Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

But as my new acquaintance leant forward to lower himself onto his plastic-covered bench, his grease-edged shirt, flopped open a little and I saw what could only be the top of a sheath for a knife.

Was I after all going to be one in the series that had begun with that first murder?

No, surely not. A sudden stabbing and a quick grab out in the street was a possibility, but surely not inside here. Surely?

And he might really have a story to tell. Good material.

Once we had been brought our drinks, a Mangola for me, something long, brightly coloured, and sticky-looking called a falooda for my friend, he began his tale. Innocently enough. If you could be innocent telling how, apparently, you had committed a murder. Your first.

“Sahib,” he said, bringing those huge pointy ears of his to focus directly at me, “before I am recounting whole damn thing I will make one matter very-very clear. I am altogether good at my job. First class only. Let me give you example.”

Could I stop that? Say Get on to this first murder of yours, that’s what I want to hear about. But no, I couldn’t. He had me trapped.

“Sahib, I was once given task by our boss of tracing one girl who had been working for five-six years in prostitution line. She had auntie who had married a foreigner, and that fellow had died, leaving said auntie in possession of one lakh rupees. That is a big sum for us, you know.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Auntie was wishing to make her one and only living relative as heir to all her wealths. But one condition only. She was to give up prostitution racket, even if it was high-class itself.”

“Okay, I understand, I understand. So what happened?”

“I was finding and locating that prostitute. Not too hard to do. Ask and ask and before too long you are learning. But question was: Would this prostitute be scared to be found out by hundred-percent-respectable auntie? So what was I doing? Oh, sahib, very-very clever. Under disguise of customer I was booking this girl for night at five-star hotel. I tell you also, sahib, I was very much wishing to do some side-business with her, isn’t it?”

Eyes in the ratty face opposite rolled and rolled.

“But I was not at all attempting same. Payment in advance was company money. What would I be able to say in my report? So duty was calling and I was just only chit-chatting that girl. I gave out I was one damn-good fortuneteller. Then straightaway she was asking me to read her palm. And I was telling her her own history, which I was all the time damn well knowing from what Auntie had told. You have just only one female relative not seen for many-many years, I told. Correct, correct, she was answering. Next I was saying her palm told this auntie was rich, rich lady. Good, good, she was replying. So at last I was asking what would feelings be if fate brought her to meet this lady. Very fine, very fine, was her answer.”

My friend leant back and burst into loud brays of laughter. I looked round in embarrassment. But no one in the little place seemed to be taking much notice.

“You know what was happening when Auntie was saying she would give and bequeath to this prostitute one lakh rupees?” my acquaintance plunged on when at last he had brought himself to stop laughing. “No? You are not at all able to guess. But I will tell. Prostitute was saying: In one night I am making rupees fifteen-hundred, half to my boss, but still more in one year than you are offering as total, Auntie. So goodbye and back to foreign.”

More brays of raucous laughter.

“But you were going to tell me about a murder,” I broke in exasperatedly. “Your first murder.”

He leant across the narrow table towards me. A strong whiff of mingled falooda sweetness and sheer bad breath.

“Yes, yes. Well, I had thought that day was going to be a good day for me itself. When I was reporting for duty I was finding I had not been assigned some hard-work, no-fun job. What we are calling market survey. Number Two product being sold under false tiptop trademark. Keeping one close watch on shop until you are seeing supplier come, and then follow-following until you are able to track down entire organisation. No, no. That day it was erring-wife job.” Across the table I was given an appalling leer.

“Such I am always liking best. When it is matter of seeing with own eyes moment of hanky-panky itself. So I was setting off with what we are calling keyhole camera in briefcase. No bugging apparatus, you understand, because such is illegal under Indian Wireless and Telegraphic Act, nineteen thirty-three.”

“Very commendable, but—”