Джеффри Арчер - Cat O'Nine Tales

Once more, the young men of the island charged onto the dance floor and fired their pistols into the air, to the cheers of the assembled guests. George frowned, but then for a moment recalled his own youth. Carrying the plate in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, he continued walking back towards his place in the centre of the table, now occupied by Andreas Nikolaides.

Suddenly, without warning, one of the young bandoliers, who’d had a little too much to drink, ran forward and tripped on the edge of the dance floor, just as he was discharging his last shot. George froze in horror when he saw the old man slump forward in his chair, his head falling onto the table. George dropped the bottle of wine and the plate of food onto the grass as the bride screamed. He ran quickly to the centre of the table, but it was too late. Andreas Nikolaides was already dead.

The large, exuberant gathering was suddenly in turmoil, some screaming, some weeping, while others fell to their knees, but the majority were hushed into a shocked, sombre silence, unable to grasp what had taken place.

George bent down over the body and lifted the old man into his arms. He carried him slowly across the lawn, the guests forming a corridor of bowed heads, as he walked towards the house.

George had just bid five thousand pounds for two seats at a West End musical that had already closed when he told me the story of Andreas Nikolaides.

‘They say of Andreas that he saved the life of everyone on that island,’ George remarked as he raised his glass in memory of the old man. He paused before adding, ‘Mine included.’

‘Why does he want to see me?’ asked the Commissioner.

‘He says it’s a personal matter.’

‘How long has he been out of prison?’

The Commissioner’s secretary glanced down at Raj Malik’s file. ‘He was released six weeks ago.’

Naresh Kumar stood up, pushed back his chair and began pacing around the room; something he always did whenever he needed to think a problem through. He had convinced himself — well, almost — that by regularly walking round the office he was carrying out some form of exercise. Long gone were the days when he could play a game of hockey in the afternoon, three games of squash the same evening and then jog back to police headquarters. With each new promotion, more silver braid had been sewn on his epaulet and more inches appeared around his waist.

‘Once I’ve retired and have more time, I’ll start training again,’ he told his number two, Anil Khan. Neither of them believed it.

The Commissioner stopped to stare out of the window and look down on the teeming streets of Mumbai some fourteen floors below him: ten million inhabitants who ranged from some of the poorest to some of the wealthiest people on earth. From beggars to billionaires, and it was his responsibility to police all of them. His predecessor had left him with the words: ‘At best, you can hope to keep the lid on the kettle.’ In less than a year, when he passed on the responsibility to his deputy, he would be proffering the same advice.

Naresh Kumar had been a policeman all his life, like his father before him, and what he most enjoyed about the job was its sheer unpredictability. Today was no different, although a great deal had changed since the time when you could clip a child across the ear if you caught him stealing a mango. If you tried that today, the parents would sue you for assault and the child would claim he needed counselling. But, fortunately, his deputy Anil Khan had come to accept that guns on the street, drug dealers and the war against terrorism were all part of a modern policeman’s lot.

The Commissioner’s thoughts returned to Raj Malik, a man he’d been responsible for sending to prison on three occasions in the past thirty years. Why did the old con want to see him? There was only one way he was going to find out. He turned to face his secretary. ‘Make an appointment for me to see Malik, but only allocate him fifteen minutes.’

The Commissioner had forgotten that he’d agreed to see Malik until his secretary placed the file on his desk a few minutes before he was due to arrive.

‘If he’s one minute late,’ said the Commissioner, ‘cancel the appointment.’

‘He’s already waiting in the lobby, sir,’ she replied.

Kumar frowned, and flicked open the file. He began to familiarize himself with Malik’s criminal record, most of which he was able to recall because on two occasions — one when he had been a detective sergeant, and the second, a newly promoted inspector — he had been the arresting officer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Commissioner Kumar glanced up as the door opened. He stared at a man he barely recognized. Malik must have been ten years younger than he was, but they would have passed for contemporaries. Although Malik’s file stated that he was five foot nine and weighed a hundred and seventy pounds, the man who walked into his office did not fit that description.

The old con’s skin was lined and parched, and his back was hunched, making him appear small and shrunken. Half a life spent in jail had taken its toll. He wore a white shirt that was frayed at the collar and cuffs, and a baggy suit that might at some time in the past have been tailored for him. This was not the self-confident man the Commissioner had first arrested over thirty years ago, a man who always had an answer for everything.