Banerjee was looking despondent.
‘That fellow,’ he said, ‘Called me you bloody.’ He took a deep swig of beer. ‘Can you believe it? No one has ever called me you bloody. Not even the notorious Fatlip Fangio, vilest mouth in the West - which is a story for later.'
Bobby Khanna had recently bought back his painting Sunset and Irises on eBay for an undisclosed sum, after discovering it to be a genuine Manet.
‘You informed him,’ Said Inspector Kalra 'that Manet was Monet spelled wrong. And therefore a fake.'
‘Information,' Banerjee explained, 'Is a commodity. You need to understand how the consulting process works.
'Consider the subject of paintings,' Banerjee continued, 'For a small sum, I could but information on all the paintings that ever were.'
‘I knew a man who preferred to buy the paintings instead.’
The remark came from a wizened old man at the next barstool.
'Not buy, perhaps,' he qualified, 'but gather, at any rate.
‘Some of you may know him as L’Colletre, Bade Saab, or, most likely, The Collector.’
Inspector Kalra stiffened. Intel on The Collector was rare or expensive, and here he was getting it for free.
‘What do you know about him?’ he whispered.
Banerjee interjected.
‘The Collector is a myth. I have personally examined several specimens of his handiwork, and it is clear to me that it is the combined effort of a collective. Like Shakespeare and Sujith Vijay.’
‘I can assure you that he is one person. A singular, like Shakespeare.’ The old man said. ‘But it is true, what you say about Sujith Vijay.’
He stared with unseeing eyes at the picture of a French nobleman about to be guillotined. ‘Few people know the story of Sujith Vijay. But that is a story for later.
'The Collector, however,' he continued, 'Does exist. I worked with him.’
Inspector Kalra stiffened more.
‘Only two things he has a weakness for: food, to collect; and paintings, to eat. Metaphorically, of course. He lives off their profits and so eats.'
‘What sort of food?’
‘Anything that strikes his fancy. It could be this glass of beer. It could be the chips on the counter. Or it could be a state dinner for the President of Boputhatswana.’
‘You mean Bechuanaland.’
‘I mean Boputhatswana. It’s on the fourteenth of next month.’
Inspector Kalra was struck by this amazing piece of intel.
‘Did you hear that, Banerjee? This time, we have a headstart. What do you think we should do?’
‘It depends.’ Said Banerjee. ‘What is the reliability of this information? I for one would like to know whether it is worth our while to guard dinners in the first place, when the dreaded serial killer Haddi Appa is afoot in these parts.’
‘Be as it may, capturing the Collector has been our top priority ever since we lost $5000 to a Nigerian swindle. The reward would be welcome, as our emails to the Nigerian ambassador have gone unanswered. As to the reliability, sir, I would like to know where you got your information from.’ Inspector Kalra turned to the old man, who had disappeared.
‘Funny chap.’ Said Inspector Kalra. ‘Comes and goes as he pleases.’
‘Can I have another beer? Someone’s taken mine.’ Asked Banerjee.
‘Beer, please.’ Said Inspector Kalra to the barman. ‘And another bowl of chips. There was one here sometime ago. People can be so careless. What do you think, Banerjee?’
Sunday, March 27, 2011
4: The terror of the red hills
‘They called him Ungli Baba , because of his habit of pointing a bony finger at the mountain and bellowing ‘Come to Baba!’ before kicking a stone in their general direction and hobbling away on his club foot. This ritual he practiced every morning, till the day he disappeared.
'Soon after, the Bhatinda Paleontological Institute unearthed a cachet of mastodon bones in the Shivaliks, a monumental find that was unfortunately scuppered by the Director's pet beagles who hid them in fifteen villages over twenty six square miles.
‘The villagers discovered these bones and logically concluded them to be the handiwork of what the local newspapers were soon calling terror of the red hills, angry spirit of a hermit whom the mountains were less inclined to heed than Mohammed.
‘Our Behala Mountaineers’ Association had organized an expedition to bag one of the lesser Himalayan peaks that very summer. So when the team reached base camp and found not one single willing porter, it was a blow.'
Banerjee was at the Turntables Club, as was his wont every Sunday. The club made his time in Bhatinda bearable, even with the odious Saxena as secretary. Here he was in his element. Free liquor, fine women, and retired army officers who got as good a tale as they gave.
‘It so happens,’ began the General, ‘I was working with the Governer at that time, and we did come across this story about a ghost. The fellows in the secretariat – all civilians, mind you, not a single bloody sportsman any of them. No golf.’
‘But it is a mystery, isn’t it.’ Said inspector Kalra. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Passed away the year before. Such a fine chap.’ Answered the General.
‘Baba quite simply vanished. ‘ Answered Banerjee. ‘No one has a clue.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Inspector Kalra. ‘Twenty six square miles of bones is a lot of dead bodies.’
‘You will notice that the head bearer has a distinct limp, and talks to himself.’ Noted the General.
‘They were animal bones,’ said Banerjee. ‘To get back to what I was saying, the Behala Mountaineer’s club reached base camp under conditions that would have made many seasoned mountaineers quiver at the knees. The winter of ’92 had been the harshest in years.’
‘Balram Singh joined us here at the club in ’92.’ Said the General.
‘O teri!’ exclaimed Inspector Kalra. ‘Who would guess that man to be a serial killer? Look at how politely he serves the butter chicken.'
'What did your Baba look like?’Asked the General.
‘About my height and weight, slightly paler. I look more like my mother. If you mean Baba ist ed Ungli,’ Banerjee corrected himself in time, ‘six one, dark, scar above the right temple, twisted lip and blind in one eye.’
‘Balram Singh looks about 6’1”, pretty dark for a Hillman, has a scar above the right temple, that lip can only be called twisted, if not outright garroted, and doesn’t seem to see out of his left eye at all.’ Observed the General.
‘There are so many coincidences.’ Laughed Banerjee nervously. ‘But now that I think of it, he had hair of a strange russet-straw color, from dyeing it in some unknown chemicals – some say animal glue.’
‘Balram Singh has hair that is quite certainly not black.’
‘The probability of such similarities is high, given the diversity of our gene pool,’ Banerjee laughed again. ‘ Inspector, I have some news on the Collector.’
‘Oh.’ Said Inspector Kalra. ‘Brilliant, Banerjee. What is it?’
‘I will excuse myself, gentlemen.’ Said the General courteously, walking away.
‘Nothing. Listen, there is no Ungli Baba. I was trying to go one up on the General for his tale of the Siberian tiger last Sunday.’
‘That’s quite a relief, Banerjee. I didn’t fancy being served by a murderer. But it was smart of you to manufacture those details on the spot.’
‘I copied them wholesale from what the books say about Haddi Appa, dreaded serial killer of the Northern plains. He has eluded the Bhatinda police for years.’
‘O teri! No wonder it sounded familiar. Anyway, if Ungli Baba is a tale, we have nothing to worry about from old Balram Singh. Brilliant, Banerjee, brilliant!’
'Soon after, the Bhatinda Paleontological Institute unearthed a cachet of mastodon bones in the Shivaliks, a monumental find that was unfortunately scuppered by the Director's pet beagles who hid them in fifteen villages over twenty six square miles.
‘The villagers discovered these bones and logically concluded them to be the handiwork of what the local newspapers were soon calling terror of the red hills, angry spirit of a hermit whom the mountains were less inclined to heed than Mohammed.
‘Our Behala Mountaineers’ Association had organized an expedition to bag one of the lesser Himalayan peaks that very summer. So when the team reached base camp and found not one single willing porter, it was a blow.'
Banerjee was at the Turntables Club, as was his wont every Sunday. The club made his time in Bhatinda bearable, even with the odious Saxena as secretary. Here he was in his element. Free liquor, fine women, and retired army officers who got as good a tale as they gave.
‘It so happens,’ began the General, ‘I was working with the Governer at that time, and we did come across this story about a ghost. The fellows in the secretariat – all civilians, mind you, not a single bloody sportsman any of them. No golf.’
‘But it is a mystery, isn’t it.’ Said inspector Kalra. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Passed away the year before. Such a fine chap.’ Answered the General.
‘Baba quite simply vanished. ‘ Answered Banerjee. ‘No one has a clue.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Inspector Kalra. ‘Twenty six square miles of bones is a lot of dead bodies.’
‘You will notice that the head bearer has a distinct limp, and talks to himself.’ Noted the General.
‘They were animal bones,’ said Banerjee. ‘To get back to what I was saying, the Behala Mountaineer’s club reached base camp under conditions that would have made many seasoned mountaineers quiver at the knees. The winter of ’92 had been the harshest in years.’
‘Balram Singh joined us here at the club in ’92.’ Said the General.
‘O teri!’ exclaimed Inspector Kalra. ‘Who would guess that man to be a serial killer? Look at how politely he serves the butter chicken.'
'What did your Baba look like?’Asked the General.
‘About my height and weight, slightly paler. I look more like my mother. If you mean Baba ist ed Ungli,’ Banerjee corrected himself in time, ‘six one, dark, scar above the right temple, twisted lip and blind in one eye.’
‘Balram Singh looks about 6’1”, pretty dark for a Hillman, has a scar above the right temple, that lip can only be called twisted, if not outright garroted, and doesn’t seem to see out of his left eye at all.’ Observed the General.
‘There are so many coincidences.’ Laughed Banerjee nervously. ‘But now that I think of it, he had hair of a strange russet-straw color, from dyeing it in some unknown chemicals – some say animal glue.’
‘Balram Singh has hair that is quite certainly not black.’
‘The probability of such similarities is high, given the diversity of our gene pool,’ Banerjee laughed again. ‘ Inspector, I have some news on the Collector.’
‘Oh.’ Said Inspector Kalra. ‘Brilliant, Banerjee. What is it?’
‘I will excuse myself, gentlemen.’ Said the General courteously, walking away.
‘Nothing. Listen, there is no Ungli Baba. I was trying to go one up on the General for his tale of the Siberian tiger last Sunday.’
‘That’s quite a relief, Banerjee. I didn’t fancy being served by a murderer. But it was smart of you to manufacture those details on the spot.’
‘I copied them wholesale from what the books say about Haddi Appa, dreaded serial killer of the Northern plains. He has eluded the Bhatinda police for years.’
‘O teri! No wonder it sounded familiar. Anyway, if Ungli Baba is a tale, we have nothing to worry about from old Balram Singh. Brilliant, Banerjee, brilliant!’
3: Two hours on a balcony
The Kumar Picture Company had never found itself in so much trouble before. Not for counterfeiting, not for piracy, not even for burning down the rival Kumar Motion Picture Company’s video parlour, thereby monopolizing the market. All that was accepted business practice, something that the senior (rival) Kumar acknowledged in his Diwali letter bomb.
‘So this is the culprit.’ Said Banerjee. ‘Pilates of the Caribbean. And in small print: stay fit at seventy.’
‘It was screened in over two hundred theatres in Hoshiarpur, sir.’ Explained the junior Kumar. ‘So much money we made.’
‘And now that money has come back to haunt you, no doubt.’ Said Banerjee. ‘Which is why you called me. Or is it this one?’ he picked up another disc. ‘Return of the Jade Eye. Again, in small print, a journey to the heart of Manchuria. Come to think of it, it was perhaps the small print that saved you, eh?’
‘Krohlberg and Kravis worked out the details. Not important. This is the problem we need you to solve.’
It was a blu-ray disc with the title Two hours on a balcony
‘What’s the problem with it?’
‘Well, the first problem is that the film is two and a half hours long. Can you imagine what havoc a misleading title like that could cause? The loss of thirty minutes each time the movie was screened. Missed appointments, cancelled weddings, flight delays, and if people reset their watches at the end of the movie, and then met other people who saw the movie after them and synchronized their watches with theirs, and so on, the thing could easily spiral out of control.’
‘It already has, in fact.’ Informed the senior Kumar. ‘We launched it in America last month, and have not recovered our investment.’
‘Our distributors recall signing the contract next week, no question of advance payment.’
‘Why don’t you change the title?’
‘We tried two and a half hours on a balcony, but that name’s taken by a Mexican movie and its many sequels. The closest available match was Five minutes on a balcony, so our legal firm went ahead and true to its brief, changed the name.’
‘That made it worse.’
‘Well, to give you an idea: last week the President of the United States issued an ultimatum to Hitler that if Germany were not to surrender in the next 48 hours, he would drop a weapon of unimaginable destruction on Berlin.’
‘We have our business interests in Berlin.’ Said the senior Kumar. ‘We would like to President to look at some other country, say Japan, like last time?’
‘Which is why we called you.’ Explained the junior Kumar. ‘Can you speak to the Americans on our behalf?’
Banerjee nodded gravely. ‘You said that the title was the first problem. What’s the second?’
‘Piracy. Unauthorized prints of our film are circulating in Punjab under various copycat names, making a mockery of our justice system. But we have engaged a crack team of the Bhatinda police to solve that problem.’
‘And here he is.’ Inspector Kalra announced his arrival. ‘The prints have been seized, but we are having a slight problem in tracing them ever since the SHO of Mukerian quit his job and went into film distribution.’
‘We will find them soon enough,’ assured Constable Selvakumar, ‘and in the meantime, have collected some other suspicious prints we found in the market.’
‘The Umpire Strikes Back: memoirs of Pilloo Reporter, The Dark Night: an investigation into the phases of the moon, and would you believe this – Return of the Jade Eye.’ Said Inspector Kalra.
‘Taken them off the market. Anyone found renting them out goes straight to jail. Never mess with the Bhatinda police.’
'No doubt, no doubt.' Murmured the senior Kumar in a conciliatory tone.
Banerjee opened his laptop and went into a hyperintelligent trance. Numbers raced on a blue-green screen.
‘Your principal worry is that America might bomb Germany. Now if my calculations are correct, then America would in the next few weeks find itself in the nineteenth century, without nuclear weapons of any sort. In fact, shortly after the President delivered his ultimatum, I would think, the aeroplane had not been invented. So the bomb is being delivered, if at all, by a sailing ship.’
‘The problem then is for us to locate the ship. If my calculations are right, then the ship would be somewhere off the coast of Florida, where a hurricane is raging even as we speak.’
‘In such a hurricane, it is not possible for the ship to survive. The bomb has therefore either exploded, which would have been detected by the Mexicans….or washed ashore on some country, which has now become the world’s newest nuclear power. It is a matter of national importance to determine which country this is. And here it is: the ocean currents have taken the bomb over the Atlantic ocean to somewhere close to the West coast of Africa, where the cold Benguela current has swept it southwards, round the cape, and, given the direction of the trade winds at this time of year, up the mouth of the Limpopo river into the heart of Lesotho.’
‘The President of Lesotho is calling on our Minister of Education next week.’ Noted Inspector Kalra.
‘The newest nuclear state in the world! We must upgrade our welcome. The meeting has to be with the Prime Minister himself, followed by a state dinner. What do you say, Inspector Kalra?’
‘Brilliant, Banerjee, brilliant.’
‘So this is the culprit.’ Said Banerjee. ‘Pilates of the Caribbean. And in small print: stay fit at seventy.’
‘It was screened in over two hundred theatres in Hoshiarpur, sir.’ Explained the junior Kumar. ‘So much money we made.’
‘And now that money has come back to haunt you, no doubt.’ Said Banerjee. ‘Which is why you called me. Or is it this one?’ he picked up another disc. ‘Return of the Jade Eye. Again, in small print, a journey to the heart of Manchuria. Come to think of it, it was perhaps the small print that saved you, eh?’
‘Krohlberg and Kravis worked out the details. Not important. This is the problem we need you to solve.’
It was a blu-ray disc with the title Two hours on a balcony
‘What’s the problem with it?’
‘Well, the first problem is that the film is two and a half hours long. Can you imagine what havoc a misleading title like that could cause? The loss of thirty minutes each time the movie was screened. Missed appointments, cancelled weddings, flight delays, and if people reset their watches at the end of the movie, and then met other people who saw the movie after them and synchronized their watches with theirs, and so on, the thing could easily spiral out of control.’
‘It already has, in fact.’ Informed the senior Kumar. ‘We launched it in America last month, and have not recovered our investment.’
‘Our distributors recall signing the contract next week, no question of advance payment.’
‘Why don’t you change the title?’
‘We tried two and a half hours on a balcony, but that name’s taken by a Mexican movie and its many sequels. The closest available match was Five minutes on a balcony, so our legal firm went ahead and true to its brief, changed the name.’
‘That made it worse.’
‘Well, to give you an idea: last week the President of the United States issued an ultimatum to Hitler that if Germany were not to surrender in the next 48 hours, he would drop a weapon of unimaginable destruction on Berlin.’
‘We have our business interests in Berlin.’ Said the senior Kumar. ‘We would like to President to look at some other country, say Japan, like last time?’
‘Which is why we called you.’ Explained the junior Kumar. ‘Can you speak to the Americans on our behalf?’
Banerjee nodded gravely. ‘You said that the title was the first problem. What’s the second?’
‘Piracy. Unauthorized prints of our film are circulating in Punjab under various copycat names, making a mockery of our justice system. But we have engaged a crack team of the Bhatinda police to solve that problem.’
‘And here he is.’ Inspector Kalra announced his arrival. ‘The prints have been seized, but we are having a slight problem in tracing them ever since the SHO of Mukerian quit his job and went into film distribution.’
‘We will find them soon enough,’ assured Constable Selvakumar, ‘and in the meantime, have collected some other suspicious prints we found in the market.’
‘The Umpire Strikes Back: memoirs of Pilloo Reporter, The Dark Night: an investigation into the phases of the moon, and would you believe this – Return of the Jade Eye.’ Said Inspector Kalra.
‘Taken them off the market. Anyone found renting them out goes straight to jail. Never mess with the Bhatinda police.’
'No doubt, no doubt.' Murmured the senior Kumar in a conciliatory tone.
Banerjee opened his laptop and went into a hyperintelligent trance. Numbers raced on a blue-green screen.
‘Your principal worry is that America might bomb Germany. Now if my calculations are correct, then America would in the next few weeks find itself in the nineteenth century, without nuclear weapons of any sort. In fact, shortly after the President delivered his ultimatum, I would think, the aeroplane had not been invented. So the bomb is being delivered, if at all, by a sailing ship.’
‘The problem then is for us to locate the ship. If my calculations are right, then the ship would be somewhere off the coast of Florida, where a hurricane is raging even as we speak.’
‘In such a hurricane, it is not possible for the ship to survive. The bomb has therefore either exploded, which would have been detected by the Mexicans….or washed ashore on some country, which has now become the world’s newest nuclear power. It is a matter of national importance to determine which country this is. And here it is: the ocean currents have taken the bomb over the Atlantic ocean to somewhere close to the West coast of Africa, where the cold Benguela current has swept it southwards, round the cape, and, given the direction of the trade winds at this time of year, up the mouth of the Limpopo river into the heart of Lesotho.’
‘The President of Lesotho is calling on our Minister of Education next week.’ Noted Inspector Kalra.
‘The newest nuclear state in the world! We must upgrade our welcome. The meeting has to be with the Prime Minister himself, followed by a state dinner. What do you say, Inspector Kalra?’
‘Brilliant, Banerjee, brilliant.’
2: The Collector strikes
Inspector Kalra was peeking through the windows of the art gallery.
‘Odd, Selvakumar. Not a single painting inside.’
‘No, saar.’ Said Selvakumar. ‘You are looking into the bathroom.’
‘O teri. This is a big bathroom.’
‘It used to be the District Magistrate’s favourite drawing room during the Raj.’ Said a booming voice. ‘No. 1 revenge on the British.’
Bhatinda police had been warned by the country’s most celebrated burglar that he would strike at Bobby Khanna's art exhibition, billionaire distributor of industrial solvents though he be.
Because he had once held the highest administrative post in a Central Indian district, the story went, people called this celebrity burglar the Collector.
His most famous heist was stealing the State Dinner thrown in honor of the President of Bechuanaland, which caused the indignant Bechuanans to cancel their own State Dinner in honor of the Prime Minister of Italy later that week. This caused much heartburn to the Italians and much relief to the Prime Minister, who really wasn’t looking forward to a repast of steamed lizard skins.
Since then, the Collector had lain low; and even the Maharaja of Gaipajama admitted that the theft of the diamond of Shivoo was an elaborate insurance scam.
Then sometime later, a video started circulating on youtube of a talking monkey saying ‘y lko kts’. A visiting Bechuanan scholar explained that the monkey was speaking his tongue, but having very little English, could explain it no better than ‘he saying ymsm werwe nstss ha ha no dinner fuck you’.
The message was eventually translated by an anonymous cryptologist on a viral email forward as: ‘Striking Bhatinda Arts College.Beware.’ The local police promoted the constable who first received the forward, and then promptly went on to deposit $5,000 in a bank account as requested by the Nigerian businessman in his earnest email. The subsequent loss too, was blamed on the Collector.
And that was why Inspector Kalra and Selvakumar stood gazing at the fat man in a t-shirt who was twirling his Rolex. With him stood a nervous old man.
‘We also renamed the building after a freedom fighter.’ The fat man continued: ‘That is No.2 revenge.’
‘Myself Selvakumar.’ Said Selvakumar. ‘What is your good name?’
‘Bobby Khanna.’ He said richly. ‘Open the door.’
Selvakumar pressed against the teakwood before realizing that the remark was addressed to the nervous old man who was vigorously tackling the latch.
The door opened. Lights were switched on. The gallery was bathed in the light of a hundred masters.
‘That Renoir’, said Bobby Khanna, ‘Went missing for a hundred years.’
‘Your collection must be very large, saar.’ Said Selvakumar. ‘To not notice it.’
‘Then one day it comes up on ebay. People say it’s a fake, but I know better. How?’
‘Because it is signed?’ guessed Selvakumar.
‘Banerjee. Consultant.’ A nattily dressed man had appeared next to Bobby Khanna.
‘Selvakumar. So what’s the answer?’
‘I said so.’ Said Banerjee. ‘and I know what I say.’
‘I see,’ said Inspector Kalra, ‘that you have the Mona Lisa in your collection.’
‘This one is genuine.’ Banerjee explained. 'Unlike what you might see in the Louvre, say.'
‘And is this painting of Michael Jackson really by Van Gogh?’
‘The brushwork is too similar to be anyone else's. What can I say?’He looked at the billionaire, who whispered: ‘Your invoice is being processed.’
‘Tchah.’ Said Banerjee. ‘Commerce, commerce.’
‘Why,’ asked Inspector Kalra, ‘is the old man carrying that canvas out?’
‘I told him he could have it.’ Said Bobby Khanna. ‘Poor man has wanted a painting all his life.’
‘We charged him for it, of course.’ Smiled Banerjee. ‘Twenty thousand rupees for a fake like that.’
‘The money’s not important.’ Explained Bobby Khanna. ‘But he should learn to value art.’
‘Money’s not important at all.’ Agreed Banerjee. ‘It was to rid your collection of that one fake. Where did you buy it?’
‘Christie’s. What a bunch of crooks.’
‘Sunset and Irises by one Manet’. Said Banerjee. ‘Bugger couldn’t even spell Monet.’
‘Odd, Selvakumar. Not a single painting inside.’
‘No, saar.’ Said Selvakumar. ‘You are looking into the bathroom.’
‘O teri. This is a big bathroom.’
‘It used to be the District Magistrate’s favourite drawing room during the Raj.’ Said a booming voice. ‘No. 1 revenge on the British.’
Bhatinda police had been warned by the country’s most celebrated burglar that he would strike at Bobby Khanna's art exhibition, billionaire distributor of industrial solvents though he be.
Because he had once held the highest administrative post in a Central Indian district, the story went, people called this celebrity burglar the Collector.
His most famous heist was stealing the State Dinner thrown in honor of the President of Bechuanaland, which caused the indignant Bechuanans to cancel their own State Dinner in honor of the Prime Minister of Italy later that week. This caused much heartburn to the Italians and much relief to the Prime Minister, who really wasn’t looking forward to a repast of steamed lizard skins.
Since then, the Collector had lain low; and even the Maharaja of Gaipajama admitted that the theft of the diamond of Shivoo was an elaborate insurance scam.
Then sometime later, a video started circulating on youtube of a talking monkey saying ‘y lko kts’. A visiting Bechuanan scholar explained that the monkey was speaking his tongue, but having very little English, could explain it no better than ‘he saying ymsm werwe nstss ha ha no dinner fuck you’.
The message was eventually translated by an anonymous cryptologist on a viral email forward as: ‘Striking Bhatinda Arts College.Beware.’ The local police promoted the constable who first received the forward, and then promptly went on to deposit $5,000 in a bank account as requested by the Nigerian businessman in his earnest email. The subsequent loss too, was blamed on the Collector.
And that was why Inspector Kalra and Selvakumar stood gazing at the fat man in a t-shirt who was twirling his Rolex. With him stood a nervous old man.
‘We also renamed the building after a freedom fighter.’ The fat man continued: ‘That is No.2 revenge.’
‘Myself Selvakumar.’ Said Selvakumar. ‘What is your good name?’
‘Bobby Khanna.’ He said richly. ‘Open the door.’
Selvakumar pressed against the teakwood before realizing that the remark was addressed to the nervous old man who was vigorously tackling the latch.
The door opened. Lights were switched on. The gallery was bathed in the light of a hundred masters.
‘That Renoir’, said Bobby Khanna, ‘Went missing for a hundred years.’
‘Your collection must be very large, saar.’ Said Selvakumar. ‘To not notice it.’
‘Then one day it comes up on ebay. People say it’s a fake, but I know better. How?’
‘Because it is signed?’ guessed Selvakumar.
‘Banerjee. Consultant.’ A nattily dressed man had appeared next to Bobby Khanna.
‘Selvakumar. So what’s the answer?’
‘I said so.’ Said Banerjee. ‘and I know what I say.’
‘I see,’ said Inspector Kalra, ‘that you have the Mona Lisa in your collection.’
‘This one is genuine.’ Banerjee explained. 'Unlike what you might see in the Louvre, say.'
‘And is this painting of Michael Jackson really by Van Gogh?’
‘The brushwork is too similar to be anyone else's. What can I say?’He looked at the billionaire, who whispered: ‘Your invoice is being processed.’
‘Tchah.’ Said Banerjee. ‘Commerce, commerce.’
‘Why,’ asked Inspector Kalra, ‘is the old man carrying that canvas out?’
‘I told him he could have it.’ Said Bobby Khanna. ‘Poor man has wanted a painting all his life.’
‘We charged him for it, of course.’ Smiled Banerjee. ‘Twenty thousand rupees for a fake like that.’
‘The money’s not important.’ Explained Bobby Khanna. ‘But he should learn to value art.’
‘Money’s not important at all.’ Agreed Banerjee. ‘It was to rid your collection of that one fake. Where did you buy it?’
‘Christie’s. What a bunch of crooks.’
‘Sunset and Irises by one Manet’. Said Banerjee. ‘Bugger couldn’t even spell Monet.’
1: Murder on the Chandigarh Shatabdi
This story, a 'flash fiction' written i n 500 words, was the first Inspector Kalra story. It won a prize at a Caferati writing contest judged by the likes of Samit Basu(ahem! ahem!).
************
‘Throat cut, and torso partially missing.’ Observed Inspector Kalra.
‘Should we get him to a hospital?’ asked the girl on 7C.
Inspector Kalra ignored her suggestion. Never take a woman seriously, he’d say – unless she’s holding .45 to your head and counting to ten in Chinese. It had happened to him once, and involved Thai drug lords and mistaken identity. A birthmark on his bald pate had saved him at ‘ba’.
He examined the corpse’s head minutely, failing to note a birthmark of any sort.
Hard luck, old boy.
‘We need a doctor to determine the hour of death.’ He told the TTE. ‘See if there’s a doctor in the house.’
‘I have. My brother-in-law.’
‘I mean a doctor on this train at this point of time.’
The TTE looked confused.
‘Just call for a doctor.’ The inspector repeated, with finality.
Doctors, please come to C3. Police is waiting for you. The TTE announced.
Inspector Kalra muttered Punjabi swear-words under his breath forgotten since Bhatinda Arts College. He took over the PA system.
This is inspector Kalra. We have a murder case in C3 that needs medical examination.
‘I’m a doctor’ a pinkish-white man popped out of the adjoining vestibule
The inspector pointed to the rapidly decomposing cadaver.
‘Did you try resuscitation?’ asked the doctor, after perfunctorily testing for breath.
‘A little pointless without his left lung, don’t you think?’ the Inspector answered.
‘Yes, yes naturally. Just checking. I am Doctor Pendse, by the way. My brother-in-law is a TTE on this train.’
‘He spoke of your existence. But didn’t say you were here.’
‘Oh? He told me that you did not believe I was a doctor.’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘Precisely what I wanted to see for myself. The time of death is between 0130 and 0830 hours.’ The doctor declared. ‘I was surprised when he said that. And annoyed.’
‘Between 0130 and 0830? Surely you can do better than that.’ Inspector Kalra fumed.
‘Give or take a couple of hours. Annoyed, because we have more homeopaths here than in any other country’
‘Give or take a couple of hours?’ The inspector choked. ‘That would give him a chance of being alive even now. And,’ he added in afterthought ’…You are a homeopath?’
The doctor stiffened.
‘Homeopathy is a very precise science.’ He defended.
The TTE had returned, grinning widely.
‘My brother-in-law.’ He explained. ‘Has studied in UK.’
‘Ukraine.’ The subject corrected honestly. ‘I studied at the Gari Kasparov School of Homeopathy at Novgorod.’
‘You people are no good.’ Despaired Inspector Kalra. ‘I’m stepping outside for a smoke.’
He asked for a light from the odd gentleman with a bloody machete who had been standing next to him all along.
The gentleman started and fled somewhere in the general direction of Chandigarh.
‘Ha! Didn’t have a ticket.’ The TTE surmised.
‘Nervous chap. Orpheus Mortica twice a day, and no onions.’ Observed Doctor Pendse.
‘Would you be having a light on you?’ Inspector Kalra asked.
************
‘Throat cut, and torso partially missing.’ Observed Inspector Kalra.
‘Should we get him to a hospital?’ asked the girl on 7C.
Inspector Kalra ignored her suggestion. Never take a woman seriously, he’d say – unless she’s holding .45 to your head and counting to ten in Chinese. It had happened to him once, and involved Thai drug lords and mistaken identity. A birthmark on his bald pate had saved him at ‘ba’.
He examined the corpse’s head minutely, failing to note a birthmark of any sort.
Hard luck, old boy.
‘We need a doctor to determine the hour of death.’ He told the TTE. ‘See if there’s a doctor in the house.’
‘I have. My brother-in-law.’
‘I mean a doctor on this train at this point of time.’
The TTE looked confused.
‘Just call for a doctor.’ The inspector repeated, with finality.
Doctors, please come to C3. Police is waiting for you. The TTE announced.
Inspector Kalra muttered Punjabi swear-words under his breath forgotten since Bhatinda Arts College. He took over the PA system.
This is inspector Kalra. We have a murder case in C3 that needs medical examination.
‘I’m a doctor’ a pinkish-white man popped out of the adjoining vestibule
The inspector pointed to the rapidly decomposing cadaver.
‘Did you try resuscitation?’ asked the doctor, after perfunctorily testing for breath.
‘A little pointless without his left lung, don’t you think?’ the Inspector answered.
‘Yes, yes naturally. Just checking. I am Doctor Pendse, by the way. My brother-in-law is a TTE on this train.’
‘He spoke of your existence. But didn’t say you were here.’
‘Oh? He told me that you did not believe I was a doctor.’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘Precisely what I wanted to see for myself. The time of death is between 0130 and 0830 hours.’ The doctor declared. ‘I was surprised when he said that. And annoyed.’
‘Between 0130 and 0830? Surely you can do better than that.’ Inspector Kalra fumed.
‘Give or take a couple of hours. Annoyed, because we have more homeopaths here than in any other country’
‘Give or take a couple of hours?’ The inspector choked. ‘That would give him a chance of being alive even now. And,’ he added in afterthought ’…You are a homeopath?’
The doctor stiffened.
‘Homeopathy is a very precise science.’ He defended.
The TTE had returned, grinning widely.
‘My brother-in-law.’ He explained. ‘Has studied in UK.’
‘Ukraine.’ The subject corrected honestly. ‘I studied at the Gari Kasparov School of Homeopathy at Novgorod.’
‘You people are no good.’ Despaired Inspector Kalra. ‘I’m stepping outside for a smoke.’
He asked for a light from the odd gentleman with a bloody machete who had been standing next to him all along.
The gentleman started and fled somewhere in the general direction of Chandigarh.
‘Ha! Didn’t have a ticket.’ The TTE surmised.
‘Nervous chap. Orpheus Mortica twice a day, and no onions.’ Observed Doctor Pendse.
‘Would you be having a light on you?’ Inspector Kalra asked.
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