Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

Outside he stood in the lane, glancing at the sky to see if the overcast might clear again. Perhaps. He lowered his gaze to the street and wondered, where now?

A crowd formed down the road, a cluster of onlookers suddenly achieving the critical number that drew more and more in, irresistibly. All right, thought Mohit, and followed the rest.

As he approached, he heard the flashover of rumor through the crowd: “A dead man — head smashed in, right here, can you believe it? Lying in the street, and no one saw him! Where are the authorities? Where is Chauhan?”

Mohit’s mood collapsed. He hesitated, then pushed ahead, working his way to the front with muttered apologies.

The body was as described, a man facedown at the mouth of an alley — a narrow walkway, really, dark, between shuttered industrial shanties. A police officer had already appeared, tired and sweat-stained in his gray uniform, but a figure of uncontested authority nonetheless. He pushed back at the onlookers, snapping at two men so close they seemed about to roll the victim over for a better look.

Mohit stared. The dead man’s arms were flung out, suggesting he’d been struck with great force from behind and fallen immediately. He’d come to rest on gravel spilling from a heap alongside one factory’s wall, the back of his head a mass of gore and hair and bone. Blood pooled darkly on the damp stones.

His left arm ended in a stump, all four fingers missing. The thumb alone stuck out, pointed directly at Mohit like an accusation.

“We don’t know who he was. How could we? Are we the police? Do we keep track of every single man in Chittagong? Solve every crime? Bah.”

Chauhan stood outside the cinema, glaring. The sky had closed in again, and a slow drizzle showed no inclination to diminish.

“I’m only asking, saheb,” said Mohit, glancing at the muscled cohort around him.

“People get hit on the head every day. Every night. This is a world of violence. Two gadah have a falling out over some woman or a game of tash, and you come to me? Why is that?”

“Dukkhito. I’m sorry.”

“Thhik achhey.” Chauhan abruptly calmed down. “Never mind, mashai.”

Twenty or thirty men had lined up under a long eave of corrugated roof, waiting for the cinema’s next showing, and they were watching with open fascination. Chauhan swung his gaze past them, cowing several, then turned away.

“Come,” he said. “We’ll talk inside.”

The jua shala was still and damp, a sour smell of tari hanging in the unmoving air. Some of the crew began to straighten up, brushing off tables and opening windows.

“I know as little as you, truly,” Chauhan said.

“People think you are on top of everything.” Mohit felt oddly disconnected from the situation, able to talk to the most dangerous man in Chittagong like he was the next laborer in the carrying gang.

Chauhan barked a short, grunting laugh. “And that’s a useful reputation, to be sure.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mohit again.

“Insha Allah.”

Someone called from behind the hammered plank that served as a bar, asking about inventory, and when was that layabout bringing over more Bangla Mad, anyhow? Chauhan started to shout back, then paused, returning to Mohit for a moment.

“I don’t say that I know him.” His voice was quiet. “I don’t say that I know anything about how he came to his end, or who did it, or why. But I will tell you one thing.”

Mohit watched him, waiting.

“He had no money when he died,” said Chauhan. “And if one were to follow back all the places he’d been recently, he was not spending much. A little extra than usual, perhaps. No more.”

“But Hasan—”

Chauhan held up one hand. “I say nothing of Hasan. I only tell you what I know.” Then he turned away, and Mohit knew he was dismissed.

With nowhere to go, Mohit wandered around until he encountered Sohel, who was waiting in a long queue for the telephone stall. The government offered cheaper service, but that was a half-hour away in Chittagong proper. As for the post, even if both the sender and recipient could read and write, it could take six months for a letter to make its way across the country. Most of Bhatiary’s inhabitants kept in touch with their families at the stall, where an entrepreneur kept a cell phone available twenty hours every day. Friday, naturally, was the busiest time.

“It’s been three weeks since I called,” said Sohel. “And that time I only reached a neighbor. He’ll have passed on the news, of course, but I miss talking to my family.”

“They are well?”

“By God’s will. We hope the next harvest will be better.”

A boy walked down the queue, hawking fried groundnuts from a folded palm leaf. Mohit shook his head at the solicitation, but other men bought small handfuls, perhaps more from boredom than hunger. The drizzle sputtered on.

“The dead man — you heard?”

Sohel nodded vigorously. “I went by, but the poolish had already taken him away. Typical of the police, so efficient only after the crime is over.”