Death Stalks the Punjab [1 ed.] 0894070452, 9780894070457

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DEATH

STALIS

DEATH STALKS THE PUNJAB

DEATH /

STALICS

Melvin €.Casberg

illustrations by Matt Gouig

\

Copyright©

1981 by Melvin A. Casberg

Illustrations Copyright©

1981 by Matt Gouig

Strawberry Hill Press 2594 15th Avenue San Francisco, California 94127

No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form ofa phonographic recording, nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise copied for public or private use — other than for ‘‘fair use’’ — without the written permission of the publisher.

Manufactured in the United States of America Edited by Donna L. Osgood

Book design by Carlton C. Herrick Typeset by élan, San Francisco Cover design by Donna Dell’ Ario Cover illustration by Charlie Docherty

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Casberg, Melvin A 1909Death stalks the Punjab. Pritle, PS3553.A78975D4 813'.54 ISBN 0-89407-045-2 (pbk)

80-23558

To Sylvia, Ron, Bud and Muffy “You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.” — Kahlil Gibran

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Contents 1 27 37 49 59 66 73 83 95 105 113 LPAI 133 145 153 161 L/a 183 189 201 209 221 222

Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-one Author’s Note About the author

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Chapter One

The Old Delhi railroad station, illuminated by garish overhead lights, was crowded and hot as Captain Prem Narayan of the Indian Criminal Investigation Department followed the red turban of the coolie carrying his tin trunk and bedding roll. “Thank God for the air-conditioned carriage,’ he muttered to himself as he moved with the jostling human stream flowing along the platform. He was engulfed by people as they raced forward into open spaces, surged impatiently around obstacles and crowded noisily in the narrower gorges. The flotsam and jetsam which floated on the surface of this motley sea of humanity were assorted pieces of baggage, all balanced precariously on the heads of coolies and passengers aggressively navigating the maelstrom. Incongruously scattered in the midst of the mass of motion were a few islands of calm, where families seated on the hard floor of the platform, barricaded behind their personal belongings, conversed, read and ate their meals with the peaceful detachment of those seated in the privacy of their own homes, oblivious to the turmoil surrounding them. Vendors pushing carts

piled high with assorted books, magazines, fruits, sweetmeats and

other goods of potential interest to the passengers plied their wares along the platform. The tide of humankind flowing against these

mobile shops was jettisoned aside like water swirling around a jutting rock in midstream. A cacophony of shouts added to the sense of hurried motion, merging into a steady rumble, like an orchestral background to dramatic action. “Pani, thanda pani—Water, cold water,’’ or “Chay, garam chay—Tea, hot tea,”’ sounded out in a repetitious and mechanical monotone from the mouths of parading vendors. “Are bhaya, chay lao—Oh brother, bring tea,” shouted the gesticulating passenger, hanging out of the window of the train. Once inside the air-conditioned carriage of the Frontier Mail, the sudden temperature change chilled the exposed and perspiring skin of Captain Narayan’s arms and knees. He paused a few seconds and shivered involuntarily before heading down the corridor to compart-

ment “‘C”, about midway through the coach. After directing the

12

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MELVIN A. CASBERG

coolie in the proper disposal of the tin box and bedding roll, he waved him out into the passageway and deposited an ample compensation into the man’s outstretched hand. Pausing briefly in the doorway of his compartment, the Captain looked out through a large window, fascinated by the shifting currents of people flowing across the station platform. No longer a part of this bustle, he watched quietly from the vantage point of seclusion and detachment. The ceaseless and everchanging human motion provided a panoramic fashion show, a colorful and corporeal drama, an incarnate segment of Mother India. An almost unlimited variety of clothing styles paraded by, a blend of colors woven into a living pattern by the shuttles of an animate loom. Men in fashionably tailored Western summer suits rubbed shoulders with those wearing collarless shirts whose front and back tails flapped unceremoniously over loose-fitting pants or the dhoti skirt-pants drawn up between the legs. Women wearing European dresses appeared plain and drab compared with their sisters in brightly colored and artistically wrapped saris or in the classic Punjabi salwar and kamiz. This was an attractive and practical costume made up of pantaloons and a knee-length tunic or sheath, slit on the sides like that worn by their Chinese counterparts. A lovely feminine touch to this Punjabi outfit was a long, sheer scarf worn around the front of the neck with the ends flowing loosely down the back. The fashionable apparel for the Indian gentleman was white cotton pants, very snugly fitted around the calves, and matched with a long coat, either white or black, known as an acckan, reaching almost to the knees and buttoned up to the neck like a cleric’s coat without the clerical collar. The occasional barefoot sadhu, or holy man, was easily recognized by his flowing saffron robe and forehead covered with ashes, as a background to white and red religious identification marks. His long unkempt hair might be stacked on top of his head or fall down over his shoulders, and usually both hands were occupied, one grasping a staff and the other holding the mendicant’s begging bowl. Occasionally there would be the beggar, ragged and dirty with minimal clothes, panhandling gifts from those milling about him. Shivering slightly from the artificial cold, the Captain, in contrast, felt a warmth within himself—a warmth that encompassed all the people parading back and forth before him. These were his own kinfolk, he thought to himself, a melding of races and religions which had been evolving for thousands of years in this great sub-

continent of India. Flowing in their veins was the blood of the Dravidian aborigines to the south and the invading armies which through the centuries past had swept down through the Himalayan passes to the north, from Indo-Aryan conquerers to Alexander the Great and the Moguls from the vast Mongolian plains of Central Asia. Yes, these were his people, he thought proudly,

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13

straightening his shoulders in respect for his heritage. Then, he stepped back into his compartment, closing and locking the door behind him. Precisely and meticulously, Prem Narayan removed his military cap and his uniform of khaki bush jacket with shorts and hung them up in the wooden closet built into the corner across from the sleeping accommodations. A large zippered pocket on the outside of the canvas bedding roll contained his toilet articles, which he unpacked, arranging them on a bracketed shelf just below the mirror. Stripped to the nude, he lifted the hinged wooden cover to the aluminum washbasin, filled the bow] with tepid water, and took a sponge bath. Having dried himself, he prepared for the night. He stretched out on the lower bunk of the train compartment, reached above his head to switch off the reading lamp, and then, with a sigh, placed himself in a state of total relaxation. It had become an established custom, particularly during the more recent stressful periods of his professional life, for him to practice a form of autogenic mind and body control, using any available scraps of time. His reasoning had been quite simple: if the mind can create and pass on negative and destructive emotions precipitating mental and physical problems, why not deliberately generate and spread positive thoughts with their creative and constructive potentials? A skeptical physician friend of the Captain’s, several years before, had become a convert to this physiological action program by the quite rudimentary experiment of comparing blood pressures and pulse rates taken before and after the exercise. Prem closed his mind to the problems elbowing each other for his attention, and relaxed into a temporary respite from the pressures of the day. The shrill metallic whistle of the Railway Guard and a burst of hissing steam from the engine abruptly terminated the Captain’s soothing autogenic exercises. Turning on the overhead reading lamp, he reached under his pillow and withdrew a cloisonne cigarette case of more than ordinary beauty. As the train left the station with a succession of uneven jerks, he deliberately selected a cigarette, lit it, and blew a series of smoke rings toward the compartment ceiling. The day had started quietly enough over breakfast in a corner

booth of the Ashoka Hotel dining room in Delhi. Pritham Singh, a

tall and slender turbaned Sikh with graying hair and beard, had seated himself across the table from Prem Narayan. The meeting had been arranged the day before by a covert long-distance phone call. Following that early-morning conversation, Captain Narayan had taken the afternoon flight directly from Bombay to Delhi, where he had checked into a small middle-class hotel under an assumed name and waited patiently for the next day’s rendezvous. The two men knew and respected each other from past associations. The

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MELVIN A. CASBERG

Sikh was a Deputy Inspector General of the Criminal Investigation Department whose jurisdiction included the Punjab. “Like old times, eh, Prem’?”’ Pritham Singh’s dark eyes carefully probed those of his friend. “Right.’’ The Captain smiled and nodded. “IT say, old chap, a bit of a botheration — I mean this sudden displacement from your duties in Bombay, eh what?’ The Sikh commiserated with a sympathetic frown, and added quickly, “Ruins your ruddy vacation too.”’ “Not really all that bad, Pritham, not really,’’ he repeated. ‘““Shankar’s a good man. He’ll keep things in hand. Anyway the office has been damned quiet — too blooming hot to accomplish much. A waiter dressed in a colorful turban and knee-length white coat interrupted the conversation. Orders were given for cuts of papaya,

hot cereal, toast and coffee. When the attendant left, Pritham Singh glanced over his shoulder to reassure himself of their privacy, and continued, ‘‘A bloody mess in the Punjab, if you’ll pardon the pun. Three murders, and each of the victims a quite prominent personage. All happened over a month ago and still no real clues... plenty of hearsay, but nothing of substance, damn it!”’ ‘What about the State Police?’’ “My God, what a mess! They’re all tied up in jurisdictional

arguments with the Chandigarh branch office of the Central Bureau of Investigation.” The Sikh stopped and drew in a quick breath, his face furrowed with a scowl. ‘Jaspal Singh Gill still up there?”’ He nodded soberly. “‘Yes, heads up the Punjab branch of the

EBL

‘A pretty good chap, isn’t he?”’’ ‘Yes, yes. But the blighter’s completely tied up in this damned feud with the State Police.’’ His voice sounded irritated.

‘What's the problem? I mean what goes on between them?” ‘‘Punjab authorities feel the Central Government Home Ministry, through the Bureau of Investigation, is taking over their local or state’s rights.’”” The Sikh groaned and threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. “No cooperation?”’ “Great God!”’ Pritham Singh exploded, ‘‘not only no cooperation but persistent, and thus far successful, efforts to sabotage the whole bloody investigation.” Dishes of papaya and sliced lemons were served. Both men kept their silence as they squeezed the citrus juice over the tender fruit. After hovering over the table a moment, the waiter withdrew. ‘You know, I can’t understand why the Home Ministry, backe d by the Central Government, doesn’t step in.”’ Prem Naray an broke the silence.

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‘But it has, my dear chap. The Home Minister asked the two organization, the C.B.I. and the C.I.D., to get together and resolve the ruddy situation.” The Captain’s spoonful of papaya stopped in mid-air as his eyes searched Pritham Singh’s face. “‘And there is a solution?”’ A fleeting smile touched the Sikh’s eyes as he very deliberately lit a cigarette. “Come, come, old fellow, quit the suspense game,’’ Prem Narayan said with a chuckle. ‘The joint committee decided that a totally new approach would be easier than trying to untangle the bally mess.” “Accha — All right. And so...’’ he stopped and scanned his companion’s face closely. Pritham Singh leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘‘My dear Captain, you are the solution!” Captain Narayan continued to watch his companion without the least evidence of surprise, a flicker of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. ‘‘Now that’s what I’ve always admired about you, Prem, complete control of your emotions,” the Sikh confided and went on, *‘bet you’re a damned good poker player, eh?”’ Fair,’ he replied with a self-conscious grin, “but tell me more.”’ ‘‘About the homicides?” Prem Narayan nodded, waving cigarette smoke from in front of his face. ‘Three men, all quite prominent, a Hindu, a Sikh and a Muslim, each about the same age — in their middle fifties — all killed over a period of a fortnight.”’ Residents of the Punjab?” “Right,” Pritham Singh acknowledged and continued, ‘Pran Naik, the Hindu, District Commissioner of Ferozepore; Kishan Singh Kairon, the Sikh, State Superior Court Judge in Chandigarh; and Iqbal Khan, the Muslim, Colonel in the Indian Army stationed at the military cantonment in Jullundur.”’ The two men sat in silence while the waiter removed the empty fruit dishes and replaced them with bowls of cereal. ‘All committed by one person?” the Captain asked. “Looks that way.’’ the Sikh replied tersely as he sugared and creamed his oatmeal. ‘‘The evidence would seem to indicate that one person assassinated all three.” ‘And this evidence you just mentioned?” ‘Each homicide carried out by a narrow thin-bladed knife with almost identical points of entry... just under the left shoulder blade.”’ “Only one wound .. . I mean mortal wound?”’

“Right.” Pritham Singh paused to sip his hot cup of coffee noisily

and then gently pat his moustache with the edge of the napkin. ‘“The

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MELVIN A. CASBERG

murder weapon was sufficiently long to pass right through the heart.” “Blooming powerful thrust, through the chest wall and on through the heart. The killer must have studied the direction in order to repeat it so damned accurately.” The Sikh nooded his head. ‘““Wasn’t there some sort of mutilation?”’ “The nose . . . each victim had his nose amputated and... ’’ he

grimaced before continuing, ‘‘and stuffed into his mouth.”’ ‘‘Nasal amputation . . . a bit ghoulish to say the least,”’ the Captain muttered almost to himself as he doodled on the tablecloth with the tip of his knife. ‘Another point of interest: although of separate faiths, all three were supposedly quite religious and all were killed in situations related to the act of worship.” Each man withdrew momentarily into his own thoughts. Pritham Singh buttered a piece of toast and then layered it heavily with marmalade. Prem Narayan reflectively selected a cigarette from its case and lit it. The waiter refilled their coffee cups and then left for the kitchen. “Your selection was unanimous, I mean the joint committee was unanimous in its decision,”’ Singh confided. “And the Home Minister knows and has agreed?” “Prem, you’ve a jolly good reputation not only in the central office but up in the Punjab as well. The way you handled the Naya Ghadr anarchists .. . that raid in Ladakh... ”’ ‘‘How could I forget,’’ the Captain interrupted, ‘‘but Pritham, you've not answered my question about the Home Minister.” “The chap was delighted. Accepted the committee recommendation, happy to know something’s going to be done at last.”’ “Any suspects?”’ “Huh,” Pritham Singh grunted irritably, ‘‘the blokes up there think they have suspects, a couple of them, but as far as I’m concerned, the buggers are just farting around...” he stopped and scowled over his coffee cup, ‘‘to answer your question, there just aren't any real suspects.“ “Is there... how shall I put it...” the Captain pause d and thought a moment before going on, “‘is there reason to believ e that someone high in the Punjab government, for reasons as yet unknown, is deliberately trying to quash efforts to solve these homicides?”’ The Sikh frowned and pursed his lips before quietly obser ving, ‘Quite possible, Prem. Yes, quite possible.’’ ‘‘Not much choice, I mean for me.”’ A look of resignation crossed his face. ‘ “Then you . . . you accept the assignment?”’

Throwing his companiona disarming smile, the Capta in nodded his head.

DEATH STALKS THE PUNJAB

17

“IT say, that’s splendid old feHow!"’ The Sikh jumped up and reached across the table to shake his hand. ‘You know, I’ma bit puzzled . . . ’’ Captain Narayan began, then stopped and stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray. ‘Puzzled about what?”’ ‘‘Why this meeting here? I mean, why not in your office where we usually get together?”’ ‘‘My dear fellow, I had to get your acceptance of the assignment.” He laughed happily. ‘‘A bit messy, don’t you know, had you turned me down. A bit of a sticky wicket, eh?” The Captain grinned. ‘‘I really had little choice.” “You might have buggered up the whole thing with a lack of enthusiasm.” ‘And just what makes you think I’m really all that enthusiastic?”’ “The look in your eyes,’ the Sikh volunteered in mock seriousness. They joined in a lusty laugh. The Frontier Mail was slowing down and the change of pace interrupted Prem Narayan’s review of the day’s activities. With a clanging of the engine’s slackening driveshafts and a final burst of escaping steam, the train jerked to a standstill. The clamor of the station platform filtered into compartment ‘"C”’ and the Captain sat up in his bunk to raise the window shade. In large letters, both Hindustani and English, the sign announced “Subzimundi,’’ a suburb of Delhi. The name sent his memory hurtling back over the years to an early morning during the first days of September, 1947. India’s independence was not quite a month old and its government trembled on the brink of uncontrolled chaos. He would never forget the stench of rotting bodies rising from sections of Delhi where communal gangs stalked and wantonly murdered those not of their faith. It was during those dark days of threatened anarchy that young an Lieutenant Prem Narayan had been freshly commissioned in organization of soldiers and police established ‘by the Emergency Lord Committee of the Indian Cabinet, under the guidance of help to India, of Mountbatten, newly appointed Governor General that turn the chaotic tide engulfing Delhi and the Punjab. Early LieuSeptember morning the central dispatcher had notified the follow-up tenant of trouble in a sector of Subzimundi. Requesting scene of assistance, he had jumped into his jeep and headed for the Lieuteas and disturbance. A mob had gathered in a large courtyard several nant Narayan pushed his way through, he stepped over of the yard bodies grotesquely sprawled on the ground. In one corner s of the a ring of rowdies, led by slogan-shouting Hindu fanatic later assasRashtriya Swayam Sewak Sangh (a member of which yet in his teens. The sinated Gandhi) were taunting a Muslim lad not

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unarmed boy, stripped to his loincloth, stood with his back against the mud compound wall. Terror-stricken eyes pled for mercy as the swords and knives pricked his bare skin and sent trickles of fresh

blood to mingle with the rivulets of sweat. Drawing his automatic, the Lieutenant pushed his way to the boy, shielding the lad with his own body. He shouted out in a firm voice, ordering the mob to disperse. The bloodthirsty hoodlums gave little indication of obeying the command — in fact they pressed forward brandishing their weapons and shouting slogans. “If you want to kill this Muslim, you must first kill this Hindu!’’ Prem Narayan’s words rose above the howls of those around him. The frenzied mob hesitated momentarily, taken by surprise, then surged forward again, angered by this attempted denial of their blood lust. As the grim human circle slowly tightened around the Lieutenant, a hushed silence fell, broken only by the gentle sobbing of the child behind him. A feint here and a parry there warned of the attack. Then, witha suddenness that came as a surprise to all, there was the flash of a sword, glinting wickedly in the morning sunlight and with it, almost simultaneously, the sharp report of a gun. The sword-wielder crumpled to his knees, as if in homage, then with a gurgling groan

lunged forward on his face to lie prone before the young officer. But the sword had taken its toll. Blood covered the left side of the Lieutenant’s face, momentarily blinding his eye, and flowed down over his shoulder and chest. The sight of this fearless symbol of law and order, bloodied but resolute, was too much for the disorderly rabble. They broke and fell back as a wave receding from a steep shore, leaving their dead hostage at the feet of the victor. Captain Narayan wrenched his thoughts back from the past and, pulling down the window shade, stretched out again on the bunk. His hand instinctively sought out the left side of his face and with sensitive fingers traced out the rigid, deforming scar. The Muslim boy had grown into a robust young man, Ahmed Khan, serving in the C.I.D. with distinction. A soft smile touched the Captain’s features as he thought about the Subzimundi orphan. Having no children of his own, Prem Narayan virtually had adopted the lad from that bloody day of their first encounter, advising and directing him through middle school and the preparatory police courses for enrollment with the Criminal Investigation Department. Anonymity was difficult for the C.I.D. Captain. There were two outstanding physical distortions which stood out cruelly. One was the ugly scar which slashed across the left side of his face from the temple to the angle of his mouth. The other was a peculiar wild stare of his left eye, due in part to the contracture of the scar itself as well as the paralysis of facial muscles about the eye. The long scar across the cheek distorted the angle of the mouth on the left, producing the

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appearance ofa permanent sneer. The result of this unhappy state of affairs was that he presented two widely divergent facial expressions, depending on which profile came into view. Seen from the left he gave the impression of savage ferocity, whereas simply by turning his head he reflected a benign serenity. Conversing with Captain Narayan, a stranger might have the distinct conviction that he was facing a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. In the interrogation of criminals, this duality had played a crucial role on more than one occasion. The Captain spoke unhurriedly, at times almost hesitantly, as if he were studying each word before using it. He had often said that English was his mother tongue, and he conversed in a clipped British accent. Prem Narayan’s closely cropped hair showed streaks of gray. He gave the appearance of a quiet and studious man rather than one devoted to the hunting down of hardened criminals. His body was lean and muscular and his bearing was erect, showing the ingrained habits of past military training. He moved slowly and deliberately, a characteristic that had lulled more than one of his antagonists into a false sense of security. Those unfortunates who had misjudged the Captain’s alacrity all too often found themselves overwhelmed by a lightning swiftness. The lobby of the Ashoka Hotel had been quiet as Pritham Singh and the Captain walked through, following their breakfast conference, on their way to the taxi ramp. ‘See you this afternoon, Prem, old chap.” “Righto.’’ He saluted smartly with his swagger stick and stepped over to the beckoning of a brightly uniformed Sikh doorman who, after assisting him into the taxi, closed the door and imperiously waved the vehicle on. Captain Narayan directed the driver toan address on Connaught Circus, the commercial heart of New Delhi. Reaching this conglomerate of shops, restaurants, hotels, banks and other assorted commercial ventures, he stopped the taxi, paid for its services and stepped up onto the porticoed verandah which offered a common pedestrian thoroughfare for all the enterprises fronting on it. He walked briskly up to a large door which was opened for him by a khaki-uniformed man who had been seated in a chair beside the entrance. Embossed on the door in polished brass letters were the words, ‘‘Military Officer’s Club.’’ On entering he was greeted warmly by the proprietor, Major Ram Sunderam, retired from the Indian Army. The two had been fellow cadets at the Dehra Dun Military Academy and had maintained a close: friendship since their

graduation as junior officers. Over the years the club had served asa gathering place for the military, retired and active, offering a mess

and serving both Indian and European food at a reasonable price, boasting a library of current magazines and newspapers. Transient

officers

passing

through

Delhi

frequented

the club,

renewing

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MELVIN A. CASBERG

acquaintanceships and replenishing their stock of news. “Prem, you bounder, what the hell’ve you been doing?” ‘What I’m always doing, Ram— working my damned ass off.”’ “On assignment . . . a new one, eh?’”’ The Major’s eyes followed through on his question. Captain Narayan nodded soberly. “‘Headquarters has just handed me a bitch of a case to investigate.”’ “Here in Delhi?”’ ‘‘Now, Major Sunderam, you know blooming well I’m not going to answer that question. Both men laughed. “Still carry last month’s newspapers?” Prem asked, pointing at the door across the foyer marked, ‘‘Library.”’’ ‘‘All important Indian dailies as well as The Manchester Guardian and The New York Times.’’ “Thanks, old boy. I’ve got some reading to do.”” The Captain started toward the library and stopped mid-way. ‘‘Isay, Ram, how about lunch together?”’ “Jolly good!’’ He smiled and threw an informal salute. ‘“‘You’ll be my guest today. Remember, you took me out to dinner the last time we met in Bombay.”’ Prem grinned and waved in acceptance. Over the next two hours he searched the papers looking for news relating to the Punjab assassinations. Disappointingly, he found nothing of consequence that wasn’t already known to him. He had been following closely the rather detailed reporting of the triple murders as recorded in the Bombay papers as well as The Statesman from Delhi. Sunderam and the Captain sat by themselves at a table removed from the more active part of the mess. A noisy window airconditioner on the far side of the room, assisted by two ceiling fans, struggled to dissipate the overpowering heat. Officers of variou s rank, in uniform as well as mufti, gathered about the tables in that camaraderie peculiar to the military. Turbaned and white-coated bearers wove in and out between patrons and tables balanc ing trays of food and drink. The walls of the mess displayed tiger and leopard skins interspersed with stag horns of various spreads. A large and sharply tusked wild boar’s head snarled down fiercely from its shelf. Around the periphery of the room, trophies boasting prowess in hockey, cricket, soccer, polo and tennis rested on brightly varnished wooden pedestals. t A large part of one wall was devoted to photographs of visiting dignitaries, their autographs fading in some cases to the point of illegibility. The collection, many dating from World War II, includ-

ed a few film celebrities who must have been passi ng through Delhi on their way to entertain troops. From a central and prestigious position, Lord Louis Mountbatten’s ruggedly hand-

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some face surveyed the mess hall with what appeared to be an unusual interest in the stuffed boar’s head directly across the room. In special deference to the aphorism that rank has its privileges, the importance of the pictured personages decreased in proportion to their distance from Lord Louis. ‘“‘Prem, a gin and tonic, yes?”’ “You’re having a drink?”’ Sunderam nodded, throwing his guest an encouraging smile. “Jolly good. I'll join you, old chap.”’ The Major waved a bearer over and placed the orders, then leaning forward, elbows on table, he lowered his voice and announced, “‘You’re headed for the Punjab — I'll wager you a hundred rupees. ‘Ram, I’m not ina gambling mood... but I'll listen to what you have to say.”’ “Damn it, Prem, it’s just like back in the Academy. You're a close-mouthed blighter and .. .’”’ Sunderam paused to stare at his guest, all the humor draining out of his face. The Captain made no comment but fixed his eyes questioningly on those of his host. ‘Prem, we've been friends now for years and I have nothing but the highest respect for your professional stature as a detective ... hell, man, you’re a legend. What with...” “Please, Ram,’’ Prem Narayan cut in with a wave of his hand, “thanks butI...I...’’ he searched for a word. “I’m not that good, but thanks anyway.” He grinned self-consciously. “You know you're heading right into one of the damnedest situations imaginable, don’t you? It’s bloody dynamite and I think you’re eS VOU PEA) sae ‘Bloody fool,’’ the Captain broke in again. “Yes! A bloody fool!.”’ ‘Tell me more ...no.. .tell me why. I’m listening.”’ The Major shot him an uneasy look, his face furrowed by the pull of worry. The bearer broke into the conversation, reaching between the men to set up their drinks. ‘‘Here’s to my host and our military academy,” Prem proposed, rising with glass in hand. “Cheers! And I’ll include in the toast the best bloody detective in the C.I.D.’’ Ram Sunderam stood and reached forward with his drink to touch that of his guest. Following the ritual, both men sat down to sip their gin and tonics quietly. ‘‘And?” Prem broke the temporary silence.

“And what?”

“You were about to tell me of the dangers of the Punjab.”’

“Man... my dear chap, I don’t have to tell you a ruddy thing. You damn well know what you're getting into. Those murders up

there are steeped in religious fanaticism, revenge, politics and you

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name it.”’ ‘“*Ram, how in hell do you know so damn much about it?”’ ‘“‘How do I know? Man, I’m the proprietor in this club and you ask me how I know. Just about all the military gossip of India passes through these halls. Then, too, remember I was born and raised in the Himalayas along the northern parts of the Punjab.”’ “Simla?”’ “Correct. Simla was my home.’’ Ram stared thoughtfully at Prem before going on. ‘‘No one really knows who the murderer is. All kinds of rumors, but believe me, no one here in Delhi or up there knows who the murderer is. And, you know something Prem, I think some of them up there damned well don’t want to find out who did all the killing. They’re afraid . . .’’ he stopped and stirred his drink reflectively. The bearer stepped up with a tray of food, cold chicken salads with side dishes of sliced mangoes and tall frosted glasses of iced tea. “Did you know any of the victims?”’ Prem asked when they were alone again. Ram frowned and pursed his lips. ‘‘Two of them. Not too well, mind you, quite casually, really . . .’’ he paused and sipped his tea. Prem waited until his host had set down his glass and then nodded him on. “Iqbal Khan served with me at Ambala Cantonment. Our terms overlapped just a couple of months. A damned good officer and respected by his superiors, his peers and those who served under him. Being a Muslim, and very much a minority, he was an overachiever, always trying to be better than the next fellow, in sports as well as in his profession. Quite a handsome chap — loved women, a ladies’ man. “Both attributes could make the man enemies — I mean his being highly competitive and chasing women.” ‘Now, Pran Naik I met a few times at social events. The man made a show of being a very religious Hindu. Quite sanctimonious. It was rumored about that...’ Sunderam stopped and picked at his salad with a fork. “That what?” “That the chap was a homosexual.”’ ‘So. Anything else, Ram?”’ The Major shook his head. “that’s about it, Prem. But for God’s sake, take care.’’ There was worry in the depth of his eyes. Prem hailed a three-wheeled motorcycle taxi, driven by a wild Sikh who should have been flying his vehicle some where in the skies and away from traffic. The Captain, a man not easily intimidated, preserved his equanimity by closing both eyes all the way from Connaught Circus to the C.LD. headquarters. Closeted in Pritham Singh’s office, the afternoon discussions had moved along rapidly. The Captain had been pleasantly sur-

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prised at the obvious efforts of all in headquarters to comply with his requests, and attributed this ready compliance to the Deputy Inspector General’s appreciation of his acceptance of a thankless assignment. Ludhiana was selected as task force headquarters. It was cen-

trally positioned in reference to the residences of the three victims, as well as being located on the Grand Trunk Road and the main rail line through the Punjab. At the Captain’s behest, Lieutenant Ian McVey, director of the Punjab branch of the C.I.D., and Sergeant Major Sardar Khan of the same office, were assigned to work with him. The investigation team would be directly responsible to the department headquarters through the office of the Deputy Inspector General. “Here’s the dossier on the triple murders.’ Pritham Singh reached across the desk and handed a folder to Prem. “The Punjab authorities... I mean the State Police and the C.B.I., know I’m coming up, and why?” “They’ve been officially informed by coded radiogram.’’ The Sikh paused and fingered his moustache thoughtfully a moment before going on, ‘‘District Commissioner in Ludhiana has been instructed to have the government guest house prepared for your occupation in the morning.”’ ’ “Any formalities required? I mean paying respects to...’ “‘No bloody formailities,’’ Pritham Singh cut in abruptly. Captain Narayan smiled his appreciation. ‘Feel better, eh, Prem?’’ he asked with a chuckle, and went on to add, ‘I know you, my dear fellow — you don’t want any blighters nosing into your work.” ‘‘Damned serious work,” he observed soberly. ‘I say, Prem, that dossier,’’ he pointed across the table, ‘‘consider it as classified.” ‘*Accha—all right,’’ Prem shot back in Hindustani. With the formalities concluded, Pritham Singh led his guest through a back door to the rear of the building where an official car and driver awaited them. Waving his hand toward the vehicle, he announced, “‘Yours for the rest of the day. He’ll deliver you to the station. And,’’ he reached into the breast pocket of his bush jacket, ‘‘here’s your reservation on the Frontier Mail — the air-conditioned carriage, compartment ‘C’. You'll be alone, no one in the upper bunk.” The two men shook hands and parted. Late afternoon Delhi traffic soon swallowed the government car and its occupants. In the back seat, withdrawn‘ deeply into his own thoughts, brooded a somber Captain of the Criminal Investigation Department. Thank God I've no family, he mused. The task he had just assumed not only would be demanding of his time and effort, but extremely dangerous as well. He stirred restlessly in his seat. “Jab ag jalti hai, tab dhua hota hai — When fire burns, there is

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smoke,”’ he muttered out loud in Hindustani, then added in English, ‘So far only the smoke is evident.” Heading first for the Chandi Chowk bazaar area of Old Delhi, Prem helped the driver navigate the narrow and crowded alleyways within the old city wall. Progress, slow at best and frequently brought to an abrupt standstill, was impeded by capricious and barely moving traffic. Vying for equal occupancy of road space were pedestrians, cyclists, two-wheeled carts drawn by horses or bullocks or men, cycle rickshaws, motor cars and lazily wandering cows. Children just released from school compounded the confusion, darting in and out of this erratic flow, books and slates in cloth bags hung over their shoulders or loosely bundled in their hands. This tumultuous drama of movement was orchestrated by an unceasing cacophony of motor horns. The shop the Captain entered was one of many crushed together along a narrow alley. There was no door at the entrance but on either side of the storefront stood folded metal barricades which, when pulled into position, secured the premises. Corrugated iron eaves jutted out over the entrance a couple of feet and just under

this protection from rain and sun was fastened a wooden sign in Hindustani and English, ‘“‘Gurba Singh — Saris.’’ Two wooden steps admitted the customer from street level directly into a small room with shelves on either side displaying a colorful variety of saris. The shop section was separated from the living quarters in the rear by a hanging curtain. Gurba Singh, the proprietor, sat cross-legged in the center of the floor on a rather worn Persian carpet, his wares stacked around him within easy reach. “Sat Sri Akal — God is Truth,’’ Prem announced his presence to

the dozing proprietor with the Sikh greeting. Startled out of his sleep, Gurba Singh fumbled for his glasses and hurriedly pushed them up over his nose. “Sat Sri Akal,’’ he exclaimed, looking up at the Captain standing over him, then added quickly in Hindustani, “‘Andar aiye aur baithiye — Please come in and sit down.” In deference to the summer heat the Sikh had dispensed with his turban and shirt. His long gray hair was held by a single large knot on the top of his head. An expansive white beard tumbled over his chest almost into his lap, giving him a patriarchal appearance. Bare

feet stuck out of the ends of rumpled blue cotton pants covering legs folded under him. With his invitation to the Captain to be seated, Gurba Singh pushed a low wooden stool over toward his guest. “I’ve come to buy a sari — something special for a close friend,” Prem said, squatting on the stool. “Something special, eh? And may I make a suggestion?” HACCNO “Benares silk in royal purple with a broad gold border,” the Sikh said, reaching over and pulling out a sari which he threw

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with a practiced flair across the floor before them. The five yards of silken beauty were paid for without the usual bargaining. “Now, Prem, you didn’t come to Chandi Chowk just to buy a sari. Connaught Circus sells an equally good cloth — a little more expensive but equally good.” He stared at the Captain, half smiling. “Can't hide anything from you, can I?’”’ Prem laughed. ‘“We've worked together too long not to know each other. Those days here in Delhi, the partition rioting . . . dangerous days...’ the Sikh stared abstractedly past the Captain. ‘“‘You didn’t hesitate to risk your life for mine in that shoot-out with those Agra dacoits.” Prem shrugged and waved his hands self-deprecatingly. “Sort of miss being on active duty. Age caught up with me, don’t you know. But I’m still a listening post for them.”’ “I’ve been assigned to investigate the triple murders up in the Punjab.”’ “So that’s why you're here. Prem, if anyone can settle that bloody mess, you’re the one.”’ “Don’t know about that, but have you anything Headquarters might not know.?”’ The Sikh sat quietly stroking his beard for a moment before saying, “Damned clever, that killer. Almost a perfect series of murders... carefully planned.”’ “Those nasal mutilations they... they...’’ Prem Narayan groped for a word, “‘they taint the assassinations with fanaticism.”

Gurba Singh’s forehead furrowed as he nodded in acquiescence. “Prem, who’ll be working with you?” “McVey and Sardar Khan.”’ “Bully, very good!”’ A look of relief crossed his eyes and then his face sobered again. ‘‘Prem, for God’s sake don’t trust anyone up there. Watch your personal security. All three of you will be in danger ... danger of your lives. They’ll all be against you — the Punjab police, the Akalis, and probably the Punjab politicians as well, not to speak of the murderer.” “A tough assignment,”’ the Captain muttered under his breath. He rose from his stool and stretched his arms. “‘Gurba, old chap, I’m catching the Frontier Mail tonight.” The Sikh stood and took his guest’s hands firmly in both of his own. ‘One thing, before you leave. The top Akali is a close friend of mine. We went through middle school together in Amritsar. A fine

fellow. If you need help just let me know.”’ ‘“‘Accha, you’ve been most kind.”’ Prem put his arm around Gur-

ba Singh’s shoulder and hugged him, then turned and started out of the shop, his purchase in hand. On the steps he stopped and called back, ‘“‘Sat Sri Akal.” Although almost seven o'clock, the sun still hovered over the Old Delhi railroad station. Residual heat stored in the walls and roof of the building continued to radiate its debilitation on all those near at hand.

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‘“‘Bahut garmi hai — It’s very hot,’’ the Captain commiserated with the coolie he had called over to carry his bedding roll and tin trunk. ‘Ha, ji — Yes, sir,’’ the man grunted tersely as he struggled to balance the baggage on top of his turbaned head. The undulating high-pitched whistle of the engine cut out into the surrounding darkness as the Frontier mail rolled over the rural plains of the state of Haryana. Scheduled to arrive at Ludhiana in the Punjab shortly after five the next morning, the train surged forward impatiently, releasing noisy bursts of steam. Prem Narayan reached under his pillow for the cloisonne case and extracted a bedtime smoke. The flame of his lighter threw sinuous shadows dancing crazily over the compartment walls. A sudden puff of acrid smoke burned his eyes, causing them to tear and blink tightly. Again his hand slipped under the bedding at the head of his bunk, seeking out the firm and comforting substance of his automatic. Finally, finishing his smoke, he exhaled with a satisfied sigh and ground out the smoldering stub in the ashtray. “Sunderam might just be right, perhaps I am a bloody fool,’’ He laughed soundlessly. ‘‘What was that Ian McVey used to accuse me of doing? Something about rushing in where angels feared to tread. Well, he’ll jolly well be rushing in with me this time.’’ Again the Captain laughed — laughed out loud with the excitement of a dangerous challenge.

Chapter Two

‘“‘Accha, accha,”’ Prem Narayan called in reply to the persistent knocking of the carriage attendant. Switching on the reading light above the bunk, he checked the time. It was just five o’clock, a half hour to get ready for Ludhiana. In short order he shaved. brushed his teeth and dressed. Lifting the window shade he scanned the countryside while enjoying his first cigarette of the day. Dawn had brushed out the night’s darkness, even at this early hour, for in North India the days are long in the month of June. Stretching out as far as he could see, the Punjab plains looked hot and dusty. All of this would change with the coming of the monsoon in just a few weeks. The dormant seeds planted in that dry earth would be touched by the magic of water and yield an abundance of wheat, peanuts, sugar cane and other nourishing produce for the mouths of the Punjab. The train slowed down as it passed over a section of tracks under repair, giving the Captain an opportunity to survey an oasis of green

surrounding a Persian well. A haughty camel, with a blinder covering his outer eye, plodded sedately in a circle, around and around, pulling a wooden yoke attached by gears to an endless chain of small buckets reaching down into the well and delivering a constant flow of water into the irrigation ditches. A small village adjacent to the greenery was coming to life. Parading single file along a path radiating out from the houses were several buffaloes urged on by a

small boy with a long bamboo staff. Scattered through the fields about the village were squatting figures responding to the morning gastrointestinal urge, small containers of cleansing douche water resting on the ground beside them. The Frontier Mail vibrated jerkily to the initial application of brakes as it approached the southern outskirts of Ludhiana. At this point the railroad paralleled the Grand Trunk Road, on which a sparse early morning traffic meandered sleepily in both directions. Prem watched the pedestrians and vehicles dispassionately, his thoughts absorbed by the matter of the triple murders. Years of expe-

rience had taught him that killers driven to the extremes of such bizarre acts as the nasal mutilation usually proved to be cunning as well as dangerous. He frowned and wondered if Ian McVey should

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have been drawn into the case, a young man on the brink of an outstanding career, but who had a lovely wife and two daughters. The Captain gave a low groan and tried to brush these thoughts from his mindas he strolled down the carriage hallway to stand by the exit door. Looking out across the rooftops of the city, he mentally probed into the future — a future enshrouding a vicious murderer. An

enterprising

coolie,

seeing

a

potential

customer,

dashed over and grasped the handrail by the carriage steps, running alongside the still-moving train. Appreciating this evidence of enthusiasm, Captain Narayan waved a hand to engage his services. Soon, with the tin trunk and bedding roll balanced high on the coolie’s head, the two of them pushed their way to the station gate and down the steps into the arena of competing bicycle rickshaws and horse carts. In this melee of waving arms and raised voices, each driver beckoned violently and shouted the comforts and economies of his own particular vehicle. A young man in khaki uniform, with shorts and spiral leg puttees, approached the Captain and saluted. “Mai apka driver hai, ji—I am your driver, sir,’’ he announced in Hindustani, holding out a sealed envelope. Accepting the chit, Prem Narayan asked, ““Apka nam kya hai—What is your name?” “Karam Das, ji—Karam Das, sir,” he replied in a deferential tone of voice.

‘“‘Accha, Karam Das, motar kaha hai—All right, Karam Das, where is the motor?”’ The driver pointed out to the periphery of the station parking area and then stepped forward to lead the entourage in that direction. The Captain, who had been aware of the man’s name, recognized the other point of identification: Karam Das limped perceptibly on the left leg.This fact had been supplied by Pritham Singh in Delhi. Also he had been informed that the driver was an employee of the C.I.D. and was to be trusted implicitly. A barely identifiable smile played around Prem Narayan’s lips as his hand felt out the dimensions of the scar on the left side of his face. Certainly, Karam Das had had no difficulty in recognizing him. The jeep moved cautiously through the narrow streets with its horn blowing almost continuously. The law of the road, at least for motorized vehicles, appeared to set forth that to hit a person or thing with the horn blaring was much less a crime than to do so without such warning. The congested traffic eased as they drove on through the bazaar area into the northern residential outskirts of Ludhiana. Prem, in the back seat of the jeep, opened the envelope just hand-

ed him and read the brief note in longhand. “Prem: Have checked the Guest Bungalow and all appears in order. The driver — Karam Das — may be trusted. Have

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mixed feelings about the regular staff — unproven at this point. Will join you for lunch tomorrow. Ian.”’ Damned fine chap, that Ian McVey, the Captain thought to himself. Delhi Headquarters must have informed him by telephone of this new assignment. A smile of satisfaction slowly spread across his face as he reviewed the character of this young man. The two had worked together before on difficult assignments. Ian McVey displayed his dual ethnic background — the blue eyes and sandy hair of the Scotsman combined with the modestly swarthy skin of his Indo-Aryan heritage. He stood just under six feet in height and displayed well-exercised muscles, without evidence of excess fat. His expression tended to be dour and projected firmly etched lines of solemnity. Bushy eyebrows jutted out like eaves. The Lieutenant smiled rather infrequently, but on those occasions when he did, his entire face participated in the action. Outwardly he displayed a brusque and solemn relationship with those about him, but underlying this show of external austerity, there existed a defensive, even shy, man. Captain Narayan had attributed these characteristics in large part to expressions of an insecurity associated with Ian’s being an Anglo-Indian. One of the tragic injustices of British colonialism had been the lot of the offspring from the union of the ruling and those ruled. Socially unacceptable to the British and in large part scorned by the Indian, these hybrids were forced to develop a society of their own. The resultant frustrations of such ostracism not only eroded the pride of a singular class of people but also curtailed the contributions of a highly intelligent and fiercely loyal minority. “Just the chap I need on this case,’’ Prem Narayan muttered out loud, as he reflected that Ian McVey had often, during his service with the C.I.D., demonstrated a cool bravery and intelligence in action which had earned him the respect of the Department. Looking down the road, the Captain recognized the Dak Bungalow or Government Guest House. In the earlier days of colonialism these overnight rest stops were built along the hardsurfaced roads throughout India, spaced at intervals which could be covered in a day by horse-drawn vehicles carrying mail and passengers, usually officials. Hence the designation Dak, or Mail, Bungalow. ‘There, sir,’’ Karam Das announced, pointing ahead at the building whose whitewashed walls brilliantly reflected the early rays of the sun. It stood at the edge of the residential Section of Ludhiana, not far from the Grand Trunk Road, and beyond these homes the countryside for some distance was occupied by scattered commercial buildings housing the city’s so-called cottage industries. In these complexes cloth was loomed, sweaters knitted, bicycle parts manufactured and a variety of similar items produced.

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Prem Narayan leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “You speak English?” “Yes, sir.’’ Karam Das turned and smiled at his passenger. ‘‘And what else?”’ ‘Besides Hindustani, I Punjabi and Marathi speak.’ The syntax of his native Sanskrit-derived dialect had placed the verb last. “Good, we shall speak in English, accha?”’ ‘‘Accha, ji.” Karam Das sounded enthusiastic. He could look forward to improving his English. ‘“‘When did you get here, I mean here in Ludhiana?”’ “Sir, I come from Chandigarh last afternoon.”’ ‘““You’ve met the Dak Bungalow servants?”’ “The cook, sir. He is...’’ Karam Das struggled for the proper words, ‘“‘not a pakka cook... yesterday from the Chandigarh police he is coming.”’ “Good! Jolly good! And how did you find this out?”’ He turned and accepted the compliment with a self-conscious grin. “Find out from a friend.”’ The bungalow compound was surrounded bya recently built brick wall about six feet high. The entrance was controlled by a cumbersome iron gate. Inside, the driveway was lined on both sides by football-sized whitewashed stones, interspersed with earthen pots of vivid orange marigolds. On either side of the steps leading up onto the verandah were brick-bordered plots of bright red canna lilies. Karam Das drove the jeep up the gravel driveway with a flourish and swung around before the entrance scattering a shower of pebbles. A welcoming party of two stood at the top of the verandah steps and introduced themselves as Madanlal the cook and Ranjit the bearer. Both men gave the appearance of being on the permanent staff of the Bungalow. Ranjit scampered down to help Karam Das unload the baggage, while Madanlal, with effusive courtesy, escorted Captain Narayan to his bedroom. “Yah apka kamra hai, ji — This is your room, sir,’”’ the cook announced as they stepped into the quarters. His words carried an intentionally obsequious overtone. “Thank you,” the Captain replied curtly, fixing him with an icy stare and exposing his left profile. Madanlal, taken aback, threw him a surprised glance and asked soberly, “Shall I prepare lunch at one o’clock, sir?”” The normal quality of voice was such a change that Prem Narayan decided the man had learned his lesson. “Yes. And Lieutenant McVey will be with us then, so prepare for two,” he ordered bluntly, choosing to ignore the conversational melodrama. “Chota hazri—breakfast, will be ready ina half hour, sir?’ Madan lal framed his words more as a question than an announcement.

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31

his approval and then closed the bed-

room door firmly behind him. Stepping to the center of the room, he stretched his arms and yawned noisily, turning all the while to

survey his quarters. They looked familiar. The whitewashed walls rose a sheer eighteen feet and from the center of the ceiling dangled a four-bladed fan suspended from a long metal rod. Two single beds huddled together on one side and against the opposite wall stood a tall wooden clothes closet or armoire, known locally as an almirah. Prem Narayan began unpacking the bedding roll and tin box, carefully hanging his uniforms in the almirah and laying out the remainder of his clothes in the large drawer incorporated in its base. The Government Dak Bungalows or Guest Houses scattered throughout the length and breadth of India were produced from a common mold. There had been few changes in their form or content over the past century or more, save the addition of electricity and certain improvements in plumbing. In fact, British colonials of the late eighteen-hundreds would have felt very much at home in the accommodations currently being occupied by the Captain. The Public Works Department, responsible for government construction projects, had never demonstrated particular aptitude in creative imagination. While one could not deny that through the years the thick walls and high ceilings had afforded a degree of protection from the oppressive heat of the summers, they lent themselves poorly to the more modern cooling innovations such as air-conditioning. There was little human warmth to the rooms whose plastered and whitewashed walls radiated a sterile quality which Prem Narayan had on more than one occasion likened to the comforts ofa jail. The master plan of the building was simple, probably the prime reason for its survival these many years. Four bedrooms, two on the north side and two on the south, all opened centrally into an ample front room. The dining room, adjoining the front room on the west, was boxed in by the kitchen on the south and a large pantry or storeroom on the north. Having the kitchen within the con-

fines of the bungalow was a relatively recent accommodation. In past years this basic facility had occupied separate quarters on the compound known as the cookhouse, where in the hot season the

heat from the open charcoal or wood fires could not add to the already insufferable discomfort of the living quarters. Each of the four bedrooms had its own communicating bathroom which opened directly to the outside, affording the sweeper easy access in those days, prior to flush toilets, when he or she removed and cleaned the commodes. And also, prior to running piped water, such a plan facilitated replenishment of water in the large bathroom canisters. With modernization, the improved conveniences included hot and cold running water, a flush toilet with

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overhead water bowl and pull chain and a large galvanized bathtub. A cement shower stall had been built to house the tub. Waste water drained out from the stall through a pipe at the base of the outer wall into an open tile trough leading to a gravel absorption pit in the compound. A wire mesh cork was inserted into the drainage pipe to prevent snakes and other undesirable creatures from entering. The papaya, cooked cracked wheat cereal known locally as dhalia, crisp toast with marmalade, all backed up with coffee, tasted good. Prem Narayan had eaten very lightly the previous evening in Delhi and was hungry. He did not encourage conversation during breakfast and Madanlal and Ranjit respected his wish. After eating heartily, he excused himself and retired to his room asking that he not be disturbed. On casual glance, the tin box belied its strength, looking just like the thousands of similar pieces of baggage traveling the thoroughfares of India. However, closer inspection revealed it to be a veritable safe, with metal reinforcement strips incorporated into its sides. The securing device was a small but sophisticated combination lock. Captain Narayan knelt on the floor before the box and opened it, removing the dossier on the three homicides. He then slipped offall his clothes save his shorts, lit a cigarette, turned onthe ceiling fan, pulled up a chair directly under it and commenced leafing through the document. On the floor beside him at his left was an ash tray and at the other a paper pad on which to take notes. As the morning wore on, he became more and more intrigued, reading and rereading numerous notations. There was considerable conflicting evidence in which the efforts of obstructionists were quite apparent.

“If some blighter’s trying to quash this investigation, well, I’ve just become a prime target,”’ the Captain mused out loud, standing to stretch his arms and legs. ‘‘To stay alive I’d bloody well better act on that assumption.”’ “Jolly nice to see you again, Prem,” Ian McVey addressed his superior with obvious pleasure. The two men had just met on the verandah.

Grasping his hand firmly, Prem Narayan surveyed his young associate from head to foot and said, ‘‘So, we work together again, eh, Ian?”’ The Lieutenant nodded, grinning somewhat self-consciously. A deep loyalty and sense of kinship bound the two men, so different in character and background and yet each complementing the other to create a superb investigative team. Ian McVey was shown to his room by Ranjit. His quarters were directly across the front room from the Captain’s. The conversation at the dining table was light and limited to subjects not pertinent to the criminal investigation. Mrs. McVey was up in the cool Himalayas, at Landour, with the two girls who were

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attending Woodstock School. Prem had been planning to spend a fortnight up in the Western Ghats at Mahabaleshwer, near Poona, but this had all been changed by the summons from the C.I.D. Being a widower with no immediate family, such sudden alterations in plans were not necessarily catastrophic. After luncheon the two men retired to Prem’s quarters and closed the door. The ceiling fan stirred the air enough to produce a tolerable physical environment. The doors and windows had been closed and curtains drawn to preserve what little coolness persisted from the past night and to stem the oppressive heat developing outside. Prem drew acigarette from his cloisonné case and lit it while Ian ceremoniously filled the bowl of his pipe from a beautifully tooled leather pouch and proceeded to light it with a wooden match. ‘This was complicated somewhat by the air currents forced down by the fan, but he finally succeeded. ‘And the Sergeant Major?’’ Prem asked. ‘Be down here tomorrow afternoon — he’s been in Amritsar over the past fortnight . . . C.I.D. business not related to this case.”’ “I say, Ian, the man’s sharp, eh what?”’ He nodded his head emphatically. ‘A bit of all right that Sardar Khan, born and bred in the military and picked up by the C.I.D. on his retirement about five years ago. Dependable and absolutely

fearless.”’ “I knew you regarded him highly. That’s why I asked for the chap. What’s that advertising poster the Indian Army uses for recruiting. . . you know, the young turbaned soldier with a bristling moustache and under the picture some words in Hindustani?” Ian chuckled and nodded. ‘‘Ham-ko us-ke jaise admi cahiye — We need a man like that.”’ “That’s it, and we really need the best for this investigation .. .” Prem looked questioningly at his associate. ‘A solid blighter,’’ lan interrupted, ‘‘give him an assignment and he’s like a bird dog after grouse.”’ “Of course he’ll billet with us, quarters and mess.’ “You'll have to convince him — a pakka military man — thata noncom can socialize and break bread with officers.”’ ‘‘Shan’t argue, I’ll just order him,” Prem said with a laugh. ‘“‘Madanlal’s from the Chandigarh police,” Ian said. ‘Karam Das told me.”’ ‘Arrived here last evening in time to buy some food in the

bazaar.”’

,

‘Hope the bugger can cook.’ ‘‘He’s cooked before and under similar circumstances.” ‘The hell you say! You mean he’s in their intelligence setup?”’ Ian nodded with a grim smile.

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‘‘What about this Jaspal Singh of the C.B.I.?”’ ‘Heads the Chandigarh branch of the Bureau.” ‘“Pritham Singh told me he was embroiled in some sort of bureaucratic tangle.” ‘Poor bloke’s hopelessly mixed up with the Punjab State Police — cries on my shoulder about the bloody mess he’s in.”’ ‘Tan, why the stalemate? I mean, why all this botheration?”’ Ian McVey chewed on his pipestem thoughtfully for a moment before replying. ‘“IT'wo major things, really, the state resents interference from outside investigators and Jaspal’s damned headstrong.”’ “Will he be an obstructionist? That is, will he try to slow us down?” Ian shook his head. “‘Jaspal may even help if we can share some of our success with him, hoping we have some.”’ Prem shot his associate an approving look. “However,” Ian continued, ‘‘the State Police shouldn’t be aware of this, in fact it wouldn’t hurt for us to act as if there was little love lost between us and Jaspal.”’ ‘‘Can you do the necessary, getting this across to Jaspal?”’ “Leave it to me, I know the chap.” Ian’s voice sounded reassuring. ‘And of course we’ve good communications with the State Police.” Prem nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen and laughed quietly.

“Direct line,”’ Ian said, joining in his laughter. “Tsay, let me turn over some of the dossier Delhi gave me yesterday. I'll hold onto a part for reading tonight and you can have the rest. We'll start our serious study together in the morning after breakfast.’ Prem reached down into his tin box and pulled out the folder, a portion of which he handed Ian. “Righto.”” The Lieutenant stood to leave. ‘‘See you at dinner.” He moved his chair back to the side of the room and stepped toward the door, then turned and said, ‘‘Dropping over to see the civil surgeon about my sore throat. Damned nuisance, and in this beastly hot weather.” That night at dinner, Madanlal hovered over the table with eyes and ears alert. He acted overly solicitous. Surprisingly, the food was excellent. “This man’s obviously cooked before,” Prem leaned over and whispered into his companion’s ear. “Uh-huh,” Ian grunted, his mouth full of chicken curry. “What say we get our messages on their way to Chandigarh,’’ Prem said under his breath. “Jaspal Singh Gill is having trouble,” Ian spoke out in a voice audible throughout the room.

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Madanlal, who was headed for the kitchen, found reason to make a quick return to the table. *“‘What do you mean, trouble?’’ Prem asked in mock surprise. “Poor bloke can’t get along with the police or, for that matter, with hardly anyone in Chandigarh.”’ “Tll be damned. Really that bad, eh?”’ ‘Rather! But we’ll work it out with the State Police. They’re really a jolly good outfit.” Having said their part, the two ate silently for a time until the cook stepped out of the room. ‘The message is on its way,”’ lan whispered, and added, ‘“Bloody good communication system — quick and cheap.” He laughed soundlessly. Carrying their iced drinks, the two men moved out onto the verandah. Leaning against the rail, they sensed the peculiar sounds and smells of the June night. A slight breeze, still hot from the day’s sun, moved playfully across the compound, gently rustling the leaves of the neem trees. Beyond the edges of town, out somewhere in the fields, a pair of jackals serenaded the quarter-moon, their piercing and cackling howls lacerating the hot summer air. Much closer at hand, the monotonous beating of a drum, like the ticking of a large clock, rhythmically punctuated the passage of the night. To the north, quite faint at first, the rumble and whistle of an approaching train pulsed louder and louder. ‘‘How’s the throat?” Prem asked, breaking a prolonged silence. Jan placed his hand on his neck and forcefully swallowed a couple of times as if experimenting. ‘Better, thanks, not so sore. The drink seems to help.” ‘And the civil surgeon?’ “A Dr. Sharma . . . seems a fine chap really.”’ Their conversation was interrupted by the squeaking of a mongoose running along the top of the compound wall followed by a couple of her young. ‘Well, that should take care of the snakes around here,” Ian observed with a chuckle. ‘And the chickens,’ Prem added, joining in his laughter. “I'd better get at that dossier.’ The Lieutenant stretched and took in a deep breath. ‘Same here. See you at breakfast, Ian.”’ Both men turned and walked indoors.

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Chapter Three

While Ranjit cleared away the breakfast dishes, Madanlal brought a coffee tray into Captain Narayan’s room where the two men were

seated around a small table. Having poured the drinks, the cook set the pot down and walked out, quietly closing the door behind him. For a moment or two there was silence as the men prepared their smokes. The ceiling fan directly overhead turned lazily, emitting a disconcerting squeak at one point in each revolution. Prem lit his cigarette and crossed his knees in a relaxed posture, then watched as Ian drew forcibly on his pipe while lighting the bow] of tobacco. Having done this, he blew out the match and dropped it into an ashtray, packing down the glowing embers with a metal tamper, one of the many accessories incorporated in his multipurpose pocket knife. ‘‘And just where the devil do we begin? Any suggestions?’ Prem asked, breaking the silence. ‘Might start with the Ferozepore riot,’’ Ian suggested and, after drawing fervently on his pipe, went on, “that seems to be central to the problem.”’ ‘‘Accha, go ahead.” Prem waved him on with a flourish of his hand. “Well, as we know, the Akali Sikhs demonstrated in strength against the Central Government last year over an interpretation of the India-Pakistan border. According to reliable witnesses the blokes created quite a disturbance.”’ Ian nodded soberly. ‘“‘Yes, I remember headlines in The Statesman, ‘Blue-turbaned Sikhs March in Ferozepore’.”’ “They even hanged old Sir Cyril Radcliffe, the head of the Boundary Commission, in effigy.” “But, Ian, why all this in Ferozepore? Why not in the state capital, Chandigarh?”’ “That part of the border being contested was just west of Ferozepore.”’ “That’s right, makes sense,’’ Prem observed thoughtfully. “Carry on.”’

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‘The district commissioner, victim Pran Naik, got into a bloody funk and declared an emergency. Called on the military to quell what he considered to be an uncontrolled rebellion. Soldiers from Jullundur Cantonment were ordered to Ferozepore, where they roughed up the Akalis — cracked skulls and took quite a few into custody.” ‘And victim Iqbal Khan was the commanding officer of the riot squad.”’ Ian nodded and went on, “‘Victim Kishan Singh Kairon, superior court judge in Chandigarh, sat on the trials of those apprehended and...” Prem “And passed down some damned severe sentences, broke in. ‘Yes, certainly more severe than had been anticipated.”’ “Knowing the Akalis, I’ll wager there was little love lost on the three victims.”’ “That’s it, quod erat demonstrandum...’’ Ian stopped and studied his companion’s face. “So what’s been proven?”’ “The motive — you just said that there was little love lost between the...” ‘“Accha, I fullow you,” Prem interrupted quickly, adding , ‘‘not quite proven as yet, but certainly we have a motive.”’ “If the Akalis are behind these assassinations and are brought to trial... my God... what political dynamite!’’ Ian exclaimed with a groan. ‘Granted, but ‘ours is not to reason why,’ ours is to find the killer or killers . . . beyond that point others carry on.”’ ‘May God help the poor buggers who must carry on,”’ Ian muttered through teeth clenched on his pipestem. Prem grimaced and shrugged his shoulders. “‘Let’s pick another lead or two. We seem to be pretty well agreed that one person is responsible for the crimes.”’ “Uh-huh,” Ian grunted in assent. ‘‘All three victims killed with a knife, very likely the same knife, and the single mortal wounds inflicted at almost identical sites . . ." he stopped and scowled before going on, ‘‘and each man’s nose amputated and...and... stuffed into his mouth.”’ Prem waved his finger and said, ‘“‘Another point that may be significant in the solution of the problem is that, although of different religious beliefs, the murdered men were all supposedly quite devout.”’ “Quite right, quite right, and in keeping with this point, the crimes were carried out under circumstances related to the act of worship: Pran Naik killed on a holy pilgrimage to Amarnath cave in Kashmir; Kishan Singh stabbed adjacent to a Sikh gurdwara on the outskirts of Ferozepore, and Iqbal Khan assassinated on his prayer 9

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rug in Jullundur.”’ Ian methodically checked off each incident on his fingers. ‘‘For argument’s sake, if the riot isn’t the connection linking the triple murders, then there exists an interesting and significant factor, a certain order of events in a seeming disorder. I mean the selection by the assassin of a member of each of the three major religions in these parts.” The two men fell silent, reflecting on the details of their discussion. Prem casually blew a succession of smoke rings up into the swirling currents of air coming down from the fan and watched them disintegrate. A knock on the bedroom door interrupted their thoughts. On invitation, Madanlal stepped inside to replace the pot of coffee with two tall glasses of iced lemonade. The Captain thanked the cook and promptly waved him out of the room. Ian sniffed the air suspiciously. ‘‘The servants are at their

hookah again. Smell the hashish?” “Wish they’d keep that damned water pipe out in their quarters.’’ Prem shook his head in displeasure. ‘‘Must be allergic to

it. Gives me a headache.” “Let me handle it,”’ lan said, jumping up and leaving the room. He returned shortly, smiling broadly. “So, what happened?” “They saw me coming and tried to hide the bloody pipe.’’ He broke out laughing. ‘‘Spilled the coals over themselves and on the

kitchen floor. Turned into the dance of the whirling dervish. Just told the two of them to smoke their hookah outside of the bungalow after this.” “Accha. We’re making progress on our problem. What other similarities or dissimilarities are there?’’ Prem surveyed Ian’s face. ‘The chaps were all about the same age and all held professional

or administrative ranks of considerable prestige.”’ And were stationed not far from each other, all in the Punjab.”’ ‘‘Which reminds me, they all were employees of the government, civil service or military. None were in the private professions.”’ “Right.”’ Prem nodded in affirmation. “Tsay, changing the subject, you do have the autopsy reports in the dossier?’’ Ian pointed the stem of his pipe at the folder lying beside Prem’s chair. Stooping over, the Captain retrieved the documents and handed them across the table. ‘Ruddy poor writing, I’d say.” lan muttered. He got up and walked over to the window for a better source of light. “As abominable as it is,

the handwriting in all three reports looks alike.” ‘Some clerk probably filled in the forms.”’ ‘‘That’s true, but the signatures look alike.”’ “Ian, we’ve got to find out who performed these autopsies and interview each of them.”

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“My office in Chandigarh can run this down in short order,” Ian promised with a nod of his head. ‘““Accha. Let’s consider the two suspects now being held by the authorities.” The Lieutenant studied his companion’s face thoughtfully before stating emphatically, “Those two just aren’t killers.” ‘Hold it a minute. Govind Singh, surprised in the act of burglarizing victim Pran Naik’s house in Ferozepore two days after the murder. He carried a dagger and his shirt was bloodstained. Also the police reported there was stolen money in his possession. Sounds abit guilty, eh what?”’ ‘Not necessarily,’’ he returned with a shake of his head, “‘Govind’s dagger had a blade over an inch thick and barely five inches long and...’ Ian paused to smoke. ‘With only one cutting edge,’’ Prem added, and went on, ‘“‘while the murder weapon, according to the autopsy report, was a thin and narrow half inch and at least eight inches long with a double cutting edge.” Taken aback by Prem’s sudden switch to support Govind’s innocence, he looked up in time to catch a flicker of amusement cross the Captain’s face. ‘So that’s it,” Ian began. “‘You’re up to your old ragging again.” Both men broke out laughing. ‘Just wanted your arguments to firm up my convictions.”’ “Shall I go on?”’ “Absolutely!” “This chap, Govind that is, he’s an uneducated field hand about twenty-four years old who could hardly have planned, much less carried out, the series of sophisticated killings. Of course we’re continuing to assume that one person was the triple assassin.”’ ‘Does the man have alibis for the two other homicides?” Ian shook his head. ‘“‘“How about the blood on his shirt? Was it checked in the laboratories?” “Jaspal Singh told me he’d tried to get the shirt for testing but the state police refused to cooperate.” “You mean to say they’re convinced that Govind is actually the murderer?”’ “They'd like to think he is — gets them off the political hook. Originally they might have had serious thoughts that he was guilty. Currently I'd wager we’re dealing with a matter of pride.”

“I’m inclined to agree,’’ Prem observed reflectively. ‘‘We’ll have to

step around the matter of pride damned cautiously. Don’t dare get those chaps at odds with us, at least not this early in our investigation.” “You're blooming well right. Here’s where Jaspal Singh got into trouble.” ‘‘Let’s take a look at our second suspect, Lieutenant Prem Khosla,

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now under military confinement at Jullundur Cantonment. He was overheard by two fellow officers on the morning of the murder, threatening Colonel Iqbal Khan. This confrontation between the victim and the suspect was tense and there were threats of physical harm on both sides. Khosla left the cantonment on a pass that day and the poor blighter can’t verify his whereabouts for the time of the murder. Now, Ian, support his innocence.”’

‘‘Several reasons. In the first place, and most significant, Khosla has definite alibis for the times of the two other murders. Secondly, not quite so pakka a reason perhaps but logical, we’ve agreed that the killings were deliberate, premeditated and cold-blooded. They're not just spin-offs of an emotional encounter. Again, and you may differ with me, the more usual weapon of a military man committing such an assassination would be a hand gun, an automatic.” “So,” Prem interjected, drawing in a deep breath, “following through on this last point, you're writing off a military suspect?” Ian shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘Just a hunch, not a fact.”’ “You're probably right.”’ The Lieutenant laughed self-consciously at his chief's concurrence and pushed on to say, ‘One matter we’ve not yet discussed . . . robbery was not a motive in any of the three homicides. All personal belongings, watches, purses and other valuables, were untouched. “That’s pretty well in keeping with my assessment of the situation.”

‘‘Meaning?”’ Ian threw him a questioning look. “Oh ...’’ Prem paused to pick out and light a fresh cigarette, “I’m sure we've both felt the crimes were really motivated by revenge or some similar drive.” “Or political?”’ ‘Could be.’’ The Captain leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs before him. ‘‘Before we leave the matter of suspect Govind, do see if you can’t get a sample of the dried blood on the poor bloke’s shirt. Want to send it down to Delhi to our investigative team. ‘‘Uh-huh.”’ Ian was relighting his pipe. ‘And — for God’s sake — don’t step on their pride while you're

getting it.”’ ‘I shan’t,”” Ian promised with mock solemnity, standing to stretch his arms overhead. ‘‘A quick trip to the hospital and Doctor Sharma, my throat don’t you know.”’ ‘“‘Accha. And while there do check with the surgeon chap about the autopsies. The blokes should know each other. Chandigarh, Jullundur and Ferozepore, they’re all quite close really.”’ ‘“‘Righto, Prem. See you at tiffin.” The air burned in Ian McVey’s nostrils and throat as he rode through the city toward the government hospital. He could feel the

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heat, almost like a cursed living thing, radiating from the mud and brick walls of the surrounding buildings. Its scorching waves seared his exposed flesh and filtered through his clothes to torment the underlying skin. The street ahead of the jeep was distorted by shimmering heat waves. Life seemed to have come toa standstill and even the cows stood listlessly in patches of available shade. People had fled the sun’s rays and retreated indoors. “Bahut garmi hai — It is very hot,’’ Ian muttered to the driver at his side. ‘Ha ji — Yes sir,’’ he responded without turning his head, the narrow slits of his eyes focused intently on the road ahead. Doctor Sharma sat behind his office desk mopping his face and neck with a handkerchief. With his other hand he beckoned Lieutenant McVey into the room and waved him to a seat across the desk. ‘Blooming hot,” Ian sighed, easing himself into the chair. The doctor nodded. Then pointing at his own neck, he asked, “And how’s the throat?”’ Ian forced a swallow. ‘‘Better. Not completely well, but better.’ ‘‘Let’s have a look.” He rose and led his patient into the treatment room. Selecting a tongue blade and removing a small flashlight from his shirt pocket, he carefully inspected the Lieutenant’s throat. “Not so inflamed... quite a little improvement.’’ Doctor Sharma announced with an amiable smile, and led his patient back to the office. ““Continue the medications and you'll be all right in a couple of days.”’ A hospital orderly slipped into the room carrying two glasses of cold lemon drinks, placing one before each of the men. “Dr. Sharma, how long have you been here? I mean here in Ludhiana?”’ “Oh, close to ten years. Came here from Jullundur and before that was stationed at the government hospital in Amritsar.”’ ‘As the civil surgeon you must perform the autopsies in this district.” A puzzled look crossed the doctor’s face. ‘‘Yes. I’m responsible for the post-mortems here. But why do you ask?” ‘An investigation is in progress on the three homicides committed here in the Punjab early last month and...” ‘Ah, yes,’’ Doctor Sharma interrupted with a wry smile, ‘“‘and then you must be a member of the investigating team?”’ “That’s right,”’ Ilan affirmed with a reassuring look. ‘Strange that you should ask.”’ The doctor paused to take a noisy sip of his drink. “Actually, I performed the post-mortems on all three victims.”’ “You ...’’ Ian stared in surprise. ‘‘You did all three autopsies?”’ Doctor Sharma nodded. “Yes, all three.”’ “But the murders weren’t in this district.”’

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He smiled at the Lieutenant somewhat condescendingly. “True, but during the months of May and June, the hot season and holiday period, the civil surgeons of Chandigarh, Jullundur, Ferozepore and Ludhiana cover for each other in doing postmortems. I happened to be on duty for the first half of May.”’ ‘And the three homicides were carried out during that fortnight, approximately a week apart...’ Ian’s voice drifted away into silence. Doctor Sharma studied his patient tolerantly. Both men sat in silence until Ian said quietly, ‘“This will make things a bit easier for us.”’ “Easier?” ‘Well, we were planning to interview three civil surgeons but now a discussion with you would cover the lot.” ‘Glad to do the necessary, I mean meeting with you.” ‘Captain Narayan is the chief of the investigation team and we could come here to. .” ‘“‘No, no,’’ the doctor cut in quickly, ‘‘too many curious eyes and ears in this place. Better, much better, that I meet with you in the Guest Bungalow.”’ He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and studied Ian’s face thoughtfully. “Would mid-morning tomorrow, say around ten o’clock beak ‘Good. Just fine,’ he interrupted Ian again. ‘May we send a car for you?” ‘“‘Shan’t need transportation, thank you. I’ve my own.” The trip back from the hospital was even more uncomfortable, if possible. Ian tried to take a deep breath but the hot air seemed to scorch his lungs. He squinted against the glare and looked toward the northeast and through the shimmering haze of the plains barely could make out a faint outline of the Himalayas. Thank God, he thought to himself, Joyce and the girls are up there. The very thought of pine trees and glacial streams seemed to lower the temperature about him. The compound was deserted as he climbed the steps up onto the verandah. Entering the front room, he found Prem standing in the center under the ceiling fan, looking cool in a lightweight shirt and khaki shorts, his bare feet strapped into open sandals. ‘Take a shower and get into something cool,’ Prem suggested. “Tiffin’s about ready”’ The meal was light and refreshing, consisting of a large mixed fruit salad and iced tea. The Guest Bungalow did boast afairly efficient kerosene refrigerator. The ancient machine managed to produce ice cubes and keep food reasonably cold. The sliced mangoes and cubed papayas were sweet and delicious. Iced tea helped maintain a proper body fluid balance. And how’s the doctor?” Ian chuckled out loud.

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‘Well, your visit must have been a happy affair.’’ Prem threw his companion a quizzical glance. ‘After a manner of speaking, yes.”’ “Quit the damned riddles,’ he commanded with mock seriousness. ‘“You won’t believe this.”’ “Try me.” Ian drew in a deep breath. ‘“‘The local civil surgeon, Vijay Sharma, performed the autopsies on all three of the victims.”’ ““You mean the chap’s right here in Ludhiana?’’ Prem’s eyes open wide in surprise. “And I’ve invited him over for an interview tomorrow morning.”’ ‘‘That’s a good break,’’ Prem observed with a relaxed sigh. “He'll be coming around ten o’clock.”’ “Splendid!” The Captain grinned happily. ‘‘And, Ian, I’ve set up a bit of a mission for each of us this afternoon. Made some telephone calls while you were at the hospital.’ Ian looked expectantly over his glass of cold tea. “Want you to drive to Ferozepore while I run up to Jullundur.”’ “Very good.”’ “Captain Baldev Singh, Superintendent of Police at Ferozepore, an old acquaintance of ours. Remember we worked with him on the dowry homicide? He was stationed in Ambala at that time. A damned good chap!” ‘If I may say so, he and Jaspal Singh locked horns over the investigation of the homicides.”’ ‘No matter, Baldev and I are good friends. He’ll be expecting you.”’ SANG Emytoyeiots’ “Oh, a courtesy call of sorts. Assure him we’re not here to compete with the state police but to work with them. Inform him I’ll be stopping in a day or two to pay my respects. And, sort of incidentally, get his permission to interview the suspect, Govind Singh. Don't take a damned thing for granted. Can’t afford to comea crop-

per over this.’’ Prem fingered his cigarette reflectively before going on. “One last thing — give a friend of mine a message, a Doctor Tara Sohan Lal. Just tell her I’ll be dropping by shortly. Tried to call her on the telephone, unsuccessfully. ‘“Righto. Her address?”’ “Yes, yes.’’ Prem smiled self-consciously. ‘‘She is in charge of the Rajkumar Tuberculosis Sanatorium. “Sardar Khan is using my jeep this afternoon, so Ill catch a bus.” “No. I'll take the train. Short distance to Jullundur, some thirtyfive miles, and almost twice as far to Ferozepore. Colonel Taranwalla, Deputy Commander of the Cantonment, promised to have transportation meet me at the station there. An hour later the jeep dropped Prem Narayan off at the Ludhiana

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railroad station and then Ian McVey and his driver headed on east for Ferozepore. The Captain purchased a second class ticket and stepped out onto a shaded part of the platform. As he waited, he carefully scanned the faces of the people moving about him, his restless swagger stick gently and intermittently slapping the side of his thigh. The train rumbled in on time, whistle blowing, steam hissing and driveshafts clanging. The engineer and two firemen, their faces streaked with sweat and smeared with grime, looked down dispassionately on the crowd of expectant passengers.

As the train was still shuddering to a squealing stop, Captain Narayan climbed into a second class compartment. Inside, two rows of cushioned bench seats faced each other as they ran crosswise to the carriage. An upper bunk was folded back out of the way. On one side there was a break in the seating arrangement where a door led into the toilet or water closet, whose identity was abbreviated overhead by the letters ““W.C.”’ There were three passengers and the seating capacity was six, so there was ample room. Before finding a seat, the Captain stepped over and gave a quick look inside the W.C., making certain it was empty. This was a precaution and not a need on his part to use the facilities. The Indian train, a concept passed on by the British Colonials, followed rather closely the early English and European structure. There were first, second and third classes, with even an intermediate thrown in for good measure between second and third. All compartments were completely isolated from one another, with no communicating door or passageway between them, so one could not walk through the train. The only carriage offering a hallway was the occasional air-conditioned facility on special trains such as the Frontier Mail. This strict compartmentalization of passengers provided opportunities for robbery, rape and murder, with the criminal being able to slip off into a crowd of passengers as the train slowed down ata station. The W.C. afforded a hiding place for the bandit, especially in the case of an unsuspecting passenger entering a supposedly empty compartment. In traveling, Prem Narayan had established the habit of inspecting the W.C. The time at Jullundur Cantonment passed quickly but profitably. The session with his good friend Colonel Taranwalla was followed by a rather long interview with the suspect, Lieutenant Khosla. The Colonel insisted that his driver take Captain Narayan back to Ludhiana.

The half-light of dusk softly blunted the sharp outlines of the Guest Bungalow as the military jeep drove through the compound

gate and came to a stop before the entrance steps. The Captain jumped out and gave the Jullundur driver an informal salute with. his swagger stick. ““Dhanyavad — Thank you,” he called back as he climbed up on the verandah.

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The cold bath was invigorating, both physically and psychologically. As he changed into cooler clothes, whistling segments of “I’ve Got Sixpence,” Ian McVey’s vehicle drove up. The two men, comfortable in their khaki shorts, relaxed in the front room, enjoying their drinks under the ceiling fan. The Lieutenant used his index finger to bob the ice cubes about in his glass of scotch and soda. Captain Narayan stirred his gin and tonic with lime peel, occasionally sucking on the peel. They had agreed to defer discussions of their afternoon’s activities until after dinner. “Might say just enough for Madanlal to gather that we visited Ferozepore and Jullundur,’’ Prem suggested in a low voice. ““The state police already know of your meeting with Baldev Singh.” Ian nodded in agreement and added, “‘Instructed the driver to be tight-lipped.” “Seems to be a good blighter, that Karam Das. Why the limp?”’ “Our raid last year on the Kasauli goondas, those dacoits who robbed the mail train. One of the bloody bastards shot him in the leg.”’ “The hell you say! So he’s a veteran of the Kasauli raid.”’ The dinner table had been cleared and the two servants were busy in the kitchen. The Captain and Lieutenant sat in the front room without the lights, for the dark seemed a bit cooler. A partial moon gave the outdoors a faint glow which in turn penetrated the indoors with just enough light to outline the furniture. The lighted pipe and cigarette glowed as pinpoints pirouetting in the dark. ““How’s our friend Baldev Singh?’’ ‘The chap’s fine, really. A bit reserved at first, stiff and formal, but he warmed up toward the end of our conversations. Tried to convince him that we didn’t want to usurp his authority, or anyone’s authority for that matter.”’ “And you succeeded?”’ “Tan grinned and nodded. “I think he’s convinced. Extended you a warm welcome to visit him.”’ “And Govind Singh?” ‘Poor bloke, scared to death he’s going to be hanged for murder. Quite young really, looks younger than his stated age. Just an uneducated field worker. Swears on Guru Nanak’s name that he’s innocent.”’ ‘““What’s his story about the blood on his shirt?” ‘‘Sticks to his previous statements, he dressed a chicken for his neighbor. The police actually have a chit from the neighbor authenticating this.” “Not the murderer?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“No,” Ian replied with conviction.

‘The blood on the shirt ... did you ...” ‘‘Have a sample,” Ian broke in, “‘Baldev Singh made me promise that Jaspal Singh wouldn’t be told.” Prem chuckled and fell silent, the glow of his cigarette brighten-

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ing as he drew on it. Ian sensed that he was waiting to hear about Doctor Sohan Lal. “The Doctor invited me into her bungalow on the sanatorium compound and served tea.”’ “She did, did she?’’ There was an eagerness in his voice. “A beautiful and gracious lady,’’ lan paused and after a slight cough went on, ‘‘She’s anxious to see you.” ‘“‘We grew up together in Lucknow. Actually she’s my late wife’s first cousin,’’ he volunteered with a self-conscious smile. The two men sat in silence for several minutes. Prem’s eyes were half shut as he stared abstractedly across the room, his thoughts turned back through the years to a lovely classmate of his in a Lucknow middle school. ‘How was Jullundur?”’ Ian broke the quiet.

“Great fellow, that Colonel Taranwalla — met me at the Jullundur station and then as much as gave me the keys to the cantonment. The Colonel comes from a prominent Parsi family in Bombay. His brother’s a quite outstanding doctor.” Prem stopped to light a fresh cigarette. ‘‘“Smart young man, our suspect, Lieutenant Khosla. Outspoken but objective and, I must add, damned intelligent. We hit it off quite well — he seemed convinced that I wanted the truth. According to him Iqbal Khan was an excellent officer, a strong disciplinarian but fair. Khosla admitted frankly to losing his temper. Blamed it on nerves frayed by the heat.”’ “That I can understand,” Ian said wryly, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. “The court martial is deliberately being dragged out to protect the Lieutenant. Taranwalla laughs at the charges and insists the young officer is entirely innocent. There’s considerable friction between the military and the civil authorities on this matter. The military, convinced of Khosla’s innocence, wants to hold him confined in the cantonment lest the civil courts throw him in jail.” ‘‘What about the alibis?”’ ‘‘He says he rode his motorcycle to Kasauli and then on to Simla, going by way of Ludhiana and Chandigarh. He wanted to get up into the mountains away from the heat of the plains. But the chap doesn’t have a witness to prove this.” “Yes, but according to the records he does have alibis for the two other homicides.” Prem nodded. ‘‘And Colonel Taranwalla says they’re ironclad.” ‘“‘He’s not our man.” Ian shook his head. “I'll be going back to the cantonment soon to study the site of the assassination. They’re getting together the military investigation reports for me to study.” ‘Well, Sharma’ll be over in the morning.” Ian stood and stretched. “We-should pick up some information from the doctor. I think he wants to cooperate.”

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They paused to listen as a car pulled into the front of the compound. Shortly the sound of footsteps clicked on the verandah and up to the front door. After a brief pause there was a firm knocking. “Kaun hai — Who is it?’”’ Prem called out as Ian stepped over to switch on the lights. ‘‘Sergeant Major Sardar Khan, sir.’’ The voice was of exactly the pitch and volume one would expect from a man who had spent years shouting orders to troops. ‘Come in, Sardar Khan,” Ian called out in a stentorian invitation.

The Sergeant stepped into the room, stood at attention for a cou-

ple of seconds and gave a salute. Here was a man who looked the epitome of military spit and polish. His stiffly starched khaki turban, bristling moustache, waxed and pointed, neat uniform, campaign ribbons in rows across his chest, and ramrod posture all attested to years of performance in the Indian army. “Have a seat, Sergeant.’’ With a wave of his hand the Captain invited the newcomer to an empty chair. ‘‘Have you eaten?”’

“Yes, sir.’’ The words were formal and stiff. “You must understand, Sardar Khan, that the three of us are going to be working together as a team.’’ Prem Narayan deliberately turned the benign right side of his face toward the Sergeant. “Very good, sir.’’ The man still was ill at ease. ‘Our association of necessity must be informal. For all practical purposes we shall function as fellow officers. Your quarters are next to Lieutenant McVey’s and, let me add, you will mess with us.’”’ The Captain spoke firmly but threw him a disarming smile. Sardar Khan nodded his head and returned what he must have through was a smile but turned out to be more of a grimace. “I understand, Captain. May I go to my quarters now?”’ “Very good. Ian McVey will brief you on the case the first thing in the morning.”’ Ranjit was

called

to carry

the newly

arrived

luggage

to the

Sergeant’s bedroom. Ian closed the door after Sardar Khan and leaned back against it. ‘The habits of a rigid military life can’t be broken overnight.”’ “He'll do all right . . . a jolly good fellow if I know anything about men.”

Chapter Four

Vijay Sharma, M.B.,B.S., was an intellectual. He spoke English fluently and precisely, with the proper British accent. His voice, although strong, was pitched somewhere between that of the male and that of the female, so that hearing him talk without recognizing the source raised questions as to whether the origin of the spoken word was man or woman. His balding head was fringed with shortcropped hair, prematurely gray, and he looked to be in his middle fifties. He presented the appearance of an ascetic and his manners and lean body supported such an impression. His emotions projected rather obviously and fluctuated freely from a level of intense fervor to a withdrawn indifference. A narrow and aquiline profile portrayed a certain severity of expression which was mellowed by the softness of his eyes. Old-fashioned steel-rimmed glasses rode loosely on the bridge of his nose, giving him a Ghandi-like mien. The three men sat in the front room around a small table on which Madanlal had placed a pitcher of iced tea. At the Doctor’s request, a glass of cold lime juice had been added, after his apologetic comment that tea was ‘‘too acid” for his system. After the proper introductions, Prem opened his cloisonne case and offered the guest a cigarette which he firmly but graciously declined. ‘Thank you, Captain, my vice is the betel nut,’’ Doctor Sharma said with a self-conscious smile. Then, under the watchful eyes of his hosts, he procured from his shirt pocket a small packet of betel nut and lime wrapped in a green betel leaf, all of which he slipped into his mouth with a practiced adroitness. Assisted by movements of the tongue and lower jaw, the astringent morsel was moved over

to bulge the left cheek. The cherry-red stains of his lips and mouth were the stigmata of those who habitually chewed this concoction.

Ian left the room and returned shortly with a cuspidor which he placed on the floor beside the Doctor’s chair. Prem smiled inwardly

and thought to himself, If the tea is too acid, what must that betel nut and lime be?

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“Lieutenant McVey tells me that you performed the autopsies on all three of last month’s victims,”’ the Captain observed in a matterof-fact voice. Fastidiously adjusting his glasses, the Doctor scanned his interrogator’s face. ‘‘Yes, yes,”’ he acknowledged nodding soberly. Then he paused to lean over and use the cuspidor, his accuracy of aim attesting to years of practice. ‘I am sure the Lieutenant also informed you of our arrangement for the rotation of these responsibilities during the months of May and June between the civil surgeons of Jullundur, Ferozepore, Chandigarh and. ..”’ “That he did,’’ Prem cut in with a wave of his hand. ‘Permits us a holiday...’ he stopped and looked out of the window toward the Himalayas, then went on, ‘‘away from this damned heat.” ‘‘And where do you holiday?’’ Prem asked. “Kashmir.’’ An anticipatory smile played over the Doctor’s face. “You've good taste.’’ The Captain’s voice projected nostalgic overtones. ‘I’m particularly partial to Gulmarg just beyond Srinagar.”’ ‘“‘Ah, know the place well. Splendid hiking country that!’’ Sharma drew in a deep breath through flared nostrils. ‘“‘And to think how cool and pleasant it is up there right now while we swelter in this bloody oven.”’ He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “So, now let me see, according to my notes then you were here in Ludhiana through the first fortnight of May?’’ ‘“Right.’’ He nodded and adjusted his glasses. ‘The autopsies — they were all performed here in Ludhiana?”’ Ian broke into the conversation. ‘Two of them here and one in Srinagar.”’ Prem shot a puzzled look at the Doctor. ‘‘That in Srinagar, it must have been Pran Naik’s autopsy?” “Quite right,” Vijay Sharma paused to lean over the cuspidor and spit out a stream of red juice. ‘‘As you are aware, Naik was the first victim, killed in Kashmir.”’ “But wouldn’t that have been a bit out of your bailiwick?”’ Prem interrupted. ‘The coroner in Srinagar is a personal friend — actually we attended medical college together, in the same class — and he extended me the courtesy inasmuch as the victim came from my area of responsibility.”’ ‘A bit unusual, I’d say, being invited to another state. . .”’ Ian began and then stopped, a perplexed look on his face. ‘‘Accha, so you yourself performed the autopsy on Naik. Please go on.” The Captain waved his hand for the Doctor to continue. Vijay Sharma surveyed the two interrogators as he pushed his

glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. ‘‘My friend fell ill the day I arrived and he asked me to do the necessary.”’

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‘A bit of a strange coincidence,”’ Prem said almost to himself, his eyebrows raised incredulously. The Doctor’s eyes narrowed. “‘An exceptional procedure perhaps, but certainly not an irregular one.”’ He was withdrawing into himself. Prem broke into a disarming smile and apologized, ‘‘A botheration all this... this. .. questioning. Sorry, don’t you know, please rest assured we shan’t push the matter beyond your wishes.”’ Vijay Sharma’s face showed a hint of relief at the Captains words. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled good humoredly. ‘“Righto. Go ahead. You must do your duty. I understand.” Prem picked up his notes and shuffled through the pages before turning to ask the Doctor, ‘‘Naik was killed on the first of May. And when was the autopsy performed?” “Let me see. . . ’ he paused and scratched his head in thought before going on, ‘‘the third. . . that’s it. . . it was the third of May.”’ ‘‘H-m-m-m. That’s two days...’’ Prem stopped and stared at his lighted cigarette, then continued in a monotone as if thinking out loud, “no vehicular traffic from Pahalgam to Sheshnag — about fifteen miles. Steep and treacherous mountain paths, traversed only by food or pony. Let’s see, the victim’s body wasn’t discovered until the next morning... that would be the second of May. Uhhuh, timing sounds about right.’’ He turned and nodded approvingly at the Doctor. “A damned difficult road, from Pahalgam to Amarnath, so I’ve been told,’’ Vijay Sharma offered and hastened to add, ‘‘Not been there myself.” “It'd take a good part of a day to bring the body down that path from Sheshnag to Pahalgam and on to Srinagar,’’ the Captain admitted thoughtfully. ‘“‘By horse to Pahalgam and then by car from there on.” “That was exactly the case.’’ The Doctor nodded in agreement. Prem stopped to check the notes again. ‘‘Going on from there, Kishan Singh was killed on the seventh of May in Ferozepore and Iqbal Khan on the thirteenth of may in Jullundur.” ‘“‘That’s correct,’’ Doctor Sharma agreed, ‘‘and in each of these cases I performed the postmortem on the day following death.”’ Prem stopped to light a cigarette, his eyes almost closed in thought. After drawing and exhaling smoke a couple of times, he turned and faced the Doctor. ‘“‘From what you've said I| take it you didn’t visit the murder site in Sheshnag?”’ “That’s right.” ‘That would mean that you hadn’t seen the body before it was placed in the Srinagar morgue?” There was a hint of irritation in Vijay Sharma’s eyes as he stared at the Captain. ‘‘Correct, but I don’t understand what... ”’

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“Sorry, old chap,”’ Prem interrupted, waving his hands in conciliation, ‘‘just a part of our investigation. Please do bear with us, eh what?”’ Again the Doctor relaxed, slouching back into his chair. ‘Let me change that question a bit, if you will...’’ Prem Narayan stood up and walked over to lean against the wall. ‘Did you see any of the victims’ bodies at the murder sites?”’ Vijay Sharma shook his head quite positively. ‘My purpose in this line of investigation, at least one purpose, is to determine if your reporting of the autopsies was based entirely on what you observed in the morgue.”’ Prem stated as he walked back and sat down in his chair. “Tl understand now, Captain, I understand.” the Doctor repeated quietly. Captain Narayan motioned to Ian McVey to continue the questioning. ‘Doctor Sharma, in other words, except for the police records, you had no first-hand knowledge of the details — oh, let’s say, such as body position, clothing and things like that?”’ ‘Police records, as far as I’m concerned, are notoriously inadequate and often misleading,’’ he replied, his voice brimming with disdain. ‘“‘My post-mortem reports are objective, just what I

discover from the body, just that and nothing else.”’ “But that’s just why I’d think you’d want to investigate the site of the killing yourself... ’’ Ian began. “No,” the Doctor broke in, ‘‘I do not wish to be influenced by anything but the facts discovered in the body of the victim.’’ The disdain persisted in his words. Vijay Sharma leaned over and punctuated his statement by expectorating into the cuspidor. ‘So much for that,’’ Prem addressed the Doctor, ‘‘tell us about

your findings.” ‘From the character of the wounds, I would judge that death was immediate in all three men. The blade of the murder instrument was narrow, not more than a half inch wide and not less than eight inches long. The tip was a cutting point, that is, there was a sharp knife edge on both sides of the blade. These facts were gained from the skin entrance laceration and the depth of penetration. In each case there was...” “Only one wound,” Ian broke in. “Only one mortal wound,” Doctor Sharma corrected his questioner, then hurried on, “and the knife was thrust through the posterior or back of the chest wall just below the left scapula or shoulder blade.’’ He paused as if waiting for the Captain and Lieutenant to catch up with him. Prem nodded him on. “‘The weapon entered through the eighth or ninth rib interspace in each case at an

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ao

upward and inward angle passing on through the heart.’ Again he stopped and surveyed his audience soberly, concluding in a low, almost inaudible voice, ‘Incredibly accurate.”’ “Like a ruddy matador, dispatching the bull with a single coup de grace thrust of the sword,”’ Ian muttered with obvious distaste. The three men sat in silence a moment, Prem and Ian smoking

reflectively and the Doctor savoring his betel nut. “IT say, Doctor Sharma,” the Captain broke into the reverie, ‘‘you said the knife was thrust into the body. What did you mean by that?”’ He hesitated and spat into the cuspidor before replying. ‘Yes, I used the word ‘thrust’ quite purposely. It would be most difficult, virtually impossible, to control a weapon so accurately as to direction and force with a sideways stab. In my estimation. . . ’’ he stopped to expectorate again and after wiping his mouth, continued, ‘‘the killer would be forced to grasp the hilt of the dagger with both hands and thrust the blade forward.”’ “I take it the murder weapon has never been found?’’ The Captain directed his question to lan. He shook his head and said, “‘As far as I know it hasn't.” Turning to the Doctor, Prem asked, ‘“‘Would you say from your autopsy findings, that the three were killed by one person.?” “The same man?” He frowned and pursed his lips in thought, then went on to say, “Yes, in my estimation the same man.” ‘I used the word ‘person’ in relation to the murderer and you just said ‘man’. Was this a deliberate selection on your part?” Vajay Sharma licked his lips nervously. ‘‘Did I say ‘man’? H-mm-m. More an unconscious than a deliberate selection.”’ ‘‘Meaning?”’ Prem followed quickly. “The force and accuracy of the thrust would require a strong individual, and most likely a man.’’ He smiled enigmatically at his questioner.

‘‘Accha. Let’s go on to the mutilations,” Prem suggested. ‘The nasal amputations were performed in an identical, or almost identical manner in each case. There was a single clean cut. Here’s another reason for believing the same person committed all three crimes. As you're aware, the nose consists of a supporting foundation of bone over which there is the superficial extension of a softer cartilage. The killer very deftly sliced off the cartilagenous tips of the noses.’”” Doctor Sharma stopped and stared grimly at his & hosts. Ian added in victims,”’ the ‘And stuffed them into the mouths of a low voice, shaking his head in disgust. ‘Captain Narayan and I remember the chaos of partition back in 1947. My God! The beastly inhumanity. . . ’’ Vijay Sharma’s voice trailed off into silence.

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Prem drew ina deep breath and nodded soberly. His hand reached up to feel the scar on the left side of his face, and he began to speak quietly, a note of sadness in his voice. “In these very parts, Ludhiana, Ferozepore and Amritsar, during the mass migrations brought on by the tragedy of partition, Sikhs and Hindus hunted down the circumcised Muslims, slaughtered them, amputated their penises and stuffed these organs into their victims’ mouths or collected them as trophies just as the American Indians did scalps. While a few miles west of us here, across the border in Pakistan, Muslims did the same thing to uncircumcised Hindus and Sikhs.” “For centuries, perhaps many thousands of years, the nose was amputated to punish a wife for infidelity,” the Doctor said, speaking in an equally quiet voice. He went on. “In the Susruta, written some fifteen centuries ago, we find a description of the basic steps for the surgical repair of the amputated nose. This just indicates how ancient the custom is — a punishment for unfaithfulness.”’ Ian, who had been listening quietly, broke in to ask, ‘Could the mutilations, those carried out on the three victims, carry a message? Perhaps the murderer wanted to bring something to our attention.”’ Vijay Sharma shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. “You might very well have a point, Ian. Of course, the nasal amputations might relate to unfaithfulness other than marital infidelity,’ Prem interjected. “From your findings would you say that the same weapon was used for both wounds, that is, the death thrust and the mutilation?” Ian pressed his questioning. The Doctor shuffled his feet nervously on the floor a moment before replying, ‘‘No, the noses were removed with a very sharp instrument, a razor perhaps, and. ..’’ he stopped to expectorate. “But I didn’t see this in...” Prem began. “Quite right, you’re quite right,’’ Doctor Sharma cut in quickly. ‘The forma! post-mortem reports don’t include this fact, but my later testimony in court does.”’ “Why the discrepancy?”’ Ian asked. ‘‘My mistake really. I should have been more observant. I didn’t recognize this variance in the first two victims and already had filed the reports before the third killing. Then in the case of Iqbal Khan, the last of the three, it was quite evident that the skin wound of the chest was created by a duller knife than the instrument used on the

nose. In thinking back on the first two cases, I was quite certain the same facts existed. Rather than recording this on the last case I opted to include the findings in my verbal report to the court.”’

‘The murderer had to carry two weapons,’ Ian muttered incredulously. “‘I’d say that’s blooming unusual.” Captain Narayan stood and the other two joined him as they moved out onto the verandah.

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55

“Thanks, you’ve been of considerable help, Doctor Sharma, and we appreciate your trouble.’’ Prem took Sharma’s hand and shook it firmly. ‘‘Hope our questions didn’t upset you, we detectives can be a bit abrasive, don’t you know.”’ “Don’t mention it Captain. I do want to help. If you have any other questions in the future please call on me.”’ “Sure you won’t join us for tiffin?’ Ian asked. Vijay Sharma smiled his appreciation. ‘‘Thank you, not today. My dietary habits call for only two meals a day: morning and evening. And by the way, Lieutenant, how is the throat?”’ ‘““Much better, really. I'll continue your medications.” The Doctor walked down the steps, stopping at the bottom to turn and call back, ‘‘Shan’t be in my office for a fortnight — last half of my vacation. The assistant civil surgeon will be available should you need medical care.’’ With these words he climbed into his car and drove out through the compound gate leaving a trail of petrol fumes and hot swirling dust. Prem and Ian stepped back into the front room. Preparations for the noon meal were audible from the dining room. ‘‘What do you think of the chap?’’ Prem asked. ‘Well informed, I’d say, and familiar with his material.” “A bit dogmatic.”’ ‘And opinionated,” Ian added with a chuckle. ‘His statements support our contention that one person committed all three murders. All in all I was impressed with the Doctor. I think we can depend on the accuracy of his autopsy reports. I say, Ian, let’s check on the court statements of his regarding the use of two different instruments, eh?”

“Righto.”’ Retiring to his room after tiffin, Prem stripped down to his shorts. Then pulling the bed directly under the overhead fan he arranged the dossier and his notes about him. Stretching out witha sigh, he quietly cursed the heat, and wondered why he hadn't had the prudence to choose Simla, not for distant in the foothills of the Himalayas, or even Srinagar up in Kashmir, as headquarters rather than Ludhiana in the stifflingly hot Punjab plains. Too far from the seat of action, he thought to himself and groaned out loud in displeasure as he mopped his face with a wet towel. Finally, placing the damp cloth over his bare chest, he closed his eyes and began mulling over the facts and suppositions of the case. At this stage there was strong evidence that one person was responsible for all three assassinations. In fact, in his mental notes on this particular point, he now erased an earlier estimate of sixty per cent and substituted ninety-five per cent. Also from Sharma’s recreation of the likely use of the dagger, the careful and deliberate thrust at close quarters, it seem logical to believe that the murderer

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was known to his victim, at least well enough not to cause undue suspicion by his proximity. An intriguing facet of the actual technique of murder was the accuracy with which the killer had disposed of his victims — a single mortal wound in each instance. Furthermore, each stab had been almost identical in its placement. It appeared likely that the killer was a man, considering the force required to thrust the blade through the chest wall and on into the heart. And yet, Prem thought, there was something unusual and disturbing about the nasal mutilations. As had been discussed that morning, for centuries the Indian woman had been the recipient of this gruesome punishment, punishment for marital infidelity, and might not such deliberate disfigurements of the three victims be the acts of a woman bent on evening the score against the opposite sex? Shouldn’t they be looking for a woman with a scarred nose, the result of mutilation and plastic surgery? From the dossier it was evident that each killing was perpetrated in a relatively isolated spot. There appeared to be no witnesses. It would have taken a minimum of one minute, and more likely three minutes, to accomplish the whole wretched business even under the best of circumstances. The macabre drama had been acted out with a carefully planned precision, from the plunging of the dagger, the amputation of the nose and placing the specimen in the mouth, and finally the flexing of the head against the breastbone in order to keep the jaw closed. The time of each killing was late in the evening and the bodies had lain undiscovered until the next morning. Suddenly Prem sat up. ‘“‘That explains it,’’ he said out loud, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face. It had been a matter of concern to him that in none of the cases had a dismembered nose been discovered at the murder site. None had been found until the autopsies. The reason for this suddenly had become quite obvious. Ordinarily, with the moving of the body, the mouth would have fallen open and disgorged its gruesome contents. But the killings had gone undetected overnight, during which time rigor mortis had set in and the firmly locked jaws had hidden their grisly secrets. On this thought, Prem’s smile of satisfaction gave way to a look of disgust. A knocking on the door aroused him from a distrubed sleep in which strange dreams had plagued him, dreams in which faceless murderers stealthily crept up behind unsuspecting victims in the subdued light of dusk. He sat up in bed and unclenched both fists, the nails of his fingers had dug into his moist palms. Clearing his head with a vigorous shake, he called out, ‘Kaun hai — Who is it?”’ ‘““Madanlal, sir. Time for tea, sir.”’ ““Accha, chay lao — All right, bring the tea,’’ Prem began in Hin-

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dustani, then went on in English, ‘‘The Lieutenant and I will both have tea in here.”’ The cook bustled about arranging cups, saucers, silverware and teapot. Satisfied with the setting, he hurried out to the kitchen and returned shortly with a dish of hard biscuits as well as the day’s post. The two men sat and read their mail in silence. Ian enjoyed a letter from Joyce up in Landour, vicariously sharing the coolness of the Himalayas. ““Strange,”” Prem muttered, breaking the quiet, ‘‘what do you make of this?’’ He handed an envelope and sheet of paper to Ian. “A Hindu greeting, Ram Ram.”’ ‘Addressed to me.”’ “Pen and ink printing, in English,’ Ian mused, scrutinizing the note paper and the envelope. ‘What about the postmark?” “Barely legible... yes... here it is, Ferozepore.” ‘And the date?”’ “Can’t make out the day but the month is June.” Ian handed the material back with a puzzled look on his face. “A Hindu greeting from Ferozepore. A bit strange, eh what?”’ “I say, could this be from Doctor Sohan Lal?’’ Prem stared up at the ceiling a moment and then said, ‘‘Rather doubt it, a bit out of character for her to engage in games like this.”’ Ian poured the tea, adding a heaping teaspoon of sugar to each cup and then diluting generously with milk. Picking up a biscuit, he alternately munched on it and sipped the hot drink. “A Hindu greeting from Ferozepore, the residence of the first victim — a Hindu,’’ Ian commented, casually scanning his associate’s face. Prem, slowly and deliberately, opened the cloisonné case and selected a cigarette, rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers and lit it. After drawing a few puffs, he nodded his head and observed, “Ian, you just might have something there, there could be some connection. ..”’ his voice drifted away. ‘And if there is some connection,” Ian continued his train of thought, ‘‘we just might receive a similar letter postmarked Chandigarh.”’ ‘With words, ‘Sat Sri Akal,’ Prem offered firmly. “The Sikh greeting, ‘God is Truth,’’Ian muttered through teeth clenched on his pipe stem. Mananlal entered, after knocking ooo and replenished the tea and hard biscuits. Ian pulled out his tobacco pouch and initiated his precise ritual of filling the bowl, carefully tamping down the tobacco and then, with a flourish, lighting it with a wooden match. The procedure invariably ended in his being enshrouded in smoke, out of which he fanned his way with both hands. Prem never seemed to tire of

MELVIN A. CASBERG

58

watching stare.

this ceremony,

following each act with a whimsical

Continuing to work his way out of the self-induced smoke screen, Ian said, “If you agree, Prem, I'll get over to Chandigarh tomorrow and dig out more facts on the Akali riots.”’ “Jolly good. Might follow through on those arrested and sentenced — I mean in-depth studies, eh what?” ‘Sardar Khan is damned good at running things down.” “Accha. Take him with you. Those riots offer the only reasonable linkage between the three victims. Can’t afford to leave any stones unturned.” ‘“‘My driver can pick Sardar Khan and me up in the morning right after breakfast. We should be in Chandigarh an hour later.” Prem was having a difficult time blowing smoke rings up at the fan. Hardly had they become airborne before the swirling wind destroyed their symmetry. Finally, he grunted and turned to Ian. “T’ll be driving to Ferozepore in the morning . . . several errands to carry out.”’ “I say, do call.the Delhi laboratory chaps and see if by any chance they have the report on Govind’s shirt. I’d like to have the findings when I meet Baldev Singh in the morning.” As lan started to walk over to the telephone, the light fluttered two or three times and went out, while the overhead fan swung around through a final squeak and came to a full stop. Both men groaned. “Bloody power failure,’’ Ian exploded as he struck a match, “hope it doesn’t last long. Just too much drain on the Bhakra Nangal generators from all those air-conditioners down in Delhi.” Prem laughed and pulled a candle from the desk drawer. ‘‘People lived on these plains before electricity and I’ll be damned if I can’t survive as well as they did.” “I’m not talking of survival, I’m talking of comfort,’’ Ian muttered, joining his associate in laughter. The call to Delhi, by coded line, went through in short order. Govind Singh’s shirt was not stained with human blood.

Chapter Five

Prem Narayan stirred uneasily. Someone kept knocking on his bedroom door. He had just dozed off and was in that limbo of sleep barely within the realm of unconsciousness. The persistence of the sound pushed him into a full awareness of his surroundings. He reached under his pillow and grasped his automatic, then tiptoed toward the door. “Kaun hai?” the Captain asked in a guarded voice. There was a pause in the knocking and Karam Das whispered, ‘‘A citthi for you, sir.”’ As he surveyed the room, Prem noted that the ceiling fan was rotating, which meant the electricity had turned on again. He asked the driver to come inside and close the door behind him. Accepting the note, he stepped over and sat down on the bed beside the reading

light. “Where did this come from?” Prem held the envelope out toward Karam Das. “Through the window it was thrown, sir. I no one am seeing.”’ “No noise . . . no speaking?’’ the Captain demanded. He shook his head. ‘‘No speaking, sir, but I hear like someone climbing compound wall after the citthi falls in room. I run out and look. There is no one.”’ ‘““Were you asleep? Was your room dark?”’ Again he shook his head. “‘Just getting to bed. Light in room still going on.” Prem opened the envelope, typewritten in English, addressed to Captain P. N. Narayan. The enclosed letter, also typewritten and in

English, was abbreviated and structured in the form of a telegram. CAPTAIN NARAYAN. HAVE IMPORTANT MESSAGE. LIFE AND DEATH. MEET ME ONE A.M. TONIGHT. TEMPLE RUINS SOUTH BANK SUTLEJ. THREE AND A HALF MILES WEST GRAND TRUNK ROAD BRIDGE. RIVER SAND FIRM FOR JEEP. LIGHT AT TEMPLE DOOR. | SHALL COME UNARMED. YOU WILL NOT SEE ME. YOU MUST COME ALONE. BE ASSURED NO HARM WILL BEFALL YOU. THIS IS OF THE UTMOST—| REPEAT—THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE. CONCERNED.

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Prem looked at his watch. It was ten after eleven. Telling Karam Das to get the jeep ready and stand by, he crossed the front room to awaken Ian. ‘I know the temple,”’ he announced after reading the note. “An old ruin almost recaptured by the jungle. Desecrated during partition. Some marauding hoodlums butchered a cow inside. We cornered a gang of dacoits in there a couple of years ago. Lost one of our men but in the end captured the whole bloody lot of them.” ‘This isn’t a joke . . . this bugger’s serious,’’ the Captain mused soberly. ‘‘News of our mission’s common knowledge by now, what with Madanlal’s passing the word about. But how can this... this .. . character ‘Concerned’ know I’ve gotten his message? He’s not going to go out to that temple unless he thinks I'll be coming.”’ “He knows all right. Bet someone’s been watching all this time from outside the compound, behind the wall. He sees Karam Das come into the bungalow and your lights go on. Ergo, you have the message.” Prem nodded in agreement. Accha. How long will it take me to get there?”’ ‘For God’s sake, man, you can’t be serious? You’re laying yourself wide open! Prem, don’t risk it!’’ All humor drained out of his eyes. “Tan, how long? It’s getting close to eleven-thirty.”’ The Lieutenant stared incredulously at his superior for a fleeting moment. “You'll have to leave right now in order to make it.” Prem turned quickly and headed for his room, Ian following close behind. Catching up to him he placed his hand on the chief's shoulder and said, “I’m coming with you... . I'll stay near enough to give coverage. We’ll take both jeeps. I can park down the river

from the temple. If I hear any shooting or sense something’s going wrong... well, I'll be right there,”’ Both men stood still for a few seconds, then Prem faced around with an embarrassed grin and said, ‘‘I’d be doing the same thing if the letter had been sent you...” he stopped and coughed selfconsciously, ‘‘and, dear chap, you’d better get some clothes on.” The two jeeps turned out of the compound gate and moved on to the Grand Trunk Road, heading north. Sardar Khan and Karam Das rode in one and both officers in the other, the Lieutenant driving and in the lead. ‘How far to the Sutlej?”’ “Not far — just a few minutes. Our slow going’ll be in and along the river. It carries a fair amount of water even at this time of the year. Thank God for four-wheel drive.”’ “So we'll push ahead to within a half-mile of the temple and I'll move on from there with this jeep.”’ Ian was right about the slower progress along the Sutlej. In some areas of the riverbed the sand was not firm and the vehicles

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were forced to climb up onto the banks and navigate through heavy canebrake and jungle brush. At one point they flushed several wild boars and sent them crashing through the underbrush venting their displeasure in a series of loud and throaty snorts. “Those bloody swine scared the ruddy hell out of me,” Ian exploded as he swung the jeep to the side. ‘We could walk faster, Prem said impatiently. ‘“That’s just what our friend must have done. Had the message delivered, then drove to the bridge back there, parked his car off the road and head on foot along the paths for the rendezvous at the temple. I’ve been going slowly to give him... or her .. . plenty of time to make the appointment with you.”’ The convoy had come across a firm stretch of sand in the riverbed. Ian stopped his jeep and jumped out, waving Karam Das forward. “Better turn off your lights. We’re getting pretty close now and don’t want the bloke to know there are two cars. Drive close behind us. . . the moonlight will help and anyway I'll be traveling slowly.”’ Again, about two hundred yards farther on, he braked his vehicle to a stop and pointed to a dim light ahead. ‘There it is, about a thousand yards from here,” Ian whispered, slipping out of the driver’s seat and stepping down onto the sand. Gripping the Captain’s hand he said quietly, ‘‘Cheerio... remember now, a single shot and we’ll be right there.”’ “Couldn’t wish for a better rear guard,’’ Prem said with a chuckle, and added, ‘“‘might park your car out of the moonlight . .. the reflection, don’t you know.” He waved to the three and shifted over to the driver’s seat. The gears moved into low and the jeep ground forward through the sand, its two lights bouncing unsteadily ahead. The Captain noted that the temple sat back from the river bank, its dark irregularity almost absorbed by the greater darkness of the surrounding jungle. Like a will-o’-the-wisp, a single frail light somewhere inside the ruins struggled bravely against the crowding shadows. The noise of the motor profaned the quiet of the night, drowning out the sensitive communications of nature. Prem pulled his vehicle out of the riverbed close to the bank and turned off the lights and ignition. For several minutes he sat motionless in the jeep while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The luminous dial of his wristwatch recorded the time as seven minutes to one. Stepping out of the car, he carefully positioned his automatic in its holster, then began to climb up the river bank, clambering over squared granite rocks in a tumbled disarray — rocks which at one time must have been an orderly series of steps leading up to the temple. Reaching the top, he paused and surveyed the wreckage of what must once have been an imposing structure. The tragedy of the deterioration was blunted somewhat by the softness of the moonlight.

il i

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The source of light was a kerosene lantern sitting on a boulder in the center of the path. Not wishing to make any sudden disturbing movements, he proceeded slowly and forthrightly toward the building, stopping just short of the entrance. An occasional gust of wind set the flames dancing and this in turn activated the surrounding shadows into mysterious and wild turbulence. There was little doubt in his mind that the writer of the note was watching his every move. And should this person choose to kill him, the Cap-

tain at that moment offered a perfect target. Although outwardly he gave the appearance of a casual stance, inwardly his mind was alerted for any emergency and his muscles taut for instant response. There was a dank and musty odor in the air. Damn this uncanny quiet, Prem though as he stood searching the shadowy recesses about him. Pillars and columns of granite, some toppled and leaning at various angles, stood as mute sentinels guarding the premises. To one side, the large serpentine roots of a holy pipal tree, like the tentacles of a monstrous octopus, tightly embraced rocky fragments of the ruins. Propped against these roots were stone carvings apparently salvaged from the temple by faithful devotees. The Captain recognized them as Hindu deities, the clarity of their forms tempered by centuries of exposure to the elements. They had been worshipped recently, for their chiseled features were splashed with red paint and the blood of sacrifices. Lord Shiva’s three faces abstractedly surveyed the surroundings, while his consort Kali or Durga, the ferocious ten-armed goddess, stood nearby. Between them, cut out of another granite slab, was the lingam, a stylized phallus, one of the forms in which Shiva was worshipped. Across the entrance path from these, barely recognizable in the shadows, were two subsidiary deities, the elephant-headed Ganesha and the monkey god, Hanuman. Time crept on at an agonizing pace and Prem considered calling out, but decided to continue his nonchalant act. He would have loved to smoke but wanted both hands free for immediate action should such become necessary. Something fell off a stone beam above him landing on his left shoulder. Turning slowly, he recognized a large scorpion, stingered tail poised high. Afraid to make a quick move with his right hand, lest the action be misinterpreted by the observer, he chose to watch as the poisonous arachnid crawled down the front of his bush jacket and finally dropped to the ground. Suddenly the Captain picked up a slight motion beyond the lantern. His muscles tightened in preparation for action, one hand reflexively searching out his automatic. Still there was no sound except for the continued high-pitched song of jungle crickets. He felt his pulse pounding in his ears and swallowed. His throat cramped painfully. “You are brave, Captain Narayan,” the slowly spoken words rolled out of the cavernous ruins, the voice camouflaged in a

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throaty whisper. The intonation continued, ‘Remain where you stand and approach no closer.” Prem made no reply but stared into the shadows beyond the light trying desperately to identify the speaker. He moved slightly to the side in his attempt to gain a better view and this brought an immediate warning. “Do not disobey, Captain. Come no closer. There is a large cobra coiled around the rock on which the light rests. Disobedience will mean death.”’ Prem Narayan shuddered at the thought of the deadly snake. He waited in silence. ‘I shall come to the point,”’ the voice went on, “‘and do not treat my words lightly. Under threat of death you will desist from your investigation of the three assassinations.’’ There was a pause as if for effect. The bloke’s not lying about the damned cobra, Prem thought as he caught the pinpoint reflections from the snake’s eyes. Again he shuddered. ‘Further probing into the killings will bring more tragedy. A well-deserved justice has been dispensed.’’ The tenor of the voice had changed from that of formal pontification to one saturated with emotion. Prem waited quietly for the admonitions to continue. ‘‘Jaisa karoge, vaisa bharoge — As you act, so will you suffer,”’ the voice chanted the proverb in Hindustani. There followed a strange series of sounds which Prem at first thought was crying, but soon recognized as uncontrolled laughter, which ended in hysterical giggling. “My God . . . the bloody fool’s mad . . . stark raving mad,’’ Prem muttered out loud. The hysteria subsided and the temple fell quiet for a moment. “You may go now, Captain Narayan . . . but take my warning to heart.”’ He had reverted to his pontifical tone. His words sounded as

cold as ice. The kerosene light flickered and went out.

Captain Narayan stood perfectly still, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. For the next few seconds there were vague noises in the back of the temple and then deep silence. He closely scanned the path before him, wondering if the cobra still encircled the boulder. Turning slowly so as not to disturb the snake, he retraced his steps to the jeep. As he grasped the door handle, several large bats, or flying foxes as they are known locally, winged silently overhead on their way between fruit orchards. “You arrived just in time,” Ian said, stepping out of the shadows to greet his chief. ““We were about to leave for the temple. What the hell happened?”’ ““Let’s get on our way back and I'll tell you.”

The two jeeps headed for the Grand Trunk Road. Prem began his narrative in detail and, completing it, leaned back to relax. Both

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men rode in silence for several minutes. “That giggling laugh! My God, it sent chills up and down my spine. Ian, the blighter’s insane . . . a bloody maniac.” “That’s all we need... Ian stopped and laughed mirthlessly before going on, ‘“‘some damned crackpot as a suspect.’’ He turned quickly and threw his companion a questioning look. ‘‘Probably the killer, eh?” “God only knows. We’ve no choice but to consider seriously that we're looking for a madman.” “A ruddy clever madman at that.”’ Prem nodded his head and repeated slowly, ‘‘A clever madman.” “Sounds like a schizophrenic.” “Sure displayed some of the characteristics, what with the emotional fluctuation .. . a bit of a split personality.” “One of the most dangerous of murderers, clever but mad,” Ian muttered, almost to himself. | Prem grunted in affirmation. ‘““This chap wants to get his message across to me, to stop our investigation, and does it in an unusual way. Possibly just a dramatic technique used bya crafty mind, but...’’ he paused and shook his head dubiously, “that laugh ... it’s damned hard to imitate the laugh of a deranged mind.” Except for a rare lorry, the Grand Trunk Road was deserted. Darkness was the order of the night, for the moon had set. The jeep lights searched before them, showing the bare surface of the highway and the single file of neem trees parading along either side. Ian glanced sidewise at Prem who was resting his head on the back of the seat. ““Awake?”’ Prem sat up and nodded. ‘In the morning, on our way to Chandigarh, Sardar Khan and I’ll check out the route between the bridge and the temple. Look for tracks and anything else of interest. Just might pick up something.” ‘“*Accha. Jolly good, Ian.”’ It was two-thirty when the jeeps turned into the Guest Bungalow compound. Captain Narayan briefed the Sergeant Major and the driver on the events of the night. Then, climbing the verandah steps, he turned and called back to Karam Das, ‘‘We’ll be leaving for Ferozepore right after breakfast.”’

Chapter Six

Karam Das deftly guided the jeep through the compound gates of the Ferozepore District Police Station, braking sharply to a stop at the headquarters entrance. Captain Narayan jumped out and introduced himself to the sentry. He was expected and immediately an office servant, known as a peon or chaprasi, stepped forward to escort him. The two men moved along through the halls in a continuous flowing motion, unhampered by such obstructions as doors or bamboo screens, all of which were silently and quickly opened by peons. These ubiquitous servants were scattered throughout the building, seated on benches or chairs or even on the floors along hallways and verandahs. Others stood statuesquely outside office doors at the beck and call of the clerks behind the desks.

In the back of the building, isolated from the commotion of the compound, was aroom served by two chaprasis, one on either side of the door. A neatly painted wooden sign on the lintel above identified the office as that of the District Superintendent of Police. Captain Baldev Singh rose and walked around his desk to greet his visitor with a warm handshake. ‘“‘Damnable mess, these murders,”’ the Sikh Captain said witha frown, waving Prem Narayan toaseat in front of his desk. ‘‘Glad to see you in these parts.”’ “Really?” Prem raised his eyebrows. ‘Thought I might be considered a ruddy meddler.”’ Baldev grinned sheepishly. “Then you've heard of my confrontations with the... the conceited blighter Jaspal Singh and that damned Central Bureau of Investigation?” _ Prem shrugged his shoulders and chuckled good-humoredly without replying to the question. “I say, that McVey chap, a good man that.” “Glad you like him. He’s the best — brave and has plent y up here.’’ Prem tapped his forehead. ‘‘We’ve worked toget her before.”’ You'll need him before this is over.’ Baldev looked knowingly across the desk.

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‘““Meaning?”’ The Sikh chose not to answer. A passing unhappiness crossed his eyes. “Baldev, we need your help in solving these murders.’’ Prem threw a look of appeal at his host. One of the chaprasis brought in a tray with two bottles of orange drinks and two glasses filled with crushed ice. Baldev stood behind his desk and poured the effervescent yellow liquid over the ice, then sat down and smiled amiably at his guest. “Prem, I shan’t withhold pertinent information from you, but .. .what shall I say . . there must be certain restrictions.” “Such as?”’ ‘These are restrictions on your part.”’ “Uh-huh.” ‘‘You must not reveal the source of information I pass on to you.” “Very good. But may I ask why?”’ Baldev paused and twirled his moustache thoughtfully before replying, ‘“We know and trust each other, and yet the State Police deeply resent what they call the intrusion of the Central Government

into their local affairs. Jaspal Singh has bucked this distrust with most undiplomatic and unpleasant tactics, hence his problems. The poor blighter’s hands are tied.”’ Prem nodded sympathetically. ‘I understand, Baldev, understand completely. Trust me not to violate your confidence.”’ “Things are bloody tight just now. Any member of the Punjab Police willingly cooperating with Central Government organizations such as the C.I.D. or Jaspal’s Singh’s C.B.I. becomes . Baldev frowned, his eyes drawn with worry. He reached over and picked up his orange drink to sip at it nervously, and looked about the room discreetly before saying, almost in a whisper, ‘Sorry, old chap, but we’re all in a bit of a funk.”’ Prem agreed wholeheartedly, recognizing his host’s uneasiness. ‘“‘Baldev, here’s some information I want to share with you, and I don’t want any credit. Just use the material as you wish.” He then presented the autopsy details on the murder weapon as compared

to the knife carried by Govind

Singh. Also, he gave the Delhi

laboratory results on the blood on the suspect’s shirt. The police captain listened intently to the reports and, on their conclusion, commented, ‘“‘Thanks, old chap. Shan’t use your laboratory interpretation. Our men in Chandigarh will have to repeat it.’’ He shot a knowing wink at Prem and both men joined in

a hearty laugh. ‘‘Are these murders connected with the Akali riots here last year?’’ Prem asked. ‘‘As you know, I was stationed in Ambala at the time, so my information is a bit indirect.”’ ‘Indirect or not, you've certainly read and heard discussions, official and unofficial.”

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Baldev scanned his guest’s face through eyes narrowed to slits,

and admitted, “Yes, I’ve heard . . . he stopped, adjusted his turban and then fingered his beard reflectively. Prem sat quietly waiting for the Sikh to continue. “You're quite aware of the fact that the three men, the victims, were involved with the disturbances here and this fact offers a reasonable linkage for the murders.”’ “And so?” “The Punjab Police, for reasons which should be apparent to you, are reluctant to press the investigation.” ‘Political reasons?” Baldev nodded soberly. ‘‘The last thing the state politicians want is a clash with the Akalis again.”’ ‘In the strictest confidence, Baldev, what do you think?”’ “What do I think?” he repeated with a grim smile, ‘‘Pran Naik as District Commissioner here, declared an emergency which resulted in Jullundur sending troops under the command of Colonel Iqbal Khan. The soldiers, with the approval of their commander, cracked skulls and arrested about twenty men. Superior Court Judge Kishan Singh Kairon handed down stiff sentences. All this should add up to some strong motives, right?” “Could they have selected a man from their ranks to settle the score?”’

“The Akalis?”’ Prem nodded. Baldev drew in a quick breath and stared at his hands folded on the desk before him. “‘Not officially. I mean not by the Akali leadership. They may be political activists but they follow their Sikh beliefs very seriously. However, some Akali may have taken things into his own hands.”’ “With the riots and arrests taking place here in Ferozepore, why Chandigarh for the trials?”’ A flicker of amusement crossed the Sikh’s eyes. ‘‘Much easier to control the potential demonstrations in the state capital than out here in the far countryside.” ‘And why Superior Judge Kairon?”’ “The politicians felt that he, a Sikh himself and a known disciplinarian, would be the best man to handle a difficu lt situation.”’ ‘Do the authorities have a pakka .. . I mean a solid suspec t?”’ Baldev stiffened momentarily, then relaxed to sip noisil y on his drink. ‘‘A pakka suspect?”’ he repeated as his eyes flash ed angrily. “No!” He slammed his fist on the desk. ‘“‘And the blood y fools are in a total funk lest they find the murderer and...” . ‘‘He turns out to be an Akali,”” Prem broke in. “You're blooming well right. You know the Akalis, always harassing the government. Their top leader threatens to fast to the death unless Delhi does this or that. Those blue-turbane d Sikhs are

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political activists with a clout, even. threatening to secede and form their own nation. The state and central governments don’t want to stir them up. It’s like sticking your hand into a ruddy hornet’s nest. Word’s been passed down to the State Police to keep their cool, not to rock the boat. I’d be daft to swim against the stream.”’ His temper was cooling.

“Changing the subject, what about this Pran Naik— did you get to know him, Baldev?”’ “T’ve only been here about six months, so we didn’t have many contacts. Understand he was a very religious Hindu, always on his way to holy festivals and visiting shrines.” ‘“*‘Murdered in Kashmir on his way to the holy Amarnath cave.”’ Prem paused to light a cigarette. ‘‘His body was found on the shore of the glacial lake of Sheshnag, fifteen miles beyond Pahalgam at an elevation of around thirteen thousand feet.”’ ‘Sounds like the report in our files on the case.” “Did he do a good job here in Ferozepore?”’ ‘He was a rather good civil servant. A bit eccentric perhaps, but functioned quite well as a D.C.” ‘‘Any personal oddities?’ Prem studied the Sikh’s face closely. “Such as?” ‘‘Rumor has it that he was a fairy.” ‘‘A homosexual?” Prem nodded. “I’ve heard the rumor, no hard facts.” ‘How about outstanding enemies?”’ The Sikh stared out of the window and fingered his moustache. “Not that I know of.”’ “Did the three victims share any bonds... common bonds ... Known to you?”’ “Well, each was quite religious in his own particular sect, if one could call this a bond.”’ ‘How about the other two victims? Did you know them?” ‘Not the Colonel, but I had met the Judge both socially and professionally.” ‘“And?”’ ‘‘As I just said, a hard disciplinarian. I would guess he’d made many enemies through his years on the bench.” Prem stood to leave and extended his hand across the desk. “Thanks, Baldev, damned nice of you to give me this time.” The Sikh took his hand but interrupted, ‘“‘Just a minute, want to show you something.” He reached into a side drawer of his desk and pulled out an envelope. ‘“Take a look at this.”’ The envelope was addressed to District Commissioner Pran Naik. Prem recognized the printing immediately. His eyes narrowed. ‘Go ahead, look inside,’’ Baldev urged.

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He pulled out the sheet of paper on which were hand-printed in English script the two words, ‘““Ram Ram.”’ “Naik received four such mailings, all with the same words. You can see it’s postmarked here in Ferozepore as are the other three. According to the D.C. they arrived one week apart and you’re holding the last one he received... two days before he left for Kashmir.”’ “He became frightened?”’ ‘More confused than frightened. Before leaving Ferozepore he called on the telephone and asked to consult with me on a personal matter. We discussed the thing quite casually and he turned the four letters over and asked that they be investigated.”’ “What’ve you found?” “Not a bloody thing. No leads of any kind,” Baldev said, shaking his head. ‘‘The handwriting experts did agree all four were written by the same person.”’ “I received a similar letter yesterday.” “You what!”’ Baldev exploded. ‘Received one of those ‘Ram Ram’ letters,’’ Prem announced in a matter-of-fact voice, and added, “postmarked Ferozepore.”’ ‘““My God! When, did you say?”’ “Yesterday.” ‘And the same writing as this?’”’ He pointed to the envelope. Prem nodded. “Pretty sure, but that’s why I'd like to borrow this to compare it with mine.”’ “Certainly, and let me know your conclusion, will you?”’ “Thanks.” Prem paused and took asip of his orange drink. “‘I say, Baldev, from your strong reaction a minute ago, I’m going to conclude that you know something about these murders that I don’t, and perhaps should.”’ Baldev shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. ‘“‘After a manner of speaking, perhaps I do.”’ “Damn it, there you go talking in riddles,” Prem said with a touch of annoyance. The Sikh broke into a grim smile— then became seriou s, leaning forward on the desk to say in a low whisper, ‘‘Befo re God, this must bea secret, just between the two of us.”’ “McVey?” “Yes, but no further, eh?” “Righto.”’ “There are two of the most powerful organiza tions in the Punjab determined that you should fail.” “The politicians, with whom I include the police and the Akalis?”’ “Uh-huh.” He gave an emphatic nod. “If what you say is correct, and I believe you, then they either know that he’s an Akali, or don’t know and are in a funk that he might be an Akali.’’

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“I think it’s the latter.’’ Baldev seowled and pursed his lips firmly. “The whole bloody mess would be cleared up if I just could find the murderer and he turned out to be something other than an Akali.’’ Prem chuckled mirthlessly. “To state it bluntly, your life’s ruddy well at stake, Prem.” He grinned across the table at the Sikh and said, ‘‘Not the first time I’ve been in suchafix.”’ ‘“‘Damn it man! Take this seriously ...” Baldev stopped and shook his head in exasperation, then dropped his voice to add, “Your progress on this case will be followed closely and the more successful you appear to be, the greater your danger.” ‘And what would you suggest I do, to . . . to keep alive?’’ There was a touch of contrition in his voice. “Prem, you know ahell of a lot more about personal survival than I’ll ever know. All I want to do is to alert you to the danger. None of

the groups will act tect you. Fanatics tionalism as these. the distorted belief

against you officially. But neither will they proare bred in just such arenas of strong emoFanatics who excuse their extreme actions in that the end justifies the means. These are the

bastards who wouldn’t hesitate to assassinate you.” ‘All this about fanaticism . . is it just theoretical or do you currently have a fanatic in the flesh?” “In the flesh; in fact my men at my personal insistence are watching just such a bloke and investigating a rumor about another.” ’ ‘The hell you are! But I’ve been here only . .’ “No matter,’’ Baldev quickly interrupted, ‘‘news flies on the winds in these parts. In fact I knew you were in the Punjab before you stepped off the Frontier Mail.”’ “The State Police have a plant in our bungalow,”’ Prem announced with a chuckle. ‘“‘We’ve been feeding the blighter— name’s Madanlal— all kinds of information for your ears.’’ Both men joined in laughter. ‘I know the man. At least we gave you a good cook.”’ “True. The bloke’s an outstanding cook.” The two men rose from their seats and started for the door. In the center of the room Prem stopped and turned to face his host, saying, “Should share my last night’s experience with you.” The Sikh nodded him on. “Had a meeting, one o'clock this morning, with a strange character,’ Prem began and went on to describe the temple en& counter. then commented, story, the through Baldev listened attentively

“Chap sounds a bit mad. Doesn’t really match either of the men we're watching.”’ ‘Well, you've been of great help old fellow, and thanks for the warnings. Just between good friends, I’m going to find that killer!”

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The Sikh shot an admiring glance at his visitor and confided, ‘Knowing you as I do, Prem, I’d expect nothing else.’’ He glanced about cautiously before adding in a whisper, ‘‘You’ll hear from me.” “Can I contact you here... I mean at the office?”’ “Our code in this personal game will be ‘kirpan’ — the Sikh saber. In fact, in our conversations over the phone, why don’t you assume the name of Kirpan Singh.”’ “Jolly good. It’ll be Kirpan Singh,’’ Prem said amiably, extending his hand to Baldev. ‘‘Accha, ji, ab calna cahiye— Alright, sir, I must leave,”’ he added in Hindustani. “Phir jaldi milege — We'll meet again soon,” the Sikh responded quietly. Saluting smartly with his swagger stick, Prem Narayan stepped through the office door into the hallway, and followed a young chaprasi out to the entrance. The jeep, with Karam Das at the wheel, stood waiting at the bottom of the verandah steps.

Chapter Seven

“The Rajkumar Tuberculosis Sanatorium, where you drove Lieutenant McVay,” Captain Narayan addressed Karam Dasas they pulled out of the District Police Headquarters of Ferozepore. “The way I know, sir.” The two men rode without conversing, both staring ahead as the vehicle moved through the shimmering mirages created by the noon heat. “Sir, I meet the driver for Mr. Naik, the D.C. who is killed. He now for police is driving.’’ Karam Das broke the silence. ‘‘Accha,’’ Prem acknowledged with interest. ‘There is heavy trouble before the D.C. go to Kashmir.” ‘What kind of trouble?”’ ‘A man made a big try to push into the Naik bungalow here in Ferozepore. “Why?” ‘They say man demand talk with the D.C.” SAnd?’’ “They throw man out of compound and promised him for the police if he return.” ‘‘What did the man look like?”’ ‘‘Turbaned Sikh, very good clothes.”’ ‘Jolly good, Karam Das. Could you find him— the D.C. driver— if we wanted to question him?”’ “Oh yes, sir.’’ The driver nodded. Over the ostentatious gateway into the compound arched a sign spelling out in large gold English and Hindustani letters, ‘‘Rajkumar Tuberculosis Sanatorium.” Guarding the entrance stood a Sikh chowkidar or watchman, who, somewhat pempously, waved the jeep inside. A large two-storied central building formed the hub of the institution, with smaller quarters spread peripherally. The recep-

tionist, just within the entrance of the larger structure, asked the

Captain to be seated and then tripped down the corridor searching from room to room. Rather than sitting, Prem moved over to stand

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under the ceiling fan. He sensed an exciting inner warmth as his thoughts turned to Tara Sohan Lal. Their ways had parted since those happy— even ecstatic— days in middle school. Two teenagers wildly in love had been almost swamped at times by the emotional waves that buffeted them. Their parents, unable to agree on the terms of the marriage contract, compromised and so he had married Tara’s cousin. Prem and Anandi found a measure of happiness in their marriage— they enjoyed their companionship and held each other in an unusually high degree of respect. She was a teacher in middle school. There had been no children. When Anandi died some four years ago, Prem had been crushed. His abject loneliness became a source of anxiety to his associates, so much so that Delhi Headquarters packed him off on an investigation to Ootacamund in the beautiful Nilgiri mountains of South India, hoping to assuage his despondency. Tara, deeply disappointed in love, had gone on to medical college. Rumor had it that she had been hospitalized briefly for a nervous breakdown at the time of Prem’s marriage to her cousin. After graduation in medicine, she had married a classmate, but the marriage had been an unhappy one and terminated by the accidental death of her husband. Following the tragedy Tara had gone to stay with her parents for a time and then moved to Ferozepore, where she had been a member of the Sanatorium staff ever since. A year ago, while attending a medical conference in Bombay, she had been able to contact Prem, who took her out for dinner to a quiet eating spot near Malabar Hill. That night the glowing embers of their early love were fanned into flame. Hearing brisk light steps in the hallway behind him, Prem turned, and his pulse quickened. Doctor Sohan Lal still carried the

beauty of her youth, gently touched by the softening strokes of maturity. Her black hair, tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, showed a few streaks of gray. She was petite without giving the apprearance of frailty and blessed with a physical form whose delicate contours even her clothes could not hide. The musical lilt of her alto voice matched an almost constant twinkle that played about the corners of her eyes. She wore the traditional Punjabi kamiz and salwar with a gossamer-thin scarf draped around the front of her neck so that the two ends flowed down her back. A stethosc ope dangled from her left hand. ‘Prem, how nice! You will join me for lunch?” She reach ed forward and took his hand in hers. He felt a surge of pleasure as their fingers intertwined. “You did get my message?” he asked, smiling happily. ““Yes.”’ She tilted her head up to him and returned his smile. Before I forget, Tara, can my driver...” “It’s taken care of,”’ she broke in, “I’ve sent the chapr asi after him to see that he gets fed.”

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They walked back to the Doctor’s quarters, a small bungalow behind the main sanatorium building. The meal was light and refreshing, mostly fruits and a salad of vegetables with cold lime drinks. An electric fan resting on the floor oscillated back and forth, stirring a comfortable breeze. ‘You know why I’m here, I mean in the Punjab?’’ Prem asked, his eyes studying her face intently. She nodded. ‘“‘Lieutenant McVey told me.”’ He pulled out his cloissone case and opened it, then looked over at Tara. ‘‘Do you mind?” “Not at all.” “You don’t ...’’ he held out the open case. “No, thank you.” Prem lit his cigarette and inhaled slowly. ‘Any progress?” Tara asked. “On the murder investigation?”’ She nodded her head. “We're really just beginning. Quite some way to go yet.” He squinted at her through the smoke. ‘Prem, for God’s sake, be careful . . . please do be careful,” she repeated soberly, her forehead creased with tiny worry wrinkles. He reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t fret yourself, Tara. Believe me, I plan to do nothing foolish. But .. .” he looked at her tenderly, “‘let’s talk of more pleasant things, what say?” “Such as?” she asked in a teasing voice. ‘‘Why you, of course, dearest. So little change .. .you’re just as beautiful as ever.’’ A deep sincerity flooded his words. “You flatterer! But Prem, I love it.” Her voice broke as she scanned his face through eyes brimming with tears. ‘‘And you are still the handsome man who courted me in middle school.” His hand crept up to feel the ugly scar on his left cheek. Tara winced. “And, Captain Prem Narayan,” she began in mock rebuke, ‘you didn’t tell me the whole story on our night out in Bombay last year.

“What story?” He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. A soft “Now, Prem, you know very well what I’m talking about.” tenderness crept into her voice. ‘And how did you...” break“T wheedled it out of Lieutenant McVey,” she confessed, ing into a mischievous grin. embarrassed “That blighter!’”” He threw up his hands, in an gesture.

_

scar — why ‘You should be proud, my dear... I am. That “‘it’s a badge of it’s. ..it’s...’’ Tara groped for the proper word, balanced on her courape.”’ She brushed away a tear precariously cheek.

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Prem took her hand and placed a kiss in the center of the palm then carefully closed her fingers one by one over the site and squeezed her fist tightly in his own. As the cook cleared the table, the two moved into a small sitting room, bringing the fan with them. Outside, the compound was breathlessly quiet. The leaves of the garden shrubs just outside the window drooped in the oppressive heat. ‘Tara, I don’t like to bring the subject up again, but can you tell me anything about these murders? Perhaps that of Judge Kairon here in Ferozepore?”’ She stared at him thoughtfully a moment. Prem watched a fleeting hardness cross her eyes. Then she broke into a wan smile and said, ‘Everyone around here seems to know something about the killings. Just how much of this is fact is anyone’s guess. But let me tell you what I know about the three victims, and I’ll try my best to be objective.”’ “Splendid!”’ ““Pran Naik, the D.C. . . .”” she paused and leaned over to adjust the meandering fan on the floor, then went on, ‘“‘a gentle-appearing man... quite religious... but... but, what should I say, hard under the veneer of his supposed gentleness. Always entertaining devout Hindu leaders or gurus and forever running about the country to ashrams and holy places. There’ve been whispers that these pious activities covered a guilty life and...’’ “Such as?” Prem cut in. “Oh, sexual orgies.”’ “Including homosexual orgies?”’ Tara nodded. ‘Was he a good District Commissioner?”’ She paused in thought before replying, ‘‘I would say he was, but again there were criticisms that he was a bit partial to Hindus.” ‘What about the Superior Court Judge, Kishan Singh Kairon?”’ “His wife, Janaki, has been a patient of mine for several years. The Kairons have their family ties here in Ferozepore. I believe a cousin of the Judge is the local Sikh gurdwara priest.” “Did you know him — Kishan Singh?” “Know him?’ Tara looked out of the window reflectively. ‘‘I guess you might say so. But no one really became a close friend of his. This is what his wife, Janaki, told me. He was stern and aloof . . .a hard man. I met him many times, but only superficially. You see he occasionally drove Janaki here for her medical appointments.” Her voice carried a disparaging note. ‘Were you here during the Akali riots last year?” Tara nodded. Her dark eyes showed a hint of sadness. “A bit rough, eh?” Prem threw her an encouraging look. ‘The soldiers from Jullundur were needlessly rough. We. . . the local doctors .. . were called over to Government Hospital to help

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with the wounded. Many were-injured, some quite seriously. A dozen or so were arrested and lorried over to Chandigarh to stand trial for disturbing the peace. One young man I took care of received a nasty bludgeoning of the head... by rifle butt ... knocked unconscious for over an hour. Sustained an ugly scalp laceration which we sutured.” “The chap was an Akali?”’ “A Sikh but not an Akali.” ‘‘What was he doing in the riot?” “A reporter and photographer for The Tribune, an Ambala paper.” “Was he disturbing the peace?” “The authorities frowned on his taking pictures of the military action against the Akalis.’’ Prem sensed a bitterness in her voice. “Forgive me, my dear... I mean this talking about murders and beatings. Why not change the subject, eh?” “The brutality of the repressive measures . . . |was so deeply involved in the whole thing . . . it cut into my memory and Ifind it difficult to shake the thing off. Silly of me to react so intensely, a whole year later.” “Not at all. Yours is quite a normal reaction.” Gradually a smile spread across her face, erasing the taut lines. ‘Please go ahead,” she urged. “I do so want to be of help.” “You're quite sure?” He looked at her questioningly. She nodded her head firmly. “Tara, what happened to that Ambala reporter?”’ ‘He was hauled away with those arrested. Asked me to contact his paper.” ‘And you did?”’ “I called the editor on the telephone that afternoon and gave

him the story.”’ “Did you get any film — I mean from him?” Tara shook her head. ‘‘They not only confiscated his film but his camera as well.” “Do you remember his name?”’ “Guldip Singh.” ‘‘What was his sentence?”’ “About a week after the sentencing, six months in jail, he suddenly died.”’ “He died!” Prem exclaimed incredulously. ‘““And what did the autopsy show?” “Brain hemorrhage. We call it a middle meningeal hemorrhage,

secondary to the clubbing.”’

-

‘“‘“Good God! What a story for his newspaper!” “The Punjab authorities have tried to bury the issue but the Tribune.continues to press the matter from time to times; ‘‘Any luck? I mean an investigation into his death?”

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“None.” ‘“Here’s a good motive. Revenge by Guldip’s family, his relatives.”’ Tara leaned over again to position the fan which, due to its

vibrating oscillations, tended to shift about on the floor. ‘““My dear, you must know the Ludhiana civil surgeon, Vijay Sharma? I believe his home originally was here in Ferozepore.”’ “A tragic chap, really. Yes, I know him. After partition he was in private practice here for a couple of years then accepted a post in Amritsar.”’ “You said tragic?”

‘His whole family — wife, two children and both parents — all horribly mutilated and killed on the west side of the city by a raiding band of Muslims from across the Pakistan border. He’s told me the tale many times. Went into a severe depression for several months after the tragedy. I doubt that he’s ever recovered fully. Very emotional about it yet.”’ “All this happened at the time of partition?” “October, 1947.”’ “What was he doing at the time . . . I mean his duties?”’ “A medical officer with the Red Cross working along the refugee migration routes.” ‘Probably along the Grand Trunk Road,’’ Prem observed quietly. “Also for a time he was assigned to Lady Mountbatten’s St. John Ambulance Brigade.” “Again working with the refugees.’’ Prem stopped and selected a cigarette, lighting it and smoking for a few seconds. ‘‘About the man himself — he seems a sensitive chap, doesn’t he?” “Very sensitive. Vijay is an intellectural, withdrawn into himself with few outside interests except for classical music from the West. He listens by the hour to records of Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. He’s also an inventor of sorts, makes all kinds of mechanical and electronic gadgets for the hospital as well as for his personal use. Records music of all kinds from All India Radio. Has a very sophisticated tape recorder.” ‘Can he be trusted . . . for example, his autopsy reports?”’ She studied Prem’s face thoughtfully a moment and then, shrugging her shoulders, said, ‘‘I’d say so. Never had reason to question the chap’s integrity. He seems to be intellectually honest , almost to extremes at times.” “To an extreme?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “The truth can be, what shall I say, can be quite traumatic at times. Sharma’s been known to use it — truth, that is — likea scalpe l, even against himself.’’ ‘‘Sounds a bit masochistic.” “He can be as hard on himself as on others when a mista ke is made. I might add that on occasion he displays the affectatio ns of a

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brainy scholar, living in a world of his own, seemingly quite oblivious to those around him.” I take it then that the two of you are on speaking terms, Sharma and you.”’ Tara tilted her head and grinned mischievously. ‘‘Oh yes. We've been good friends professionally and socially.”’ ‘Should I be reading something into that statement?”’ ‘“‘Not really,’’ she paused and laughed, “‘but there was a time when Vijay courted me rather ardently.”’ “And?” ‘*‘We were seen in each other’s company enough to start the gossip mills, but it amounted to little, at least on my part. I felt sorry ‘for him. But pity’s no substitute for love.” “I’m impressed by your account of the doctor. Seems quite a good chap.” “One bad habit — betel nut.’’ She grimaced and joined Prem in laughter. Tara stood and reached over to refill her guest’s glass of lime juice. Her jasmine perfume faintly scented the air about him, setting his pulse to pounding. She looked down into his eyes, tenderly, as if probing for a hidden answer. Then they sat in silence, each aware of the cresting wave of excitement which had just engulfed them. The cook interrupted long enough to remove the dishes and replenish the pitcher of drinks. They pulled their chairs away from the table and arranged them in front of the fan. ‘Tara, did you know the other two victims?” She pondered the question briefly before replying, “‘I’d met the D.C. at various social functions as well as at conferences related to local health matters.” “And Iqbal Khan?” “The colonel was a good friend of Vijay’s and I met him several times at the Doctor’s house. Social parties mostly. The two men had known each other over the years and both were involved in some way with refugee evacuation back at the time of partition. Also they had another interest in common: classical music. Let’s just say we were on speaking terms, until. . .’ she broke off and scowled. “Until what?” “The riots last year. Tried to get him to hospitalize that Ambala reporter . . ." she stopped and bit her lower lip. “And?” “He refused. We both lost our tempers. Iqbal swore viciously and told me to keep my damned hands out of the military.’’ Again there was bitterness in her voice. “Sorry.’”’ Prem said soothingly, as he stepped over to place his hands on her shoulders. She sighed and looked up into his face. Leaning down, he placed his lips on hers in a lingering kiss, then

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lifted her to her feet beside him. Their arms quickly encircled each other, molding their bodies into one. “So many wasted years, my dearest,’’ she whispered into his ear, and repeated softly, ‘“‘so many years...’ her voice drifted away.

After the silence of their prolonged embrace,

he held her at

arm’s length and stared down into her eyes. ‘“Thank you, my darl-

ing. I shan’t ever forget the magic of these few moments.” They walked back to the sanatorium entrance, pausing there to exchange public polite words of farewell, words they hardly heard, while their eyes conversed in the profound and titillating language of those in love. “And I'll see you again soon?” Tara questioned in a low whisper. “Soon, jolly soon!”’

The road from Ferozepore to Ludhiana was surfaced with crushed rock ina fairly good state of repair. The sixty-five miles could be covered comfortably in less than ninety minutes. This interim gave Prem the time and seclusion to recapitulate the day’s activities. In order to establish a conversational barrier between himself and his driver, he slouched down in the seat and feigned sleep. At first his- thoughts turned to Tara. With age she had lost neither beauty nor charm — in fact her maturation had added a sensuous attractiveness which had flowered in the years of their separation. As during their courtship in middle school, Tara’s eyes continued to flash her innermost feelings and through those eyes Prem was able to watch her mind at work. Today he had sensed an unusual fluctuation of emotions. Such a lovely woman, he thought to himself, sighing softly. I’m falling in love, Prem admitted with another deep and satisfying sigh. The meeting with Baldev Singh had proved to be most fruitfu l. The confidentiality of their discussions had to be protec ted at all costs lest the Sikh’s career be sabotaged. There appea red to be a consensus that the Akali riots still remained the most viable linkage between the three victims. A new line of investigatio n had arisen with Tara’s statement concerning the Ambala reporter’s death. The Guldip Singh family must be contacted and the potential motive of revenge explored. Prem retrieved the “Ram Ram”’ letter received by Naik and studied the writing carefu lly. Kishan Singh and Iqbal Khan must also have been warned by similar messages. In writing the ‘‘Ram Ram” letter to him, the murde rer had surfaced again. Was he just trying to frighten the invest igators or playing games? The latter tactics were not unusual, particularly in the case of those mentally distressed. In fact crime psychologists had postulated that certain killers of this category actually wanted to be caught

, hence the clues. Prem had deliberately withh eld the matter

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of the letters from Tara. No need to cause her undue concern, he’d decided. The personal tragedy of Vijay Sharma explained some of his reclusive tendencies. It was reassuring to hear Tara’s comments on the civil surgeon's intellectual honesty. The accuracy of his autopsy reports was critical to the investigation. Prem had been impressed by the clarity of the Doctor’s presentation of the three autopsies. The narrow-bladed murder weapon must be more like a stiletto than a conventional dagger, he thought to himself. Possibly an imported device of Spanish or Italian design. Certainly the deduction that a different instrument had been used for the death thrust than for the nasal amputation was a matter of good observation on Sharma’s part. While it was true that this fact been brought out under questioning, the Doctor’s explanation of the omissions in the autopsy reports was plausible. Furthermore, in the court testimony, according to him, this descrepancy had been corrected. The truth of this statement could be verified quite easily from the court records in Cahndigarh. Prem Narayan thanked his driver and climbed the steps of the Government Guest House. Madanlal was in the kitchen when he entered. Stepping into his bedroom, he pulled a chair under the ceiling fan, slipped off his bush jacket and sat down with a deep sigh. Very shortly Madanlal, all smiles, brought in a large glass of iced lime juice. Setting the drink on the table, the cook slipped out to return with the mail. Prem leisurely emptied the glass before reaching over to sort out the letters. There it was... the same printed characters in black ink, addressed to Captain Narayan, Government Guest House, Ludhiana, Punjab. Carefully opening the envelope, he removed the single sheet of paper. There were

three words, written in English script: ‘“‘“Sat Sri Akal.’’ The message in black stood out starkly against the white. The postmark was Chandigarh and the date not legible, blurred by the stamp cancella-

tion. Spreading out the letter on his bed, Prem opened his tin strong-

box and brought out his ‘‘Ram Ram”’ note to compare with it. Then he took the one sent to Naik which Baldev had loaned him, and cross-checked the lettering. All three had been written by the same person. Carefully replacing the documents and his magnifying glass in the box, he slowly straightened up, blew out his cheeks and deflated them with a low whistle. “The bloody plot thickens,”he muttered. “Now we have recognition of the second victim, a Sikh from Chandigarh. Tomor-

row we should get a similar envelope postmarked Jullundur and containing a sheet with some Muslim inscription.”

Bolting the bedroom door, the Captain removed his clothes and walked into the bathroom. Before turning on the water for his bath,

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he pulled a stool close to the head of the tub, within easy reach, and placed on it his loaded automatic, beginning the first in a series of security measures.

Ian McVey was detained until the late hours of the night. He and Sardar Khan had made their trip to Chandigarh by a circuitous route, investigating the river bed and banks of the Sutlej between the temple and the Grand Trunk Road. Prem was fast asleep when the jeep pulled into the compound. The noise of the vehicle awakened him. Turning over in bed, he groaned sleepily and felt under his pillow. The cold, hard steel of his automatic was reassuring.

Chapter Eight

Clad only in their shorts, Prem Narayan and Ian McVey sat around a small table in Prem’s bedroom. In the background could be heard the clatter of breakfast dishes being washed in the kitchen. On the floor between the two men sat the tin trunk, its lid propped open revealing an assortment of documents stacked inside. After lighting up their smokes, Prem detailed the activities of the previous day in Ferozepore, including the confidential conversation with Captain Baldev Singh. “Don’t like being caught in the middle of this Akali-State Police feud,’’ Ian said, frowning through the smoke curling up from his

pipe. ‘Not really in the middle. A bit worse than that. Both parties are down on us, and for the same reason— afraid the murderer might be an Akali.”’ ‘‘What say we start brainwashing Madanlal, dropping hints that we’re convinced the Akalis had nothing to do with the assassinations. The blighter’ll pass the word on to the Punjab Police. Might take the heat off us,’’ lan suggested. Prem nodded thoughtfully and countered, ‘‘Only if the buggers don’t know who did the killing.” “From what you've told me, Baldev doesn’t think they really know.” “That’s right.”’ “Well, let’s start the psychological warfare.”’ ‘“‘Accha,’’ Prem agreed, reaching over to hand Jan an envelope. ‘This arrived in yesterday’s mail. It’s the expected ‘Sat Sri Akal’ letters. He looked the document over with raised eyebrows. ‘‘Guess we’re not really surprised, are we?”’ Prem shook his head. ‘‘Not really. Same writing as our ‘Ram Ram’ correspondence.” ‘And the Naik letter Baldev gave you.” ‘Identical handwriting.”’

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Both men sat in silence for a moment, the Captain blowing a series of smoke rings and the Lieutenant chewing thoughtfully on his pipestem. Madanlal, after tapping politely on the door, looked in to see that the drinks were in order. Assured that his services were not needed, he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. “Penny for your thoughts.’’ Prem looked across the table at Ian. ‘Probably hear from Jullundur today, some Muslim greeting.” “You know, the bloke seems to be surfacing. Bloody fool’s showing his hand earlier than I’d expected.”’ “No matter,’’ Ian countered with a shrug, ‘‘could speed up the

whole blooming investigation.” Prem nodded, his eyes wrinkled in a grim smile. “Wonder if any other investigators received letters like these— I mean chaps like Jaspal Singh?”’ Ian mused. ‘Nothing in the dossier saying they did.” “If they’re from the killer, and I happen to believe they are, he wishes to engage in a game of wits.”’ ‘Not at all unusual, you know,” Prem replied, pausing to light another cigarette, before going on, ‘‘some enjoy the cat and mouse

game, sort of criminal chess...” “I’ve seen it before,’’ Ian broke in, “‘particularly in a series of homicides.”’ “And that brings up the matter of security, what with this blighter getting chummy with his letters. Not to mention the warnings that came out of the temple.” “Security such as?” ‘Oh, you know, the usual precautions. Remember the old C.I.D.

manual, something about sharpening the edge of our suspicions. Always carry our sidearms, always have them close at hand indoors. Bolt doors and windows.”’ Prem stabbed the air with his cigarette at each pronouncement. “Tl alert our drivers as well as Sardar Khan.”’ “Jolly good.”’ Ranjit knocked on the door and brought ina pitcher of ice water and glasses which he placed on the table between them. Also he handed the Captain a chit which someone had brought from Ferozepore. It was from Doctor Sohan Lal. She asked that he call her— some matter which might be of importance. Prem immediately walked to the phone and called the operator. To his pleasant surprise the connection was a rapid one. “Tara, Prem here.”’ “Oh Prem, thanks for calling so soon. I hesitate to discuss this on the wire. Perhaps you...” “We'll drive right over,’’ Prem cut in, worried by the tone of her voice. ‘Have lunch with me. The both of you of course.”’ He looked at his watch. ‘‘Accha, be there by noon.”

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Karam Das headed the jeep westward. There was no letup in the stifling heat. Human activity had come toa virtual standstill. The sun beat down mercilessly on the arid farmlands on either side of the Ferozepore road. Traveling with the side curtains open, the hot wind blew through the vehicle in relentless gusts, burning and drying the skin. Cattle stood listlessly in the shade of the few scattered mango trees. Taking mercy on the jeep, the driver held the speed down toa bare forty miles per hour. “Well, I’ve briefed you on my yesterday’s activities, so let’s hear yours,’ Prem said, turning to Ian. “First, Sardar Khan and I checked the Sutlej approach to the temple, both sides of the river.”’

“And?” Ian chuckled before continuing, ‘Our man followed the north bank all the way from the Grand Trunk Road and waded through

the water, or rather, jumped from boulder to boulder to get across.”’ “The hell you say! Any clues?” ‘Not really. He deliberately walked in the soft sand, leaving indistinct footprints. Apparently the bloke wore shoes for we found a heel print on the bank near the temple. Even this gives us little identification. Searched the area for anything he might have dropped but found nothing . . . not even cigarette stubs.” “What about our tracks?” “Quite definite, the tire marks of both jeeps, but your footprints were barely evident. The ground around the ruins is baked hard with practically no soft dust.’’

“Damn it! Thought we might find something.” “The bloody cobra was still there, coiled around the base of the pipal tree.”

“And you killed it?”’ Ian shook his head. “I think some of the devotees may be worshipping it. Saw some cooked rice on the ground by the damn thing.” ‘“‘“Accha, according to Hindu folklore the cobra’s supposed to engender fertility. Hope it doesn’t kill some poor peasant in the process.”’ “In Chandigarh I checked the court records on Vijay Sharma’s testimony. He did go on record stating that the nasal amputations were carried out with another weapon than that used for the deatn thrust.” “You know, this two-weapon business disturbs me,”’ Ian said, shaking his head. ‘“‘Why should the bloke make such a complicated

thing out of the assassinations?” The chap appears to be a bit of a perfectionist and I’m convinced there’s a message in it .. . this nasal mutilation. A killer doesn’t go around exactly repeating a procedure, which isn’t the mortal wound, unless he has a reason. And a damned good reason.”

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‘After checking out the court records, Sardar Khan and I made the rounds meeting with people, Akali and others, who might have any connections with the Ferozepore business.”’ Ian stopped and licked his dry lips. ‘‘From what we gathered, the powers that be in the Akali heirarchy are very bitter about the whole thing... feel that the three murder victims received their just rewards. Some have expressed the opinion that God has avenged the wrongs suffered by the rioters. But they deny, quite vehemently, any direct complicity in the assassinations. One Akali who had been bloodied by the soldiers and served a six-month jail sentence, admitted quietly that while their leaders would not have been involved officially in the killings, some member or family of their sect might well have provided the assassin.”’ ‘‘T’m inclined to agree that the Akali leadership was not directly involved. It just wouldn’t be in keeping with the mandates of Guru Nanak or the holy Granth Sahib.”’ ‘Of course some blighter with his conscience fortified by the injustices supposedly done his sect, just might consider himself a holy avenger and take things into his own hands.”’ “Then fall back into the protective arms of his own Akalis,”’ Prem countered. ‘‘Incidentally, we have a fine contact with one of the top Akalis through a good friend of ours, Gurba Singh. Had a visit with him coming through Delhi this time, Chandi Chowk bazaar.”’ “Yes, we did a job together, Gurba and I, about eight years ago. We just might need his help, I mean the Akali contact.” “Ian, what about the Ambala reporter, Guldip Singh?”’ “A dirty show, really.”’ “That bad?”’ Ian shook his head unhappily. ‘‘No reason why this bludgeoned newspaper chap should’ve been thrown in jail. Poor bloke was just doing his job. Died only eight days after the trial, intracranial hemorrhage according to the autopsy report.”’ “Not by Vijay Sharma .. . I mean the autopsy?” ‘No, the Chandigarh civil surgeon.”’ “Damn it! Why didn’t his newspaper fight this case?”’ “They did, but finally mired down in the roadblocks thrown in their way by certain obstructionists.”’ ‘The bloody bastards!’’ There was an icy brittleness to his voice. He drew in a deep breath before going on in a quieter tone, ‘“‘And what else did you find out? “Some of the court transcriptions have been tampered with,

particularly those having to do with Guldip Singh.” “Bet someone in the court’s scared the family of the reporter will file a suit on behalf of the deceased.” ‘Doctor Sohan Lal testified in the case. She urged that the

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be hospitalized because of certain serious abnormal

neurological findings.” “And?” “Portions of her testimony have been cut out or erased.” “How did you know?—I mean, what was cut out?” Ian grinned mysteriously. ““Sardar Khan knew one of the clerks.” “Did you bring this to the attention of the authorities?”’ He shook his head. ‘‘Thought it best not to, not at this time.” Prem stared at his companion for a moment before saying, “You're quite right, old chap, quite right. No reason to let them in on what we know.”’ ‘The ruddy situation seems to be shaping up into a three-sided battle between the Punjab authorities, the Central Government and the killer.”’ “And we’re somewhere in amongst them all,’’ Prem muttered

with a scowl. ‘Why all this pressure by the Home Minister?”’ ‘Pride, a matter of pride. At this stage it’s tied up with his personal prestige. And another thing, the Minister’s a Bengali and without any particular love for the Punjabi.” ‘“‘Hadn’t thought of that angle, but it makes sense.”’ “Tan, as one who is familiar with this part of North India, do the authorities have any inkling as to whom the assassin might be?” Jan frowned reflectively and stared a moment at the passing countryside, before turning to say, “I really don’t think they do. Talked the matter over with the Chief Minister’s secretary yesterday. He can be trusted—one of my class.”’ ‘‘What do you mean, your class?’’ Prem shot him a curious look. ‘“‘An Anglo-Indian.’’ There was a hint of pride in his voice. “And he said?”’ “They don’t know who killed the three men, and hope that he isn’t found out...” Ian hesitated, throwing a worried look at his chief. “Something wrong?”’ “Well, that’s just it... their not wanting the killer found. Several of our informants in the Chandigarh area, good friends, have warned both Sardar Khan and me that our lives, all three of us, are in danger.” ‘The hell you say! Sort of know that already, don’t we?” “The bastards just don’t want the case solved.”’ Ian said with a shrug of his shoulders. & ‘With blighters of this sort as friends, who needs enemies?”’ His words were caustic. “Blast it all, we’ve worked against heavy odds before, you and I, and we’ve won.” Ian’s face broke into a broad grin. Prem gave out with an equally expansive smile. Then both men laughed so hearti-

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' ly that Karam Das looked back in surprise. sanithe The jeep slowed down to pass through the gate into torium compound, as usual waved on by the Sikh chowkidar. A white-uniformed receptionist smiled good-humoredly as she asked the two officers to be seated while she informed the Doctor of their arrival. They had just reached their chairs when Doctor Sohan Lal came down the corridor. “Captain Narayan and Lieutenant McVey,” she sang out, extending a hand to each of the men, “how nice to see you both again. Give me just five minutes to finish a dressing, will you?”’ ‘We'll be right here,’’ Prem replied happily. Tara Sohan Lal stepped lightly down the hallway and disappeared into a side room while the two men sought out individual rattan wicker chairs, whose woven fenestrations offered cool seated comfort in hot weather. ‘“‘Charming woman, the Doctor.’’ Prem sighed. “A bit of alright, if I may say so,’’ Ian volunteered. ‘‘My sweetheart in middle school.’’ His voice carried tender and nostalgic overtones. “Really?” Preoccupied, he nodded, staring at a newly-lit cigarette in his hand. Neither of them spoke for a couple of minutes, each buried in his own thoughts. Ian became aware of the fact that he had just discovered a new facet to his chief's character— a warm tenderness brought out by Tara Sohan Lal. Furthermore, he noted that this newly-discovered attribute wore well on the Captain. Tiffin was served by a cook dressed in a white knee-length coat held in at the waist with a woven belt. An ample turban swathed his head, made up of many coils of white cloth wound around and around with one end hanging tail-like down the middle of the back and the other end sticking out of the top like a cockscomb. He was barefoot. The food he served was light and befitting hot weather— a fruit salad made up of sliced papaya and mango, as well as sections of tangerine. On individual side plates there was flat unleavened wheat-flour bread known as parathas, toasted crisp. Having served the dishes, the cook quietly left the room.

The meal had just gotten underway when Tara excused herself and stepped into her bedroom, bringing back a folded sheet of white paper which she handed Prem. _ “Please read it,” she said in a low voice, her eyes closely studying his face. As he scanned the open sheet, his face paled, and he looked up quickly to ask, “My God, when did you get this?”’ “I didn’t get it, Prem, it wasn’t sent to me.”’ “You didn’t... then how . . .?’’ He stopped and looked down again at the paper in his hand.

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‘Janaki Kairon brought it in this morning. Her husband received this and three others just like it before he was killed.” Prem drew in a slow and deep breath then exhaled with a loud sigh of relief. “Thank God for that,’ he muttered, reaching across the table to grasp her hand. ‘For what, my dear?’’ She threw him a questioning look. “That this,”’ he stopped to point at the words, ‘‘’Sat Sri Akal’ messages wasn't sent to you directly.” ‘Then you were aware of their existence?” she asked quietly. “‘I called you on a false alarm?” “No, no,” he assured her, shaking his head, ‘‘this is vital information. Now we know that Kairon as well as Naik received warning letters.” ‘As well as Naik . . . I don’t understand.”’ Her dark eyes showed a hint of fear. Prem released her hand on the table and patted it gently. ‘““‘We did know that Naik was sent four notes before he was murdered. The words written to him were, ‘Ram Ram’. Now you've shown us this letter to Kairon and, although we have no proof, it is more than likely that Iqbal Khan also received messages before his death.” ‘““Why would anyone do that... I mean send messages to the victims?” Tara bit her lower lip nervously. “Psychological warfare of a kind. The killer must have a reason to want to frighten those he kills. These messages are deliberate and sadistic.” ‘Janaki carried these around on her person, not knowing what to do with them. She confided in me saying that they must be related in some way to the death of her husband.”’ “She was quite frightened . . . I mean by these?”’ Prem asked pointing at the letter on the table. 2 ‘That she was,” Tara said soberly. “In desperation, not knowing just where to turn, she gave them to me for safekeeping.” ‘Then she must have kept this from the police,” Ian broke into the conversation, ‘‘for they certainly must’ve questioned her at length.’ “She's little faith in the police— actually she is convinced they’re implicated in his death and speaks of a political assassination,’ Tara said. ‘May I keep this?’ Prem held up the letter. She nodded. ‘‘Would you like the other three?”’ ‘“‘Shan’t need them, but do keep them hidden, out of reach of z prying eyes,’’ Prem cautioned. “I don’t quite understand,’’ she said, her eyes drawn with worry. ‘Oh, I’m convinced these messages were sent by the murderer, and a damned clever murderer at that, and... and I just don’t want you involved in any way with the... this investigation.”

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Prem spoke solemnly. “Really that serious?’’she scanned the faces of both men. Farewells were brief as the three separated on the steps of the Sanatorium. Under Ian’s rugged exterior beat a romantic heart, and beneath the affected nonchalance of Tara’s and Prem’s parting, he recognized the signs of a renewed romance. The jeep crawled through the narrow streets of the city and broke out onto the hard-surfaced road headed for Ludhiana. The afternoon sun was on their backs. The two officers debated whether to open the curtains to the scorching wind or close them and sit in puddles of perspiration. They opted for the former, breathing superficially to protect their throats from the searing air. Hot windy gusts precluded their smoking. Prem’s eyes squinted to narrow slits as he stared out at the countryside. The listless cattle, their tails restlessly switching off insects, had shifted to the eastern sides of the shade trees seeking out protection from the direct rays of the sun. ‘Iqbal Khan must have gotten similar letters,’’ Ian muttered, breaking the silence. “Sorry, old chap, didn’t get what you said.’’ Prem leaned closer to his companion. ‘‘Bloody wind’s a bit noisy.” “The killer must have sent letters to Iqbal Khan.” Prem nodded and grunted in the affirmative. ‘“There’ll be a copy in the mail today, I’ll wager you.”’ ‘‘These damned chits must carry a clue of some kind,”’ Ian said with a touch of exasperation. ‘Nothing new, really, I mean sending clues. Our problem is to find out who sent the bloody things. The sectarian or, if you wish, religious connotations are certainly obvious. These blighters, as you've said, particularly in a series of murders, derive a satisfaction in tantalizing their pursuers by tossing out clues.”’ ‘‘A vicarious participation in their own pursuit,’ Ian countered with a mirthless laugh. ‘“‘As we both know, some of these blokes want to be captured, either to terminate their committal of acts over which they’ve lost control, or to appease a hounding sense of guilt. Or perhaps both.”’ ‘‘What say we check out the clues, toss them about a bit?”’ Prem studied Ian’s face thoughtfully a few seconds before delving into his suggestion. ‘‘For argument’s sake let’s look at it this way: the murderer makes it a point to emphasize the religious ardor of each victim, both by the environment of the actual killing and by the notes sent which were specifically pertinent to Hindu, Sikh and Muslim; but beyond these associations he supplements the assassination with a mutilation traditionally accepted in India as the punishment for unfaithfulness. Could the killer, in a subtle way, be trying to say that these men who professed a greater than usual degree of spiritual refinement were, for reasons at this time

unknown to us, unfaithful to their high moral beliefs?”’

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“Good show,” Ian responded to his chief's summary. Raising his voice above the noise of the wind, he continued, ‘‘Was the selection of one victim from each of the three major religions in these parts, was this deliberate or a mere coincidence?” “Go ahead,” Prem urged with a wave of his hand. “If the original representative selection of victims from each faith was deliberate, then the Akali riots are irrelevant to the triple murders. On the other hand if the Ferozepore incident is releva nt then it becomes a sheer coincidence that Naik, Kishan Singh and Iqbal Kahn were Hindu, Sikh and Muslim.” ‘Let me play the devil’s advocate. I’ll agree that if the religion of the victim was a crucial factor in their original selection for death, then we must look elsewhere than the Akalis for our suspec t. However, I can’t agree that under such circumstances, the Akali riots would be irrelevant to our investigation.”

Ian raised his eyebrows. ‘‘Don’t quite follow.”’ ‘Suppose someone, onatotally impersonal basis, wished to kill a Hindu, a Sikh and a Muslim. Why the riots would be. . .” “IT see,” Ian cut in quickly. “‘What a made-to-order cover for the assassin!’ ‘A perfect red herring to draw attention away from the killer’s motives, whatever they might be. All of the attention, under such circumstances, would be directed toward those who suffered from the actions of the victims. And those would be Akalis.” The familiar whitewashed walls of the Guest Bungalow reflected the painful glare of the sun. As the jeep pulled up to the compound gate, a man of short stature in military uniform stood at the center of the entrance holding up one hand imperatively. Coming around to the side of the vehicle, he requested and carefully checked identification cards of all three of the occupants before waving the driver on, climaxing the whole procedure with a smart salute. “Well, I'll be damned!” Ian exclaimed incredulously. “Part of the security,’’ Prem announced with a smug grin. ‘‘Ar-

ranged it all in Delhi before I came up.” “A Gurkha, absolutely loyal and fearless, great soldiers,” Ian said, turning to take another look at the diminutive guard. “Ample quarters behind the bungalow. Give around-the-clock coverage. Each brought one of his wives, leaving the other back home in Nepal to farm the fields and take care of the children.” Prem prolonged his shower. In fact he took the wooden bathroom stool and sat on it under the stream of water. The ‘‘cold’’ water was barely tepid, a bit cooler than his body temperature. None the less, it was an improvement over the heat of the ride from Ferozepore. He relaxed completely and practiced his autogenic exercises. Gradually he sensed his lethargy being washed away. Completing a half-hour of such activities, he turned off the shower and moved to the bedroom, disdaining the bathtowel hanging on the

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rack. After all even should he dry himself, his body would be wet again in a few minutes. Slipping on his shorts and leather sandals, Prem walked over to the dresser and picked up the mail. He wasn’t surprised to see the letter, unmistakable with its black handprinted address. A satisfied smile slowly spread across his face. The triad was now complete. ‘“‘Allahu Akhbar,’ a Mohammedan greeting, meaning ‘‘God is Great,’’ stood out starkly in the center of the page. He opened his tin strongbox and removed the other copies for comparison. Laying the letters on the bed, he studied each with his magnifying glass, frequently drying his face to avoid soiling the documents with drops of perspiration. The same person had authored all three of the messages.

‘“‘Here’s the third letter,” Prem announced, handing Ian the sheet of paper. The two men were seated in the front room preparing their evening’s round of drinks. Ian studied the document and passed it back. “So that completes it,’’ he sighed as he mixed his scotch and soda. ‘Must call Taranwalla first thing in the morning and see if Mrs. Khan is still in Jullundur. I'd like to get one of the letters sent the Colonel for comparison with this one,’ Prem said, tapping his shirt pocket. “Sardar Khan’s still in Chandigarh checking out each of the Akalis who served jail sentences. Ruddy tedious work but it just might pay off.” ‘A bit dangerous . . . | hope the chap watches his own security.” “Knows his blooming way around the Punjab, that bounder does,”’ Ian volunteered, sipping his scotch noisily. ‘Well, cheers. Here’s to the solution of the bloody case,’’ Prem proposed, raising his glass of gin and tonic. His companion responded, reaching across until their glasses touched. Both men sat quietly enjoying their drinks. Prem’s thoughts were in Ferozepore— Tara was on his mind. Her handling of the Kairon Sat Sri Akal letters worried him. Could this in any way compromise her safety? What if the killer found out she knew about the messages? He promised himself that at their next meeting she must be instructed on certain basic security measures. Meanwhile, Ian was wishing he could spend time, even a single day, up in Landour with his wife Joyce and their two daughters Doreen and Kathleen. He could almost feel the cool air from the Himalayan snows and smell the pungent pine needles crushed in his hand. ‘‘Let’s check out our plans for tomorrow, what say?” Prem sug-

gested, breaking the silence. ‘‘The murder sites, Kishan Singh’s and Iqbal Khan’s, should be investigated. Also the three widows

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should be interviewed. Later, in a couple of days, I'll get up to Sheshnag where Naik was killed.” “Don’t forget Guldip Singh. The relatives and the Ambala newspaper should be researched.”’ “Right you are.”’ Prem frowned in though a moment. ‘“‘Ian, why don’t you follow through on the Kishan Singh homicide in Ferozepore while I check out the Iqbal Khan case in Jullundur?” “Righto. I'll meet with Baldev Singh and look through the Ferozepore police files. Perhaps he can help arrange an interview with the Naik widow. Should I try to contact the Kairon widow?” ‘Perhaps, because of her particular dislike of the police and military, we should negotiate a meeting with her through the offices of Doctor Sohan Lal.”’ “Jolly good. And I say Prem, while you’re up in Kashmir, I can run down and meet with the editor of The Tribune in Ambala. Havea good friend who’s the foreign news editor of the paper and he’ll arrange a session with some of their top people.”’ ‘‘Accha. Don’t forget the relatives of the young reporter.” Madanlal rang the dinner bell, interrupting the conversation. The two men moved to the dining room. Because of the oppressive heat and their fatigue from loss of sleep on the previous night, neither of them was particularly hungry. In view of the full day of activities planned for the morrow, both agreed on an early bedtime, meeting in Prem’s quarters for a final smoke. ‘‘Oh-h-h-h,” Ian yawned loudly, sitting down and stretching his feet out before him. ‘‘Bed’s going to feel damn good.”’ “Be right back, want to rinse my hands,”’ Prem said, stepping into his bathroom. “Take your time.”’ Ian was busy filling his pipe bow] with tobacco. ‘““Quick!"’ Prem’s voice was low but urgent. ‘‘The torch and the cane in the corner.” Ian jumped to his feet, spilling tobacco over the table and floor, grabbed the two items and ran to the door. “Easy... don’t come in. . . just hand over the torch.”’ After a few jerky movements across the floor, the light focused in on a small snake coiled in the corner by the wash bowl. “Almost stepped on the bloody thing... and me in my sandals,’’ Prem muttered in disgust. Ian pulled his chief back out of the bathroom and took the torch from his hand. “I’ve my shoes on. Let me take care of this.”’ Witha well-aimed stroke of the rattan cane he experily dispatched the creature. ‘A viper — a damned viper!’’ Ian repeated, pushing the stillwrithing snake across the floor into a better light. ‘‘Really not all that common in these parts.”’ “Looks small,’’ Prem commented, leaning over to get a better

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look. ‘Huh! Only about a foot long, but enough venom to kill a man.” ‘‘How the hell did it get in here?”’ Ian stepped over to check the drainage pipe leading outside from the base of the bath stall. He flashed the light on the exit, then passed the cane through. ‘‘The wire plug’s gone!” ‘That sort of explains it. Wonder if that just happened, or was it deliberate? Someone could easily have fed the viper through the pipe.’’ Prem’s voice was matter-of-fact. “] don’t think it just happened,” Ian muttered, almost to himself. “I'll stuff a rag into the drain for the night and have the wire cork replaced tomorrow.” “For the sake of security we'll consider this was deliberate. We must be laying some heat on the murderer. The more of such incidents, the closer we are on his heels.” “The question is, who gets whom first?’’ Ian said, throwing a grim look at his companion. He found a washcloth and stuffed it into the pipe with the help of the cane. ‘Thanks, Ian. Have a good sleep, and. .. and don’t run around in your bare feet, eh what?’’ He grinned at his companion and punctuated this with a reassuring wink.

Chapter Nine

The jeep headed out of Ludhiana on the Grand Trunk Road. A flat granite milestone marker stated that Jullunder lay fifty-one kilometers ahead. Captain Narayan sat in the back seat and stared vacantly out into the countryside, his unfocused eyes not paying attention to the passing scenery. The telephone conversation with Colonel Taranwala earlier that morning had been brief, for he was leaving shortly to attend a military conference at Ambala Cantonment. “Sorry, Prem old fellow, shan’t be here to help you. My adjutant, Lieutenant Kushwant Singh, will give every assistance. He was on the military investigation team covering Colonel Khan’s murder and is familiar, moreso than I am, with the details of the homicide.” “Don’t mention. I say, is the deceased’s widow still resident in the

area?”’ ‘““She moved to Kashmir— Srinagar— and is living with a brother there. Kushwant can give you her address.”’ ‘“‘Righto! And thanks, my good chap, do have a successful conference.” The Captain unbuttoned his bush jacket and leaned back in the seat, drawing a deep breath and exhaling with a grunt of satisfaction. The sun had not yet had time to heat the atmosphere to an insufferable temperature, so the wind blowing through the vehicle brought a modicum of comfort. He hummed softly to himself for a moment then stretched forward to tap his driver on the back. ‘Karam Das.” SVesisir. “You're carrying an automatic?” ‘Here, sir.’’ He patted a bulge below his left shoulder and then unbuttoned his coat sufficiently to reveal a holster. ‘“Accha, bahut accha— Alright, very much alright,” the Captain muttered. Turning his thoughts back to the conversation with Taranwala, Prem reflected on his proposed interview with Iqbal Khan’s widow.

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Her move to Would she cooperate, he asked himself uneasily? Srinagar was quite natural, really, for over eighty percent of the city’s investigation population was Muslim. There would be two points of of Pran in Kashmir: an interview with the widow and atrip to the site ties in Naik’s assassination. And while he was involved in these activi their the Himalayas, Ian McVey and Sardar Khan would continue . affair studies on the Akali riots, including the Guldip Singh The Delhi Express, headed south from Amritsar, rumbled past, whistling shrilly and hissing bursts of steam. It left miniature cyclones of dust in its wake as the engine gathered speed from its Jullundur stop. Must call Tara, Prem thought to himself, and arrange an interview with Janaki Kairon. Perhaps she could persuade her to come to Ludhiana. Much less likely to be noticed there than in Ferozepore. Karam Das brought the jeep to an abrupt stop behind a line of traffic held up at the railroad gates. The discomfort from the heat was accentuated by the lack of a breeze and further compounded by the rapidly accumulating fumes from the idling motors. At last the guard, in a tantalizing and leisurely manner, walked over toa hand pump and slowly raised the rails barricading the crossing. As the vehicles moved forward, Prem grunted with satisfaction. Lieutenant Kushwant Singh ran down the steps in front of the Cantonment Headquarters and saluted smartly. The two officers set off immediately to examine the site of the assassination. ‘The Colonel’s body was found at this spot, just to the side of the prayer rug.”’ The Lieutenant pointed down to an oval circle scratched out on the dirt. ‘‘We do have photographs of the body before it was removed.” ‘Jolly good!”’ Prem threw him a quick look of approval, and then surveyed the surrounding compound, a part of the quarters which had been assigned to the Iqbal Khans. The height of the wall afforded considerable seclusion and privacy. A short back verandah opened directly onto the compond. “It’s been vacant since the murder,’ Kushwant Singh volunteered, identifying the house with a wave of his hand. “Any special reason?”’ The Lieutenant shrugged. ‘“‘Nothing more than a touch of superstition.” The Captain studied his companion’s face closely and concluded that the young man was straightforward and honest. Makes my work that much easier, he thought to himself. “Please describe anything you feel was out of the ordinary in this homicide, even though it might seem quite insignificant.” Kushwant Singh hesitated and cleared his throat before replying. ‘Colonel Khan and his family were on vacation in Kashmir, when he suddenly returned by himself— a couple of days of business, he told us. There were no servants about and he took his

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meals at the Officers’ Mess. The evening of the murder, which was the day after his return to the Cantonment, two witnesses saw a person enter the Colonel’s bungalow here.” ‘A person?”’ “At a distance, complicated by the intervening shrubbery, neither witness could say whether the person was a man or a woman.”’ ‘‘Damn it!’’ Prem’s voice expressed disappointment. ‘‘A bicycle rickshaw brought the possible suspect up in front of the bungalow and then departed quite abruptly. Colonel Khan must have been expecting the visitor for he admitted him or her immediately.” ‘And you've interviewed the rickshaw walla?” The Lieutenant paused self-consciously before going on to say, “Unfortunately, we’ve been unable to find the bloke.”’ “The hell you say!’ the Captain swore quietly, slapping his swagger stick into the palm of his hand. Kushwant Singh nodded in embarrassment. “We feel bloody foolish about .. .”’ ‘‘No matter,’ Prem cut in, “‘the very fact that the blighter has disappeared may be significant.’”’ The statement quite perceptibly relieved the Lieutenant. ‘‘And when did this person reach the quarters here?” the Captain pursued his questioning. ‘Both witnesses agreed that the time of arrival was about an hour before sunset.” “Did anyone see the suspect leave?” ‘No.’ Kushwant Singh paused in thought a moment before going on. ‘Probably left after dark.” “Any signs of a struggle?”’ He shook his head. ‘‘As far as could be determined, there wasn’t

a struggle. But it seems the Colonel didn’t die immediately.” “Didn't die in surprise. raised his eyebrows Prem immediately ... what do you mean?” ‘These was a mark in the dirt just beside the prayer rug, which we feel was a conscious effort on the part of the victim after the stabbing.” “You mean the Colonel tried to leave a message?” Kushwant Singh nodded his head. ‘“‘We have photographs of the marking, which you will see at Headquarters.” “Splendid, old fellow!’’ Prem shot him an approving look. “From the evidence it appeared that the Colonel and his assassin had drinks together on the verandah.” The Lieutenant pointed at the table and chairs. “Liquor?” ‘Orange soda. The empty bottles and tumblers were left on the table.”

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‘“That’s right, as a devout Muslim Iqbal Khan would probably be a teetotaler. Fingerprints?” “Carefully wiped off. Plenty of the Colonel’s prints but no others.”’ The two men moved into the building and Prem minutely inspected the environs. The widow had removed all of their personal belongings. Most of the rooms appeared quite bare except for a few scattered pieces of furniture issued by the military. After completing their rounds of the premises, they climbed back into the jeep and drove again to the Headquarters entrance. A folding table had been set up in Colonel Taranwala’s office to display the array of documents related to the murder. The photographs were clear in detail — gruesomely clear. Prem grimaced at the enlarged close-up of the nasal mutilation. Slowly the Captain and the Lieutenant went about reconstructing the assassination. The victim must have been kneeling on the prayer rug when stabbed. Then he either rolled over on his left side or was pushed over by the killer, making the nose available for amputation. In death the body maintained a fetal position with knees flexed and thighs pulled up against the abdomen. The head was bent forward, chin resting on chest. His prayer rug had been pushed aside, away from the body. Khaki shorts were drawn high up into the crotch by the flexed attitude of the thighs. Leather-thonged sandals were still on his feet. He wore no other clothes. An inspection of the pictures showed superficial abrasions to the left knee. “Lieutenant, this... this...’ he groped for:the word, ‘“‘this fetal position of the body must have been arranged by the assassin, after the stabbing and the mutilation.’ “You mean he wouldn’t just fall over into that posture?” he asked incredulously. ‘Fell over, yes, but in the natural process of this fall and the throes of death, his body would have straightened out somewhat as he rolled onto his side.” “But why all this, I mean moving the victim after killing him?” ‘The murderer probably is a deranged person . . .”’ Prem looked grimly at the Lieutenant, ‘‘at least in some facets of his mind. In each of the three killings there is a relationship of sorts with the victim’s religious beliefs.”’ Kushwant Singh shook his head in disgust. ‘These scratches ... abrasions... on the left knee may have come from forcing the lower extremity into a position of hyperflexion.”

‘There's the marking in the dirt,”’ the Lieutenant:said, pointing

with his pencil at a wavy line on the ground between the prayer rug and the victim’s body. Asking for a magnifying glass, Prem studied the photo graph.

Damn strange marking, he thought to himself, bendi ng over again

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the

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deliberate and intelligent efforts to communicate. But what did they mean? A line with four waves or coils, symmetrical, with an enlargement at the upper end. Then, added after the other marking, a vertical line passing through the coils. Could this be an addition to the serpentine coils or perhaps a final reflex movement of the hand at the moment of death? Did it signify a snake? Certain Hindu sects worshiped Nag, the cobra deity. ‘How's this been interpreted?’’ Prem asked, pointing at a photograph of the markings. “No firm agreement. Some thought it might be Urdu script and others have seen it as a snake. An Urdu specialist from Amritsar tends to discount the script theory.” The Captain’s eyes lit up as he saw the four envelopes stacked in the center of the table. The black printing of the address was familiar. As expected, the words written on the enclosed sheets of paper were, “‘Allahu Akhbar.’’ Having brought his copy of this letter, he compared the writing and was convinced they were written by the same person. Surprisingly, the postmarks, all from Jullundur, were legible. Iqbal Khan must have received the first one some three weeks before his death and the last one was dated three days prior to the discovery of his body in the compound of his quarters. ‘‘Where were these found?’’ Prem held up the letters. ‘The first two were in the desk drawer at his office. The second two were in his bungalow, a part of the mail that had accumulated during his vacation.”’ ‘Had they been opened . . . I mean the last two?”’ “Yes;sir.” “Did the Colonel confide in anyone about the receipt of these

messages?”’ ‘He showed one to Colonel Taranwala, saying that his friend across the border was harassing again.”’ “Friend . . . harassing?”’ ‘It’s been an open secret in the cantonment for some time now that a deep hatred existed between the Colonel and his one-time close friend, Brigadier Ibrahim Hamid of the Pakistan Army, currently stationed just across the border in Lahore. They were young fellow Sandhurst-educated officers before partition, at which time their ways parted, one remaining in the Indian Army and the other throwing his allegiance to Pakistan.”’ ‘And they correspond?” Prem raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Kushwant Singh nodded his head. ‘‘Quite regularly. According to local gossip, the letters from the Brigadier contained diatribes of

accusation centered for the most part on the Colonel’s not only being unfaithful to the Muslim faith but also a traitor to the Pakistan cause.”

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‘‘But Hamid’s in Lahore and these letters are postmarked in Jullundur.”’ ‘In our opinion the chap must have an accomplice here in the Punjab.” ‘“‘You’ve compared this correspondence with some the Colonel received from the General?”’ ““Hamid’s letters have been typewritten. His signatures have been in longhand and, as you are aware, the ‘Allahu Akhbar’ messages are all printed. A bit of a sticky wicket. So far we’ve not been able to find any definite linkage.” Prem extracted a cigarette from its cloisonne case and lit it with a flourish, inhaling deeply and blowing out a cloud of smoke. For a moment he stared reflectively out the open window, then turned to ask Kushwant Singh, ‘‘How was the victim’s body transported from here to Ludhiana?”’ “By military ambulance.”’ “May I see the vehicle and the man who delivered the body?”’ The Lieutenant telephoned orders which brought the ambulance to headquarters. Prem inspected the interior of the vehicle and asked the driver, ‘You, you yourself, drove the Colonel’s body that day?” sol €S,,Sirz: “How was the corpse transported?”’ The driver looked confused. “Corpse . . . body,’’ Kushwant Singh interjected. “On stretcher, three straps are holding him.”’ ‘No clothes?” Prem pushed the questioning. “No, sir. Body covered by sheet.”’ “Strapped, you say?” “Yes, sir. Three straps, one on chest and arms, one over hips and one over knees.” He pointed out positions as he spoke. “Was the body stiff?’’ “Sorry, I not know estiff.”’ “Stiff, stiff,” the Lieutenant repeated impatiently, all the while demonstrating the words by action of his elbow. A smile of understanding broke out on the driver’s face. “Yes, yes — estiff, estiff.’’ Dismissing the attendant and his ambulance, Prem thanked Lieutenant Kushwant Singh and the two men saluted in parting.

It was just past noon when Karam Das drove out through the cantonment gate and headed south on the Grand Trunk Road toward Ludhiana. The Amritsar Mail from Delhi was slowing down for the Jullundur station, its slackening drive shafts clanging like the discordant tolling of broken bells. Prem squinted as he watch ed the passengers hanging out of the windows and doors seekin g the favor of any available breeze. He drew a quick superficial breath

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and slouched down, resting his head on the back of the seat. Closing his eyes, he reviewed the morning’s activities. Iqbal Khan and his murderer must have known each other — even been good friends. Otherwise, why the drinks and fraternization on the back verandah? Although Muslims may pray after dark, the more usual evening prayer is at sunset. This would have afforded better lighting to accomplish the technically difficult thrust of the blade. Witnesses described the entrance of the probable killer into the Khan bungalow to have taken place about an hour before sunset. The timing of the arrival would have permitted a leisurely visit prior to the assassination. Apparently the proximity of the visitor during prayers caused the Colonel no concern. There were no signs of a struggle. The fact that Iqbal Khan was alone probably was known to his guest. After the murder, the killer must have hidden in the bungalow until dark and then slipped away unobserved. The information concerning the bitter feud between the two Muslim officers had projected Ibrahim Hamid into the category of a potential suspect. Was there some sort of a connection between the Pakistani Brigadier and the two other victims? Prem wondered. Colonel Khan’s widow in Srinagar just might be able to throw some light on this matter. Lahore being just a few miles from the Indian border, Hamid would have been aware of the Akali riots, subsequent arrests and harsh sentencings. The newspapers had given wide coverage of the events, repeatedly headlining the names of the three men of authority who had been prominent in the actions. Including the Hindu and Sikh in his plans of assassination would confuse the authorities, diverting their attention from the real motive, namely to rid himself of a personal enemy whom he considered a traitor. Besides this primary objective, he might have sensed a certain poetic justice in carrying out an action that would place the burden of guilt for the three murders on the Akalis who were the major perpetrators of the 1947 partition savagery against the Muslim refugees. A passing sorrow deepened the wrinkles in Prem’s face as he reflected on the anarchy and chaos of those days. Unconsciously, his hand crept up to feel the scar which ravaged the

left side of his head. Karam Das slowed down to pass a camel caravan plodding serenely toward them. The change in pace brought Prem upright in his seat. He smiled in spite of himself, watching the ungainly animals undulate in passing, casting their disdainful and haughty looks at the jeep and its occupants. At best, the petrol-driven machine was a century old, whereas camels as beasts of burden

had plied their trade across these plains for thousands of years. ‘And what did you find out this morning?” Prem asked. ‘People in cantonment speak that the Colonel he was killed by Pakistani Brigadier in Lahore.” ‘*‘Accha. Anything else?”’

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Karam Das frowned in thought for a moment before replying, “No, nothing.”’ Prem closed his eyes again and slouched down in the seat, wrapped up in his own deliberations. What a tragedy, he thought, two fellow officers, both Sandhurst-educated, sharing the Muslim faith and yet bitter enemies. He remembered the mimeographed form every officer in the Indian Army had received in July of 1947. Each man had to indicate his choice: Service in the Indian or Pakistan Army. Hindu and Sikh officers had no problem, for Jinnah did not want them and to a man they chose India. For the Muslim officer whose home was in the territory which would remain India, the choice was often an agonizing one. To leave home, and in many cases family as well, and to give their fidelity to another land simply on the basis of being Muslims, was a heart-rending decision. The jeep braked to a quick stop by the edge of a small bridge. Karam Das grinned knowingly at the Captain and jumped out of the vehicle to scramble down an embankment and disappear into a culvert. A couple of minutes later he climbed back into the driver’s seat and drewa sigh of relief. “Too many cups of tea, Karam Das. You do feel better, eh?”’ Prem asked with a laugh. “Yes, sir.’’ he replied as he headed the car down the road. “‘It is very better,’’ he added joining in the laughter. Prem again reverted to his thoughts. Did Iqbal Khan really draw in the dirt? he asked himself. Thank God they took pictures. It would appear that the markings were the real thing. Harder to believe that they were merely accidental. Of course, someone else might have made them but this seemed unlikely ... or did it? Perhaps the killer left a clue deliberately. But if this were the case, wouldn't it have been drawn more carefully? More likely it was a deperate effort on the part of the dying victim to communicate. But what did the sketch mean? Prem sighed and sat up in his seat. Madanlal prepared a light lunch which the Captain ate by himself. Ian had not returned from his trip to Ferozepore. After a refreshing shower, Prem wrote a letter to Pritham Singh at Delhi Headquarters, outlining the status of the investigation. Teleph oning these findings would have been simpler and less _ timeconsuming, but not as safe. There was some evidence of inquisitive eyes and ears, as well as prying fingers. Having completed the correspondence, he called Kara m Das and asked that the letter be mailed at the railroad statio n Posts and Telegraphs office. Save for Ian McVey, Sardar Khan and Karam Das, Prem dared trust no one. Even after delivery into the hands of the postal services, a letter could not be considered inviolate. All communciations involving security utilized codes, the simpler cipher for the confidential material, making the dispatches unintelligible to the ordinary citizen, and a sophi sticated cryp-

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togram for the secret and more senisitve messages. In this particular letter Prem had asked Delhi to check the military records of Ibrahim Hamid and his possible relationships with the two victims, Naik and Kairon. Earlier attempts to reach Tara Sohan Lal by telephone had been unsuccessful. She had been involved in some technical medical procedure which precluded her immediate availability. Prem had left a message for her to call him at her convenience. “Oh, Tara, thanks for returning my call. Sorry to interrupt your hospital schedule, my dear.”’ “Don’t mention, no trouble atall . . . just couldn’t get away until now.”’ She sounded exuberant. “T’ve a favor to ask.”’ aYES?. “Could you help me to interview...” ‘“‘Janaki?”’ she broke in with a laugh.

“Right.”

‘““You know she’s quite a shy person, suspicious of anything to do with the police or military,’’ she said, in a subdued voice. “This I realize, but couldn’t the two of you join us here in Ludhiana tomorrow afternoon for tea?’’ ‘*Tomorrow for tea.. .’’ her voice drifted off. ‘‘Tomorrow’s Sunday, you know.”’ He waited expectantly. “Shan’t promise anything, but I'll give it a bit of a try.”’ “Splendid, my dear. And, Tara... ’’ he stopped to sneeze explosively. “Bless you!”’ She giggled. ‘‘And what were you going to say?”’ “Sorry, must be the dust. Tara, you will give me confirmation, won't you?”’ ‘Now that’s what I would call being optimistic.’’ Her musical laughter rang pleasantly in Prem’s ears.

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Chapter Ten

Pulling up from behind, a large lorry with horn blaring deliberately forced Ian McVey’s jeep across the left shoulder and down into a ditch. The Lieutenant, who was at the wheel, fighting to keep his vehicle upright, managed to brake to a lurching stop just short of crashing into a tree. For an instant, he sat and watched as two men, each carrying a club, leapt out of the lorry’s rear and dashed down the bank toward him. “Calo — let’s go!’ Ian shouted to his driver, exploding into an action which catapulted both of them out of the jeep. His next move confused the assailants, for instead of charging toward them, as they must have expected, he quickly retreated onto the flat ground and into the evening shadows under a row of roadside trees. Hesitating a moment, they took stock of the terrain before continuing their advance. Crouching as a boxer before an opponent, Ian first pushed his driver out of harm’s way, then confronted the approaching lead man, nimbly stepping aside as the cudgel missed its mark and slammed harmlessly into the ground. With lightning speed, the Lieutenant’s fist hammered down on the back of his attacker’s neck, and crumbled him into an inert heap at his feet. Withdrawing just in time to evade the swinging club of the second assailant, he landed a straight right on the tip of an unprotected chin. With a groan, the man slumped, to lie alongside his unconscious companion. Telling his driver to watch the vanquished attackers, Ian ran toward the lorry, but the person inside, who must have been watching the skirmish, quickly started the motor and roared off down the road.

&

Returning to Ludhiana at dusk, Ian retired immediately to his and quarters where he cleaned up for dinner. Dressed in a cool shirt shorts, he joined Prem in the front room for drinks. With an amused smilé playing around the corners of his eyes, the Captain followed the ritual of the preparation and lighting of Ian’s pipe. Complement

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ing this ceremony with one of his own, Prem opened his cloisonné case with deliberate precision, carefully selected a cigarette, tapped it repeatedly against the back of the closed container and lit it witha flourish of the attached lighter. Soon both men were enmeshed in a smoke screen of their own making which was slowly dispersed in the

swirling currents of air thrown down by the ceiling fan. A lamp on the far side of the room beamed subdued light accentuating the eddies of

smoke whisked about by the draft. Drinks were poured and stirred with the usual touch of formality. ‘A toast,’’ Prem broke the silence, raising his glass of gin and tonic, ‘to Joyce and Tara.”’ “Cheers,” Ian responded, holding aloft his tumbler of scotch and soda. “‘To Tara snd Joyce.” ‘You've a skinned knuckle,”’ Prem said, waving his glass toward the injured hand. Ian set his drink down and looked at the bruise, grinning self-consciously. ‘‘A bit of a fracas on the way back from Ferozepore.”’ He described the attack in modest terms. “Accha.”’ The Captain frowned and bit his lower lip. ‘‘“So meone wanted to bloody you upa bit .. . discourage you.”’ ‘The poor bastards’ll think twice before they try it again. ”’ “Good show, Ian, damned good show!”’ Prem’s eyes glinted with admiration. ‘‘A couple of goondas with clubs, and you took them apart without using your automatic. Splendid, old chap. Looks like somebody in Chandigarh is getting worried again, eh? We’d best doctor Madanlal’s next report, to make sure the message comes through loud and clear that we aren’t hot on the trail of an Akali.”’ The two men, although markedly different in their ethnic, social and religious backgrounds, held each other in deep respect. On difficult cases like this one, they worked toge ther with intuitive unde

rstanding, each complementing the efforts of the other. The focus of their endeavor in the whole enigmati c problem of crime was not in its prevention, per se, but in its solution and the apprehension of the perpetrator. Paradoxi cal as it might seem, both men were of a gentle nature, even-tempere d and not prone to overt emotional outbursts. However, in the pursuit of their duties, if the occasion should demand, each could function in the cold and mechanical manner of a depersonalized automaton. An ignorance of this potential duality had proven to be the downfall of more than one wrongdoer. Both the Captain and the Lieutenant had demonstrated unusual bravery in the line

of duty, and yet each would admit, as do most truly brave men, to experiencing gnawing pangs of fear on these critical assign

ments. Stories of their individual and joint exploits, some of them apocryphal, were circulated in police and military barracks throughout India. It was an understood axiom in thei r investigations that emotional involvements with either the vic tims or the culprits were luxuri es

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neither could risk. This had given rise to criticisms of these men — criticisms that they were callous and heartless. However, more perceptive observers interpreted these traits for what they really were, contributors to accuracy in the solution of crimes. At the same time, adherence to such rules of emotional restraint freed the investigators from numerous and sometimes hazardous pressures. They collected the facts which, as fitted pieces in a puzzle, completed a picture relating the crime and its perpetrator. Judgment and punishment were not their concern. Others carried out these particular responsibilities. ‘So, we’ve another suspect,’’ Ian observed, having listened to Prem’s report of his visit to the Jullundur cantonment. ‘“Uh-huh,”’ Prem grunted, leaning over to remove Iqbal Khan’s autopsy report from the tin trunk. For a moment he browsed through the pages and then, throwing the papers down on the table, mused aloud, ‘‘Good man, that Sharma. Damned observant, and records his findings in a most precise way.”’ “For example?” ‘Just looked over the notes describing the abrasions on the left knee. He concludes that the victim probably was in shorts.”’ ‘‘Also says something about the fetal position of the body,”’ lan interjected. Prem reached over to pick up the papers he had just laid down and checked them again. ‘Here he writes that the body must have lain on the left side after death and in a hyperflexed position.” “I say, hold that a minute. If he didn’t see the victim at the murder site, then how could he...”’ ‘Elemental, my dear Doctor Watson,’ Prem cut in with a chuckle, ‘“‘both chest cavities were full of blood, hemorrhage from the heart wound. Accha — in noncirculating or pooled blood, the cells, which are the heavier element, settle out as a darker and dependent layer, while the lighter colored plasma rises to the top. From his examination, Sharma would come to the conclusion that after death the victim lay on his left side.”’ “You mean, the blood would clot in a darker and lighter layer?” “Righto.”’ ‘Jolly clever deduction.” ‘‘As to the fetal position, I’ll have to ask the doctor some questions. The ambulance driver at the cantonment insisted that he delivered the body in a flat, supine position.”

‘With the joints of the extremities extended?”’ 6 Prem nodded. as you called it, cobra the dust, the in “Those finger tracings intrigue the hell out of me,”’ Ian said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe into the tray. ‘“As we know, certain Hindu sects worship Nag. The victim being a Muslim ...” he stopped and shook his head, then went on, ‘‘but you think this was inscribed by Iqbal Khan.”’

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“Of course it could have been placed there by the killer, or someone else for that matter, but the tracing is really quite crude and portrays the desperate efforts of a dying man. At least that’s what I think.”’ “Your assumption sounds good.’’ Ian shrugged his shoulders and smiled his approval. “In retrospect, the head of what I’ve called the cobra was distorted somewhat, but then a mortally wounded man can hardly be expected to draw well. There appeared to be a vertical line which was incomplete. I don’t think Iqbal Khan finished his drawing.”’ The large brass hand bell rang, announcing dinner. Prem and Ian moved to their seats around the table. With the servants hovering about them, serious discussions were deferred to a later time. The first course was a dish of cold yogurt rather than the usual consomme. Prem sniffed the air suspiciously as he pulled the chair up to his table setting. ‘Strange odor, eh what?”’ “Sorry, old chap, can’t smell or taste too well since I picked up this damned sore throat.” Suddenly, a flash of recognition crossed the Captain’s face. ‘‘Don't!”’ he shouted. His arm shot across the table and knocked the spoon out of the Lieutenant’s hand. “My God! Bitter almonds! Cyanide!’ Ian’s face blanched as he stooped over to smell the yogurt. ‘‘Madanlal!”” Prem’s stentorian voice resounded through the bungalow. The cook came running in from the kitchen, his face fixed in a look of astonishment. “Taste this!’” he commanded, handing him a spoon and pushing the poisoned dish toward him. “Yes sir,’ Madanlal replied in a barely audible voice. Scann ing the faces of the two officers, he slowly dipped into the food and started to raise the spoon to his lips. Again the arm flew to knock the utensil out of harm’s way. ‘Damn it, you bloody fool! Don’t you know that smell? ”” Prem pointed at the dish of yogurt. Madanlal, trembling perceptibly, leaned over and _ sniffed cautiously. His face paled, then turned a sickly green . ‘Yah mera kam nai hai, ji — this is not of my doing, sir,’’ he blurt ed out, then shuffled outdoors where he retched noisily. “The blighter’s probably right. Doubt if he had his hand in this. Almost ate the deadly stuff,’ Prem muttered. “Suddenly lost my appetite,” Ian confessed, throwing his colleague a sheepish grin. “Thanks . . . you bloody well saved my life.”’ Prem smiled and waved his hand deprecatingl y. ‘“‘We'll catch the bastard. That we’ll do, so help us!’ Then he called for an immediate assembly of Madanlal, Ranjit, Kara m Das and Ian’s driver.

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Within minutes the entire entourage gathered in the front room. ‘‘Madanlal!’’ The Captain pointed his finger at the cook. “Yes, Captain.’’ He rubbed his hands together nervously. ‘““You’re a police sergeant, yes?”’ He nodded, not trusting his his voice. “Sergeant, you bloody well know what this can do to your career in the police.” ‘‘Ha ji — Yes sir.’’ Under stress Madanlal had reverted to his native Hindustani. ‘“Accha. Now tell us the truth!”’ Although visibly flustered, the cook presented a plausible story. He admitted to his being placed in the Government Guest Bungalow by the State Police as an observer on C.I.D. activity. According to him, the yogurt had been delivered that afternoon by a milkman and then poured into small bowls to be placed in the

refrigerator. ‘‘The milkman, was he the regular one?”’ Ian asked. “No sir, not regular man,’’ Madanlal answered, looking over at Ranjit who supported the statement with vigorous nods. ‘‘A Sikh?’’ Ian pressed his questioning. The cook, again supported by nods from Ranjit, shook his head. ‘No beard and no turban.”’ ‘Would you recognize him?’’ Prem asked. “Recognize . . .”” he stopped and frowned reflectively before hurrying on, “‘yes, yes . . . his face show the smallpox.”’ Tapping his index finger over his cheeks to illustrate, he added, “You know, marks on skin.” ‘“Accha, Madanlal...’’ Captain Narayan stopped and turned the left side of his face toward the cook, who shuffled nervously on the floor. “‘And now, Sergeant, either you play on our team or I shan’t hesitate to damn your career to hell. understand?” Prem spoke in a low voice as cold as ice.

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Not daring to trust a vocal reply, Sergeant Madanlal nodded. ‘‘Being on our team implies a hell of a lot. Oh, you can keep on sending your ruddy reports to Chandigarh, but either Lieutenant McVey or I see them first, eh?’’ Prem punctured the statement with a forceful stab of his finger in the Sergeant’s direction. ‘‘Accha ji, accha,”’ he responded with enthusiasm. ‘“‘And from time to time, at our choosing, you will taste the food you serve us — taste it in our presence. You'll taste it right here!”’ Prem banged the table with his fist, his voice as cutting as the sharp edge of cold steel. After a pause he dismissed the men with a wave. A chastened and subdued Madanlal, followed by the other three,

trailed out of the room. “Ian, be a good chap, will you, and pull Sardar Khan back here from Chandigarh. I'd like to have him follow through on this yogurt business.”

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‘‘Righto. I’ll send my jeep over for him early in the morning.” ‘Better call Baldev Singh and clue him in on what happened here tonight,”’ Prem said, stepping toward his room. Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, he added, ‘‘Ian, keep an eye on the other phone, would you? I’d rather not have an intruder.’’ “Baldev, Kirpan Singh here.”’ Prem used the pseudonym

suggested. There was a slight pause at the other end of the line while the Ferozepore Police Chief recollected their agreed-upon anonymity.

“Sorry, old fellow, just jogging my memory. I’m alone so speak freely.” “Someone tried to poison my colleague and me tonight... cyanide in our food.” “The hell you say!’ Baldev swore into the phone and hurried on, “you're both alright?’’ “Yes, we’re fine. Neither of us took a bite. We smelled the damn stuff. It was a close call. Too ruddy close.”” Prem went on to describe the incident. ‘Any idea at all as to who the bastard was?” “From our interrogation I think we’ve pretty well cleared Madanlal and Ranjit. They described a substitute milkman who delivered the yogurt.”’ “Did the bugger’s face show pox marks?” “Yes. The cook said so.” There was a pause on the Ferozepore end of the line. Prem could hear Baldev breathing heavily and muttering unintelligible words. Finally the Sikh spoke. ‘‘Prem, that’s the bloody goonda my men have been watching.”’ ‘Tell me something about the bloke, would you?”’ “A thoroughly rotten chap, do anything for a rupee ... even murder. Unfortunately for us the bastard has friends in high places who protect him. I’ve been suspicious of blackmail.”’ “You can’t pull him in?” “I’m not afraid to if you'll supply me with some pakka evidence.”’ “We're going to have some lab trests on the yogur t.” “But Prem.cius “I know, Baldev, I know,” Prem broke in, “‘that still doesn’t prove the blighter put it in the food, right?”’ “Exactly.”’ “By the way, what’s his name?” “Bagh Das. And for God’s sake tighten your security! That swine’ll be at your throat again.”’ “Is he bright? I mean can he think?” ‘‘No to both your questions. He’s just a hit man. He’s in the pay of someone who wants you done in!”’ ‘Wish I knew who that ruddy someone is,” Prem said quietly,

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and then went on to ask, ‘‘Baldev, you’re sure you don’t know who the someone is?”’ ‘Before God I do not!”’ “Funny thing, Baldev, but I’m glad you don’t know.”’ ‘“‘We’ll tighten security on Bagh Das and, Prem, be a good fellow and keep me informed, eh?” ‘“‘Rather!’’ Prem exclaimed, then dropped his voice to ask, ‘you'll reciprocate, I hope.’’ ‘Damned right I’ll reciprocate,”’ he retorted. ‘Thanks, Baldev, and cheerio.’’ Prem paused a moment and added, ‘‘Sat Sri Akal.” ‘Sat Sri Akal,’ Baldev answered quietly.

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8

Chapter Eleven

Prem Narayan found his colleague out on the verandah leaning against the rail. The bowl of his pipe glowed eerily in the dark as he drew on it. Both men stood in silence listening to the night breeze rustle the leaves of the neem tree. In the fields somewhere to the north, two jackals howled, duet and solo, a contrapuntal rendition best described as the hysterical cackling of a demented soul. ‘Baldev identified the milkman as Bagh Das, a bit of a disreputable person,’’ Prem opened the conversation. “Bagh Das, eh?”’ “The goonda his police have been watching.” “T’ve heard that name before. Seems he’s some sort of an influence peddler.’’Ian paused and thought a minute before adding, “Bet Sardar Khan knows something about the bugger.”’ “Baldev urges us to increase our security. Feels the bloke will strike again shortly.” ‘“‘He’s probably a hit man working for someone.”’ Prem nodded soberly. ‘‘Baldev thinks so.”’ ‘We must be getting on target.’’ Ian drew on his pipe deeply. Out there somewhere someone’s getting worried . . . worried enough to try to eliminate us.”’ ‘‘A backhanded compliment to our efforts.” Ian chuckled. “‘Not the kind of compliment I particularly enjoy.”

The two men moved indoors to the front room and arranged their chairs under the fan. ‘‘How was Ferozepore?’’ Prem asked, lighting a cigarette. “Not bad. A bit of all right, I’d say. Baldev was most cooperative. Assigned one of his staff to show me around.’ ‘““Good chap, Baldev. He’s on our side.”’ ‘“‘Naik’s widow

wasn’t

much

help. Seems

her late husband

shared few confidences with her. She’s his second wife . . . the first was killed in some sort of an auto accident. Knew nothing of the ‘Ram Ram’ letters.”’

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“Is she telling the truth?” Ian frowned and pursed his lips firmly. “‘Yes . . . yes, Ithink she’s telling the truth.” ‘‘Damn it!’ Prem swore softly to himself. ‘‘I’d hoped we could get important information from that woman.”’ ‘Actually the interview wasn’t a total loss. I learned that her husband had been nervous and irritable for at least a couple of weeks before his death. This would cover the period of the letters. Also, she confided that the intruder who caused the commotion in their compound before Naik left for Kashmir was a member of the Guldip Singh family.’ “Strange that Baldev said nothing about this to me.”’ ‘Probably slipped his mind.” ‘Did she give any reasons for the intruder’s action?”’ Ian nodded. ‘‘Revenge.”’ ‘For his kinsman’s death?” Again Ian nodded. ‘“‘Accha. Seems we've picked up another suspect. This chap or some other member of the family.”’ ‘As to Kishan Singh’s murder, I’ve unearthed a pakka witness.”’ Prem’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘‘To the actual murder?” ‘““No.”’ Ian shook his head. “What the hell. . .”” Prem groaned. “Sorry, old fellow...” ‘No matter,” he cut in with an apologetic wave of his hand, ‘please go on.” Ian paused to relight his pipe. ‘“The gurdwara sits ina small green oasis watered by a well, about a kilometer from the easter edge of Ferozepore. Some years ago a relative of the Kairon family migrated to Africa and as a trader became quite wealthy. This was the money that built and now maintains the gurdwara. A road of sorts, elevated a couple of feet above the surrounding fields, gives access to the Sikh center. Not much of a road — more of a footpath. It was the day watchman, on his way to work, who found the body of Kishan Singh. This was the man whom the police questioned. In checking the investigation file, 1 found no mention of the night chowkidar.” ““Strange.”’ Prem raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Quite strange, really. Decided not to raise the question with the police lest I embarrass the chaps.”’ “Good thinking.”’ “Well, I found the night man asleep at home. Quite eager to talk.” “Splendid!”’

‘According

to the chowkidar,

around

dusk

Kishan

Singh

walked up the path to the gurdwara and, after greeting our witness, entered the building to worship, something he did quite frequently.”’

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“This, according to the night man, happened on the evening of seven May?” Ian nodded. ‘‘Some ten minutes later, after worshiping, the victim emerged from the building and started down the path back toward town. Just as he appeared to be fading into the darkness, someone met him and the two stopped to talk.”’ “Identification of any kind — size, voice or anything like that?” “Very little, really . . . ’’ He stopped and drew on his pipe reflectively, then went on: “‘The chowkidar couldn’t even tell whether the stranger was a man or a woman.”’ “Too bad, too bad,’’ Prem muttered under his breath. “On questioning I did pick up the fact that the intruder was shorter than Kishan Singh and carried something in his or her hand —a short cane or a long torch .. .”’ ‘Possibly a swagger stick,’’ Prem broke in. ‘Could have been.”’ ““Accha. And then?”’ ‘The two chaps talked, in low tones at first, and then in raised and angry voices.” ‘Then the chowkidar did hear the stranger’s voice?” “Uh-huh. But he couldn’t say whether it was the voice of a man or woman.” “They spoke in English?” “In English.”’ Ian tapped out the ashes of his pipe bow] into the tray. ‘“The chowkidar, a retired army sergeant, did pick up a couple of words. Several times he heard the stranger shout out ‘atrocities’ and then there was the phrase ‘Punjab boundary’ to which he thought the word ‘horse’ was added. Finally, my informant stated there was mention of a ‘mission’.”’ “But, Ian, these . . these aren’t simple English words . . .’’Prem stopped and stared at his colleague. “Quite right, and the same question crossed my mind. But the blighter stuck to his guns, and I must say he spoke damn good English.” “Accha. And then?” “The excitement subsided as quickly as it had begun and the chowkidar watched the two shadowy forms disappear together down the path toward Ferozepore.”’ “That’s it?” “Yes. And I think the informant chap can be trusted as far as the accuracy of his testimony is concerned.”’ Prem smoked in silence, his face puckered in a puzzled frown. Suddenly he turned to face his companion. ‘‘That’s it — ‘Punjab Boundary Force.’ Not ‘horse’ but ‘force.’ And I’ll bet the bloke heard the word ‘commission’ not ‘mission.’ So the intruder was saying something about the ‘Boundary Commission.’ Now we've got to figure out how in the hell all this ties into the assassinations.”

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Prem’s voice was charged with excitement. “Well, as a starter, the Boundary Commission most certainly would fit into the Akali riots. That’s what the whole Ferozepore ruckus was about.”’ “Quite right . . .”" Prem stopped to select another cigarette and light it, ‘and as you know, the Boundary Commission was referred to in these parts as the Punjab Boundary Commission, because the really sticky decisions were in Kashmir and the Punjab. Poor Radcliffe, the Commission chairman, had few friends in those days. Was offered fabulous sums of money to move the boundary a mile or two one way or the other, just to include a village either in India or Pakistan. Solid bloke, that chap Radcliffe — an unusual British civil servant!’ “Righto. Then, let’s say we’ve established a reasonable connection between the conversation that night and the Ferozepore riots.”’ “Agreed. Through the references to Boundary Commission as well as atrocities.” ‘‘And what of the Boundary Force?’’ Ian asked. “This force was established by Mountbatten just prior to partition. It was a special military organization whose ethnic composition would prevent its members from becoming involved in the communal upheavals along the international border. Primary function was to prevent pillaging and the slaughter of refugees.”’ “I was a kid in school during the partition upheaval. Attended Woodstock in Landour, up in the Himalayas. My first year away from home in boarding. Vivid memories of burning buildings and wild stories of plunder and murder. Quite traumatic for an impressionable kid of seven . . .”” his voice drifted away. The two men smoked in silence for several minutes, each drawn into his own particular train of thought. “Getting back to the Boundary Force,”’ Prem broke in, “I knewa young Britisher, in his twenties, who commanded a battalion. Name of Atkins, Bob Atkins. His outfit, mostly Gurkhas, crossed over into Lahore trying to control the bloody holocaust and...’ he broke into a fit of coughing. lan chewed thoughtfully on the stem of his pipe for a moment before asking, ‘“‘And what happened?” Prem cleared his throat and continued, ‘‘About all they could do was to watch the rioters destroy their city and each other. Later Bob Atkins and his Gurkhas escorted refugee columns back and forth across the border, taking the Hindus and Sikhs into India and the Muslims into Pakistan. The forty-mile route between Amritsar and Lahore, along which the two-way migration moved, reeled with the stench of death. The dead and the dying littered the sides of the Grand Trunk Road, human carrion to be scavenged by dogs and vultures during the day and jackals by night. Often the vultures became so bloated on human flesh they could hardly fly.”’

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117

The ring of the telephone startled both men. Ian stepped to the instrument. ‘“‘McVey here,”’ he announced briskly. It was Doctor Sohan Lal. He called Prem over and then left the room. “Hello, Tara. Thanks, my dear, for calling back so soon.” His voice softened as he spoke. ‘Janaki agreed to come over with me tomorrow afternoon. I just returned from her place. She's still a bit reticent, but I assured her you would be kind.”’ . “That's a bit of all right. Shall I send my driver over to pick the two of you up?”’ “Oh no, that’s an unnecessary botheration. I’ll drive my car Over.”’ ‘Tara,’ he began worriedly, ‘‘do be careful.” “Something’s happened?”’ she asked quickly. ‘“We've reason to believe the assassin’s quite aware of our mission and identity,’’ Prem dropped his voice. “It’s that bad, is it?’’ her words sounded sad. “Just hope our association doesn’t pull you into this bloody mess.”’ “Prem, must you really pursue this... this... .’’ she searched for a word, “‘this mad business?”’ He could hear her breathing heavily at the other end of the line. “Tara, please don’t ask the impossible. I'm committed and can’t drop it until the killer’s found.” “Then, if you must, you will be careful?’’ There was a touch of petulance in the tone of her voice. “Shan’t do anything foolish, I promise.” “I lost you once and I...’’ she stopped suddenly and Prem could hear her crying. “There, there, my Tara. Don’t cross bridges before you reach them.’’ There was a tenderness in his words that had been foreign to him for many years. “Goodnight, Prem.’’ He could barely make out her farewell. Leaving his quarters, Prem crossed through the front room and knocked on his colleague’s door. “Give it a push, it’s open,” Ian called out. The two men sat down to continue the discussions interrupted by the Ferozepore telephone call. ‘““Tara’s persuaded Kairon’s widow to come here tomorrow.”’ “Splendid!” We just may get some crucial information out of her,’’ Ian said hopefully. Prem scratched his head and asked, ‘‘Wkere were we on the Kishan Singh discussion?” “The Punjab Boundary Commission. Remember we’d agreed that it tied in with the Akali disputes at Ferozepore?”’ “‘Accha. Kahte jao — All right. Keep on talking,’’ Prem urged. ‘‘Presuming the person who met Kishan Singh on the gurdwara

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grounds that evening actually was his assassin, we do have a possible connection between the murder and the Akali riots.” “Agreed.” ‘‘Next we come to the word ‘atrocities.’ The intruder that night could have been referring to the brutalities allegedly carried out by the soldiers under the direction of Iqbal Khan or, and just as applicable, to the carnage of the partition days. If the former, then we have another linkage between the triple murders and the Ferozepore disturbance.”’ “And if the latter?”’ ‘‘We’ve known that the three victims have had something to do, officially, that is, with the troubled partition days. Such an association might well be the common factor between them and...” anges ‘Rather than the Akali rjots,’’ Prem interrupted. “Quite so.”’ “Certainly this last is a lead we’re committed to explore.”’ “The other statement of the gurdwara intruder on that evening we've reconstructed as being ‘Punjab Boundary Force’.’’ Ian stopped and drew on his pipe, staring thoughtfully at Prem. “And?” “Tll defer to you on that matter, Prem. You’re much more familiar than I am with the organization.” ‘“‘Accha,” he began, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, “they had a bugger of a task, the Boundary Force. Did their damnedest — let me rephrase that — did a herculean job with totally inadequate manpower. This force was about all that stood between any semblance of order and total anarchy. They faced a steady flow of desperate pleas for help and heard constant accounts of besieged refugees decimated by vicious communal clashes along the migration routes. The Emergency Committee in Delhi collected data and tried to keep this force informed on points of potential and existing difficulty. What a hell of a situation...’ Prem drew in a deep breath. Ian listened soberly to the account, then reflected aloud, ‘‘Know a Muslim chap in Chandigarh whose family was murdered — all six of them — along the Grand Trunk Road on the bank of the Beas River near Jullundur. He blames the Delhi authorities with a vicious hatred.”’ ‘‘That’s a much repeated story.” “But, Prem, those partition days were quite some time ago. Isn’t this, these triple murders, a bit late?” “A grudge of long-standing could burst into flames again under the stimulus of a situation like the riots in Ferozepore.”’ “Getting back to Kishan Singh Kairon, his body was found in the muddy irrigation ditch beside the path, about halfway between the gurdwara and the edge of town.” Ian paused to reach for a glass

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of water and take a drink. Then, clearing his throat, he continued, “So the victim, after the mortal wound, must have rolled off the path down into the ditch, landing on his back. The autopsy report described caked mud over the occiput.”’ “Next, the assassin would step into the ditch to carry out the nasal mutilation and, after placing the amputated specimen in the mouth, would position the arms behind the neck to flex the head forward .. .’’ Prem stopped and shook his head in disgust. ‘‘Now we look for some chap who, on the evening of seven May, walked about Ferozepore with muddied shoes,” Ian said dryly. “I say, did the police report mention footprints at the murder site?”’ “Merely noted unidentifiable footprints.”’

A knocking on the door broke into their conversation. Kaun hai?” Prem called out. ‘““Madanlal, ji,’’ the cook replied. “Come in, Sergeant,’’ Ian ordered. The door opened slowly and Madanlal thrust a folded piece of paper forward. ‘‘My report to police, sir.” Seeing the note was in Hindustani, Ian passed it to Prem, who read it aloud. The message contained the routine goings and com-

ings of the Guest Bungalow residents. “All right, I'll take this,’’ Prem addressed the Sergeant curtly and waved him out of the room. Ian stood and stretch his arms, with a loud yawn. ‘‘The case’s beginning to take on some shape,” he said. His voice sounded tired. “Let’s sleep over the matter, what say?’’ Prem pushed himself up out of his chair. “Tll be sending my jeep to Chandigarh first thing in the morn-

ing. Yogurt going to the crime lab and Sardar Khan coming back here.”’ “Sunday tomorrow . . . won’t the lab be closed?” ‘“‘No matter, my driver knows the technician and he’ll have it in the fridge right away.”’ “Righto. See you at breakfast. Goodnight.’’ Prem threw Ian an informal salute and walked across to his own quarters. He undressed and stretched out on his bed. Even the thin bedsheet felt uncomfortably warm and heavy, so he flung it aside to enjoy the waves of air pushed down by the fan overhead. He had just reached a stage of comfortable relaxation when Ian knocked and stuck his head inside. ‘Prem, be sure to check out security ... I mean the doors and windows.” “Thanks, old fellow. I’ll batten down the hatches before turning in.’’ He smoked his nightcap cigarette down to a stub and then reached for the ashtray to grind out the last sparks. Making the

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rounds of his bedroom and bathroom, Prem bolted all actual and potential entrances, turned out the light and lay down again on his bed. Except for the crickets and the squeak of the ceiling fan, the room was quiet. He sought to clear his mind for sleep, but failed. Details, like bees about a honeycomb, buzzed inside his head. How many of these details, he wondered, would ever mature into relevant facts or clues? The successful detective, he thought, is not so much a highly intelligent person, as he is one who meticulously, and often tediously, hunts for facts, facts which in turn usually point to an embarrasingly obvious solution. Gradually, the mental activity slowed and soon a third sound was added to the background noise of the room — the deep and rhythmic breathing of a man asleep.

Chapter Twelve

A disturbing dream interrupted Prem Narayan’s slumber sufficiently to provoke him into restless movement. Caught in that nebulous borderland between the sensate and the insensate, he struggled to gain full consciousness, prodded on by foreign and unnatural sounds. Finally, breaking through into an awareness of his environment, his body immediately froze into a state of controlled restraint, while his mind, now fully alert, prepared for survival emergency. He had been lying on his side when he awoke and, in order to position himself more advantageously, he rolled onto his back, all the while snoring softly to simulate sleep. During the move he carefully retrieved his automatic from under the pillow. Tuning his senses to their finest precison, he lay in wait. The soft light of a half moon flowed through the window, vaguely outlining objects within the room. Outside, in the distance, a shunting engine puffed, whistled and clattered about in the railroad yard. The peculiar sound stopped, just for a moment, and the cyclic grinding and squeaking of the overhead fan furnished the only background against which he could measure variations in room noises. He guardedly brought the gun forward and held it just under the edge of the sheet, over his chest, keeping it covered lest the moonlight reflect off its steel barrel. Quietly he released the safety latch. The sudden high-pitched, rasping song of a cricket sent his pulse racing. Then came the sound again, followed almost immediately by a tense silence. Prem felt his throat tighten painfully. He held his breath and opened his mouth, priming both ears to a high level of sensitivity. There ... it came again .. the soft rasping which had roused him. He strained every nerve to try to identify the souree. Ah, he thought to himself, I know, I know. It’s the door, the almirah door. Someone’s opening it. It’s the noise of wood rubbing against wood. He felt relieved. The damned intruder must’ve been hiding in the almirah. Thank God, the ruddy noise woke me. He probably slipped into the quarters through the bathroom while I was with Ian. What a paradox

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— the two of us locked in here together. Bloody bastard’s been waiting for me to fall asleeep. Prem’s mind worked rapidly, coolly and efficiently, exploring a variety of potential actions. The sound stopped for over a minute. Then a vague human form stole slowly toward the bed. Prem heard no footsteps and concluded the intruder was approaching in his bare feet. Midway across the room he came to a halt and stood motionless. Could he have paused to aim a gun? There had been no faint click of a safety being released. More likely he carried a knife. With a knife he could complete his mission of death and escape without attracting attention. At this critical point, Prem gambled — gambled desperately — and decided to wait and let the assassin come closer. This would offer a more certain target.

The person was moving forward again, more stealthily than before. At that stage the intruder made a crucial error. He shifted toa position in front of the window. Prem had been right .. . there was

the evidence in silhouette, a clutched dagger. Quickly but noiselessly covering the killer with his gun, he asked coolly, ‘““Kaun hai — Who is it?”’ For a fraction of a second the person froze, neither moving nor answering the question. Then witha throaty grunt he rushed toward his intended victim. The sharp crack of the automatic reverberated loudly in the confines of the room. The man appeared to hesitate and then crumpled, his momentum carrying him forward to fall across the foot of the bed. For a moment his body draped over the footrail and then slid down onto the floor, the head striking the cement witha sickening thud. Prem jumped up, gun in hand, and stepped over to the wall, turning on the light. Assured that his attacker was dead, he draped himself in a sheet and unbolted the door into the living room. A naked Ian McVey almost fell into his arms, an automatic in one hand and his shorts in the other. “Thank God!” he exploded on seeing Prem, and then, pointing at the victim at the foot of the bed, asked in a quieter voice, ‘‘Who in the devil is that?’ Prem shook his head. ‘‘Don’t know, but the bloody fool just tried to do me in.” Both men moved across the room for a closer look at the body. “Well I'll be damned!” Ian exclaimed, ‘‘pock marks. Look at those pock marks.”’ _ “The yogurt walla,” Prem muttered, kneeling to get a better view. ““Madanlal and Ranjit should be able to identify the bloke.”’ “Talking about the servants, we’d better get something on before they all arrive,’ Ian suggested, stepping into his shorts. Almost immediately, four men crowded about the door trying to look into the bedroom: Karam Das, Madanlal, Ranjit and Ian’s driver.

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‘Who is he?” Prem asked, nodding toward the dead man. The men, taking the question as an invitation to enter, moved forward and crowded around the victim. “That is it... the milkman,’’ Madanlal announced. “‘You see the smallpox.”’ “Yogurt walla,’’ Ranjit chimed in. Captain Narayan waved the men back and ordered, ‘‘Leave the body as is until the police arrive in the morning.” “The knife,” Ian said, pointing at the weapon still held firmly in the victim’s fist, “‘not the triple murder weapon.” Prem nodded in agreement. “‘It’s a dagger really. Too short and wide-bladed to be the one used by the killer.”’ “Tl notify the police first thing in the morning,”’ Jan volunteered, “‘no need to have the blighters running around here all night.” “Sardar Kahn’ll have a bit more to go on now.”’ Prem waved toward the body. “Better get him here early, before the evidence is moved about by the local police.”’ “My driver can leave now. He'll take the yogurt sample and fetch the Sergeant Major.”’ “But, I say, Ian! It’s midnight, man.”’ “No matter. I'll alert him on the phone. He’ll be ready by the time the jeep gets there. With him here no clues will be destroyed or lost . . . deliberately or inadvertently.” The two officers studied the room carefully, trying to retrace the intruder’s invasion of Prem’s quarters. They found his sandals on the floor in the almirah. “Mind if I share your quarters for the rest of the night?’’ Prem asked, half smiling. “Certainly. I'll lock this room up tight. Don’t want anyone meddling with the corpse.”’ “Ranjit,’’ Prem called the bearer, ‘“‘make up the other bed in Lieutenant McVey’s room. Jaldi karo — Do it quickly.”’ Ian was stirring about getting his driver off to Chandigarh as Prem stretched out on his newly made bed. He lit a cigarette and smoked quietly. Years of experience in tracking criminals had developed an ability to self-induce a level of sleep easily penetrated by any unusual sensory stimulations. Tonight, this sixth sense had saved his life. His would-be killer had expected to slip up on his victim and dispatch him quietly, then flee unnoticed. ‘Must be getting old,’’ he muttered out loud. ‘‘Damned foolish of me not to have bolted the bathroom door before I crossed over ‘to Ian’s room.’’ He drew in a breath and sighed out loud. The remainder of the night passed uneventfully and quickly — far too quickly for the residents of the Guest Bungalow. Dawn was breaking when the jeep noisily churned up the gravel driveway. A stifling and breezeless night, fraught with the tensions of violent

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death, was coming toa close. Prem sat up in bed and listened to the unintelligible sound of voices in the front compound as the vehicle’s occupants disembarked. Sardar Khan’s here, he thought with relief. Now we can turn the matter of Bagh Das over to him. Must call Baldev Singh and tell him of last night’s escapade. Madanlal had prepared an early breakfast — chota hazri, he called it. The three men sat down in the dining room, eating in silence. Sardar Kahn had spent some time already with lan, getting the yogurt story. He also had inspected the corpse and the environs. “Captain, you are fortunate,”’ the Sergeant Major began witha sober look. ‘‘That ruddy bloke could have killed you.” Prem laughed self-consciously. ‘“You’re damned right, Sardar Khan. That was a close call.”’ “Lieutenant McVey says you wish me to investigate the matter.”’ ‘Right you are, and I say, by any chance did you recognize the chap?” Prem threw him a questioning look. He took a noisy sip of coffee before replying. ‘‘Can’t say that I did, but the blighter does fit the description of a goonda who’s been giving the Punjab police plenty of trouble.” ‘Would the goonda’s name by any chance be Bagh Das?” Sardar Khan raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes. But how did you know this?”’ Prem laughed and shrugged his shoulders without answering the question. The telephone rang and Ian took the call. He waved Prem over and whispered, ‘‘Baldev Singh and he asked for Kirpan Singh.”’ “Glad you called, Baldev. I was just going to contact you abouta matter that...” “IT know, I know,”’ He broke in quickly. ‘“‘My man in Ludhiana just called me about it.”’ “Then it was Bagh Das?”’ ‘Uh-huh. And you're all right? He didn’t get to you?”’ “Close call, but I got him first.”’ “Thank God for that! Justice finally caught up with that miserable criminal. The bloody bastard got what he deserves.”’ Baldev’s voice was bitter. ‘I say, will this make any difference in the investigation?’’ “‘Not sure I know what you mean, old fellow.”’ “With his connections in high places and so on, might we be working under greater pressures from above?” There was silence at the other end of the line for a few seconds. “Hard to say, could be more difficult for you.” “Well, thanks my friend, and Sat Sri Akal.”’ “Sat Sri Akal,” the greeting was echoed back over the telephone lines as Baldev hung up.

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Prem rejoined his two colleagues at the breakfast table. Pushing the dish of toast aside, he refilled his cup of coffee. “Tan, you’ve notified the local police?’’ Ian nodded, pausing to wash down a mouthful of poached egg with a swallow of coffee. ‘“Should be here very shortly.”’ ‘About the phone call... Captain Baldev Singh knows of last night’s shooting.’’ Prem scanned the faces of the two men before going on, ‘Identified the victim as Bagh Das and seems relieved by the turn of events.’’ ‘““Baldev’s detective, the one assigned to tail the blighter, showed up early this morning. Karam Das knows the chap, so, with my approval, he checked the corpse,”’ Ian said. “A real goonda, that man,’ Sardar Khan observed quietly. “Besides being a murderer, he has a record of repeated robberies. The bloke’s a drug addict. Needed money to buy the stuff.”’ A vehicle drove into the compound and pulled up in front of the verandah. Two somber members of the Ludhiana Police Department were admitted by Madanlal. After introductions, they were shown into the bedroom where the body lay under a sheet. Sardar Kahn, with his precise military bearing, was very much in evidence throughout the investigative procedures. Later, Captain Narayan gave his deposition on the shooting. In the absence of Doctor Sharma, on vacation, the body was driven to Chandigarh for the autopsy.

With the departure of the local police, the three gathered in the front room to finish their coffee. ‘Captain, you have lived up to your reputation,”’ the Sergeant Major confided, his eyes flashing a look of admiration. ‘Really? How do you mean?”’ “The accuracy of your aim sir.”’ “Oh, that.’’ Prem muttered with an embarrassed laugh. “Through the heart, and in the dark, sir.” “There was some moonlight, you know, and the bloke really was quite close. In fact, too damned close.”’ Sardar Khan chuckled, ‘‘Anyway, the police were impressed.”’ “Think I’ll relax for an hour or so.’’ Prem stood and stretched, then walked back to the kitchen where the two servants were cleaning up. ‘‘Ranjit, sweeper-ko bolao aur mera kamra safa karo — call the sweeper and clean my room,” he charged the bearer. While this was being done, he stepped out onto the verandah and surveyed the compound. It would not have been difficult for a man of the assailant’s size and apparent muscular build te’scale the wall at almost any point. There were several places where adjacent neem trees would have shaded the intruder from the moonlight, and thus hidden him from the gurkha. He squinted through eyes almost closed against the glare of the sun and watched the heat waves rise shimmering from the baked earth. Tara will be coming this after-

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him feel excited noon, he reflected happily, and the thought made deep inside. Ranjit “Apka kamra taiyar hai, ji — Your room is ready, sir,” announced, coming out onto the verandah. room Thanking the bearer, Prem stepped back into the front some Carand walked into his quarters. There was a strong odor of a faint bolic solution used by the sweeper to cleanse the floor. Also in the nt prese smell of burnt cordite from the expended bullet was d room. He opened the window, protected by metal bars, and bolte lay he the bathroom door. Sliding his bed to the center of the floor, down on his back and watched the slowly revolving overhead fan. The hypnotic effect of the blades rotating, as well as the waves of air pushed down onto his body, soon lulled him to sleep. He dreamed of Tara.

Janaki Kairon rhythmically waved a fan with her left hand and balanced a teacup in the other. A shy woman in her late forties, she talked softly, almost apologetically. She spoke English with an accent strongly influenced by her native Punjabi dialect. It was evident immediately that she looked to Doctor Sohan Lal for support in this encounter with the two officers. Both ladies were dressed in salwar and kamiz, much cooler than the clinging sari. The four sat in the front room about a small table decorated with a bouquet of bright yellow marigolds. The floral centerpiece was surround by everything necessary for an afternoon tea. Having set up the provisions.for the party, Madanlal and Ranjit left quietly. The noise of rattling pots and pans in the kitchen identified their whereabouts. Smiling amiably at the ladies, Prem directed his conversation to the matter at hand. ‘‘Thank you for accepting our invitation,”’ he said, looking from one guest to the other. ‘‘And in such beastly hot weather,’ Ian added, shaking his head. Tara sighed, ‘“‘Need the monsoon.” “Not long now. Just a fortnight or so at the most .. .”” Janaki’s voice trailed off into silence. “Our questions this afternoon may not be particularly pleasant, Mrs. Kairon, but please believe me, we’re committed to finding your husband’s murderer,’’ Prem addressed the widow in a quiet voice. - “Doctor Sohan Lal has convinced me that you want to help, otherwise I shouldn’t have come, Captain Narayan.” Prem shot a grateful look at Tara, and continued, ‘We do appreciate your confidence, madam, and I feel you’ll have no cause

to regret meeting with us.” Janaki cast shy glances at the two men as if wanting to make a statement.

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‘““Yes?’’ Prem nodded encouragingly. “Perhaps, before your questions, I might give a_ brief background of our lives, Kishan’s and mine?”’ ‘“‘Accha, by all means.’’ Prem waved her on. The widow put down her teacup on the table and transferred the fan to her right hand. Before speaking, she looked to Tara for moral support and smiled her appreciation as the Doctor returned a reassuring glance. ‘““We were married in Delhi... it was the year of India’s partition,’’ She started in a voice so low that all three listeners leaned forward to catch her words. *‘As you know, during those days Delhi was torn apart emotionally and physically. Kishan’s family home was in what is now Pakistan. His folks still lived on their farm on the outskirts of Lahore. He was deeply concerned over their safety and frequently urged them to join us in Delhi.They were well-to-do farmers and quite reluctant to lose their holdings, so they procrastinated until the waves of rioting and looting engulfed them. Not a single member of the family survived.’’ She paused to wipe her eyes. Tara gently patted her arm. Janaki sniffed several times and continued, ‘‘Kishan worked long hours... some sort of a Central Government committee related to the migration of displaced persons. There were times when he would be away from our apartment for a couple of days at a time, working, eating and sleeping in his office at the Government House. With all the killings during those times, I was terrified and cried myself to sleep many nights. Finally pressures eased and in the summer of 1948 he was posted to the court in Patiala where we lived until his appointment as judge in Ambala. Then about eight years ago he was assigned to the Punjab State Supreme Court in Chandigarh. Since Kishan’s death I’ve been living with my family in Ferozepore.”’ Janaki stopped and timidly surveyed her audience. ‘Very good, Mrs. Kairon. Very good, ’’ Prem repeated in a soothing voice, trying to keep the widow at ease. “A splendid summary,’’ he nodded pleasantly at her. ‘“‘Now for a few questions. Should we upset you at any time, don’t hesitate to interrupt us.” Janaki Kairon nodded soberly. Tara Sohan Lal stood and refilled the teacups, following this with cream and sugar. The two men casually prepared their smokes. “Mrs. Kairon,’’ Ian opened the interrogation, ‘‘this . . . this committee Kishan served on, do you by any chance remember what it was called?”’ She hesitated in thought, fixing her eyes on her folded hands. ‘No matter. I just thought perhaps...” “TI really can’t remember,” she interrupted Ian. He “But you did say they worked in government House? pressed his questioning. “Yes, yes, in Government House... ’’ she paused, and bit her

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lower lip nervously, ‘‘and they collected information which was passed on to Lord Mountbatten, Nehru and Patel.” Prem held up his hand for attention. ‘“That must have been the Cabinet Emergency Committee. Your late husband probably wasa staff assistant to its members. It, that is the committee, was organized early in September of 1947 under the guidance of the three men you just mentioned.”’ “Actually, Kishan told me very little about his duties. I just picked up bits of conversation and from these gathered that he was involved in collecting and sifting data on refugee migrations.” “Data such as?” Prem squinted at Janaki through a haze of cigarette smoke. “Oh, suchas... let mesee . . . I remember Kishan’s bemoaning atrocities done to the refugees, his lament made all the more significant by the loss of his family — mother, father and two younger sisters.’’ She sniffled and wiped her eyes. *“‘He made charts, registering the movements of the refugees, numbers and locations along the Grand Trunk Road. They tried to keep some estimate of the numbers moving by train. Of course, this was a very rough figure. People were crammed into the carriages and rode on the roof and outside as well.’’ She stopped and tearfully surveyed her audience. ‘Yes. Terrible times . . . please do go on,’’ Prem urged gently. Again she looked to Tara for encouragement and received a friendly nod of approval. Clearing her throat, she continued. ‘‘This information was used for the . . . for the . . .’’ she sought the proper word, “‘dispatch of troops to places where there were riots.” “Mrs. Kairon, did your husband, or for that matter did you, know Pran Naik or Iqbal Khan?’’ Prem asked. “You mean before the Akali riots?”’ Prem nodded. “Kishan knew Pran in those days. I mean the Delhi days. But I did not meet him then. There was very little social activity. They were troubled times.”’ “And what was Mr. Naik doing then?” “He was working with Kishan.” ‘And how about Iqbal Khan?”’ Prem prodded. She frowned, again biting her lower lip nervously. ‘“‘Can’t say that I recall his name from our Delhi days. I first remember hearing of him at the time of the trouble last year in Ferozepore. Of course, those were troubled times, I mean during partition, and I may have forgotten. I’m sure there must have been a Muslim working for that committee.” ‘Mrs. Kairon,’’ Ian interjected, ‘“‘how did you get those four letters — we call them ‘Sat Sri Akal letters’ — sent to your husband?” Janaki again looked to Tara for support and was nodded on. “I found them in a drawer of his desk at home. tioned them to me.”’

He hadn’t men-

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“Did your husband confide in-you concerning any fear of an enemy — fear for his life?’ Ian asked. ‘Lieutenant, my husband was a strict disciplinarian, and through the years made

man, a very strict many enemies. Re-

ceiving death threats was nothing new to him. He chose not to burden me with this type of information.”” Her words were defensive. “Did he express concern on hearing of Naik’s death?” Prem picked up the questioning. ‘In a way I guess he did, ’’Janaki replied, turning to face him. “Kishan did read me a short item from the local newspaper telling of Naik’s assassination in Kashmir. But we really weren't close friends of the Naiks and met them quite infrequently, mostly at

social functions.” “What was your husband’s comment on the newspaper article?’ Prem asked. “Oh, let me see, he said something to the effect that some goonda had done the poor bloke in.” “That was all?’’ Prem raised eyebrows in surprise. ‘That was all,’’ she repeated soberly. Tara again filled the cups and circulated a dish of biscuits. All four sat sipping tea and nibbling the wafer-like cookies. “Mrs. Kairon,” Prem broke in, watching her face closely, ““who do you think killed your husband?” She stiffened and her hands clasped and unclasped apprehener sively in her lap. Tara reached over and patted her should closed. reassuringly, but Janaki pursed her lips tightly “T really don’t know .. .’’ she murmered, her face pale. “You must have some suspicions,” Prem ventured quietly. witha Janaki straightened in her chair and studied the two men a baregrim face. “It was a political assassination,” she declared, in added, ly audible whisper, and after clearing her throat rational “Ferozepore . . . it’s all related to the riots. this is the only way to explain the three killings.”’ during the “You don’t think the motivations might go back to Delhi partition days?” Ian asked. actually She reflected a moment and shook her head. “Just who like the killed them isn’t all that significant. Some organized group politicians was behind the whole thing.”’ “And what links the three victims?’’ Prem asked. “What? The Akali riots,”’ she retorted quickly. t harm you?”’ ‘Are you afraid this. . . this organized group migh Prem queried. head and Her dark eyes flashed a hint of alarm. She dropped her she whispered, sipped her tea. Then, looking up at her interrogator, don’t want you ‘Now they want to cover the whole thing up. They ul.” caref be to find the murderer and that’s why you must

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“Be careful?”’ ‘The closer you get to the solution of the killing, the greater personal danger to you.”’ She sounded frightened. ‘““Ladies,’’ Prem addressed the two guests. “I want to warn both of you not to discuss our meeting here this afternoon, under any circumstances.” Tara reached over and took Janaki’s hand in her own. ‘‘We shan’t,’’ she said, her voice tense. The men sensed that the interrogation should be terminated and turned their conversation into other channels. By an earlier consensus they had agreed not to bring up the matter of the previous night’s attempt on the Captain’s life, nor the affair of the viper in the bathroom. ‘Tara, I haven’t asked as yet, but aren’t you getting up into the hills, away from this miserable heat?’’ Prem leaned forward to put the question quietly. Ian McVey and Janaki Kairon had stepped back into the dining room for a cold glass of water. He reached over to a nearby chair and picked up the sari he had bought in Delhi, neatly wrapped in a package. He placed it on the table before her. ‘‘A little something from Delhi, my dear. Mustn’t open it until you get back to Ferozepore.”’ “Prem, as usual, you’re so thoughtful.’”’ She smiled her gratitude. ‘‘To answer your question, I thought I might get up to Kashmir ... Srinagar, for a few days.” She paused to wipe her forehead with her handkerchief. ‘‘Need to draw a couple of cool breaths. Why don’t you join me?” Her eyes danced mischievously. “Actually, my plans call for leaving tomorrow morning.”’ “You haven’t changed a bit, Tara — same old tease.” “But Prem, I’m not teasing. I mean it!”’ “Tara . . .”” he laughed in spite of himself, ‘‘this is serious, don’t you understand?”’ ‘Serious, berious! We can be careful don’t you know. Shan’t be flying up there with you. I'll be staying on a houseboat on Dal Lake and you'll probably have a room at Nedou’s. As far as that’s concerned we'll pretend to be total strangers, except for a quiet meal or two together.’’ Her eyes begged him. Prem drew a deep breath and sighed, then took her hand. “‘I’ll be flying up to Srinagar from Amritsar day after tomor row, and...” he smiled at her tenderly, “staying at Nedou’s.”’ “How long?” “About three days. Have to climb up to Sheshnag and check the site where Naik was killed. And Tara,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “I’ve no way to keep you out of Kashmir, but in heaven’s name, do be careful. I could never forgive myself if anyth ing happened to you because of this murder investigation.”’ “I promise, Prem. I'll be careful.’’ Her voice was sad. She laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. “Tha t must go for

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again ...’’ her words ended ina stifled sob. “Tara, don’t. Please don’t.’” He reached under her chin and lifted her face up toward his. Seeing the hurt in his eyes, she smiled and touched his lips with her fingers. “‘I love you . . . love you,”’ she repeated softly as he took her in his arms.

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Chapter Thirteen

The shuddering thrust of the propellers vibrated noisily through the cabin of the Indian Airlines plane as it lifted off the wet runway of the Amritsar airport. Streaks and droplets of water blew horizontally back across the external panes of the square windows, distorting the outside view. Soon wisps of condensed atmosphere, like restless tongues of fog, curled down from the air-conditioning vents above and settled softly over the travelers still belted into their seats. Prem Narayan shivered and hugged himself, folding both arms across his chest. He had insisted that Karam Das, who had never flown before, sit next to the window and enjoy the scenery. The “‘No

Smoking”’ sign faded out and Prem removed his cloisonne case, moodily fingering its beautiful surface. After a moment he unsnapped the cover and selected a cigarette, lighting it with a flourish. His thoughts were interrupted by the stewardess, dressed in an attractive sari, calling his attention to her wicker tray filled with colorfully wrapped hard sweets and sticks of chewing gum. Shortly after, this personal service continued with an offer of hot or cold drinks. Karam Das, obviously impressed by such polite attention, participated with enthusiasm, smiling in affluent contentment. The Captain rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes, occasionally punctuating his physical relaxation by reaching forward for a sip of hot tea. He had boarded last, casually scanning the line of embarking passengers. Recognizing no one, not even the police captain seated directly across the aisle, he drew in a deep breath and exhaled softly. The laboring of the plane’s engines eased as it gained flight altitude. He looked out to check the passing terrain and noted from the sun’s position that they were flying in a northeasterly direction. Jammu, the only intermediate stop, and Srinagar

both were directly north of Amritsar. He frowned in thought, then remembered that a finger of Pakistan jutted directly east into India between Amritsar and Jammu, thus necessitating a flanking flight pattern. Hardly had he resolved this question to his satisfaction, when the plane abruptly changed its course toward the northwest. Closing his eyes, he leaned back again.

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Following an early breakfast in Ludhiana, Ian McVey’s driver had chauffered them the eighty-five miles to Amritsar. The trip had been uneventful except for an unexpected thundershower, a harbinger of the coming monsoon, which beat heavily against the jeep as they drove up to the airport. With ample time to spare, Prem and Karam Das boarded the Delhi-Srinagar flight, their clothes dampened somewhat by the rain. All arrangements for the Kashmir visit were in order. A vehicle would meet the plane at Srinagar and be at their disposal for the duration of the stay. Nedou’s Hotel was holding their reservations. The plane dropped down rather precipitously onto the runway at

Jammu, the winter capital of Kashmir, and stopped just long enough to unload and load passengers and baggage before taking off for its final destination. Prem’s thoughts turned back to the recent discussions with Janaki Kairon in Ludhiana. The most significant bit of information gleaned from the interview had been the disclosure of the association of the two murder victims, Kairon and Naik, in Delhi during the early months of partition. In spite of Janaki’s firm belief that such an association was not a relevant factor in the assassinations, Prem reflected, I can’t dismiss the possibility without further investigation. Was Iqbal Kahn also related in some way to that Delhi committee? If so, then this knowledge might be a substantive factor in the resolution of the triple murders. Possibly the Colonel’s widow would be able to answer the question. Arrangements had been made by telephone for her to meet with Prem at a time and place mutually convenient. Furthermore, at his request, headquarters in Delhi was checking into the files of the Cabinet Emergency Committee, with particular reference to the three victims. The airplane climbed steadily after leaving Jammu, gaining altitude to cross the foothill mountains over into the valley of the Jhelum river flowing through the exotic Vale of Kashm ir. Prem crowded Karam Das at the window to view the majesty of the mountains ahead. To him this particular sight alway s epitomized the real grandeur of North India. With one sweep of his eyes he could absorb the soul-stirring spectacle of the broad plains of the Punjab rolling from the south northward into the sudden thunder of the lofty Himalayas, whose melting snows perpe tually replenished the five rivers nourishing the vast and fertile lands below. After drinking deeply of this scenic beauty he sank back into his seat with a contented sigh and stretched his legs under the seat of the passenger ahead of him. The hypnotizing hum of the plane’s engines lulled him into a series of fitful catnaps. Prem awoke with a start to the announ cement by the stewardess that they were approaching Srinagar and seat belts must be fastened. Almost automatically he reac hed for the belt ends and connected them with a metallic snap. The serpentine coils of the Jhelum were spread out below them, winding down the valley

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through green garden patches. Tara is down there on a houseboat moored somewhere on Dal Lake, Prem reflected happily. He felt for the note in his pocket which her driver had dropped off in Ludhiana after taking her to the Amritsar airport. She would leave the directions to reach The Shalimar, her houseboat, with the desk clerk at Nedou’s. He had no official activities scheduled for that evening. A gentle smile touched the corners of his eyes and lips. At just over five thousand feet elevation, the delightful coolness of the valley was rejuvenating. Srinagar, hugging the Jhelum river, sits surrounded on three sides by the sparkling tiara of snowcapped Karakoram and Himalayan peaks rising sheer from the borders of the Vale of Kashmir. Prem paused at the top of the ramp, threw back his shoulders and took a deep breath, then stepped off the plane. What a change, almost miraculous, he reflected. Just a few minutes ago he had been engulfed by the debilitating heat of the plains, and now there was actually a chill in the air. The desk clerk at the hotel smiled pleasantly as Prem stepped up to secure his room key. ““Your quarters, Captain, are number thirteen.’”” He addressed Prem deferentially, and added with a laugh, ‘“The management hopes you are not superstitious.” Prem chuckled aloud. ‘‘Just the opposite with me. Thirteen is my lucky number.” With that he set out to follow the bearer carrying his tin box and bedding roll down the verandah. He had taken only a few steps when the clerk came running after him. “Sorry, sir, I forget — a note left for you.” It was a sealed envelope from Tara. He slipped it into his pocket. Karam Das was to be housed with other drivers in less pretentious quarters to the rear of the hotel and would be responsible for the parking and maintenance of the jeep. It had been arranged that the Kashmir representative of the C.I.D. would join Prem for tea that afternoon in the hotel dining room. Having showered and changed into warmer clothes, he sat down to read Tara’s letter. The directions to The Shalimar were set out clearly. The houseboat was tied up on the eastern shore of the lake and the jeep could drive right up to it. There would be no need to hire a shikara to cross the water. She was preparing a dinner for two at eight, but he should come earlier if possible. Should the dinner engagement need to be broken for any reason, she asked that someone bring the message. There was no telephone on the houseboat. Prem studied his room from a security standpoint. The front door opened directly onto the verandah, which was on the ground floor just off the hotel compound. The entrace and exit to the quarters could be controlled safely from inside. All locking and barring devices appeared to be competent. He slipped the tin box under the bed and threw the bedding roll into a corner. Reassured that all

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was in order, he set out to find Karam Das, and ask that he be ready to leave the hotel at six-thirty. Lieutenant Ali Aurangzeb rose from the table to greet Captain Narayan. The two men had served together on an assignment in Dehra Dun several years ago, involving what at that time was considered to be a communal murder in the Military Academy. There were three members of the investigating committee: Colonel Kulbir Singh, a Sikh; Lieutenant Ali Aurangzeb, a Muslim, and Prem, a Hindu. “Jolly good to see you again, sir.” Ali said, all smiles. He stepped forward to shake hands. “‘Trust your quarters are comfortable.” “Oh, quite, my good fellow, quite,’ Prem responded, grasping his hand warmly. “Even the number?”’ Ali asked with a laugh. “Even the number,” Prem said, joining in his laughter. The two men sat down in a corner of the dining room and ordered hot tea and tarts. Prem casually inspected the room and noted the relative seclusion from potentially inquisitive ears. Ali had selected the table for privacy. ‘The widow, Mumtaz Khan, would like to meet with you in the morning if this is suitable,” Ali said, after the bearer had left with their orders. ‘‘Accha,”’ Prem said, and added, ‘‘Where?”’ ‘‘At the Mohidin shop, you know, Suffering Moses.” ‘Splendid, but I’m interested, why Mohidin?”’ ‘The Mohidins and Khans have been friends for some time,” ’ Ali replied. “I believe you know him, Mohidin.”’ Prem nodded and asked, ‘‘What time in the morning?” “Would nine-thirty be satisfactory?” “Jolly good. Then I can be on my way to Shes hnag by noon. And, Ali, the horses are ready at Pahalgam?”’ “Yes, as well as quarters at Sheshnag. Beastly primitive, I must say, but at least it’s a shelter of sorts.” ‘‘No matter.”’ Prem smiled amiably. “‘It’ll take care of both of us, Karam Das, my driver, and me?” Ali nodded. “We'll drive the jeep to Pahalgam and hike on up from there.

The horses can carry our bedding rolls and be a crutch if we need them. Might bea bit late getting to Sheshnag , but daylight lasts until after eight this time of the year.”’ The waiter brought the tea and tarts. ‘Damned treacherous path from Pahalgam , about fifteen miles to Sheshnag. No vehicular traffic. Only hill ponies and pilgrims.”’ Ali frowned and shook his head. ‘In our favor is the fact that the path will be dry since the monsoon hasn’t hit us yet. If the rains were on us, I'd think twice about trying that path.”

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“Expect you back when?” ‘We'll be staying in Sheshnag just over-night. Should be back in Pahalgam by noon and down here by mid-afternoon.” ‘My driver will accompany the two of you to Pahalgam and wait for you there.” ‘Ali, in our telephone conversation you mentioned something about a man at Sheshnag who was there on the night of Naik’s murder.” “Quite right, a mendicant Buddhist monk who lives there, at least through the summer months. Begs from pilgrims going to and coming from Amarnath, the holy ice cave, another fifteen miles or so beyond Sheshnag.”’ “He knows we're coming?” Ali nodded. ‘‘He’s been informed and is expecting you.” ‘Splendid, old chap!” Prem scarcely restrained his excitement. After a lengthy exchange of information on the assassinations, the two men parted. Ali promised to meet Prem at nine in the morning and accompany him to Mohidin’s houseboat shop. Prem loitered on the verandah in front of his room enjoying the cool air. He lit a cigarette, leaned against a wooden pillar and studied the large chinar trees rising in the park across the street from the hotel. These towering leafy immigrants from Persia, brought into Kashmir centuries ago by Mogul emperors to enrich the beauty of their Shalimar Gardens, had become the trademark of Kashmiri seamstresses, tailors and woodcarvers. Delicately embroidered fabrics and finely sculptured wood carried the decorative drew festoon of chinar leaves far beyond the Jhelum valley and these travelers from all parts of the world to admire and purchase works of art. The sun dipped low in the sky as the jeep pulled up to the moortable ings of The Shalimar, a somewhat ancient but respec in houseboat, secured by slacken hemp ropes to posts embedded g floatin the to the shore alongside. There were two stories and residence: an upper deck, part enclosed and covered by a roof made the other part open to the elements, and a lower level which sloped up the living and bed rooms. Slanted white canvas awnings ws. down from their attachments to the upper borders of the windo d ottome flat-b the Tied to what might be considered the stern of red arkfloating house, was a less pretentious and much more clutte to shelter like creation which incorporated the kitchen and gave a very much the people involved in servicing The Shalimar. Besides of aroccupied chicken coop, the deck was littered with a variety apg wearin ticles ranging from a clothesline of drying towels and supporting boat parel to large pots and pans. At the side of this which was floated a narrow and much smaller craft, like a duckling, hand-prepelled and known locally as a shikara. rs, wavTara, dressed in the sari of royal purple with gold borde

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ed at Prem as he jumped out of the vehicle and headed for the gangplank. Grasping his hand as he stepped aboard, she led the way upstairs to the top deck where they walked over to stand against the rail, silenced by the incomparable beauty of what they saw. The large molten ball of the sun, its brightness softened by the evening haze over the Jhelum valley, appeared to rest on the mountains to the west and beam its slanting rays against tier after tier of Himalayan ranges to the north and east. Rising from their massive foundations in the shadowed valleys below, they thrust themselves upward, catching the last sunlight of the day, their pinnacled white crests reaching out to hold the panoplied sky above the world. ‘Breathtaking!’ Prem whispered reverently, encircling Tara’s waist with his arm. They lingered on in silence, the warmth of their love blending with the beauty surrounding them. With the setting of the sun, a more subdued light transformed the white of mountain snow into progressively varying shades of pastel pink, a panorama accurately reflected from the mirror ed surface of the lake. Shikaras, pushed through the water by long poles, floated silently back and forth carrying passengers and produce to their various destinations. As twilight moved into darkness, kerosene lamps were broken out marking the positi ons and progress of these small silent boats, their lights cast back from the water as long undulating shafts like the writhi ng tails of phosphorescent dragons. Tara and Prem continued to watch in silence, fascinated by the everchanging artistry of nature, as if the Master Weaver was in the

very act of creating a giant tapestry of exqui site grandeur to enclose

and hide this valley of Kashmir from the rest of the world. Sighing softly, Tara tilted her head to rest on Prem’s shoulder. The faint scent of jasmine clung to her hair. She turned to look up into his face and at that moment they moved into each other's arms. Tara sighed again in pleasure as their lips met hungrily. A finely-woven wire screen enclosed the covered section of the upper deck, keeping out the predatory insects as well as those bent on their self-destruction in the flames of the kerosene lamp on the table. A bearer poured the drinks with a flourish born of long practice. There was sweet vermouth for the Doctor and a gin and tonic for the Captain.

“I see you know my vices,” Prem said , holding his drink up to the lamp, ‘‘and may I ask just how you knew this?” Her reply was a coquettish tip of her head and a teasing smile. “Tara,” he proposed, raising his glass, ‘‘to our love.” ‘To our love,” she repeated quietly. Putting down his drink, he reache d across the table to hold her hand. “I...I want toask...” He stopped and then started again,

“Tara... will you marry me?’’ His voice was tight with emotion. Unable to trust her words, she nod ded happily. Two large tears,

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one on each cheek, hung shimmering in the lantern light. They sat in silence for a moment, rediscovering the flames of their first tender love ignited those many years ago. Coughing discreetly to announce his approach, the bearer climbed the steps with a large tray of dishes, and, having set up the various courses, he was dismissed to return on call. Tara served out of the covered dishes and poured the hot tea from a pot kept warm by a colorful knitted tea cosy. “Tara, when?”’ “I'll need a little time, Prem... must terminate my responsibilities at the sanatorium.’’ She began to weep softly. ‘My dearest, what’s happened?’’ He moved over behind her chair and cupped her face in his hands. “Oh, Prem,” she blurted out and then broke out into sobs. He stooped over and kissed her wet cheeks until the sobbing slowly subsided. “I’m so ashamed, my dear . . . please forgive me will you?” “Why of course, but... but...” “Prem I’m so afraid,” she interrupted, ‘‘so afraid I'll lose you.”’ She wiped her eyes with the table napkin. ‘Tara, I’ve been through investigations much more serious than this. Please don’t worry. Come on now and give mea smile, eh’??”’ He tilted her face up and kissed her on the lips. “Thank you, Prem, I’m alright now. Just an emotional binge I guess.”’ She reached up and patted his cheek. “And after we’re married you’ll come to Bombay with me.”’ Prem looked into her eyes tenderly. ‘Absolutely!’ she responded with her usual verve. ‘‘Plenty of don’t you places there for a doctor to work. All kinds of hospitals, know.” “That’s what I want to hear, my love,” he said cheerfully. ‘Your plans here in Kashmir?” she asked, the look of fear returning to her eyes.

“Two things really — meeting with Iqbal Khan’s widow and looking over the site of Naik’s murder in Sheshnag. Interview Mumspend the taz in the morning and then leave for Pahalgam and on to in the night in Sheshnag. Be back in Srinagar day after tomorrow afternoon.” her Tara rose from her seat and walked around the table to place mobrief a for hands on Prem’s shoulders. She stood there quietly . this inment before asking, ‘‘Really, how dangerous is this.. & vestigation getting to be?” I’d be He turned and looked up into her face. ‘‘How dangerous? dous but less than truthful were I not to admit the thing’s a bit hazar has been I've just told you that I’ve been through worse. Tara, this my life and in all probability will continue to be so.” d with “Continue to be so?” she repeated, her voice tinge

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sadness. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. She encircled his neck with her arms and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. Prem rose and the two walked out onto the open deck arm in arm. For a time they stood by the boat’s rail wordless, looking into the still night softly illuminated by a half-moon floating weightlessly in the summer sky, its subdued light intensified as it caressed the gossamer fog flowing cautiously over the lake. “And where will you be meeting Mumtaz?” Tara broke the silence. “At the Mohidin shop, you know, the Suffering Moses houseboat.”’ She nodded. “Yes, I know.”’ “First introduced to him by my good friend Doug Gordon, the American Consul in Bombay. We — I mean Doug and I — attended school together in South India. Breeks Memorial, up in the Nilgiri Hills at Ootacamund.”’ Tara frowned. ‘‘That’s where you went after we were separ ated in middle school. I shan’t easily forget that.” “But we’re together again, my darling,”’ he whispered, looking down into her face. She lifted her lips to be kissed. They held each other closely, hidden in the quiet night around them. He felt her body tremble in his arms. “Cold?” he asked No, guess I’m frightened and a bit depressed,’’ she confided, crying quietly as she spoke. “Goodnight, madam,” the cook called up from the deck below, signalling his departure. “Goodnight, Sher Singh, and did the Captain’ s driver have food?”’ “Yes, madam, he has eaten.” “Thanks for taking care of Karam Das,”’ Prem said. ‘No trouble, don’t mention.’’ She paused and studied his face. ‘This Mohidin, you can trust him?” Prem laughed reassuringly. ‘‘Trust Mohi din? Oh yes. The chap’s a solid character. Salt of the earth. Visits me when he comes to Bombay and I always look him up when I’m in Srinagar.”’ “The widow, Mumtaz... she must kno w the Mohidins.” “They’re friends of long standing. She is staying with her relatives. Don’t know that Iqbal Kha n and the Mohidins were all that close, but Mumtaz is a good friend of theirs.”’ “I've often wondered about the name, Suffering Moses,” Tara mused. ‘According to him, and this may be apocryphal, one of his ancestors was doing some detailed wood carving when a British dignitary stopped to watch and, bei ng amazed at the intricacy of the work, exclaimed, ‘Suffering Mos es’ and the name’s now carried down through several generations.”

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“Incredible! Of course, the name Moses in all its variations isn’t an uncommon Muslim name.” “Well anyway, that’s the story,’’ Prem said, and went on, ‘““Mohidin’s a prominent man in these parts. In fact the last time the Gordons and I were up here together, he arranged for us to have tea with Yuvraj Karan Singh, son of the late and last Maharajah of Kashmir and currently the Governor here. We had a delightful visit with Karan Singh and his beautiful wife at their mansion, Karan Mahal. He, the Governor, is quite a philosopher. Gave each of us an autographed copy of his latest book, ‘Varied Rhythms’.” “You've relieved my mind...” ‘Oh, he’s all right,’’ Prem interrupted, ‘‘you’ll be meeting him one of these days, perhaps in our Bombay home . . he paused to chuckle happily at the thought before going on, ‘‘and one last little story about him was related to me by Doug. Mohidin paid out of his pocket to renovate the buildings and grounds of the old Anglican church which had pretty well fallen into ruins after the British left these parts. Said he wasn’t about to sit around and watch a place of worship be desecrated.” The moon had made its slow descent into the lower sector of the western sky when the two lovers walked down the steps toward the gangplank. In the shadow of the lower deck, she encircled his neck with her arms and then stood on her toes to reach his lips. He drew -her body firmly to his and thrilled at the softness of her breasts cushioned against him. In that moment, which was an eternity as well, they drank deeply of the nectar of love. The streets were almost empty as Karam Das drove through the outskirts of Srinagar. The jeep lights awakened the hotel chowkidar squatting with his back against the compound gate. Bidding his driver goodnight and setting a time for the morning’s departure, Prem procured the door key from a drowsy clerk and strode down the verandah to room thirteen. Opening the door, he cautiously slipped his hand through and turned on the inside light. Pausing a moment and listening, he stepped inside, his automatic drawn and off safety. There was an envelope on the floor, probably pushed inside under the door. He picked it up and glanced briefly at the address. There was only one line, ‘‘Captain Prem Narayan,” and the words were typewritten. Throwing the letter on the bed, he searched the quarters, including the bathroom and the closet. Finding all in order, he made the rounds of the windows and door, carefully bolting each securely. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he studied the envelope again. It must have been hand carried. There was neither stamp nor postal mark on it, not even a written-in room number as might have been

expected had it passed through the front desk of the hotel. Inside there was a:single slip of paper on which were typed the words, “Justice has been administered. You meddle at the risk of your

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life.’ He replaced the chit in the envelope and laid it on the bedside table. The damned thing reads like the warnings at the temple, he reflected soberly. Possibly the same bloke. Wonder if this is the killer? The shower of steaming hot water was a real pleasure, for the night air had been chilling to a body still atuned to the burning heat of the Punjab plains. Hurriedly drying himself, he put on his pajamas and jumped under the covers. Switching off all the lights save that at the head of the bed, he lit a nightcap cigarette and surveyed the room. Directly across from him hung alarge framed picture of Mt. Everest, the epitome of icy majesty. Just looking at the blue-tinged glaciers and massive ice cliffs made Prem shiver with cold. As he smoked he memorized the exact locations of the door, windows, light switches and furniture. “The bloke’s getting damned close,” Prem muttered out loud. “I’m at a disadvantage. The bloody fool knows who I am but I sure as hell haven't the faintest idea who he is. However, he may feel a sense of security in his anonymity and that just might be his undoing. The chap might let down his guard. Hope the bastard does.’’ He took a last draw on his cigarette and then ground out the stub in the ashtray. Sighing deeply, he turned off the reading light, rolled over on his side and fell asleep. Prem came to his senses sitting on the edge of the bed, automatic drawn. Something must have awakened him. He leaned forward and listened intently for any out-of-the-ordinary sound. He jumped out of bed and slipped over to peek through the curtains. There was the person, walking away across the compound. It was still dark and the only illumination came from two lights above the hotel entrance. He was of average height, dressed in a Western suit, his head covered with a scarf and he carried a baton-like cane or swagger stick. Reaching the compound gate, he paused and turned slowly to wave the cane in salute. The man appeared to be looking directly at room thirteen. The scarf shadowed his face making recognition impossible. If he had thought to draw the Captain out into the night, the man had underestimated the detectiv e’s intelligence. Pulling the window curtains together again, Prem crawl ed back into bed. Sleep evaded him and he tossed uneas ily. Mustn’t freeze the pattern, he reflected soberly, sitting up in bed and lighting a cigarette. We'll keep the whole bloody situation fluid until we’re certain. Can’t afford to come a cropper. The killer chap just might be a loner, and beholden to no one. From a simplistic standpoint, but not necessarily the correct one, it would appear logical to tie in everything with the Akali agitations. Play a steady hand, he warned himself, and keep on gathering the facts. The man, whoever he might be, was playing a cat and mouse game, slyly matching wits and even exposing his hand un-

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necessarily at times. Not quite the usual tactics of a hired assassin or a zealot carrying out the orders of his superiors. This braggodoccio might be the assassin’s undoing. Again Prem cautioned himself, for there was no proof at this stage that the author of this last letter and the triple murderer were one and the same person. As for motivation, last night’s message spoke of dispensing justice. But justice for whom? And for what crime? Was it the harsh treatment of the Akalis in Ferozepore? The death of Guldip Singh, the reporter from Ambala? The alleged disloyalty of Colonel Iqbal Khan to a Muslim Pakistan, as charged by Brigadier Ibrahim Hamid of Lahore? Exhausted by the physical and mental pressures of the past twenty-four hours, Prem finally slipped into a light sleep, disturbed by a continuing dream of a long line of people passing a reviewing stand on which he was the soije occupant. All were dressed as men and each had his head covered with a scarf. As they passed, one by one in front of him, each man unveiled to reveal a hideously mutilated nose. He awoke with a start, his skin wet with perspiration, crawled out of bed and took another shower. Drying himself with a brisk rubdown, he shaved and brushed his teeth then jumped back into bed to keep warm. He lay quietly and wide awake, his thoughts centered on Tara. The first subdued light of the morning colored the eastern horizon. The soft and rhythmic scraping of the sweeper’s thicket broom heralded the early tidying-up of the hotel compound. Prem rose and dressed for the day.

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