A Son Of The Circus (11 page)

‘But there wouldn’t have been vultures so soon,’ Dr Daruwalla said. ‘There would have been no scent.’

‘Not unless there was quite a lot of blood, or an open wound … and in this sun,’ Inspector Dhar said. He’d learned much from his movies, even though they were very bad movies; even D.C.P. Patel was beginning to appreciate that.

‘Quite so,’ the detective said. ‘There was quite a lot of blood.’

‘There was a lot of blood by the time we found him!’ said Dr Daruwalla, who still didn’t understand. ‘Especially around his eyes and mouth – I just assumed that the vultures had begun.’

‘Vultures start pecking where there’s already blood, and at the naturally wet places,’ said Detective Patel. His English was unusually good for a policeman, even for a deputy commissioner, Dr Daruwalla thought.

The doctor was sensitive about his Hindi; he was aware that Dhar spoke the language more comfortably than he did. This was a slight embarrassment for Dr Daruwalla, who wrote all of Dhar’s movie dialogue and his voice-over in English. The translation into Hindi was done by Dhar; those phrases that particularly appealed to him – there weren’t many – the actor left in English. And here was a not-so-common policeman indulging in the one-upmanship of speaking English to the renowned
Canadian;
it was what Dr Daruwalla called ‘the Canadian treatment’ – when a Bombayite wouldn’t even try to speak Hindi or Marathi to him. Although almost everyone spoke English at the Duckworth Club, Farrokh was thinking of something witty to say to Detective Patel in Hindi, but Dhar (in his accentless English) spoke first. Only then did the doctor realize that Dhar had not once used his showbusiness Hindi accent with the deputy commissioner.

There was quite a lot of blood by one ear,’ the actor said, as if he’d never stopped wondering about it.

‘Very good – there absolutely was!’ said the encouraging detective. ‘Mr Lai was struck behind one ear, and also in the temple – probably after he fell.’

‘Struck by
what?’
Dr Daruwalla asked.

‘By
what
, we know – it was his putter!’ said Detective Patel. ‘By
whom
, we don’t know.’

In the 130-year history of the Duckworth Sports Club – through all the perils of Independence and those many diverting occasions that could have led to violence (for example, those wild times when the inflammatory Lady Duckworth bared her breasts) –there had never been a murder! Dr Daruwalla thought of how he would phrase this news to the Membership Committee.

It was characteristic of Farrokh not to consider his esteemed late father as the actual first murder victim in the 130-year history of Duckworthians in Bombay. The chief reason for this oversight was that Farrokh tried very hard not to think about his father’s murder at all, but a secondary reason was surely that the doctor didn’t want his father’s violent death to cloud his otherwise sunny feelings for the Duckworth Club, which has already been described as the only place (other than the circus) where Dr Daruwalla felt at home.

Besides, Dr Daruwalla’s father wasn’t murdered
at
the Duckworth Club. The car that he was driving exploded in Tardeo, not in Mahalaxmi, although these are neighboring districts. But it was generally admitted, even among Duckworthians, that the car bomb was probably installed while the senior Daruwalla’s car was parked in the Duckworth Club parking lot. Duckworthians were quick to point out that the only other person who was killed had no relationship to the club; the poor woman wasn’t even an employee. She was a construction worker, and she was said to be carrying a straw basket full of rocks on her head when the flying right-front fender of the senior Daruwalla’s car decapitated her.

But this was old news. The first Duckworthian to be murdered on the actual property of the Duckworth Club was Mr Lai.

‘Mr Lai,’ explained Detective Patel, ‘was engaged in swinging what I believe they call a “mashie,” or is it a “wedgie” – what
do
they call the club you hit a chip shot with?’ Neither Dr Daruwalla nor Inspector Dhar was a golfer; a mashie or a wedgie sounded close enough to the real and stupid thing to them. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ the detective said. ‘Mr Lai was holding one club when he was struck from behind with another – his own putter! We found it and his golf bag in the bougainvillea.’

Inspector Dhar had assumed a familiar film pose, or else he was merely thinking; he lifted his face as his fingers lightly stroked his chin, which enhanced his sneer. What he said was something that Dr Daruwalla and Deputy Commissioner Patel had heard him say many times before; he said it in every movie.

‘Forgive me for sounding most theoretical,’ Dhar said. This favorite bit of dialogue was of that kind which Dhar preferred to deliver in English, although he’d delivered the line on more than one occasion in Hindi, too. ‘It seems,’ Dhar said, ‘that the killer didn’t care especially
who
his victim was. Mr Lai was not scheduled to meet anyone in the bougainvillea at the ninth green. It was an accident that he was there — the killer couldn’t have known.’

‘Very good,’ said D.C.P. Patel. ‘Please go on.’

‘Since the killer didn’t seem to care who he killed,’ Inspector Dhar said, ‘perhaps it was intended only that the victim be one of us.’

‘Do you mean one of the members?’ cried Dr Daruwalla. ‘Do you mean a
Duckworthian?’

‘It’s just a theory,’ said Inspector Dhar. Again, this was an echo; it was something he said in every movie.

‘There is some evidence to support your theory, Mr Dhar,’ Detective Patel said almost casually. The deputy commissioner removed his sunglasses from the breast pocket of his crisp white shirt, which showed not a trace of evidence of his latest meal; he probed deeper into the pocket and extracted a folded square of plastic wrapping, large enough to cover a wedge of tomatoe or a slice of onion. From the plastic he unwrapped a two-rupee note that had previously been rolled into a typewriter, for typed on the serial-number side of the bill, in capital letters, was this warning:
MORE
MEMBERS
DIE
IF
DHAR
REMAINS
A
MEMBER
.

‘Forgive me, Mr Dhar, if I ask you the obvious,’ said Detective Patel.

‘Yes, I have enemies,’ Dhar said, without waiting for the question. ‘Yes, there are people who’d like to kill me.’

‘But everyone would like to kill him!’ cried Dr Daruwalla. Then he touched the younger man’s hand. ‘Sorry,’ he added.

Deputy Commissioner Patel returned the two-rupee note to his pocket. As he put on his sunglasses, the detective’s pencil-thin mustache suggested to Dr Daruwalla a punctiliousness in shaving that the doctor had abandoned in his twenties. Such a mustache, etched both below the nose and above the lip, requires a younger man’s steady hand. At his age, the deputy commissioner must have had to prop his elbow fast against the mirror, for shaving of this kind could only be accomplished by removing the razor blade from the razor and holding the blade
just so
. A time-consuming vanity for a man in his forties, Farrokh imagined; or maybe someone else shaved the deputy commissioner – possibly a younger woman, with an untrembling hand.

‘In summary,’ the detective was saying to Dhar, ‘I don’t suppose you know who
all
your enemies are.’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I suppose we could start with
all
the prostitutes – not just the hijras – and most policemen.’

‘I would start with the hijras,’ Farrokh broke in; he was thinking like a screenwriter again.

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Detective Patel. ‘What do the hijras care if Dhar is or isn’t a member of this club? What they want is his penis and his testicles.’

‘You’re telling me,’ said Inspector Dhar.

‘I very much doubt that the murderer is a member of this club,’ said Dr Daruwalla.

‘Don’t rule that out,’ Dhar said.

‘I won’t,’ said Detective Patel. He gave both Dr Daruwalla and Inspector Dhar his card. ‘If you call me,’ he said to Dhar, ‘you better call me at home – I wouldn’t leave any messages at Crime Branch Headquarters. You know all about how we policemen can’t be trusted.’

‘Yes,’ the actor said. ‘I know.’

‘Excuse me, Detective Patel,’ said Dr Daruwalla. ‘Where did you find the two-rupee note?’

‘It was folded in Mr Lai’s mouth,’ the detective said.

When the deputy commissioner had departed, the two friends sat listening to the late-afternoon sounds.

They were so absorbed in their listening that they didn’t notice the prolonged departure of the second Mrs Dogar. She left her table, then she stopped to look over her shoulder at the unresponsive Inspector Dhar, then she walked only a little farther before she stopped and looked again, then she looked
again
.

Watching her, Mr Sethna concluded that she was insane. Mr Sethna observed every stage of the second Mrs Dogar’s most complicated exit from the Ladies’ Garden and the dining room, but Inspector Dhar didn’t appear to see the woman at all. It interested the old steward that Mrs Dogar had stared so exclusively at Dhar; not once had her gaze shifted to Dr Daruwalla, and never to the policeman – but then, Detective Patel had kept his back to her.

Mr Sethna also watched the deputy commissioner make a phone call from the booth in the foyer. The detective was momentarily distracted by Mrs Dogar’s agitated condition; as the woman marched to the driveway and ordered the parking-lot attendant to fetch her car, the policeman appeared to make note of her attractiveness, her haste and her expression of something like rage. Perhaps the deputy commissioner was considering whether or not this woman looked like someone who’d recently clubbed an old man to death; in truth, thought Mr Sethna, the second Mrs Dogar looked as if she
wanted
to murder someone. But Detective Patel paid only passing attention to Mrs Dogar; he seemed more interested in his phone call.

The apparent topic of conversation was so domestic that it surpassed even the interest of Mr Sethna, who eavesdropped only long enough to assure himself that D.C.P. Patel was not engaged in police business. Mr Sethna was certain that the policeman was talking to his wife.

‘No, sweetie,’ said the detective, who then listened patiently to the receiver before he said, ‘No, I would have told you, sweetie.’ Then he listened again. ‘Yes, of course I promise, sweetie,’ he finally said. For a while, the deputy commissioner shut his eyes while he listened to the receiver; in observing him, Mr Sethna felt extremely self-satisfied that he’d never married. ‘But I
haven’t
dismissed your theories!’ Detective Patel suddenly said into the phone. ‘No, of course I’m not angry,’ he added with resignation. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded angry, sweetie.’

Not even as veteran a snoop as Mr Sethna could stand another word; he decided to permit the policeman to continue his conversation in privacy. It was only a mild surprise to Mr Sethna that D.C.P. Patel spoke English to his own wife. The old steward concluded that this was why the detective’s English was above average – practice. But at what a demeaning cost! Mr Sethna returned to that part of the dining room nearest the Ladies’ Garden, and to his lengthy observation of Dr Daruwalla and Inspector Dhar. They were still absorbed in the late-afternoon sounds. They weren’t much fun to observe, but at least they weren’t married to each other.

The tennis balls were back in action, and someone was snoring in the reading room; the busboys, making their typical clatter, had cleared every dining table but the table where the doctor and the actor sat with their cold tea. (Detective Patel had polished off all the sweets.) The sounds of the Duckworth Club spoke distinctly for themselves: the sharp shuffling of a fresh deck of cards, the crisp contact of the snooker balls, the steady sweeping out of the dance hall — it was swept at the same time every afternoon, although there were rarely dances on weeknights. There was also a ceaseless insanity to the patter and squeak of the shoes on the polished hardwood of the badminton court; compared to the frenzy of this activity, the dull whacking of the shuttlecock sounded like someone killing flies.

Dr Daruwalla believed that this wasn’t a good moment to give Inspector Dhar more bad news. The murder and the unusual death threat were quite enough for one afternoon. ‘Perhaps you should come home for supper,’ Dr Daruwalla said to his friend.

‘Yes, I’d like that, Farrokh,’ Dhar said. Normally, he might have said something snide about Dr Daruwalla’s use of the word ‘supper.’ Dhar disliked too loose a use of the word; in the actor’s fussy opinion, the word should be reserved for either a light meal in the early evening or for an after-the-theater repast. In Dhar’s opinion, North Americans tended to use the word as if it were interchangeable with dinner; Farrokh felt that supper
was
interchangeable with dinner.

There was something fatherly in his voice to Dhar when Dr Daruwalla adopted a critical tone. He said to the actor, ‘It’s quite out of character for you to sound off in such accentless English to a total stranger.’

‘Policemen aren’t exactly strangers to me,’ Dhar said. ‘They talk to each other but they never talk to the press.’

‘Oh, I forgot you knew everything about police business!’ Farrokh said sarcastically. But Inspector Dhar was back in character; he was good at keeping quiet. Dr Daruwalla regretted what he’d said. He’d wanted to say, Oh, dear boy, you may not be the hero of
this
story! Now he wanted to say, Dear boy, there are people who love you –
I
love you. You surely must know I do!

But instead, Dr Daruwalla said, ‘As guest chairman of the Membership Committee, I feel I must inform the committeemen of this threat to the other members. We’ll vote on it, but I feel there will be strong opinion that the other members should know.’

‘Of course they should know,’ said Inspector Dhar. ‘And I should
not
remain a member,’ he said.

It was unthinkable to Dr Daruwalla that an extortionist and a murderer could so swiftly and concretely disrupt the most cherished aspect of the character of the Duckworth Club, which (in his view) was a deep, almost remote sense of privacy, as if Duckworthians were afforded the luxury of not actually living in Bombay.