A Son of the Circus

arrested her—have you?”

“Quite so,” Patel said. “Something is wrong.”

“I told you he’d know who it was,” Nancy told her husband.

“Yes, sweetie,” the detective said. “But it’s not a crime for Rahul to be Mrs. Dogar.”

“How did you find out?” Dr. Daruwalla asked the deputy commissioner. “Of course—the list of new members!”

“It was a good place to start,” said Detective Patel. “The estate of Promila Rai was inherited by her niece, not her nephew.”

“I never knew there was a niece,” Farrokh said.

“There wasn’t,” Patel replied. “Rahul, her nephew, went to London. He came back as her niece. He even gave himself her name—Promila. It’s perfectly legal to change your sex in England. It’s perfectly legal to change your name—even in India.”

“Rahul Rai married Mr. Dogar?” Farrokh asked.

“That was perfectly legal, too,” the detective replied. “Don’t you see, Doctor? The fact that you and Dhar could verify that Rahul was there in Goa, at the Hotel Bardez, does not confirm that Rahul was ever at the scene of the crime. And it would not be believable for Nancy to physically identify Mrs. Dogar as the Rahul of twenty years ago. As she told you, she hardly saw Rahul.”

“Besides, he had a penis then,” Nancy said.

“But, in all these killings, are there no fingerprints?” Farrokh asked.

“In the cases of the prostitutes, there are hundreds of fingerprints,” D.C.P. Patel replied.

“What about the putter that killed Mr. Lal?” Dhar asked.

“Oh, very good!” the deputy commissioner said. “But the putter was wiped clean.”

“Those drawings!” Dr. Daruwalla said. “Rahul always fancied himself an artist. Surely Mrs. Dogar must have some drawings around.”

“That would be convenient,” Patel replied. “But this very morning I sent someone to the Dogar house—to bribe the servants.” The detective paused and looked directly at Dhar. “There were no drawings. There wasn’t even a typewriter.”

“There must be ten typewriters in this club,” Dhar said. “The typed messages on the two-rupee notes—were they all typed on the same machine?”

“Oh, what a very good question,” said Detective Patel. “So far, three messages—two different typewriters. Both in this club.”

“Mrs. Dogar!” Dr. Daruwalla said again.

“Be quiet, please,” the deputy commissioner said. He suddenly pointed to Mr. Sethna. The old steward attempted to hide his face with his silver serving tray, but Detective Patel was too fast for him. “What is that old snoop’s name?” the detective asked Dr. Daruwalla.

“That’s Mr. Sethna,” Farrokh said.

“Please come here, Mr. Sethna,” the deputy commissioner said. He didn’t raise his voice or look in the steward’s direction; when Mr. Sethna pretended that he hadn’t heard, the detective said, “You heard me.” Mr. Sethna did as he was told.

“Since you’ve been listening to us—Wednesday you listened to my telephone conversation with my wife—you will kindly give me your assistance,” Detective Patel said.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Sethna said.

“Every time Mrs. Dogar is in this club, you call me,” the deputy commissioner said. “Every reservation she makes, lunch or dinner, you let me know about it. Every little thing you know about her, I want to know, too—am I making myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear, sir,” said Mr. Sethna. “She said her husband is peeing on the flowers and that one night he’ll try to dive into the empty pool,” Mr. Sethna babbled. “She said he’s senile—and a drunk.”

“You can tell me later,” Detective Patel said. “I have just three questions. Then I want you to go far enough away from this table so that you don’t hear another word.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Sethna said.

“On the morning of Mr. Lal’s death… I don’t mean lunch, because I already know that she was here for lunch, but in the morning, well before lunch… did you see Mrs. Dogar here? That’s the first question,” the deputy commissioner said.

“Yes, she was here for a bit of breakfast—very early,” Mr. Sethna informed the detective. “She likes to walk on the golf course before the golfers are playing. Then she has a little fruit before she does her fitness training.”

“Second question,” Patel said. “Between breakfast and lunch, did she change what she was wearing?”

“Yes, sir,” the old steward replied. “She was wearing a dress, rather wrinkled, at breakfast. For lunch she wore a sari.”

“Third question,” the deputy commissioner said. He handed Mr. Sethna his card—his telephone number at Crime Branch Headquarters and his home number. “Were her shoes wet? I mean, for breakfast.”

“I didn’t notice,” Mr. Sethna admitted.

“Try to improve your noticing,” Detective Patel told the old steward. “Now, go far away from this table—I mean it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sethna, already doing what he did best—gliding away. Nor did the prying old steward approach the Ladies’ Garden again during the foursome’s solemn lunch. But even at a considerable distance, Mr. Sethna was able to observe that the woman with the fuzzy navel ate very little; her rude husband ate half her food and all his own. At a proper club, people would be forbidden to eat off one another’s plates, Mr. Sethna thought. He went into the men’s room and stood in front of the full-length mirror, in which he appeared to be trembling. He held the silver serving tray in one hand and pounded it against the heel of his other hand, but he felt little satisfaction from the sound it made—a muffled bonging. He hated policemen, the old steward decided.

Farrokh Remembers the Crow

In the Ladies’ Garden, the early-afternoon sun had slanted past the apex of the bower and no longer touched the lunchers’ heads; the rays of sunlight now penetrated the wall of flowers only in patches. The tablecloth was mottled by this intermittent light, and Dr. Daruwalla watched a tiny diamond of the sun—it was reflected in the bottom half of the ballpoint pen. The brilliantly white point of light shone in the doctor’s eye as he pecked at his soggy stir-fry; the limp, dull-colored vegetables reminded him of the monsoon.

At that time of year, the Ladies’ Garden would be strewn with torn petals of the bougainvillea, the skeletal vines still clinging to the bower—with the brown sky showing through and the rain coming through. All the wicker and rattan furniture would be heaped upon itself in the ballroom, for there were no balls in the monsoon season. The golfers would sit drinking in the clubhouse bar, forlornly staring out the streaked windows at the sodden fairways. Wild clumps of the dead garden would be blowing across the greens.

The food on Chinese Day always depressed Farrokh, but there was something about the winking sun that was reflected in the bottom half of the silver ballpoint pen, something that both caught and held the doctor’s attention; something flickered in his memory. What was it? That reflected light, that shiny something… it was as small and lonely but as absolutely a presence as the far-off light of another airplane when you were flying across the miles of darkness over the Arabian Sea at night.

Farrokh stared into the dining room and at the open veranda, through which the shitting crow had flown. Dr. Daruwalla looked at the ceiling fan where the crow had landed; the doctor kept watching the fan, as if he were waiting for it to falter, or for the mechanism to catch on something—that shiny something which the shitting crow had held in its beak. Whatever it was, it was too big for the crow to have swallowed, Dr. Daruwalla thought. He took a wild guess.

“I know what it was,” the doctor said aloud. No one else had been talking; the others just looked at him as