Wearing a formal dark suit, I rode a Victoria down Breach Candy road and across to the Bombay mint enclosure. There I gave my name because we had agreed to keep clear of aliases.
A short gent greeted me, hair slicked back neatly, wearing an impeccable white jacket and trousers—the mark of an elite Parsi in a country where simply keeping the grime off was a challenge. “I am Dara Parakh. Let’s go to Padamji. You want to know how I test the gold?”
His voice ended in a question, but I made no answer, only thanked him and started down the corridor. My new client, Padamji, was playing it close to the vest. He had not included Dara Parakh in our plan, although Parakh had bought him time to find the culprit.
Troubled, I recalled his weary tone as he said, “My life is over, but that matters not.”
We went through a series of heavy, guarded doors. Each time our names were recorded.
An armed British guard accompanied us to a long room lit by electric lights where along one side, metal tables were piled with short stacks of gold bars. At the end glowed a furnace, surrounded by urns of different shapes. Wisps of smoke smelled of some pungent chemical.
The guard indicated a mark on the floor. “Don’t cross this line.”
Padamji came from the far corner to reassure him, then shook hands with me, radiating relief at my new appearance. He said, “The forge is not operating today. There are usually two workers, one to cast the metal, and another to stamp the numbers. Here—” He plucked a bar off a stack and showed me the crest incised on it. Below that lay a long series of numbers.
He explained, “As they enter each morning, workers strip off their street clothes under guard. They wear white overalls to work here. In the evening, they must drop their overalls and walk unclothed down a corridor to a shower. Only then are their clothes returned and they’re allowed to leave.”
He pushed open the metal door to an adjacent chamber, where gold bars were ordered into flat wooden boxes. The guard followed. He had not taken his eyes off me.
Although this room was larger, I felt as though a hand clamped my nostrils. The air was laden with that same sharp smell. Electric lights glowed over metal walls without windows. It was a prison.
“… the weight is uniform,” Parakh was saying. “I sample each stack. My systematic method has worked for decades.” He began to lift and replace bars in a curious sequence. Taking a metal ruler from his pocket, he drew the bar across it and showed me the resulting stripe.
“What of that specific one,” I asked. “Is it still here?”
Padamji cast a glance at the door where the guard watched, his face inscrutable, then went to a distant stack and selected one from the middle. This he brought and placed in my hand. For something so small, it felt quite heavy.
Picking up another bar nearby, Padamji said, “Now hold this.” It was even heavier.
He set it on a nearby scale. Tipping small weights on to the balance, he said quietly, “Two point five kilos. Now the other one.”
When he placed it on the scale it sank. He removed two smaller weights, which returned the scale to balance and handed them to me. Since each was stamped with a number, I calculated the fake was a little over 1.8 kilos. Parakh took each in turn and struck them across his gauge.
“Identical,” he said, in a low voice. “It’s gold all right, but the weight is wrong. After I found this one, I went back and examined them all. Took me nine hours, but all are clean.”
Parakh replaced both bars in their previous location.
In an undertone, I asked, “If I had such a bar, how would I know to number it just so?”
Padamji shrugged. “The gold standard means that one can ask for their bank deposit to be delivered in specie, but in India banks do not have to comply. I have checked the number inscribed on that … bar.” Discomfited, he avoided calling it a fake. “It was minted decades ago. An old number.”
“All right. Say I acquire a gold bar, get the number, and manage to craft a replica. Could that replica show up here?”
“There is no way to bring it in or take one out,” said Padamji quietly.
Pitching my voice low, I said, “Then you have an extra bar?”
“No.”
“Could it just be flawed? Perhaps nothing was taken.”
He shook his head. “Each one is weighed after etching. And counted precisely. In twenty-seven years, the number has always been accounted for. It is exact, even now.”
“So, if that one came in, then one did leave this room. Could someone switch them?”
“Impossible. The workers are watched constantly. Guards view us from there.” He tilted his head toward the corners, where glass panes were inset in the walls.
We traced the workers’ route from the rear entrance to the forge, examining where their clothes were stored before they were checked and returned. Deep in the heart of the stone building, each room was secure in itself. The ceilings were metal sheeting, air vents shielded by grilles only inches across—not wide enough for a child to fit through.
Throughout, our English guard watched closely. And yet, someone had brought in a fake bar and perhaps, walked out with a five-and-a-half-pound weight in his pocket.
“The guards don’t enter?” I asked.
“No. I have the only keys to the forge and this vault. I lock them behind me.”
That was why the axe hovered over his neck—no one would believe such a theft could be conducted without his compliance.
“The two men who work here—I need their names, addresses.”
He consulted a ledger and wrote them down.
I asked, “How long d’you think this has been going on?”
Padamji sucked in a breath. “You think … it’s been done before?”
“Why not? Now we think there are no other—ah—bad ones. But some could have passed through earlier batches.”
Padamji looked as though he might drop in a faint. Touching his arm, Parakh murmured, “From now on, I will check every single bar.”
Next, I explored the chamber walls, while the guard glowered at us. An hour later, after the two Parsis escorted me back toward the main vestibule, he motioned me to a wall.
He patted me down thoroughly, asked a few questions which I answered, then jerked his chin at the door. We proceeded to the final gate.
While Parakh went up to complete our formalities, Padamji whispered, “Did our Ervad tell you how little time we have? A steamer has come for the bullion. The warships will arrive soon.”
I had no time to dive into this case before the gold was handed into the crown’s custody. Would the fake be discovered? That was the real question behind the man’s fright.
I said, “Proceed as normal. Let me think it through. If the gunships arrive, call the Framji residence.” It went against the grain, but there was no help for it. I’d have to study the forge workers before returning to Adi’s case.
He nodded, his mouth sour, his eyes sorrowful. “A man makes his reputation over years, decades of honest service.” Now, all he’d built over a lifetime could go up in smoke.
Shaking hands, I stepped out from the heavy, carved mahogany doors, then stopped as though I’d run into a wall. I was standing face-to-face with Chief Superintendent McIntyre of the Bombay constabulary. He wore a white regimental solar, his face red in the harsh sunlight. A group of white officers clustered behind him.
“Bloody hell, Agnihotri!” he said, by way of greeting. “What’re you doing here?”
His sharp tone drew his colleagues’ attention. One touched the service revolver at his belt. Others stilled, watchful and grim.
“Pleasure to see you, sir,” I said mildly as steam rose from the pavement. “Fine day, isn’t it?”
He brushed aside my pleasantries. “You’re on the Rastogi case. Why’re you here?”
“That’s not my only assignment,” I said. “These gentlemen were assisting me in another matter.”
“What matter?” McIntyre demanded with all the grace of a bulldog chomping on an errant leg. Padamji swallowed, his cheeks collapsing inward. Even sturdy Parakh looked daunted, the whites of his eyes gleaming.
Bringing out Satya’s key, I held it up at eye level. “Identifying this. Could you take a look, sir?”
He took it, turned it over and gave it a cursory glance. “What’s it from?”
“That’s what I need to know. It was given to my client as collateral. I’m looking for the object it unlocks. A personal vault, perhaps.”
McIntyre returned the key and sent a suspicious glance at my escort.
Turning, I formally presented them to his attention. By this point, his companions had lost interest and passed behind us. Courtesy required that McIntyre shake hands after the introduction, which he did with little grace.
“Gentlemen,” he said, then narrowed his eyes at me. “You, come see me tomorrow.”
He stomped into the vestibule without a backward glance. When McIntyre was gruff, it usually meant he was worried. As his stiff shoulders receded, I wondered what irked the honorable chief superintendent.
Parakh’s sigh of relief made me smile in sympathy. Gripping my hand with both his, Padamji thanked me in a heartfelt tone as he said goodbye.
Since we were still in earshot, I returned the niceties. “Gracious of you to see me. Good day, sirs.” Touching my hat to them, I headed down the street.
Then I remembered. Those officials I’d seen sitting in McIntyre’s office could have been from the Imperial Mint, requesting a police escort for the transport of bullion. The semiannual transfer of India’s taxes to the British crown would soon be underway.