visiting, Chopra?” he said.

“This can’t wait.”

Das stared at him, then returned his gaze to the screen. “The Legend of Devdas. The first picture I ever made,” he said. “It was never released. The actor I had cast as Devdas got so carried away with his performance that he drank himself to death.” Devdas was the legendary tale of the jilted lover who drowned his woes in alcohol. “I thought my career had ended before it had begun, but Raj Kapoor bailed me out, and my next picture went on to become a hit.”

Das stood and faced his visitor. His face was haggard, a deep weariness evident on his avuncular features. “Tell me you have good news, Chopra. Tell me you have found our friend.”

“That would be difficult,” said Chopra stonily. “Given that your friends have him.”

“My friends?” Das’s eyebrows leapt in astonishment. “What are you talking about?”

“I know that you are in debt. You took money from gangsters to finish your movie. But the gamble failed, and now they have kidnapped Vicky so that you can claim the insurance.”

Das stared at Chopra.

Then he sat down heavily, whisky spilling from the tumbler in his hand.

Finally, he spoke, his gaze hollow. “All I’ve ever wanted is to make movies. My father came over from Lahore on the Frontier Mail in the thirties—just as all the greats did: Prithviraj, Dev Anand, Dilip Kumar. All he had was the clothes on his back and a dream in his eye. He joined the Zarko Circus—that’s where he fell in love with Fearless Nadia, do you remember her? No? Before your time, I suppose. She was the daughter of a British army Scot posted to Bombay. After his death she toured the country as part of the Zarko, before joining Wadia Movietone, the Wadia Brothers’ production house. They turned her into a star—she was tremendous in Hunterwali; she wore tight leather shorts and a mask, and she did all her own stunts! My father followed her into the business—he worked his way up, starting as a clapper boy. People remember him now as a great producer, but he cut his teeth on adverts. ‘Sweetheart Toothpaste makes your smile sweeter than sweet for your sweet.’’’ Das chuckled. “That was the golden age. Real actors, real plots. Brylcreemed heroes, and monsoon goddesses. Even the tantrums were better. I remember once Vyjayanthimala threw her poodle at her leading man because he kept fluffing his lines. She knocked him off the balcony of the Centaur Hotel. He fell three floors and broke both legs. But he never fluffed his lines again… What is Bollywood, Chopra? Show me where it is on a map. It was men like my father who made this industry.” Das rose from his seat and walked to the wall. He pushed aside a framed photo of Raj Kapoor to reveal a small wall safe.

He unlocked the safe and removed something from inside.

When he turned back he was holding a revolver.

“The Mote in the Third Eye of Shiva was supposed to be my magnum opus. I’ve won six Filmfare statuettes, but never for Best Film. I poured everything into this production, Chopra. You’re right, I sold my soul to the Devil. What else could I do? The banks wouldn’t give me another rupee. I saw everything I had spent a lifetime building sinking into the sand. I panicked.”

As Chopra listened, his mind raced ahead. His spare revolver had been taken from him by the security guards at the gates. Now he weighed his chances of rushing Das.

The producer stared down at the gun. “This belonged to my friend, Sammy Sarwan. He made a number of low-budget action flicks in the eighties. Then he lost his shirt on a vanity project, Camel Blood Feud in Rajasthan. After the bailiffs took everything he owned, and his wife left him, he went back to the ruins of his set, sat down on the floor, and shot himself. This industry gives you the stars, but it takes its pound of flesh.” Das locked eyes with Chopra. “I swear to you that I—or the people I have borrowed from—have nothing to do with Vicky’s kidnapping. In fact, Pyarelal and his men have been scouring the city for him. We need Vicky back to complete this picture. I’ve managed to gain a couple of days since his vanishing act by intimidating, bullying, and pleading with our creditors, but we are hanging on by our fingernails. If Vicky doesn’t materialise by tomorrow they will call in their markers and we all lose. So you see, I couldn’t have kidnapped him. I’m guilty of many things—arrogance, hubris—but not of that. I admit I was forced to discipline the boy, more than once, but I never harmed him.” He turned back to the safe. “You’re right that I took out insurance on the picture. But the problem is that insurance is only valid if you can afford to keep up the premiums.” He removed a letter, and handed it over.

Chopra scanned the red-lettered notice, picking out key sentences. FAILURE TO PAY; NULL AND VOID, and, finally, YOUR COVER HAS BEEN TERMINATED. He looked up to meet the producer’s watery gaze. “There’s something else I need to know. Two days ago I went to meet Vicky’s kidnappers, to deliver the ransom. But the police turned up and ruined everything. Before you showed me this insurance notice I thought that, perhaps, it was you who had put them on to me. That you knew about the exchange and tried to derail Vicky’s rescue.” The question of how ACP Rao had arrived at the ransom drop had now taken on great significance for Chopra. Because if it wasn’t Das or his people then it meant someone else had tipped off the cops. But who would want to sabotage the ransom exchange? And why? Whoever it was represented a hidden danger, a snake waiting in the grass, and before he could move forward he had to uncover the snake’s identity.

“I admit,” said Das, “after you came to see me my suspicions were raised, particularly when you asked me about Pyarelal and beating Vicky. So I asked Pyarelal to have you followed. He saw you go to Bijli’s home, a private detective. I guessed then what I already suspected: that Vicky was missing and not ill, as she claimed. I hoped you might lead us to him. But we didn’t know about any kidnapping or a ransom. Pyarelal lost you in traffic two nights ago; he’s been looking for you since.” He held up the revolver. “Find Vicky. Find him before I’m forced to use this, Chopra. My life is in your hands.”

Chopra swung the Tata Venture to a halt beside the road.

A homeless man swaddled in rags slept fitfully on a filthy potato sack, his knees curled up to his chin. Beside him a stray dog with patchy fur and prominent ribs also slept, one leg raised in the air, as if poised in a dream. A palm tree stretched up into the night above, a full moon visible between the splayed fronds.

Chopra took out the mobile phone Poppy had given him.

As he was leaving Das’s home he had passed a succession of old film posters, and this had once again returned his thoughts to the mysterious woman in the poster at Aaliya Ghazi’s home. Das’s revelation regarding the defunct insurance policy had all but convinced Chopra of the producer’s innocence. He had to look elsewhere for the true motive behind the abduction. His old policeman’s instincts were screaming at him that the woman in the poster was somehow integral to the case—he had ignored them long enough.

He dialled Cyrus Dinshaw at the Goldspot Cinema. “Queen of the Kohinoor Circus. There was an actress in it whose name I can’t remember.”

He heard Dinshaw noisily pulling old movie catalogues from his shelves and dusting them off. “Ah, yes,” he said, eventually, “Ayesha Azmi. Started her career with a bang, but it fizzled out in short order. There was a scandal, if I recall, all hush-hush, and then she dropped out of sight altogether.”

“What sort of scandal?”

He heard Dinshaw scratching his chin. “I’m afraid that’s stretching even my memory. Besides, she was never a big star… Wait a minute! It was something to do with Bijli, Bijli Verma. Yes, I remember now. That husband of hers, Jignesh, he had some sort of thing with this woman. Got her pregnant, then dropped her like a hot coal as soon as Bijli appeared on the scene. At least that was the gossip. It never made it into the press, so I never knew the exact details.”

“What happened to the woman, Ayesha?”

“No idea. She vanished from the industry.”

“And the child?”

“Probably got rid of it. I doubt she’d have been foolish enough to keep it. Not much call for a pregnant single mother as a heroine. Not in those days. What’s this about, Chopra?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.”

Chopra tapped the phone against his leg. So, his intuition had proved correct. There was a link between Aaliya Ghazi and Bijli Verma by way of the woman in the poster, Ayesha Azmi. But how exactly were Ayesha, Aaliya, and Ali connected? He could hazard an educated guess, but he would need confirmation from Bijli Verma…

But first he had to discover who had sabotaged the ransom drop. Or perhaps the question, once again, was: who benefited if Vicky never returned?

The phone rang exactly four times before a gruff voice answered. “Chopra? How the hell are you?” Chopra heard a second, louder voice unleashing a torrent of abuse in the background. “Give me a second. Let me step outside.”

Ten seconds later, the voice returned. “What time do you call this?” said Ranjan Ahuja. “You woke up the Dragon.”

“I need your help, old friend.”

Ranjan Ahuja was the General Manager of the eastern division of Mahanagar Telephone Nigam Limited, Mumbai’s principal telephone-line provider. Chopra had known Ahuja for over a decade, calling upon him when his investigations necessitated tapping the phone lines of local criminals or requisitioning call logs.

Quickly, Chopra explained what he needed.

A smoky silence drifted down the phone as Ahuja lit a cigarette. “You know, I heard about your detective agency. I always thought you were crazy—frying pan into fire and all that. Do you know what I’m going to do when I retire? Not a damned thing. I’ve got a little shack down in Goa. I’m going to sit there all day drinking coconut feni and eating tiger prawns.” He launched into a hacking cough, the phlegm rattling around in his throat. “Let me see what I can do.”

Chopra paced the dark tarmac anxiously as the minutes ticked away. Ganesha paced behind him, watching him with round eyes. “It’s okay, boy,” said Chopra, realising that he was transmitting his restlessness to his young ward. “We’re nearly there.”

His phone rang.

“Have you got a pen?” asked Ahuja.

Chopra scrabbled in his glove compartment.

“So, first, I had to wake up Mishra, the General Manager of MTNL South. I had to promise him a favour—I hope you realise he’ll make my life a misery until he collects. Anyway, Mishra had one of his engineers dig out the call log for CBI headquarters on the evening you wanted, then isolate all the calls going through to Rao’s unit. There weren’t that many, only two between 9 p.m. and 10:45 p.m. Why 10:45? Any later and Rao wouldn’t have had enough time to get from his home in south Mumbai up to Madh Fort by midnight when he arrested you. One of those two calls we can forget about—it came from out of state. The other came in at 10:33 and lasted forty-two seconds. A minute after that a call went from the unit to Rao’s home.” Ahuja paused. “It didn’t take long to trace the caller. Are you ready?”

Chopra wrote down the name and address, the pen wavering in his hand as his astonishment grew.

After Ahuja had hung up he continued to stare at the name scrawled on his notepad. “Well,” he muttered, “that I would not have guessed.”