Bombay Monsoon, page 27
“Do you know his full name?” he asked.
I struggled to recall. The surname was definitely Goswami. I remembered it because it sounded like “go, swami.”
“His first name was long and began with a D.”
Harlan reached into his briefcase, which was resting on the floor at his feet. He dug inside, then produced a thin booklet. He rose and joined me on my side of the desk.
“Is it one of these?” he asked, running his fingers down a column of Indian names. These all started with the letter D.
“There,” I said, pointing to the winner. “Debajyoti. Debajyoti Goswami. I remember Willy telling me. He said it was a beautiful Bengali name. This guy is from Calcutta originally.”
“You’re sure?” I was positive. He retook his seat. “Okay, is there anything else about him you can tell me?” he asked.
I thought back to my first impression of him. This was easy. “Chhotu? He’s in his forties, obese,” I said. “Doesn’t fit into airplane seats, so he always travels by train or car.”
Harlan took down the information in his notes.
“Claims he studied at Oxford and worked in Manchester and Toronto. And he speaks with what the Indians call a haw-haw accent. Veddy British, in an exaggerated, almost comical way. Sounds like George Sanders.”
Harlan said he’d contact his office back home, as well as Ranjit in Poona. He’d request as much information on Chhotu as they could find. He wrote some more before leaning back in his chair and regarding me with an invasive stare. “And that brings us to your Sushmita.”
I gave him as much history as I knew. I described the way Willy had tried to save her father—who’d been a scientist of some kind—from cancer, and that she’d inherited the two properties from him. Yes, I left out two important details. One, that her father had taught in Lonavala at the naval school and, two, that Sushmita had actually inherited a third property, our love nest in the very same Lonavala. Why had I kept that information to myself? Obviously because I wasn’t sure things were over between us. If, by some miracle, this whole thing got straightened out, I wanted the lifeline to the bungalow to be there. I might have to reveal all to Harlan at some point but, for the moment, it was my secret.
I was sure she hadn’t told Willy about the place. It was her childhood home. And, of course, she was well aware that I knew about it. If they were hiding there, I could easily lead the police to them. No, Willy didn’t know about the bungalow.
Harlan then turned to the subject of Willy.
“He’s Belgian,” I said. “I don’t know where he was born, but he claimed he was in the same class as Jacques Brel in Brussels. The Institut Saint-something.”
“That helps.” He made a note.
“He speaks French, Flemish, English, and German. Probably some Hindi and Marathi.”
“We knew that. But we can’t locate any evidence of him in Belgian records. Maybe the school name will help. Go on.”
Willy smoked Gauloises Bleues and liked wine and whisky. Had two cars: a white Mercedes, which the police had taken after it was stranded in Kharadi, and a blue Ambassador. I gave Harlan the names of all the servants I’d observed, both in Bombay and Poona. But I didn’t know their family names, so I doubted that would help.
“You’re sure the houses are hers, not Smets’s?”
I felt I was betraying her. “Yes,” I croaked. “Hers. The money and—I’m pretty sure—everything else is his.”
“Did you see any evidence of his business dealings in the Poona house?” he asked.
I tried to recall. Nothing came to mind except his meetings with Chhotu. Then I remembered. “There was an Australian guy named Clive who came to the house one day. There seemed to be some tension between them.”
“Do you know Clive’s last name?”
“Afraid not. He looked fit, about thirty, with dark hair.”
Harlan said he’d try to check on Australians and New Zealanders named Clive who were in the country. Maybe even South Africans.
“You don’t trust my diagnosis of Australian?” I asked.
“Just covering the bases,” he said. “Any other business stuff?”
“He keeps several ledgers in his private office. Different colors. Nothing written on the outside.”
“Those were gone when the police searched the house. Another dead end.”
“You know, there was another ledger,” I said. “Not sure what it means, but Willy has his drivers keep a petrol record in the glove compartment of the Ambassador. I had to sign it once when the driver filled up the tank.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Just that the car has traveled a lot. From Bombay to Srinagar and all points between. Wonder why he doesn’t fly. The roads are awful to drive.”
“Maybe he’s afraid of flying. More likely he doesn’t want to leave a record of where he goes.”
I gave Harlan the cities I remembered and he wrote them down.
“He’s slippery, I’ll give him that. Maybe that’s why the Indians have never been able to put him behind bars.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What if he’s been to prison in India after all?”
“We’ve checked. He hasn’t.”
“What if Smets isn’t his real name?”
Harlan stared me down. “What are you driving at?”
“When the police were after me, he told me I didn’t want to end up in an Indian prison. Ever. He insisted. Said, ‘trust me.’ As if he knew from personal experience.”
“Interesting. We can look into it again. But without a name, it’s going to take time and a lot of luck.”
“I have a name.”
SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1975, 8:19 P.M.
Birgit and Harlan came to my room for dinner. Ranjit was still in Poona. Harlan insisted it was safer to stay away from the restaurants and permit room. And, of course, it would be foolhardy for us to be seen together at this point.
“They already know about you and Birgit,” he said. “Probably about me and Ranjit, too. At least we have to assume that.”
After our meal, we relaxed, me on the bed—no shoes—Birgit on the armchair, and Harlan at the desk. He wanted to know how Willy had figured out that Birgit was an agent.
I had no idea. “He plays the generous, avuncular type. But clearly, he’s sharp. I was convinced he suspected nothing about me and … about me and Sushmita.” I added that last bit with no small measure of shame. “Not sure when he figured it out, but I doubt Chhotu told him.”
“Why’s that?” asked Harlan.
“Because he tried to blackmail us early on. He saw her coming from my room one night and slipped me a blackmail note.”
“So? Why wouldn’t he turn you in to Willy when you refused to play ball?”
Birgit butted in. “Because it would amount to suicide for Chhotu if he did. Danny and Sushmita could have shown Willy the note, isn’t that right, Danny?”
“Exactly.”
“Not very wise of Chhotu to put his threat in writing, especially since he was withholding the information from Willy.”
“Do you think we can use that against him?” asked Harlan. “You know, turn Willy against him.”
“Afraid not. Sushmita burned the letter when I showed it to her. She was afraid Willy might find it.”
“So you two bluffed Chhotu, and he bought it? Bad luck. We might have been able to use that.”
We were at a dead end with Chhotu. No way to know where he was. But even if we had known, the blackmail note had lost its leverage against him. We had no leads on how to find him or Willy. But I had an idea.
“Kathmandu. The king.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
MONDAY, AUGUST 25, 1975, 9:53 A.M.
Ranjit managed to get himself out of Poona and made it back to Bombay. Harlan and I briefed him on the Wicked Walrus. His plan was to deliver a bag of women’s underwear to the king, Dhonu. Panties. Ranjit’s instructions were to hand over the bag and ask for Willy’s samples.
“He’s not going to be expecting a bag full of girls’ chuddies,” said Ranjit, “but I believe he’ll assume there’s been a miscommunication with Smets. He’ll want to contact him.”
“He might not know where Smets is right now,” I said.
“True,” said Harlan. “But it’s either this or wait until he resurfaces eventually.”
An hour later, Ranjit was packed and ready to leave for Kathmandu. He carried a small bag with eleven pairs of ladies’ underwear inside.
Harlan had two updates for Birgit and me.
“Interpol has confirmed that the girl—Sushmita—arrived in London on August 20. She was traveling alone.”
Birgit waited a moment, as if she felt I had first dibs when it came to discussing Sushmita. I’d been doing everything I could to keep her out of my mind, without success, but this news set all kinds of emotions and doubts to roiling in my chest. I wondered if she’d been in on the assassination plot with Willy and Chhotu, if she’d been shipped off to London for her own protection or to do Willy’s bidding, and if she’d been faking it when she slept with me. Hell, maybe she was the ringleader—what did I know?
Or did she truly want to be with me? What if she loved me, even as she’d refused to say it? What if she’d been tricked? Sent away against her will?
“Has she been arrested?” I asked.
“No. They’re watching her in case Smets shows.”
“Do they know if he’s left India?” asked Birgit.
Harlan shook his head. “But he might have phony passports. Or maybe he slipped over the border to Nepal or Bangladesh. Even Pakistan. And there’re plenty of places to hide in this country. He has a house here and in Poona. Maybe he’s got more we don’t know about.”
They looked to me, not out of suspicion, but because I knew Willy better than they did. I urged myself to maintain my straight face, but all I could think of was her. That was probably the best way to disguise my guilt.
“You said you had two updates for us,” said Birgit. “What’s the second one?”
“Thanks to Dan, we now know that Willy Smets is an assumed name. That’s why we could find no trace of him in Belgium. His real name is Pier Mertens. And we know that he served time in an Indian prison for drug smuggling twenty years ago.”
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27, 1975, 9:02 P.M.
“Okay, let’s hear it,” said Harlan. We were all gathered in his room again.
“You already know Dhonu was not there,” said Ranjit, briefing us on his trip to Kathmandu. “In fact, the shop was closed down. No placard. No reason given. I can’t say for sure if anyone was watching, but if so, they were looking for Danny, not a North Indian tourist.”
“Sounds like Willy’s folding tents,” said Harlan. “At least for now.”
Ranjit continued. “In case someone was watching, I made a big show of staring at the goralog. Like a villager who never saw one before. I roamed around for an hour, then returned to the airport via the red-light district in Thamel.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he’s been trained properly,” said Harlan. “In case he was being followed.”
We let the news sink in for a long moment. Then Harlan asked for ideas.
“Obviously, we continue to monitor the airports, train stations, and border crossings with the help of the CBI and Interpol,” said Birgit.
Ranjit frowned. “It’s easy to bribe your way over the border. A couple hundred rupees is all you need.”
“And he might be happy to wait us out somewhere,” added Harlan. “You have anything to add, Dan? Any idea where he might be?”
I thought for a long moment before answering. “No,” I said. “None at all.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1975, 11:15 A.M.
With the trail cold, Harlan flew out of Bombay for parts unknown—maybe Delhi—assuring me he wasn’t giving up on finding Willy and Chhotu. He’d be in touch. Birgit also shipped out, back to the States, and Ranjit returned to his post in Delhi until something developed. Me? I got the locks changed on my door and moved back into my Sagar Darshan flat.
I hoped that Willy, Chhotu, and Bikas were far from Bombay. Still, I looked over my shoulder at every turn, eyed every motorcyclist and blue Ambassador that crossed my path. I didn’t need to worry about the white Mercedes; the police had impounded it the night Chhotu tried to kill me. And, to be sure no one entered my flat without my knowing it, I attached a small piece of cello tape to the doorjamb near the top each time I left home. I cut the strip halfway so that it would tear if someone opened the door. That way, it couldn’t re-stick itself to the wood without leaving evidence that it had been opened.
And I even visited my old pal Inspector Lokhande. We had a long talk in his office, where I told him about my escape in Poona. I gave him all the details I could. That Bikas was working for Willy, who had ordered the hit on Lokhande’s nephew. He squinted at me.
“So, if this Bikas fellow was working for Smets, tell me, what was he looking for in your flat?”
“Evidence of my …”
“Your love affair with that mulgi? I tell you, Dan, I don’t like that. I don’t approve.”
I said nothing. He wouldn’t have understood the way I felt about her. He probably assumed I was just after a good time.
“Look, Dan,” he said. “If I had a photo of this Bikas, I’d have my men ask around. See if he’s been in the area. We might have a chance of catching him.”
I drew a sigh. “Inspector, if I had a photo of him, I’d share it with you. But I swear I don’t.”
I went back to the office. It was awkward at first. Everyone had witnessed the scene when Frank pretended to fire me. He made up a story that I’d begged for my job back and he’d decided to give me another chance.
That didn’t mean he was happy with the dud of an ending to my surefire Pulitzer story. I updated him on everything that had happened, including Chhotu and Bikas’s failed attempt on my life. Yes, I told him, Bikas turned out to have been part of the story all along.
“The police are looking for Smets here and abroad,” I said. “Be patient. They’ll get him, and we’ll have a great ending to this story.”
He shook his head in disgust, and I sensed I’d never win back his confidence.
I took up my film industry piece again and began making calls. It was not going to be my greatest achievement. Even I found it dull. Nobody would agree to go on record with anything that wasn’t praise for the prime minister’s strong response to the “internal disturbances.” On the other hand, the starlets all wanted to know if I could introduce them to producers. The actors wanted to meet Faye Dunaway or Ali MacGraw.
When I showed Frank what I had, he was lukewarm. He said it had potential, but fell flat after the part about Mukesh Sharma, the director who’d been arrested. He wanted me to try for more stars, more arrests. And I’d blown my chance with Shashi Kapoor and Jeetendra.
“Get me a beautiful actress,” he said. “Put some sex appeal into the story.”
I went back to my desk and tried again to reach Shabana Azmi. As I was running through my contacts, wondering which ones might have made a film with her, Janice appeared for our afternoon appointment for tea.
“How are you doing?” she asked. I hated seeing the pity in her eyes.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Say, does your Shirish happen to know anyone who might know someone who knows Shabana Azmi? Or any other top female star?”
“Afraid not,” she said. “Why her?”
“For my story. Frank says I need more sex appeal.”
“Isn’t there something else you can give him? What about that bomber story? He killed a CID officer, after all.”
“Yeah. I lost the film. It’s gone. Without it, it’s just me claiming I met a terrorist. And it all ties back into Willy Smets now. I can’t write it until we have some kind of ending.”
She finished her tea and patted me on the shoulder. “I knew you were lying,” she whispered. “You did have film. Try to find it, Dan.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1975, 12:19 P.M.
Another week passed. I was struggling with my film story, but I got a lead on Shabana Azmi’s hairstylist who worked at the beauty parlor in the Sun-n-Sand Hotel in Juhu. I planned on asking her to pass a message to the star.
Keeping my head down and working hard, for the past week, I’d been taking Janice’s advice. I’d been thinking about where the roll of film could be. The two most likely scenarios presented themselves again and again: either I’d lost the film wrestling with Sushmita on the hood of her car atop the ghats, or I’d left it in my wet pants that were thrown away by Willy’s Poona staff the next day. But only if I hadn’t actually transferred the film to my dry pants as I changed in the rain. I thought I had; I just couldn’t remember. I’d rehashed that trip so many times that I was dreaming about it. It was invading my thoughts when I was working, running, eating. Everywhere, at any time, it sprang up unannounced. But it wasn’t helping. I still couldn’t remember.
The thing about living in India with household help is that there’s always an extra pair of eyes to search for missing things. Of course, some might say that there’s also an extra pair of hands to palm items. But, in my experience, I hadn’t heard of any servants actually stealing, despite the warnings I’d received to the contrary.
I no longer had a servant to help me search for the missing roll of film. And even if I’d had one, I was sure it had been lost elsewhere. Not in my Sagar Darshan flat. I distinctly remembered having put it in my pocket as Sushmita and I set off for our first fateful trip to Poona.
I left the office early that Tuesday, hoping to work on my film story in the quiet of my own flat. Arriving back at Sagar Darshan around noon, I asked the durwan and liftman, as was my new habit, if anyone had been looking for me. Then I checked the cello tape above my door. Still there. Undisturbed. I slipped inside and locked myself up tight.
