I pulled the thin blanket up to my neck in a bid to staunch the shivering. A year ago, such shakes might have been from opium withdrawal, but this morning they were from a good old-fashioned chill in the air. Bombay wasn’t cold, but it also wasn’t Calcutta, which at times made a steam bath seem frigid, and the dawn here was punctuated by a sea breeze that blocked my sinuses and inflicted an ache in my temples.
I got up to the sound of mynah birds outside and the sawtoothed snores of the sailors within. The room reeked of rough tobacco, stale sweat and the melancholy sense of listlessness that haunts merchant seamen on furlough. They were men shorn of routine and purpose, cast adrift in a foreign land with too much time to ponder on fragmented lives lived fleetingly, on loves lost and chances sacrificed. In some ways, they weren’t that different from policemen.
Breakfast was consumed in a shabby mess hall and comprised a cup of coffee and a ship’s biscuit that could have been better used lining the hull of the Titanic. Still, the coffee was strong and, more importantly, hot, and that came as a blessed relief after thirty seconds spent under the deluge of an ice-cold bucket shower.
The big chap with the ginger beard was still behind the counter as I left the lodgings and walked back towards the main road. The early mornings are the best time in any city in the tropics. The air has yet to broil, the citizens are still too sluggish to cause trouble, and there’s a certain translucent quality to the light that imbues everything with a hope-inducing freshness that generally lasts until one’s first interaction with another human being. In this case, that first interaction was with Annie’s maid, Anju, on the other end of a trunk call made from a post office on Cuffe Parade.
‘Madam is asleep.’
‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning, Anju,’ I said. ‘Can you wake her? She told me to telephone her at this time.’
‘She did not tell me to wake her for telephone.’
‘It’s rather urgent.’
‘Madam is leaving message for you,’ she said, like a judge offering a glimmer of hope to a condemned man.
‘You might have started with that.’
‘Kee?’
‘Just give me the message.’
‘Madam is saying you to contact one Ooravis Colah.’ She read out an address on Malabar Hill. ‘Madam has made arrangements as you requested. You are expected any time before noon.’
I asked her for the exact spelling and then, for want of anywhere better, wrote down the name and the address on the palm of my hand and breathed a sigh of relief.
‘You want anything else?’ Anju said baldly.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I really do need to speak to the memsahib.’
Anju eventually relented and went to call her mistress. There was a click on the line, and then, finally, I heard Annie’s voice.
‘Sam?’
‘I’m sorry to wake you.’
‘Didn’t Anju give you the details?’
‘She did,’ I said, hoping to strike a placatory tone, ‘and thank you for that. There’s just one other thing…’
There was silence on the other end of the line.
‘You know I wouldn’t ask, but it’s important.’
When she spoke, her voice held none of the irritation I’d expected.
‘I’ve just picked up the paper. Suren’s name is on the front page. They say he’s wanted in connection with the attempted assassination of a senior policeman.’
I staggered back in shock.
‘What?’
‘Surendranath Banerjee, sergeant with the Imperial Police, stationed at Lal Bazar. Wanted in connection with an attack in Alipore. Sam, it’s not —’
‘No, it’s not true. He had nothing to do with that, but if we’re going to prove it, I’m going to need to ask another favour of you. I need you to contact a man called Dawson. You need to go and see him personally. Phone his secretary at Fort William. Tell her who you are, that you’ve a message from a mutual friend, and that you need to meet him urgently. He should be able to work it out. When you meet him, tell him I suspect the secure telephone line he uses has been tapped. Ask him for another number and a time when we can speak. Have you got that?’
‘Yes,’ she said, then proceeded to repeat the details.
I gave her the spymaster’s telephone number at Fort William.
‘And, Annie,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
Suren was waiting for me at the Gateway, fending off a peanut vendor with a practised scowl.
‘You’re early,’ I said.
Suren rubbed at his chin. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘You didn’t have any problems then? No visits from the authorities in the middle of the night?’
‘Thankfully, no.’
I considered handing him the newspaper I’d picked up en route, but decided it could wait awhile. It was a Bombay edition of the Times of India, but the story was still on the front page:
CALCUTTA BOMB PLOT, SENIOR POLICEMAN INJURED
Manhunt for fugitive thought to be in Bombay
His name was there. Sergeant Surendranath Banerjee. What’s more it was spelled correctly. He’d have appreciated that in other circumstances. All that was missing was a police sketch. It was a small mercy, but a significant one. It meant we still had a degree of freedom to move around. All the same, it would be dangerous for him to go back to the guest house.
‘If the police suspect you’re in Bombay,’ I said, ‘there’s a good chance that sooner or later they’ll track you down. And I’d bet a Bengali guest house would be pretty high up on the list of places to search for a Bengali fugitive. It may be best if you move out.’
‘And go where?’
‘We’ll work something out,’ I said. ‘You had breakfast?’
He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t face it.’
‘A bite to eat, then,’ I said. ‘We’ve got a busy day ahead and I can’t afford you being cranky.’
He grunted a laugh. ‘I’m surprised we can even afford breakfast.’
Twenty minutes later we were seated in the shaded recesses of a sleepy cafe, close to the waterfront.
‘There’s something you need to see,’ I said, as Suren pushed a greasy omelette round his plate. He looked up and read my expression.
‘What is it?’
I passed him the paper.
‘The good news,’ I said as he read, ‘is that Taggart is still alive – at least he was at the time of printing. That and the fact that you’re travelling under a false identity and there’s no picture of you in the paper. If we play it smart, we should be able to outfox them.’
He placed the paper on the table. ‘For how long? We have no money, nowhere to stay and no real leads.’
‘That’s not strictly true,’ I said. ‘We do have a lead. We have this man Irani to track down. As for money, Annie’s come through for us. She’s spoken to some chap, a friend of hers called —’ I read the ink-smeared name written on my palm – ‘Ooravis Colah or some such. He’s agreed to stump up a loan for us. Damn decent of her, but if I were a betting man, I’d wager this Colah character is probably a bad egg. Who knows what he’ll want from her in return?’
Suren looked up. ‘How long have you been in India now?’
I failed to see the point of the question. Still I felt it best to humour him.
‘Five years, give or take.’
‘Five years?’
‘Correct,’ I said. ‘If you’re thinking of throwing me a party, I wouldn’t bo—’
‘I was thinking,’ he interjected, ‘that in five years you haven’t learned to pronounce Indian names or even learn their gender. This chap of yours, Ooravis Colah, she’s a woman.’
I sat back. ‘That’s a tad harsh,’ I said. ‘In five years, I’ve never met anyone called anything remotely similar.’
‘The name is unusual,’ he granted, ‘but it is clearly Parsee. Just like Irani.’
That was interesting.
‘Coincidence?’
Suren shrugged. ‘There aren’t that many Parsees in the world, but most of them are probably in Bombay. What do you know about them?’
‘More than the average Englishman, I suppose. But not much more.’
I thought I heard him sigh. ‘I shall never understand the British,’ he said. ‘You wear your ignorance of others almost as a badge of honour.’
‘Well, it’s important to be good at something,’ I said.
‘The Parsees,’ said Suren, as though embarking on a history lesson, ‘came to India centuries ago from Persia, fleeing persecution from the Muslims who’d conquered their homeland. They’re followers of a prophet called Zoroaster, whom you British call Zarathustra. Legend has it they were given sanctuary by a king of Gujarat, and they’ve prospered ever since, at least in terms of wealth if not numbers. They’re a tight-knit bunch, but the ones I’ve met have all been the nicest people.’
‘How thrilling,’ I said. ‘Anything else I should know?’
‘Their food’s not bad either.’
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘Miss or Mrs Colah will be waiting for us at her house until noon.’
‘What’s the address?’
I checked my hand. ‘Somewhere in Malabar Hill. I think it’s near where we took Gulmohamed for a stroll last night.’
‘She’s rich, then. Malabar Hill is exclusive. Grade-A Britishers and millionaire Indians only.’
‘I’m beginning to warm to her,’ I said, flagging down the waiter and ordering another round of tea. ‘Maybe we should ask her for a bit more money?’