Irani was out of sight. I’d lost him as he’d turned the corner and by the time I reached the front of the clubhouse, he’d gone. It was only once my eyes became accustomed to the relative gloom that I spotted what I thought was his hulking back slipping through the dark and making for the main road.
It seemed he’d been no keener to bump into Gulmohamed than I had, which lent credence to the politician’s statement that Irani had sent him to Mukherjee’s house under false pretences. Then again, there was always the possibility that the two of them were somehow involved in this together and Irani, now aware that I was on to him, just didn’t want to be seen in public with Gulmohamed. I only hoped Suren had been able to find something tangible at Irani’s office – something that might point to who was responsible for the attacks on Mukherjee and Taggart and provide us with some idea as to why.
I had to hand it to him. For a big man, he moved pretty damn quickly. But I was no slouch myself, and trailed him out into the street. There he took a taxi from the rank on the corner and I, some thirty seconds later, took the next one.
I had a fair idea where he was heading, but decided to follow him, just in case he made for his office. The last thing I wanted was for him to show up while Suren was rifling through his papers.
I followed him south, through dark streets, empty of life save for the smiling faces of advertising hoardings and the odd stray dog dozing under a roadside tree. Eventually we reached Colaba and I breathed a sigh of relief as the taxi pulled to a stop outside the Taj.
Irani got out and made for the entrance and I was about to order my cabbie to drive on when something caught my eye. There, parked only feet away, was Ooravis Colah’s Mercedes. Now there might have been more than one of that particular make and marque in Bombay, but this one was clearly Miss Colah’s. I’d been in it only hours before and recognised not only the registration plate but also the chauffeur dozing in the front seat.
I paid the cab-wallah, jumped out and sprinted across the road to the car. The chauffeur woke with a start as I rapped on the side window.
‘Sahib?’
‘Where’s Suren?’
The man wiped saliva from his chin.
‘Suren,’ I repeated. ‘Where is he?’
‘He go in hotel, sahib.’
I let out a curse. That boy was going to be the death of me, and the way things were going, of himself too. What the hell was he doing at the Taj? Of course I knew the answer, but that didn’t stop me marvelling at his idiocy. It was dangerous enough breaking into Irani’s office, but that was at least a calculated risk. Breaking into his room, at one of Bombay’s biggest hotels, while the police were after you and your name was in every paper in the country, seemed suicidal. And that was before factoring in the element of the twenty-stone colossus who was even now making his way up to his bed.
There was nothing else for it. Against my better judgement, I sprinted towards the entrance and into the hotel lobby, in my haste all but slipping on the polished floor and breaking my neck. Steadying myself against the back of a gilded sofa, I looked up, hoping to catch sight of Irani, but once again he’d disappeared. I skidded up to the deserted reception desk and rang the bell.
The night concierge, a thin Indian with the gaunt face and weary expression of the perpetually sleep-deprived, emerged from the back office.
‘Cyrus Irani,’ I gasped. ‘What room’s he in?’
The man stared at me, not quite sure of the correct reaction to the sight of a sweating sahib requesting a guest’s room number at a quarter after midnight.
‘May I ask your name, sir? I can send a boy up to Mr Irani’s suite with a message.’
I took out my warrant card and slapped it on the desk in front of him. ‘How about you just answer my question?’
He didn’t even need to consult the guest register.
‘Room 214, sir. Second floor,’ he called out, but I was already sprinting for the stairs.