Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (30 page)

Malik was a
white-collar criminal who was well capable of holding down a serious job.
However, as a young man he had quickly discovered that he possessed enough
charm and native cunning to con naive people, particularly old ladies, out of
large sums of money, without having to exert a great deal of effort.

His first scam
was not unique to Mumbai. All he required was a small printing press, some
headed notepaper and a list of widows. Once he’d obtained the latter–on a daily
basis from the obituary column of the
Mumbai
Times
–he was in business. He specialized in selling shares in overseas
companies that didn’t exist. This provided him with a regular income, until he
tried to sell some stock to the widow of another conman.

When Malik was
charged, he admitted to having made over a million rupees, but the Commissioner
suspected that it was a far larger sum; after all, how many widows were willing
to admit they had been taken in by Malik’s charms? Malik was sentenced to five
years in Pune jail and Kumar lost touch with him for nearly a decade.

Malik was back
inside again after he’d been arrested for selling flats in a high-rise
apartment block on land that turned out to be a swamp. This time the judge sent
him down for seven years.

Another decade
passed.

Malik’s third
offense was even more ingenious, and resulted in an even longer sentence. He
appointed himself a life-assurance broker. Unfortunately the annuities never
matured–except for Malik.

His barrister
suggested to the presiding judge that his client had cleared around twelve
million rupees, but as little of the money was available to be given back to
those who were still living, the judge felt that twelve years would be a fair
return on this particular policy.

By the time the
Commissioner had turned the last page, he was still puzzled as to why Malik
could possibly want to see him. He pressed a button under the desk to alert his
secretary that he was ready for his next appointment.

Commissioner
Kumar glanced up as the door opened. He stared at a man he barely recognized.
Malik must have been ten years younger than he was, but they would have passed
for contemporaries.

Although
Malik’s file stated that he was five foot nine and weighed a hundred and
seventy pounds, the man who walked into his office did not fit that
description.

The old con’s
skin was lined and parched, and his back was hunched, making him appear small
and shrunken.

Half a life
spent in jail had taken its toll.

He wore a white
shirt that was frayed at the collar and cuffs, and a baggy suit that might at
some time in the past have been tailored for him. This was not the
selfconfident
man the Commissioner had first arrested over
thirty years ago, a man who always had an answer for everything.

Malik gave the
Commissioner a weak smile as he came to a halt in front of him.

“Thank you for
agreeing to see me, sir,” he said quietly. Even his voice had shrunk.

The
Commissioner nodded, waved him to the chair on the other side of his desk and
said, “I have a busy morning ahead of me, Malik, so perhaps you could get
straight to the point.”

“Of course,
sir,” Malik replied, even before he’d sat down. “It’s simply that I am looking
for a job.”

The
Commissioner had considered many reasons why Malik might want to see him, but
seeking employment had not been among them.

“Before you
laugh,” continued Malik, “please allow me to put my case.”

The
Commissioner leaned back in his chair and placed the tips of his fingers
together, as if in silent prayer.

“I have spent
too much of my life in jail,” said Malik. He paused. “I’ve recently reached the
age of fifty, and can assure you that I have no desire to go back inside
again.”

The
Commissioner nodded, but didn’t express an opinion.

“Last week,
Commissioner,” continued Malik, “you addressed the annual general meeting of
the Mumbai Chamber of Commerce. I read your speech in the
Times
with great interest. You expressed the view to the leading
businessmen of this city that they should consider employing people who had
served a prison sentence–give them a second chance, you said, or they will
simply take the easy option and return to a life of crime. A sentiment I was
able to agree with.”

“But I also
pointed out,” interrupted the Commissioner, “that I was only referring to first
offenders.”

“Exactly my
point,” countered Malik.

“If you
consider there is a problem for first offenders, just imagine what I come up
against, when I apply for a job.” Malik paused and straightened his tie before
he continued. “If your speech was sincere and not just delivered for public
consumption, then perhaps you should heed your own advice, and lead by
example.”

“And what did
you have in mind?” asked the Commissioner.
“Because you
certainly do not possess the ideal qualifications for police work.”

Malik ignored
the Commissioners sarcasm and plowed boldly on. “In the same paper in which
your speech was reported, there was an advertisement for a filing clerk in your
records department. I began life as a clerk for the P & O Shipping Company,
right here in this city. I think that you will find, were you to check the
records, that
I carried out that job with enthusiasm and
efficiency, and on that occasion left with an unblemished record.”

“But that was
over thirty years ago,” said the Commissioner, not needing to refer to the file
in front of him.

“Then I will
have to end my career as I began it,” replied Malik, “as a filing clerk.”

The
Commissioner didn’t speak for some time while he considered Malik’s
proposition. He finally leaned forward, placed his hands on the desk, and said,
“I will give some thought to your request, Malik. Does my secretary know how to
get in touch with you?”

“Yes, she does,
sir,” Malik replied as he rose from his place. “Every night I can be found at
the YMCA hostel on Victoria Street.” He paused. “I have no plans to move in the
near future.”

Over lunch in
the officers’ dining room, Commissioner Kumar briefed his deputy on the meeting
with Malik.

Anil Khan burst
out laughing. “Hoist with your own petard, Chief,” he said with considerable
feeling.

“True enough,”
replied the Commissioner as he helped himself to another spoonful of rice, “and
when you take over from me next year, this little episode will serve to remind
you of the consequences of your words, especially when they are delivered in
public.”

“Does that mean
that you are seriously considering employing the man?” asked Khan, as he stared
across the table at his boss.

“Possibly,”
replied Kumar. “Why, are you against the idea?”

“You are in
your last year as Commissioner,” Khan reminded him, “with an enviable
reputation for probity and competence. Why take a risk that might jeopardize
such a fine record?”

“I feel that’s
a little over-dramatic,” said the Commissioner. “Malik’s a broken man, which
you would have seen for yourself had you been present at the meeting.”

“Once a conman,
always a conman,” replied Khan. “So I repeat, why take the risk?”

“Perhaps
because it’s the correct course of action, given the circumstances,” replied
the Commissioner. “If I turn Malik down, why should anyone bother to listen to
my opinion ever again?”

“But a filing
clerk’s job is particularly sensitive,” remonstrated Khan. “Malik would have
access to information that should only be seen by those whose discretion is not
in question.”

“I’ve already
considered that,” said the Commissioner. “We have two filing departments: one
in this building, which is, as you rightly point out, highly sensitive, and
another based on the outskirts of the city that deals only with dead cases,
which have either been solved or are no longer being followed up.”

“I still
wouldn’t risk it,” said Khan as he placed his knife and fork back on the plate.

“I’ve cut down
the risk even more,” responded the Commissioner. “I’m going to place Malik on a
month’s trial. A supervisor will keep a close eye on him, and then report
directly back to me. Should Malik put so much as a toe over the line, he’ll be
back on the street the same day.”

“I still
wouldn’t risk it,” repeated Khan.

On the first of
the month, Raj Malik reported for work at the police records department on 47
Mahatma Drive, on the outskirts of the city. His hours were eight a.m. to six
p.m. six days a week, with a salary of nine hundred rupees a month.

Malik’s daily
responsibility was to visit every police station in the outer district, on his
bicycle, and collect any dead files.

He would then
pass them over to his supervisor, who would file them away in the basement,
rarely to be referred to again.

At the end of
his first month, Malik’s supervisor reported back to the Commissioner as
instructed. “I wish I had a dozen
Maliks
,” he told
the chief. “Unlike today’s young, he’s always on time, doesn’t take extended
breaks, and never complains when you ask him to do something not covered by his
job description. With your permission,” the supervisor added, “I would like to
put his pay up to one thousand rupees a month.”

The
supervisor’s second report was even more glowing. “1 lost a member of staff
through illness last week, and Malik took over several of his responsibilities
and somehow still managed to cover both jobs.”

The
supervisor’s report at the end of Malik’s third month was so flattering that
when the Commissioner addressed the annual dinner of the Mumbai Rotary Club,
not only did he appeal to its members to reach out their hands to ex-offenders,
but he went on to assure his audience that he had heeded his own advice and
been able to prove one of his long-held theories. If you give former prisoners
a real chance, they won’t reoffend.

The following
day, the
Mumbai Times
ran the
headline:

COMMISSIONER LEADS BY EXAMPLE

Kumar’s
sentiments were reported in great detail, alongside a photo of Raj Malik, with
the byline,
a reformed character.
The
Commissioner placed the article on his deputy’s desk.

Malik waited
until his supervisor had left for his lunch break. He always drove home just
after twelve and spent an hour with his wife. Malik watched as his boss’s car
disappeared out of sight before he slipped back down to the basement. He placed
a stack of papers that needed to be filed on the corner of the counter, just in
case someone came in unannounced and asked what he was up to.

He then walked
across to the old wooden cabinets that were stacked one on top of the other. He
bent down and pulled open one of the files. After nine months he had reached
the letter P and still hadn’t come across the ideal candidate. He had already
thumbed through dozens of
Patels
during the previous
week, dismissing most of them as either irrelevant or inconsequential for what
he had in mind. That was until he reached one with the first initials H.H.

Malik removed
the thick file from the cabinet, placed it on the counter top and slowly began
to turn the pages. He didn’t need to read the details a second time to know
that he’d hit the jackpot.

He scribbled
down the name, address and telephone numbers neatly on a slip of paper, and
then returned the file to its place in the cabinet. He smiled. During his tea
break, Malik would call and make an appointment to see Mr. H.H. Patel.

With only a few
weeks to go before his retirement, Commissioner Kumar had quite forgotten about
his prodigy. That was until he received a call from Mr. H.H. Patel, one of the
city’s leading bankers. Mr. Patel was requesting an urgent meeting with the
Commissioner–to discuss a personal matter.

Commissioner
Kumar looked upon H.H. not only as a friend, but as a man of integrity, and
certainly not someone who would use the word urgent without good reason.

Kumar rose from
behind his desk as Mr. Patel entered the room. He ushered his old friend to a
comfortable chair in the corner of the room and pressed a button under his
desk. Moments later his secretary appeared with a pot of tea and a plate of
Bath Oliver biscuits. The Deputy Commissioner followed in her wake.

“I thought it
might be wise to have Anil Khan present for this meeting, H.H., as he will be
taking over from me in a few weeks’ time.”

“I know of your
reputation, of course,” said Mr. Patel, shaking Khan warmly by the hand, “and I
am delighted that you are able to join us.”

Once the
secretary had served the three men with tea, she left the room.

The moment the
door was closed, Commissioner Kumar dispensed with any more small talk. “You
asked to see me urgently, H.H., concerning a personal matter.’