Satya’s key was now my main lead, but I had no idea what it unlocked. He had something worth seven thousand rupees, or maybe more, stashed somewhere. It had to be accessible, else why give Burjor the key as collateral? I’d been toying with this oddly shaped bit of metal at breakfast. Placing it beside my plate, I scoffed down eggs and toast.
Adi pointed with the butter knife. “That key, it’s unusual. It’s not the sort for trunks, almirahs, and such. Latchkeys that open doors are heavier. That’s too small.”
His rumpled weariness sent a pulse of sympathy through me. “I’m going back to your factory,” I said. “Got to be something there, some clue to what’s going on.”
Adi wanted to come along, but I said, “Best not. If I find evidence, your presence could call it into question, at least in Superintendent McIntyre’s view. He’s already suspicious, and by now probably skeptical of my role too.”
“My staff has stopped work. Place is closed now. I’ve got to return this to the landlord soon.” Adi took a long iron key off his bunch and slid it over.
His eyes drooped above the disappointed twist of his lips. I slapped his shoulder in sympathy, then asked, “Your mali—did you dismiss him? He still weeds the garden.”
“Bala lives there, Jim, in a shed. I suppose he has nowhere to go. Now I’ve got to dispose of the inventory. It might bring in some cash…”
I begged him to wait. “I’ve got to figure out what Satya was doing, examine his office, see if there’s some hint of, ah, illicit activities.”
And I needed to know why Bala was so afraid. Who had he seen, that morning?
In addition, since Adi’s staff was no longer employed, I intended to watch them in turns. Anyone possessing seven thousand rupees would be hard-pressed not to spend some. If I saw evidence of new purchases, I might find the culprit. But posing questions as Adi’s brother-in-law would get me nowhere.
To that end, dressed as a journalist in long kurta and vest over loose trousers, I headed once more to my old haunt on Dockyard Road. In my penniless bachelor days, I’d slept among sacks of grain in that bakery warehouse, jute dust and sawdust clogging my breath and making my eyes itch. Later, I’d used it as a waystation for my disguises.
A half hour later, my old landlord, the baker, uttered a shout, wiped his floured hands on the front of his apron, and hurried around the counter to embrace me.
“Ma-shalla! I thought you were dead! You have returned to us?”
I chuckled and asked whether he had rented out his warehouse.
He turned serious. “Janab, such a place is not for you. The gunny sacks, they have much dust. To sleep there is no good for the health.”
When I assured him I only wanted to store some goods, he bargained for a higher rent than before. Grumbling, I paid for a month.
Next, I flagged down a Victoria and directed it to Adi’s factory. In my pocket I fingered Satya’s silver key, hoping it would fit a chest or safe. Stopping the carriage at the gate, I handed the driver a coin and descended. The gate was closed, but it creaked open with a loud metal protest.
“Bala?” I called, searching the lush vista. The air was heavy with floral scents, of which one distinguished itself, a deep romantic note.
The wide-boughed saptaparni tree was in bloom, each aromatic white bulb clasped within seven wide leaves, which gave the tree its name—“seven leafed.” The tree flowered only in October, seeding the air with a distinctive, exotic scent.
As I unlocked the factory door, my body tensed. The place already smelled dusty and abandoned. In the still air, dust motes floated in beams of sunlight from a high window. I stepped softly through the building, checking nooks and crannies. The windows were secure, but the rear door hung ajar.
Because Adi would not have left it gaping, I approached with caution. The metal latch was torn apart, a paltry lock dangling from the jamb. I glanced around, treading as silently as my boots would allow.
I compared the untidy space with my memory of it. A row of crates lined one side of the long room, stacks of boxes and sacks interrupted the other. One gunny sack had been disemboweled, spilling hay. Three days ago it had not been so. I stepped around it, now wishing I’d locked the front door behind me. Someone could be here. And I wanted them trapped.
Something deep and malicious was taking shape. Here Satya had been set upon. A hand had grabbed the very instrument he’d worked to perfect, and thrust it into his gullet. He’d flung his arms back, swiveling perhaps, like a demented semaphore—was that what Adi saw when he bolted forward to break Satya’s fall?
Had that murderer now returned? And if so, why?
I skirted the spilled packing material, my footfalls softly crunching hay. The intruder could ambush me as I turned into the vestibule connecting Satya’s office with the accountant’s. I stopped before the corner, crouched, then burst forward, intending to ram my assailant into a wall.
But there was no one. The dark hallway lay empty, holding its secrets. Sliding my hand along the wall, I flicked a switch. A naked bulb overhead shed a dim, sickly yellow light.
Hearing nothing, I entered the accounting office, where files lay tumbled on the floor. Whatever the thief had sought, it was not written, for no care had been taken in this disgorging of shelves. Crouching, I picked up invoices for chemicals and equipment, bills of lading and letters from other cities. Adi had been trying hard to interest the medical community in his products.
The desk drawers hung wide, contents askew. An earthenware penholder had been emptied on the table. What on earth was the thief looking for? I examined the filing cabinets, the floorboards, the windows, and the beams across the ceiling, but found only a crumbling bird’s nest.
The supply room seemed untouched, until I tugged the top off a crate. There, the straw packing had been yanked out. A box of leather strips lay on its side. Picking up a swath, I brushed a finger across the pockets sewn along its length. These would be filled with individual implements and rolled up. The searcher had examined one box and left the rest.
In Adi’s office, the air was soft with the scent of leather and machine oil. It felt peaceful, as though the chamber awaited his return. One shelf contained rolled leather cases, instruments neatly buckled into the supple binding. Beside these lay a stack of medical brochures from Britain and the United States.
A collection of models and machines cluttered Adi’s room, many with wheels and gears, others that vaguely resembled sewing machines. Some bore dials; a strap showed another might be worn over a shoulder. Leaving them untouched, I worked through Adi’s desk.
Paperweights, pens, pencils, drawing instruments, gloves. Stacks of paper, calling cards, a pair of broken wire-rims, scraps with phone numbers and scribbles. A few rupee notes, some change and a spare pair of trousers were stuffed into the lowest drawer.
Next door was Satya’s office—that was a misnomer, for it was a laboratory. What gave it that sharp stench? Was some bottle open, the chemical evaporating? Such a dizzying array of urns, tubs, bins, and wire racks—Did the plating process require multiple steps? Perhaps Satya had also been an inventor.
In a drawer I found a paper twist of peanuts—saved for his dinner?
A man’s possessions draw a picture of his inner self, I thought. My own possessions were few—a medal I could not bring myself to wear. A loose orange braid from a rakhee ceremony—with it, little Chutki had claimed me as her brother. My dress uniform with frayed cuffs; a handful of books; a knife that fit in my army boot; and a gold watch, engraved with the name of my grandfather—I Agnihotri—my mother’s only gift. Then there was the Webley revolver Adi had given me two years ago, and old Father Thomas’s Bible, worn, with broken binding, its yellowed pages dog-eared.
Satya owned two shirts and three kurtas, a narrow pair of trousers—could a grown man possess such a small waist?—an unironed vest and a grimy white dinner jacket made in Soho. He had books about chemistry in tiny typeface, assorted coins, and that single packet of peanuts. Diana would have wept at this sad collection. Had he lived here, rather than at home?
The chemical smell was strong as I poked around his shelf, disturbing ants, roaches, and spiders. What the devil was that stench? Lizards scuttled up the wall as I moved bottles. An object rattled behind them, so I reached through, grunting as my fingers closed around something cold. Grimacing, I pulled out a shiny silver briquette.
Satya plated instruments in silver. Seeking the rest of his supply, I moved objects around and uncovered a cloth bag with two small, heavy ingots at the bottom. They’d been almost out.
A ring of dust on a shelf showed where a heavy barrel-shaped bottle had recently been moved. I paused, eyes adjusting to the light. I touched the cold surface of the jar, pushed it back into place. It slid an inch. My quarry was strong—or he had brought help.
Empty tanks littered the cluttered laboratory, wires spooling to some apparatus like an ungainly octopus. Then, in the cramped space, my boot caught on something, tripping me off balance. Machinery stabbed my thigh as I grabbed at air and crashed onto one knee.
Pain speared my injured joint. Swearing internally, I’d just dusted myself off, when a faint metallic noise came from outside.
The outer gate. A jolt ran through me like current. Aches and gouges forgotten, I took a wide step over the mess and slammed through the vestibule. Someone had been here.
Even as I charged toward the lane, I spotted something on the path. A pile of cloth? A garment? No. Large saptaparni blooms lay scattered beside it.
Bala Mali was curled on the ground, his dhoti askew, his knees drawn to his chin. Blood still seeped from a head wound. I knelt, cursing. Had he heard me in the workshop and come to see who it was? He’d blundered into someone’s path—the thief, the killer stealing away?
Blast the bugger, why did he strike Bala? The mali was so puny he could scarcely swat a butterfly. Calling myself a dozen kinds of fool, I lowered my ear to his chest. Nothing. I searched his wrist for a pulse, looking out, unseeing, through the gate. I was too late, too bloody late.
Everything changes in the presence of death; our concerns shrink in comparison; time is more scarce and thereby more precious. A clank sounded in the road beyond, an everyday sound. The jingle of carriages mingled with the whir of bicycles.
Then, Bala sniffed.
It galvanized me. Relief, hope, and something more. Hurry, hurry. Might have a chance—God, I needed a chance to set this right.
I yanked off my vest and wrapped it around his head in an overdone turban. Gently, oh, so carefully I eased him into my arms and hurried outside. One angry shout brought the nearest Victoria to heel. I climbed in carrying Bala, for the old man weighed scarcely more than a child.
Settled in my arms, mouth open, he slept, while I cringed over every rut in the road that jarred our jolting ride. When the Victoria stopped before police headquarters, I raced to the infirmary, with Bala’s scrawny legs dangling in a pendulum at my side.
Ignoring the hubbub, I turned the scrawny mali over to Jameson. To his credit, the medico never asked how the old man came into my care, nor his connection to the constabulary. Snapping upright, he rapped out orders left and right. Then, pointing to a gurney, he flicked his thumb toward the door.
I placed Bala carefully on the canvas, told Jameson his name, and stood back as the apparatus of the clinic took over. A group of sturdy orderlies hoisted the gurney like a bier and carried Bala from my sight.