My chest tight, I dragged in a breath as I plodded back through the jail. As I was already nearby, I went to check on the injured mali.
Jameson grimaced when I told him Adi had been arrested. He patted my shoulder with a fist, then led the way. “I had the old fellow moved to the women’s wing—empty, ’course. He had a lucid moment yesterday—was in pain so I put him back under.”
An orderly stood as we entered and snapped to attention as though grateful to be remembered by the living. Jameson questioned him while I approached the ward’s only occupant. His head buried in bandages, the mali looked like a shrunken child. A bony hand lay atop the bedclothes like a discarded chicken drumstick. There would be no help from him today.
With Adi arrested I could think of little else, yet I had exhausted my leads and knew I must take a new tack. Dressed as a gas meter man in Diana’s costume—a simple modification to one of my oldest brown coats, with a narrow native cap, a battered clipboard, and Adi’s instrument, I visited the mint workers’ modest homes. The guise allowed me to scout the exteriors and look for new construction, bicycles, or water tanks. In each dwelling, multiple generations went about their business. I found no evidence of recent prosperity.
Desperate for some progress, that afternoon I visited Faisal’s neighbors and probed them, even inventing a marriage proposal to his cousin as my ruse. Other than gossip and trivial jealousies, I learned little. Recalling that young Vishal was sharp, ambitious perhaps, and rather observant, once more I traced my way to the accountant’s home.
I scouted the street, noting gas pipes protruding from the homes, then squatted under a nearby tree. As I watched, Vishal’s family exited their home, dressed in festival finery. A temple visit? I’d lost track of the date, but here and there flowers adorned doors and gates, denoting a festival. Dussehra? Dhanteras? Surely Deepavali was a month away?
Once they’d crammed themselves into a Victoria and departed, I wandered over to the little house and crossed to the rear. The door was cracked open for air, latched on the kadi. What was the sentence for breaking and entering, I wondered, as I inserted a pencil through the slot, lifted the latch, and slipped inside.
Vishal’s home was furnished much like other traditional homes I’d seen. Low beds, a cloth divider in the bedchamber for the barest privacy. The kitchen was a low table in a corridor under which pots and pans were neatly piled. There was no washroom mori, so that must be shared in the common area outside. A living room with cushions and piles of bedding, likely for the children, completed the accommodations. I passed a table stacked with newspapers and plunked myself down on the single chair. How could I get the truth from him? Daylight faded while I waited, turning over the case in my mind.
The door rattled and opened, and a pair of children burst into the room. An older child followed, then Vishal and his wife. He lit a lantern in the corridor.
“Hello,” I said from the chair.
Vishal’s eyes bulged.
“Go inside!” he shooed his wife, pushing the older child after her.
“Who is it?” she cried.
When the younger children bounced toward me, he yelled, “Inside!”
They paused, their faces pinched. Vishal grabbed their arms and fairly lifted them off their feet as he thrust them at the bedchamber and the querulous protests of his wife.
He showed me his palms, saying in Hindustani, “Please. Don’t hurt us. We have nothing. You can see…” He gestured at the room.
He didn’t recognize me. Of course. I was still wearing the gas man disguise.
I let silence work on him. Squatting, he joined his hands in entreaty.
“You lied,” I said quietly. “You were sent to bring the police, but you didn’t. The mali brought a constable. What did you do instead?”
“Captain sahib!” he cried, rising. When I didn’t move, relief dropped off his face like a wet rag. “Don’t be angry, please.”
I said nothing. The whites of his eyes shone in the yellow lantern light.
Was this what I’d become, I wondered, watching his hands tremble, his throat work as he swallowed. Childish voices protested from the bedchamber, their mother shushing them. Yet someone had shoved a blade into Satya’s gullet, and I needed the truth.
“Answer the question,” I said.
“My children—” he began.
“Tell me the truth, and I will leave.”
He licked his lips. “I went toward Kennedy Bridge, French Bridge, but there was no havildar. Only tongas, Victorias. So I came back. It is the truth, sahib! I swear it!”
“Where else did you go?”
His mouth dropped open, then he cried, “Nowhere, sahib!”
I cannot tell how I knew he was lying. Yet his panic was real.
“You met someone. Who?”
“No one, sahib! There was no one…” He fairly wept. But he’d begun to say a word, and stopped. There was no one … there. “You expected to see someone. Who?”
“Satya-ji was on the floor, the blood,” he fumbled. “I saw no one.”
He’d run out looking for the killer? But his manner was one of relief.
I tucked away this curious impression and persisted. “Where did you go?”
“The doctor,” he gasped. “I know a vaid nearby, so I begged him to come. It was no use, sahib, Satya-ji was dead.”
Ah! Faisal had mentioned a doctor, but I’d forgotten.
Weary and rumpled, I returned to Framji Mansion in the early hours.
“Hoy!” cried a voice from the garden as I entered. Ganju.
“It’s all right,” I called back. The lads were on guard as I had instructed, but it felt as though the keep was empty.
Upstairs, I stripped off my shirt and drank from the earthenware pitcher in our room. Rather than wake Diana, I dropped a pillow on the carpet of our chamber and lay down. She would see me in the morning and know I had come home as promised.
Home. A distant clanking told me that Ganju had secured a chain around the gate. The rhythm of crickets, the swoosh of palms, the ticking of the grandfather clock somewhere below, and near at hand the swoosh of Diana’s sweet breath. She sniffed like a child and turned, pulling the bedclothes with her. After living rough, Framji Mansion was a palace.
Yet sleep eluded me. None of Adi’s employees appeared to have an influx of funds. None had left Bombay or made plans to. Faisal was most in need. In the moments after Satya’s death, Vishal had searched for someone, but not seen him. Logically that would be the killer—perhaps he had a suspicion, but it was not borne out. I sat up with a jerk. Did that mean—the killer remained nearby?
Was the killer one of those who gathered around Adi that afternoon?
Waiting at a crossroads offers one much opportunity for contemplation. I had gone back and forth over Padamji’s problem a hundred times. I’d put myself in his shoes, then Parakh’s and each of the foundry workers. Each might have motive to secret away some of the bounty constantly around them.
The fake bar had been identical but for its weight. That needed an expert hand. The two foundry workers were the most likely suspects, since they made bars all day. Yet making one lighter implied premeditation and the connivance of the other, for surely they would handle each other’s work. So both, then, were implicated. However, they returned to work each day passing back and forth through the security gates. It took a strong stomach to do that.
My back eased, releasing a cramp. I rolled my shoulders, relishing the ache as they pushed against the carpet. Was this why Diana insisted I return? All day I watched, recording impressions, faces, behaviors, snippets of conversations. Gradually the weight of these fell away, and I made a plan.