Theroux Paul - A Dead Hand - A Crime in Calcutta

Wanting to please Mrs. Unger, to remind her that I was still pursuing the problem she had posed to me, I called her cell phone, an emergency number she'd given me. "Emphasis on 'emergency.'" I got one of those messages: The mobile customer is either currently out of service or out of range.

I wanted to show her that I was on the scent. I got into a taxi, with the square of carpet in my briefcase, and went to the Lodge in Alipore. I had never dared to go uninvited before, but today I had an excuse — this ambiguous clue. I could prove that I was busy on her behalf, and grateful to her.

Writers talk to themselves, and traveling writers talk to themselves constantly. People on their way to a meeting prepare their lines. I began to rehearse a little speech in my head.

"See what I've done?" I would say. "You asked me to investigate the bizarre event at the Ananda, and I've obeyed you. I have a few leads. The dead boy was brought to the hotel in a carpet, and I have a piece of that carpet, sent anonymously to me at my hotel, probably by someone who wants me to know the truth. I think it might be a former employee. I've got it right here."

The gate to the courtyard was padlocked, and the courtyard itself was empty. I called out to the chowkidar, who stood in the shade holding his badge of authority, a long thick club.

" Namashkar. "

He pretended not to hear, but I kept calling and embarrassed him into coming over.

"Please let me in."

"Cannot." He looked solemn and stubborn but confident, happy to be unhelpful.

"I have to see Ma." Everyone knew her by that name.

"Not available." He smacked the club against his palm, as if to remind me that he was in charge. The club was dark from being handled.

I felt awkward talking to him through the iron bars of the gate, especially here, where I'd always been welcome. I could hear the children screeching inside, some of them singing.

"I'll write Ma a note. You can give the note to her."

I imagined writing I must see you at once. She would forgive me for intruding. I was making progress in solving the mystery. I had a dead hand, I had a piece of carpet, I had a witness.

As I began to scribble my appeal on a page of my pocket notebook, the chowkidar said, "Not here."

"Not in the Lodge?"

"Not in Calcutta."

"Where is she?"

He gestured past the wall with his big club. "Gone to U.P."

You-bee was what he said. I knew he meant Uttar Pradesh.

"Where in U.P.?"

"Pactory. Meerjapur."

"Out of town," "on a buying trip," "away for a bit," "picking up some children," she always said to explain her absences. She never told me where. This was more specific, a factory in Mirzapur. I was not sure where Mirzapur was, but I knew it was not near Calcutta.

In the taxi on the way back to the Hastings, I asked the driver where it was.

"Varanasi side," he said.

"Far?"

"Five hundred twenty kilometers."

"How long to drive?"

"Not drive. Train better. Fourteen hours."

I considered going there so that I could say, "Look what I've got!" But I thought better of it. It would be ridiculous and premature to show up with the dead hand and the piece of carpet. I needed more evidence. I wanted to amaze her, to show her that I cared. I hoped that she'd be pleased, that she'd reward me. I longed to see her smile at me, to touch me with her secret blessing.

At some yellow hour of the Calcutta night, sleepless in the light pollution of street lamps, alone with this problem, I thought: It must have been Mina who sent it. But had she gotten this fragment of carpet from the hotel itself? She wanted to help without being directly implicated. I needed to spend a night at the Ananda.

I hated the sight of the hotel. I associated it with death and deceit. I disliked the manager, Biswas, for his rudeness, for being unhelpful. And he had abused Mina. He'd fired her for showing me the register. And in this hot weather there was no more uncomfortable part of Calcutta than high-density New Market — the milling crowds, the stink and noise of traffic, the litter in the streets. Here were the cheapest hotels, with pompous names: the Savoy, the Ritz, the Astoria, New India, Delight, Krishna Chambers, and among them the Ananda.

Seeing me approach with an overnight bag, the girl sitting just inside the door raised her head and called to someone.

Mr. Biswas loomed behind her, materializing out of the hot shadows, wrapped in the puffy gauze of his dhoti, wearing a khadi vest. I had forgotten how hairy his ears were, how yellow his fingernails, how red his teeth, how sour his expression.

He must have warned the girl to look out for me. It didn't matter. He knew me only as a nuisance. He wasn't seriously threatened; he was annoyed because I hadn't rented a room.

"Remember me?"

"How could I forget you, sir," he said, swelling a little with belligerence.

"I need a room."

"As you wish." He said something to the girl in Bengali, and hearing him, she reached for my bag.

I clung to it. It was ridiculously light — suspiciously so. "Never mind."

"We are here to serve you," Mr. Biswas said. Every word he spoke sounded either sarcastic or insincere.

"A single room. What are your rates?"

"Standard is four hundred. Facing street. Deluxe is more. Surcharge for garden view. Supplement applies to suite."

Mina had told me that Rajat had stayed in number fifteen. I asked for that room.

"Garden view. Six hundred rupees. Payable in advance."

That was about sixteen dollars. I handed over the rupees. Mr. Biswas licked his thumb and counted them, then gave them to the girl. He was eyeing me sideways, working a wad of betel nut in his mouth. He spat a gob of reddened saliva at the side of the doorway, a fresh streak among dried-out drips.

"Passport," he said, and beckoned with his skinny fingers.

We were still standing on the top step of the Ananda. I slipped my passport out of my pocket, held it away from him, and said, "I want it back."

"After transfer of details, full name and visa number."

Only then did he allow me into the hotel. He took his place behind the window of the check-in desk and opened my passport. He pressed it against the desk with the flat of his hand, then spat into a bucket, licked red betel juice from his lips with an even redder tongue, then turned the pages slowly.

"I will send to room."

"I'd rather wait."

He shrugged and went on turning pages, and when he found the page with my India visa he used a key on a bracelet to unlock a drawer beneath the desktop. He slipped out a large bound volume that I recognized as the register and slowly copied my name, my date of birth, my visa number and place of issue. Then he replaced the volume and locked the drawer again.

"Your papers." He handed me my passport.

I had hoped to get a look at the register again, for Rajat's details. No such luck.

"This way, sir," the young girl said.

I followed her up the stairs, liking the way her sari tightened like a sling around her swaying bottom as she climbed. She carried a thin gray towel, a small rectangle of soap wrapped in wax paper, and on one finger the loop of a key, which was wired to a large wooden tag inked with the number fifteen.

"What's your name?"

"Chitra, sir."

"What happened to Mina?"

"Gone, sir. Sacked, sir. I am Mina replacement."

"Why was Mina sacked?"

"She giving manager angerness."

"What happened?"

"He beating her, sir."

"Why did he beat her?"

"I not knowing."

"Where's your home?"

"Assam side, sir."

"I was in Assam recently."

"Are you enjoying, sir?"

"Very much."

"Thank you, sir. Tea gardens beautiful. Also trees. Also Brahmaputra River."