I knew Miss Grant’s block by sight, not due to any curiosity on my part, but because Sam had, on more than one occasion, pointed it out to me. Yet knowing the location of a building and gaining entry were very different things.
I disliked this section of town: not because of the architecture, which was most handsome, or the location, which was convenient for all of central Calcutta, but because of the type of persons who resided here and also because of the type of people they employed.
While Englishmen with wives gravitated southwards to suburbs like Alipore and Tollygunge, the area around Park Street was the preserve of the well-heeled British bachelor, whose wealth acted as insulation from even the few hardships which lesser Englishmen suffered here and amplified their sense of superiority over Indians. Somehow that arrogance became instilled into the very Indians who worked for them and who were most directly on the receiving end of their scorn, from personal secretaries to chauffeurs and, unfortunately for me, the concierges who sat in the lobbies of their mansion blocks.
Under other circumstances, access might have proved inconvenient but not impossible. After enduring the caretaker’s appraising glance, I would have just explained who I was, who I worked for and who I had come to see. Tonight, of course, such things were rather more complicated. I was shoeless, covered in dirt and dressed in the tattered red shirt of a station coolie. In light of that, any claims I might make of being a police detective were likely to fall on deaf ears.
If I was to reach Miss Grant’s apartment, I would require to employ a more circumspect approach. At this time of night, the regular concierge would most likely be safely abed, his duties deputised to the durwan, the nightwatchman. Even in this most affluent part of town, such men were paid a pittance and the calling tended not to attract the most alert nor enterprising of souls. That at least was something in my favour. What’s more, a good durwan would spend much of his time patrolling the perimeter of the premises. Indeed night-time Calcutta reverberated to the sound of thirty thousand such men tapping their bamboo lathis as they went about their beat, informing any would-be miscreants that their building was not to trifled with.
I waited in the shadows, hoping that the man might appear and commence his rounds, but this particular durwan seemed more than happy to remain at his desk. I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands. I scoured the lane behind the street till I came across what I was looking for: a large mound of sand and bricks. It was one of the peculiarities of Calcutta that our climate – a pestilential mix of monsoon and baking heat – tended to dissolve buildings faster than a spoonful of sugar in a cup of hot tea. As a result, one was never far from a pile of materials needed for running repairs: bricks and sand, and supplemented in the poorer quarters with wood, and sacking and corrugated sheeting. I grabbed a brick and returned to Miss Grant’s block. There, not wishing to cause a scene if it might be avoided, I afforded the durwan a final few minutes to come out and commence his round. When he failed to appear, I proceeded to the side of the building and launched my missile at a ground-floor window. The glass fractured with a satisfying crack which I hoped was loud enough for the durwan to hear. I ran back to my shrouded vantage point and waited. On higher floors, electric lights were switched on and windows came to life. Then, finally, the durwan raced out of the door, lathi in hand and whistle flying around his neck on its chain.
Once he’d passed around to the side of the building, I sprinted up the steps and into the lobby. There I quickly located Miss Grant’s name etched onto the brass disc of the postbox for apartment 21. Before I could do much else, a voice rang out.
‘Who the bloody hell are you?!’
I turned to see an Englishman in a maroon silk dressing gown staring across the foyer at me.
‘Where’s Dennis?’ he asked.
I assumed he meant the durwan though I doubted the chap’s name was actually Dennis.
‘Outside, sahib,’ I said in that ingratiating tone which the Britishers prefer us to employ. It seemed to mollify him somewhat.
‘And what are you doing here, coolie?’
I thought quickly. ‘Picking up luggages for taking to Howrah station, sahib.’
The gentleman appeared to approve of my answer.
‘Didn’t know you chaps provided that sort of service.’
I grinned at him and pressed my palms together. ‘Excuse me please, sahib. I must go and retrieve the luggages.’
With that, I took my leave and all but ran for the secondary stairwell used by servants and workmen.
I was out of breath by the time I located Miss Grant’s door on the third floor. Perspiring heavily, I knocked loudly and continuously until it finally opened.
Before me stood Miss Grant’s maid, whom I’d met once or twice at her mistress’s previous abode. She appeared as though roused from sleep, but my appearance helped to jolt her awake. She tried closing the door in my face, but I managed to place my foot in the gap.
‘Please, Anju,’ I said as the pain shot up my leg. ‘It’s me, Suren babu, Captain Wyndham’s friend. I need to speak to Miss Grant urgently.’