Murder at the Grand Raj Palace Page 7

  Of course, the ordinary Indian didn’t stay in five-star suites at the Grand Raj Palace, or fly around on a private jet run by his own airline, Agni Air.

  Agnihotri had a head of dark, close-set curls peppered with grey; aggressive eyebrows; and a nose like a vulture, below which lurked a grey-black moustache.

  “What’s this all about, Chopra? I was about to deliver a seminar to some of the city’s top chief executives.”

  Chopra explained quickly.

  Agnihotri put down his martini. He took a silver cigar case from his pocket, and lit up a thin cigarillo. He didn’t offer one to Chopra. “So you think there was more to Burbank’s death than meets the eye?”

  “That is what I am attempting to determine.”

  “Hah. Trust Burbank to make a production out of his own suicide.”

  “I take it you and Burbank didn’t see eye-to-eye.”

  “The man was a crook,” said Agnihotri angrily.

  “You have had previous dealings with him?”

  Agnihotri hesitated. “No. I simply meant that in business circles he is known as a ruthless predator. Doesn’t really care how he makes his money, or who gets chewed up along the way. Like an elephant on the rampage.” He glanced at Ganesha, who was running his trunk over a marble statue of a Nandi bull, guardian of Kailasa, the home of Lord Shiva.

  Chopra dwelt for a moment on Agnihotri’s words.

  There seemed to be a depth of hostility there that hinted at something more than a spat over a valuable painting. “It is my understanding that at the auction the battle between yourself and Burbank to acquire The Scourge of Goa became quite heated.”

  “Define heated,” said Agnihotri.

  “You were disappointed losing out to Burbank.”

  “I did not lose out to Burbank,” snapped Agnihotri. “I simply chose to stop bidding. I could easily have carried on. It’s not like I don’t have the money.”

  “Then why did you stop? By all accounts you were vociferous before the auction about acquiring that particular painting. About ensuring that it stayed in India.”

  “Is being a patriot a crime?” said Agnihotri, his eyes flashing angrily. “You see, that’s the problem with our country. We’re so carried away with where we’re going, we seem to have forgotten where we’ve come from. It’s true that I’ve made a fortune through globalisation. But where does it say that if you grasp the opportunities of the future you have to cast aside everything from your past?”

  “Nowhere,” murmured Chopra. It surprised him to learn that in some ways Agnihotri was a man after his own heart. Certainly, he was expressing the very views that Chopra routinely espoused, views that, in these heady days of Shining India, few wished to hear.

  “Yes, I made a lot of noise about The Scourge of Goa,” continued the businessman. “I’m not a big collector, but that wasn’t what this was about. I just couldn’t stand by and watch another piece of our national heritage sold off, particularly to a man like Burbank, a marauder with no respect for the thousands of years of Indian history that have brought us to where we are today. That painting is another stitch in the great tapestry of our national identity. Stitch by stitch I see that identity unravelling. We have become so thoroughly seduced and brainwashed by the West that we are becoming unrecognisable to ourselves.” Agnihotri shook his head. “So, yes, I did the best I could to stop Burbank from getting his hands on it. But I’m no fool. Once I realised that he wouldn’t stop, that it didn’t matter to him how much money he spent to get that painting, that it had become just another contest of wills for him, I pulled out.”

  Chopra paused as behind him Ganesha bumped into a coffee table and almost knocked over a very expensive-looking vase.

  Agnihotri pointed his cigarillo at the little elephant. Ganesha froze guiltily and looked down at his square-shaped toes, his trunk hanging down in embarrassment. “I travel all over the world and never have I seen an elephant inside a hotel. But that is precisely what makes India India. Because there is nowhere else in the world where you could walk into a five-star hotel and see an elephant and it would do no more than raise a curious eyebrow.”

  Ganesha appeared to realise that he was not about to be castigated, and slunk away from the vase, hiding from Chopra’s admonishing gaze behind an antique rosewood writing desk set in the centre of the room.

  Chopra resumed his questioning. “All that is very well, Mr. Agnihotri,” he said, “but the fact is that you accosted Burbank immediately after the auction.”

  “Accosted?” echoed the businessman.

  “It is my understanding that there was an altercation. In one of the VIP toilets.”

  For the first time Agnihotri’s arrogant demeanour slipped. He poked his cigarillo into his martini glass, extinguishing it. Then he picked up the glass, and moved it towards his mouth absent-mindedly before realising what he was doing. He set it down again.

  “I wouldn’t call it an altercation.”

  “Then what would you call it?”

  “A… straightening-out. A clearing of the air.”

  “Do you usually clear the air by grabbing your rivals by the throat?”

  “I barely touched the man!” protested Agnihotri.

  “You threatened to kill him.”

  “I’d had a lot to drink,” spluttered the businessman. “Look, I admit, I got a bit carried away after the auction. My emotions got the better of me. If I did threaten him, it was simply in the heat of the moment.”

  “What did you hope to achieve? By confronting him?”

  Agnihotri waved a hand around. “I don’t know. I just… He was so smug. After he won. Made a point of coming over and shaking my hand in front of the cameras, just so he could rub my nose in it. I confess, I saw red.”

  Chopra had known men to kill for less. “Can you tell me where you were on the night of Burbank’s death from roughly one a.m. to two a.m.?”

  Agnihotri shot him a venomous look. “I don’t have to answer that question. You’re not even a real policeman.”

  “Technically, you are correct,” said Chopra, stifling his urge to grab the man by the collar. Not a real policeman? After thirty years on the force?

  He held the businessman’s gaze until finally Agnihotri buckled. “Very well. If you must know, I was in my room. Sound asleep. Like I said, I had had a lot to drink and it had been a draining evening.”

  “Is there anyone who can confirm this?”

  “Who would that be? The president of India? A team from the UN?” said Agnihotri belligerently. “I was alone. My family is back in Bangalore.” He glared at Chopra. “Instead of wasting your time harassing upstanding citizens, perhaps you should be talking to those who genuinely wished Burbank harm.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Why don’t you start with Padamsee? The art critic,” said Agnihotri. “The man took a swing at Burbank right after the auction.”

  “Why?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” said Agnihotri, heaving himself upright. “I think I’ve had just about enough questioning for one day.”

  Chopra rose to his feet. “Very well. May I ask if you will be staying here for a few days?”

  “I’m here for another week,” said Agnihotri irritably. “I have some business matters to attend to.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  A LOVE STORY FOR THE AGES

  Poppy was lost.

  The maze-like corridors of the hotel—all painted and carpeted in the same luxurious shades of umber and maroon—quickly disoriented her. She turned a corner and stepped into a bowl-shaped nook in which a young woman wearing breezy slacks and a plain white kurta was looking at a magnificent portrait set above a red leather sofa.

  The portrait drew the eye, and was clearly intended to be the focus of the space.

  The painting was of a regal couple, a beautiful woman in a green-and-gold sari seated on a wooden bench, a handsome man in a peacock-feather turban standing just behind her. The man’s right
hand rested lightly on the woman’s shoulder. Her left hand was raised to gently touch the tips of his fingers, an oddly intimate gesture for what at first seemed a formal portrait.

  The dusky young woman facing the painting seemed lost in thought. A cloud of distinctive perfume wafted from her, twitching Poppy’s nostrils.

  Not knowing what else to do, she joined her; together they gazed at the painting.

  She saw that a plaque accompanied the portrait. It said, in block capitals: THE RAJA OF KAMALPUR AND HIS BELOVED SECOND WIFE, THE RANI OF KAMALPUR. A LOVE STORY FOR THE AGES.

  “Do you think they were happy?” said the woman suddenly.

  “I am sorry?” said Poppy.

  “These two. The lovebirds. Were they happy?”

  “Well,” said Poppy, somewhat flustered by the odd question, “I am sure they must have been. They were married, yes?”

  “That’s the point, isn’t it?” said the woman. “Where does it say that marrying someone guarantees happiness?”

  Poppy smiled. “There are no guarantees in life. Like everything else, marriage is something one must work at.”

  The woman eyed her warily. “Why do people say that? True romance is supposed to be… the opposite of hard work.”

  Poppy’s smile faded.

  Well.

  The girl clearly had strong opinions, and didn’t appear to mind sharing them. Perhaps a dose of common sense was in order here… And then, just as she was about to speak, a flash of insight came to her. “You’re getting married, aren’t you?”

  “Is it that obvious?” said the girl, glumly.

  “It is meant to be a happy occasion,” said Poppy. “Not the cause of misery.”

  “Really? Then how come everyone I know had a nervous breakdown before the ‘big day’? Not to mention all those marriages where it never worked out? For whatever reason.”

  Poppy could not argue against this.

  India might well be a superpower now, but the social stigma that came with divorce or a broken home—particularly for women—would take far longer to dispel. The truth was that many Indians stayed together, happy or not. Sometimes it worked out—after all, time and maturity often brought accommodations to offset initial years of frustration—but Poppy herself knew of many examples of sham marriages, couples trapped in lifeless relationships but unable or unwilling to break free.

  The shackles of societal expectation were cast in iron, she had often felt.

  “Are you married?” said the girl.

  Poppy nodded. “Yes.”

  “Happily?”

  “For twenty-four years.”

  “He must be a good man.”

  “The very best.”

  “But did you know you would be happy together on the day you married him? On the day you moved to his home?”

  Poppy hesitated. Had she known that? Had she known that Chopra would be the man he had proven to be? Honest, ethical, hard-working and, yes, in his own way, a romantic—in spite of current evidence to the contrary—though he would rather be boiled in hot lead than hear himself described in that fashion. “What is your name, dear?” she asked.

  “Anjali.”

  Poppy gestured for the girl to sit with her on the claw-footed sofa beneath the portrait of the Raja and Rani of Kamalpur. She took her hand and patted it. “My husband and I grew up in the same village. Then he went away to become a policeman. He returned one day, and saw me passing by the river. We exchanged a greeting, nothing more. A few days later his father came to see my father, and asked for my hand in marriage for his son. My father gave me the option of saying no, but it wasn’t really an option. I loved my father, and wanted to make him happy. It was, after all, tradition for a daughter to marry the husband her father chose for her. And the man he had chosen seemed a good match. He was educated; he had a good career in the big city; he was the son of a man my father admired, his oldest friend. And yes, I found him handsome.” Poppy’s eyes became moist with nostalgia. “But did I know he was going to treat me well? Did I know that he would stick with me through the darkest days of my life? For instance, the day I was told I could never have children? Did I know that he was honest in a way few would understand, that this honesty would never waver, never bend, never break, even if it cost him his life? Did I know he would turn out to be generous, and kind, and warm?” She smiled. “Did I know he would be allergic to ginger, adore cricket and Gandhi, and some English detective called Sherlock Holmes? No. I knew none of those things.”

  “You sound as if you adore him,” said Anjali, wistfully.

  “I do. But there are still times when I would like to put hot chillies in his tea.” She said this with such feeling that Anjali stared at her until she looked away. “How well do you know this boy you are due to marry?”

  “Like you, our parents brokered the marriage. I didn’t get much of a say in it.”

  Poppy was surprised at this admission.

  One of the things that had changed in modern, urban India was the freedom of the younger generation to choose their own partners; though perhaps it wasn’t freedom in the way that people in the West thought of it. Nowadays, many parents arranged for children to meet through family networks, at supervised social gatherings. Once potential candidates had been identified in this way, parents could involve themselves in making the formal arrangements. It was still rare for Indians to marry outside of their caste, religion or class, and these sorts of “flexible arranged marriages” were an effective compromise.

  For a modern, clearly educated, woman such as Anjali, Poppy would have expected such an informed choice.

  “You realise that no one can make you marry a man you do not wish to?” she said sternly.

  “No one made me,” said Anjali, her eyes flashing. “It’s just… I can’t explain.”

  “Try,” said Poppy, but the girl shook her head, her beautiful features suddenly shadowed by misery.

  “Is it because there is someone else?” asked Poppy delicately.

  “No,” said Anjali. “It’s nothing like that.”

  Poppy gave her hand a squeeze. “Well, in that case, I advise you to go with your heart. If you don’t want to get married, then don’t.”

  The girl gave a watery smile. “As I said, it’s complicated.”

  Poppy reflected again on how beautiful she was. Dusky skin, a graceful neck, black hair like liquorice. The air of tragedy about her only served to bring her beauty into sharp relief.

  “What I really want to do is focus on my career.”

  Poppy gave a small clap of delight.

  Having recently joined the “rat race” after twenty-four years of not having a regular job, she now considered herself a world expert on the trials and tribulations of the working woman. “And what is it that you do?”

  “I, uh, run a hotel. Of sorts.”

  “How splendid,” said Poppy. “Is it as grand as this one?”

  “Oh, it’s just a small place, out in the countryside. You could say it’s a new venture.”

  “Well, I am sure that with someone as sensible as you in charge it will surely prosper.”

  “You’re a real optimist, aren’t you?” said Anjali. “Sadly, I’ve always been a realist. As hard-headed as a donkey, my father says.” She got to her feet. “Thank you for the advice. Perhaps you could give some to my family too? About marriages and weddings not always being the answer. They’re staying at the hotel. You can’t miss them.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Poppy. “And perhaps I can ask something of you in return… Could you possibly tell me how to get off this floor?”

  HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A CRITIC SCORNED

  Following the meeting with Agnihotri, Chopra made a call to the auction director Lisa Taylor.

  “Padamsee? Yes, of course I know who he is.” She suddenly burst into a fusillade of panting noises, which, for some reason, ignited a lurid warmth under Chopra’s collar. “I’m on a bicycle in the gym,” she explained. “Padamsee… huff… Not exactl
y… puff… my favourite person.”

  “Why is that?”

  He heard Taylor swinging herself off her bicycle, catching her breath. “Well, he’s an art critic, and a particularly vicious one at that. His speciality is attempting to derail the careers of young artists by penning the most scathing reviews you could imagine. I, on the other hand, make my living by promoting artists. I make the most money when a young artist suddenly becomes hot, and the value of his or her work skyrockets. That process is helped along immeasurably by critics offering positive reviews. But for that to happen one needs critics who are open-minded, willing to give fledgling artists a chance. Padamsee is not that type of man. He is a cynical, bitter, hateful snob. He was an artist in his youth, but not a very good one. His work was brutally dismissed by the critics of his day, and I suppose that has stayed with him.”

  “Hitler was a failed artist too,” observed Chopra.

  There was a momentary silence, and then Taylor’s tinkling laugh came down the phone. A surge of well-being ballooned inside him. This made him strangely uncomfortable.

  “Where can I find him?”

  “At this time? He’s usually in the Banyan restaurant for lunch.”

  Chopra noticed an incoming call on his phone. It was Tripathi.

  “Could you hold for a second.” He answered the call.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, Chopra,” began Tripathi. “Gunaji somehow got wind of your investigation. He crashed into my office ten minutes ago and ordered me to take you off the case.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him to go to hell. I’ve had just about enough of that stuffed baboon.” Tripathi sighed. “That’s when he got the commissioner on the line. I’ve got no choice. I hate to do it, but I can’t risk my career for this.”