Soli Wadia arrived just before Miss Sorabji. Diana’s friends, the Vakil sisters, had sent a polite, if somewhat incoherent, apology and Jameson’s orderly brought Mrs. Framji a note with his regrets. Our dinner discussion centered around a local magistrate who had deemed stray canines a public nuisance and hazard. Dogcatchers had been hired to round up “pariah dogs” in the streets, and a number of the animals had been slaughtered. Worrying over the mali and what he might have seen, I contributed little to the conversation.
“It will be quieter at night,” said Soli, without enthusiasm.
Miss Sorabji protested. “But to kill them! They cannot help barking, can they?”
Mrs. Framji said, “My sister feeds the poor creatures on the sea-face road. She said the dogcatchers lure the mutts with the scent of food, then trap and shoot them. She and her friends were appalled—wagons carting away dozens of carcasses. If this goes on, there will be a riot!”
The soiree was a subdued affair, though Miss Sorabji and Diana both played piano. In two years of marriage, I’d not heard my wife play before and now found myself entranced. As the melody flowed over me, rising and falling like ocean waves, Adi winked at me and smiled.
Later, when the guests had departed, Diana helped her mother put the little ones to bed. I changed into pajamas but felt too restless to lie down.
Hoisting Diana’s gift, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, at last, I began reading. In “The Adventure of Silver Blaze” I paused, rereading a line. “See the value of imagination,” said Holmes. “We imagined what might have happened, acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves justified.”
Imagination—was that how it should be done? I read on. However, before I could finish the story, Diana returned with tales of the children. Little Tehmina had a fever, so Mrs. Framji would stay up with her tonight, placing cloths soaked in eau de cologne on the child’s forehead. The child, the key, the injured mali. I faded into sleep to the low sound of her voice.
I got to Lloyd’s bank early the next day and held out the troublesome silver object that haunted my dreams. “Mr. Gupta, can you identify this key? What might it unlock?”
He took it with delicate fingers, turned it and passed it back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Agnihotri. It’s not one of ours.”
“Is there an expert you could ask?”
Shrugging, he summoned an old clerk with white eyebrows on a face like a gnarled oak who examined my key and swiveled his head from side to side.
“If there’s nothing else,” said Gupta, his tone hinting it was churlish of me to waste his time. I left, pondering where to try my luck next.
When stumped, as I now was, I’d found it helpful to walk. A turn or two I’ll walk to still my beating mind—Shakespeare’s Tempest, I thought, as I traced my way toward the sea face. God knows, I was facing a storm. In a black mood I strode the cluttered length of Queen’s Road, a shore drive that curved along the western edge of Black Town, where most Indians lived.
Satya had been furiously gathering funds. In August, he’d borrowed and altered Burjor’s promissory note to make it five thousand. Two weeks before he was killed, he’d begged Banner to lend him a thousand. Then he’d taken two thousand rupees from Adi’s bank.
Yet no money was found on him. So he must have locked it somewhere with that silver key. Where?
He hid things from his family; if he was in trouble, it was not likely he would seek their help. He hadn’t taken Adi into his confidence. After bilking Burjor, it would be a brazen man who could meet Adi daily, work with him, speak with him, make plans. Yet giving Burjor the key was not the act of a cheat, but one who intends to make a clean breast of it.
It all came back to why he needed so much cash in the first place. If I knew that, I could unravel the rest. Yet for the moment I had no means to uncover it.
One by one, I examined the individuals in my case. Adi—so upright that he could not believe Satya would deceive him and remain right under his nose. In recent days Adi had seemed exhausted, even hopeless. Yet his priority was clear: keeping his parents out of his mess. In that he was mistaken. His father was very much a part of the case. I considered Burjor—determined to aid his son, to bankroll or railroad the path to his success, despite his own financial problems.
Then there was Satya’s suffocating family—a proud, dominant mother, clever, watchful father, and generations of cousins, living together.
What of young Howard Banner—charming, athletic, prim? He’d admitted to being friendly with Satya, yet unwillingly, as though it were an unpleasant admission.
Adi’s two employees—I knew too little of them, and yet there was some story there, something out of place. Why did they cling to their joint narrative so firmly? Surely one or the other must have had a closer rapport with Satya?
The old mali was afraid of someone, and now unable to say whom. What did he mean—basket, or bicycle? He’d said that to McIntyre, the highest-ranking man he’d met, so it must be important. If he ever gained consciousness, I would ask him.
Who else?
The thief, who’d felled the shriveled mali with a single blow. I frowned. What had he been struck with?
Again I went over the scene Burjor had described: Satya, glancing past Burjor’s shoulder, sees someone who alarms him. He recognizes the person, knows he has come for something … the key. He has it on him, in his very pocket. Does he fear the man will search him? This would mean it was someone stronger, more vital, someone he knows capable of violence. His mind races—how to get rid of the key quickly, without drawing attention to it? Burjor stands before him, upset, belligerent, his carriage waiting. He palms it to Burjor, tells him he will explain later.
But after Burjor leaves, Satya is killed, and there is no later.
Adi comes in, sees Satya stagger like a puppet without strings, lowers him to the floor, and cries out to the staff. Satya knows he has but little time. He’s desperate to say something—struggles, chokes, sputters.
When Adi moves the blade, fingers trembling, Satya knows he has one chance. “Sona,” he says. Gold. “Don’t let them sell it.”
Had he been amassing the precious metal? Was that what he’d secured with his key? Had he passed it to Burjor because it led to the gold, in coins, perhaps? Sovereigns were easily secreted, though heavy. Hundred-rupee banknotes would be lighter and more portable. I scratched my itching forehead, feeling that this was significant. A savvy businessman might accumulate Bank of England notes. So why had Satya mentioned gold?
What did the key open? A letterbox? No, dak-carriers would intrude to stack new mail. Where else could one lock something of value?
Well past luncheon I visited Churchgate Station and pretended I had forgotten the number of my locker, but again, the effort was futile. Victoria Terminus Station was a bust too.
Sweaty and crumpled, my gut churning, I returned to Framji Mansion wiping perspiration off my forehead. I was missing something, a vital link. Until I found it, Satya’s key would be useless. I was at an impasse, out of leads.
Holmes had noted, “It is of the first importance not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities.” McIntyre would say, “Look at the obvious! The simplest explanation is best.” But he didn’t know Adi. if Adi had done it, he’d be the first to own up. That was his nature, as it is the nature of water to flow.
There was no help for it, I’d have to look closer at Adi’s employees.