The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown (19 page)

‘Well, it's just that… St Francis and St Xavier are old rivals…' Rangwalla's voice tailed off.

D'Souza's eyes narrowed. ‘That damned Lobo is accusing
me
?' His face swelled with rage. He jabbed Rangwalla in the chest. ‘Now you listen to me, you blue-footed booby. I had nothing to do with Lobo's damned bust. He who lives in a glass house should not be throwing stones. He's always had it in for me. Even when we were in seminary together, he always had to throw his weight around. Well, you can go back and tell him that Brother D'Souza isn't warming his toilet seat for him any more!'

Rangwalla frowned. ‘Sir?'

But D'Souza had already turned on his heel.

Bulbul Kanodia's Bandstand bungalow was fronted by ornate gates, the ironwork sculpted into a classical image from Hindu mythology – Lord Hanuman, the monkey-headed god, chasing the sun which, as a child, he had believed to be a ripe mango.

The largest guard hitched up his black trousers beneath the pregnant swell of his stomach, unleashed a mouthful of scarlet betel fluid onto the sizzling tarmac, then tipped back his cap and stood with his hands on his hips staring, slack-jawed, at the surreal sight of the circus troupe gathered in the middle of the dusty road.

The troupe, in turn, stared up at the lavish three-storey, purpose-built, colonial-style bungalow that Bulbul Kanodia called home.

The bungalow was located on the same stretch of real estate as the homes of some of Bollywood's biggest stars – on the promenade, where, on sultry summer evenings, Mumbai's mega-rich stood on their breezy balconies drinking imported Colombian coffee and watching the sun set on the Arabian Sea. For this and other reasons the Bandstand was a popular venue for walkers and gawpers.

At the end of the kilometre-long promenade lay the Bandra Fort, built by the Portuguese in 1640 as a watchtower. Now it was employed by late-night lovers to canoodle – safely hidden from the eyes of disapproving elders – and by scores of roosting pigeons.

Chopra quelled the sudden feeling of nervousness pooling in his belly as the guards talked animatedly with Tiger Singh. Pedestrians swirled around them, a few pausing in their headlong dash along the promenade to cast curious glances at the motley crew.

Chopra knew that what he was doing might be classed as borderline criminal. He was, effectively, entering a man's home under false pretences, with the intention of conducting an illegal search. Had he still been a police officer this alone would have been grounds for instant dismissal… He took a deep breath and willed himself to calm.

Perhaps this was the essential difference between a police officer and a private detective.

One was bound by the law, whilst the other merely used the law as a guide.

As Chopra was quickly learning, the second way was sometimes the only way to get things done.

Eventually the guards led the troupe inside the compound, herding them through an alley that ran alongside the bungalow and out into a lavish garden. The garden had been set up with white marquees and strategically placed hors d'oeuvres tables, manned by staff in crisp, white waiters' outfits. A selection of well-heeled Mumbaikers trolled between the tables, sipping from champagne flutes. They all turned as the circus troupe was led through the garden to a specially built stage at the rear of the expansive lawn. A round of polite applause trailed the costumed performers as they clambered onto the stage. The audience, chattering good-naturedly, settled into rows of plastic chairs set out in front of the stage.

Chopra looked down on the sea of faces before him.

He felt absurdly self-conscious.

He transferred his gaze to Kanodia's bungalow, painted in shades of powder yellow and white. A cantilevered awning extended from the back of the house, beneath which trestle tables had been laid out, crammed with food for the luncheon scheduled for after the circus show. Standing to one side of the tables, partially obscured by a water fountain, was the largest birthday cake Chopra had ever seen, a ten-foot-tall, six-tiered confection in white chocolate. The base of the cake rested on a platform fitted with castors. The intention, he assumed, was to wheel it out later for a gala cake-cutting as the grand finale to the birthday party.

At that moment a paunchy man in a gleaming white jodhpuri suit emerged from the bungalow. Affixed to his arm was a fat woman in a shimmering blue sari. They were trailed by a hefty young girl in a frilly pink dress.

An energetic round of applause burst out as Kanodia and family took their places on a leather sofa placed before the stage.

Chopra felt himself flush once again as Kanodia's gaze ran over the gathered troupe. He felt sure Bulbul would recognise him. But the former jewel fence lingered on the tall clown for only a second, and then looked away.

‘Gentleladies and gentlemen,' Tiger Singh began, ‘welcome, one and all, to the Grand Trunk Circus!'

As they returned to the waiting rickshaw, Rangwalla turned to Poppy. ‘My instincts suggest that he is telling the truth. Chopra Sir also felt that this is most likely the work of an insider, not the St Francis school.'

Poppy looked genuinely alarmed at the possibility. ‘Oh, Abbas, do you really think it could have been one of my boys? But they look like such angels.'

Rangwalla bit down on his tongue.

He wanted to tell her that the reality of the world was that all the devils he had ever encountered had, at one time, been doted upon by their mothers as their ‘little angels'. But Poppy had a unique way of looking at things; she tended to believe the best of people. Rangwalla had no wish to puncture her balloon of optimism with the needle of his own cynicism.

‘Do you have anyone else that you suspect?' he asked instead. ‘At St Xavier, I mean. Have any of the students been acting suspiciously over the past couple of days? Going out of the way to make themselves heard? In my experience, children make very poor criminals. They need others to know how clever they have been.'

Poppy considered this, before shaking her head. ‘I cannot think of anyone in particular.'

‘Anything else out of the ordinary? Anything at all? Sometimes it is the smallest thing…'

Poppy bit her lip as she considered this. ‘I cannot think of anything—' She stopped, her brow crimping into a frown.

‘What is it?'

‘Well, there is one thing… but it has nothing to do with the theft.'

‘Please tell me.'

‘It's Mr Banarjee, the school secretary. The morning after the theft he took a turn. He has not been in to work since.' Poppy hesitated. ‘Well, the thing is… Mr Banarjee has not had a day off in the past forty years.'

‘I am not riding that thing,' hissed Chopra.

‘You do not have to ride it,' Bhiku the dwarf hissed back. ‘The whole point is that you do not
know
how to ride it.'

Chopra was awash with terror.

The circus performance had proceeded well. The flame-thrower and the sword-swallower had been a hit. Then Piyush, Master of Pythons, had strolled around the audience with an enormous serpent entwined around his shoulders, encouraging the tremulous nabobs to pat the creature. Ruma, the contortionist, had curled herself into a ball and allowed herself to be rolled around the stage before being locked up inside a tiny box, from which Tiger Singh had made her vanish.

Now it was time for the clown show… and Chopra was suffering from an acute case of stage fright.

‘What is the matter?' whispered Tiger Singh, who had come over to investigate the delay.

‘First he is too tall to be a dwarf, now he does not know how
not
to ride a unicycle!'

Bhiku glared daggers at Chopra.

‘Come now, Chopra,' said Tiger Singh encouragingly. ‘There is literally nothing to it.' He patted the reluctant clown on the shoulder and walked away.

Beneath the white make-up Chopra's face was burning with embarrassment as he picked up the unicycle and placed one foot on the pedals. He looked around and saw that even Kanodia was watching him intently.

Chopra did not believe in prayer, but for once he wished that there
was
a god he could pray to, preferably the kind who deigned to listen once in a while. He took a deep breath and put his other foot on the other pedal whilst simultaneously flinging out his arms to steady himself. For a second he teetered like a gyroscope, and then his feet began to pump the pedals and he began to circle around the stage…

A wave of delight arose inside him, obliterating all other thoughts.

‘I'm doing it!' he exclaimed. ‘I'm doing it!'

He saw Bhiku's face flash past. The mask of clown paint was twisted into an evil grimace. ‘Yes,' said the dwarf, ‘but this is not funny, is it?' He stuck out a stick with a boxing glove on the end and jabbed Chopra in the back.

‘Hey!'

Chopra's arms flailed as he lost control. A cry of anguish escaped him as the unicycle arced out over the edge of the stage…

He landed in a heap on the grass, the unicycle on top of him, its solitary wheel still spinning forlornly in the air. A round of laughter added insult to his injury until he realised that everyone believed his denouement to be part of the act.

He untangled himself and stood up, gathering together the remaining shreds of his dignity.

‘Oh, Papa, the poor clown is bleeding!'

Chopra raised a hand and discovered that Kanodia's daughter was correct.

Blood was flowing from his nose.

At the same instant he saw that fate had provided him with the opening he had been looking for.

‘Is there a bathroom I can use?'

For a second Kanodia stared suspiciously at him. Chopra immediately realised his mistake. The make-up disguised his features but there was no way to disguise his voice.

‘Follow me, sir,' said a helpful waiter. ‘I will show you.'

He felt certain that Kanodia's eyes were boring into his back as he limped stiffly away.

Mr Banarjee lived in an old colony in JB Nagar, a neighbouring enclave of Sahar. Banarjee's flat was on the fifth floor of a run-down apartment building. A hand-scrawled OUT OF ORDER sign had been jammed into the accordion-style shutters that fronted the lift, forcing Poppy and Rangwalla to trudge up the betel-stained stairs.