In one sense Bombay was similar to Calcutta. Parties started late.
It was almost 10 p.m. before we set off for the racecourse. Ooravis Colah was dressed like she’d just stepped off a film set in a sari of pink silk embroidered in silver, with matching jewellery and a pair of heels that might have given a lesser woman a nosebleed.
As for me, I felt like her pet monkey, dressed in a new suit which she insisted on purchasing. I’d protested that there was nothing wrong with the jacket I’d escaped from Watson’s Hotel in, or indeed the trousers I’d purchased earlier in the day. Her response had been nothing but a cold, hard stare which effectively ended any further discussion.
The Western India Turf Club was a good twenty-minute drive from Malabar Hill, and by the time the chauffeur drew up to the line of limousines waiting for entry, there was a distinct chill in the air, not that Miss Colah seemed to notice.
‘Come on,’ she said, opening her door. ‘Let’s send the car back for Suren. We can walk from here.’
She set off imperiously, past the green railings, through the gates and towards the strains of a string quartet floating over from the tall pillbox structure of the main stand. Then, suddenly, she stopped, her high heels floundering on the reefs and shoals of a treacherous gravel path.
‘Captain Wyndham,’ she said. ‘If you’d be so kind.’
I took her arm and was rewarded with a gracious nod of the head. The scent of frangipani fragranced the air, and around us, the serried ranks of Bombay’s elite processed towards the clubhouse.
Panthaki’s party, it turned out, wasn’t to be inside the stand, but in the open space that lodged between it and the rails of the racetrack, possibly to take advantage of the cooling night air, though probably because there were just too many people in attendance for them to fit comfortably inside. There seemed to be a good few hundred people milling about, men and women, British and Indian, all elegantly, if rather informally attired, at least by Calcutta standards. Between them buzzed a small army of waiters with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. To one side, on row of linen-draped tables, a buffet of silver steam pans and chaffing dishes had been set up and manned by a host of white-jacketed attendants. On the other, and attracting considerably more attention, was a bar that seemed well stocked and ready to cater for those with a thirst for something stronger than Bollinger.
A starched waiter came over and, by way of welcome, proffered a tray of champagne at us. I took a couple of flutes and passed one to Miss Colah. She took a sip, then scanned the gathering like a general scouring a battlefield before the commencement of hostilities. She gestured towards a knot of people, mainly women, who were seemingly enraptured by the utterances of an elegant man who stood in their midst sporting a goatee and a navy-blue suit. Such was their attention that I might have taken him to be an intellectual or at least a writer, had it not been for the fact that his suit looked expensive.
‘There’s Jehangir,’ she said, staring distastefully at the scrum around him. ‘Come, let’s go and rescue him.’
I followed her as she cut an elegant swathe through the crowd, leaving a host of memsahibs in summer dresses and sari-clad local women in her wake.
‘Jay,’ she called, landing a kiss on the air either side of his face in a gesture that was neither Indian nor British but might have been appropriated from somewhere on the Continent. ‘Let me introduce my dear friend from Calcutta, Captain Wyndham.’
The term dear might have been overegging things slightly, seeing as we’d only just met that morning, but in India, where social connections were currency and so many doors only opened if you knew the right people, being considered a good friend of Miss Colah’s could do no harm.
Panthaki extended a hand and a smile. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’
‘The pleasure’s mine,’ I said. ‘Thank you for the invitation, especially at such short notice.’
‘Nonsense,’ he said, in that noblesse oblige manner of the millionaire class. ‘Anything for a friend of Ooravis’s.’
‘Quite right too, Jay,’ chimed Miss Colah. ‘I’ve sung your praises to the captain. Told him that you throw the best parties in town.’
Panthaki gave a deprecating shake of the head. ‘So what brings you to Bombay?’
‘Business,’ I said. ‘I’m with the Post Office. And please, call me Sam.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll have an opportunity to enjoy Bombay while you’re here. I think you’ll find it an agreeable place. Our climate is not as oppressive as yours in Calcutta.’
That seemed to be true in more than just the meteorological sense. There was something different about Bombay, something fresher. It lacked some of the starch of Calcutta. People here seemed to mix a tad more freely. Maybe because it had never been the seat of empire, people’s prejudices were less ingrained. Or maybe the normal rules didn’t apply to millionaires. After all, cash, as they say, is king.
‘I’d like that,’ I said, ‘but I doubt I’ll have time.’
Panthaki placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘You must make time. There’s no one who knows Bombay better than Ooravis.’
‘Miss Colah raised her glass in a toast. ‘Absolutely! We should make a trip to Alibagh on the other side of the bay. Jay has a house there. You’ll come, won’t you, Jay?’
‘If you organise it.’
I seemed to have found myself in the middle of some kind of courtship ritual of the rich and glamorous, and while as a student of human psychology it was fascinating to behold, I had other priorities.
I turned to Miss Colah. ‘I might head to the bar; see if I can spot Mr Irani.’ I raised my glass and saluted our host.
‘Irani’s over there by the buffet,’ said Panthaki, ‘talking to one of the bank managers from Grindlay’s.’
I glanced over at a shaved-headed man of about six foot three with a chest that looked like it might stop a howitzer shell. Suren had said he was big, but that felt like an understatement. Cyrus Irani basically resembled a gorilla in a business suit.
Ooravis sized him up. ‘So that’s the man you’ve been looking for? He doesn’t look particularly Parsee. I expected someone less thuggish.’
I’d hoped something similar. Questioning Irani in the way we’d done with Gulmohamed was out of the question. Even with Suren, I doubted we’d be able to intimidate a brute that big. What’s more, he had the hard, impassive expression of a soldier – a professional, not a conscript; and a killer at that.
I made my excuses and headed for the bar. If I was going to tackle a man the size of Irani, I’d need a stiff drink or two. Squeezing a way through, I flagged the attention of the barman and ordered a whisky, drank it down and then ordered another.
The first began working its magic, the spirit warming my gut and fortifying my resolve, as I turned and, nursing the second, began walking over towards Irani.