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

“He was the thief, the one who robbed Hasan’s house.” Mohit described what he’d learned.

“You spoke to Chauhan?” Sohel tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “So directly? And he answered you?”

“He speaks straightforwardly,” said Mohit.

“And why not?” Sohel decided. “He is too powerful to be concerned what you and I might think. He says what he knows, and then goes on with his business. Did you believe him?”

“Yes — about the money, I mean.”

“Hen.”

“I don’t understand, though.”

“Perhaps Hasan’s wife had taken it already... or the thief didn’t find the real stash.”

Mohit remembered the widow, sobbing in grief and anger, and the grim-faced relatives surrounding her. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“A conundrum, then,” said Sohel with the satisfaction of one who knows the world runs on secret plans and hidden motivations.

“Perhaps there is nothing to understand.” Mohit stepped forward as the line advanced, gaining some shelter by the wall. “An accident, no more, and a crime of opportunity. Then the thief meets another blackguard. Just bad luck all around — as simple as that.”

“No, no, no. Life is never simple. All events have reasons, or causes.”

“Not always,” said Mohit. “Not here.”

When they reached the stall, Sohel retrieved several takas from a small cloth sack, holding the worn bills in his fist.

“Where are you calling?” the vendor asked. He sat bored under an awning of plastic, one wire running up to an aerial overhead and two others down to an automobile battery under the table. The current customer was still talking, rapidly now that he saw the vendor indicating his time was up, trying to say far more than the last few seconds could hold.

“Ghorarchar, in Rajshahi,” said Sohel. He recited the number.

“Wait, wait,” grumbled the vendor. “Here now — five minutes, ten takas.”

“When he’s done. What if the battery expires?”

The vendor shrugged. “Then you get your payment back. But why worry? I charged it fully this morning.”

Neither man took it seriously, but they argued while the current caller finished up. Mohit watched. Finally the caller stood and left, Sohel sat down, and the vendor collected his fee.

“It will take a few moments to connect,” he said, tucking the cash into his belt.

The money, thought Mohit.

A damp breeze ruffled the plastic sheet. The vendor glanced up as he finished dialing and put the phone to his ear.

Mohit put his hand on Sohel’s shoulder. “I have to go.”

“What?”

“Tell your wife — I don’t know.” And he left, almost running, as the wind increased and a smell of smoke and rain rolled over everything.

By the time he arrived at the row of concrete housing, the monsoons had burst again, a downpour slashing the muddy alleys and flimsy walls. A hundred meters away he came across another group of men, still out though most everyone had sought shelter. Mohit stopped long enough to exchange a few words, then ran on ahead.

He hammered the door with his fist and it swung open, unlatched. Farid, dozing on his charpoy, sat up in surprise.

“Ki? Mohit? What is happening?”

“Aii, saheb.” He stood dripping rainwater onto the reed mat and panting. “Why? Why?”

Farid rubbed sleep from his eyes and pushed his hair back. “Bhai?”

“You never gave Hasan the money.” Mohit thought he might cry. “That’s why the thief was still here in Bhatiary — he didn’t gain enough to leave, only enough to get himself killed.”

“What are you saying?”

“Did you arrange that too?” Mohit stepped forward to stand above Farid, staring down at him. “Because he might tell?”

“No, no.” Farid shook his head.

“You told me yourself — only someone with long experience and deep knowledge of the ships could have rigged the explosion. And who here has longer experience than yourself?”

“You don’t know what you’re saying!”

“Just tell me—” Mohit’s voice broke. “I’ve known you my entire life, saheb. You are the hero of Ghorarchar, the only reason the village did not starve years ago. When you selected me to come to Chittagong, I was so proud, I could have floated off the ground. And now...”

A long pause. Farid’s head dipped, and he mumbled something Mohit could not understand.

“What?” Mohit sank to one knee, to look Farid in the eyes.

“My daughter,” Farid whispered. “I told you, the school fees — she would have had to leave.” He hesitated. “She is not strong, like you. I would do anything for her.”

Rain gusted in through the open doorway, spattering the floor and desk. Mohit looked at the pictures on the wall, and felt the tears finally run down his face.

“What now?” said Farid, slowly.

“It is too late.” Mohit stood, stiff and aching. “I’m sorry, saheb. They figured it out, I guess, and they were already arriving. I came just before, but they’ll be along now. They gave me only a few minutes.”

“Who?” But Farid didn’t need or want the answer.

“Badai,” said Mohit, and he backed to the door. “Farewell, saheb.”