I REACHED the front of my eight-storey office building,
named not aptly as Rising Towers and parked the car. The plan had been to add
another twenty floors but the owner R.T Enterprises had lost on another
project, and so this building wasn’t rising any further any time soon. Rumours
of an underworld protection racket also hovered in the air like dark secrets.
It wasn’t my concern for now.
The light rain touched
my skin as I stepped out and looked up at my office. It was on the sixth floor,
where small businesses with big ambitions rented half the floor. The first
three floors were retail space, the next two apartments, and half of these
still hadn’t been sold and were gathering construction dust. Rising Towers
wouldn’t be finished in the next ten years. Developers were often just as
incompetent as the contractors they employed.
I caught the lift, came
out onto the sixth floor and walked across the wide tiled corridor. The sign on
the clear glass panel read, Abhay Chauhan, Private Detective Agency.
A new client might be
waiting I hoped, then I pushed the door. You could always hope. No new client,
only the small table, a few wooden chairs and some film magazines I had spread
about so that the client wouldn’t get bored. I kept this door open. The agency
had been started four years ago by renting this office. A year later, I split
it into two, to make a waiting area and an office. The grand plan had been to
hire a secretary and she would work from the spare room.
The secretary hadn’t
arrived yet, not on my fees but I’d been getting along pretty fine without one;
the answering machine was reliable. It came in on time everyday and didn’t take
sick leave. The conversation wasn’t great, it tended to be repetitive.
I unlocked the office door that had a
solid wooden bottom panel and a frosted glass panel above. Everything was the
same apart from the fine layer of dust. I opened the window, fresh air sucked
out stale air. A billboard across the road showed a woman with pouting lips. I
called her Rekha. She was smiling with shoulder length curly hair and enticing
me to buy a sun cream. She could sell me anything. I sat down on the swivel
chair behind the wooden desk and was about to listen to my secretary on the
answering machine, when the phone rang.
I picked it up on the third
ring, expecting it to be from the stiff MD, and to listen to the pleasure in
his voice as he fired me. It was a woman’s voice instead.
–Helloo,
is this the Abhay Chauhan Detective agency?
–It certainly is, the last time I checked.
–Oh
goodness me. I’ve been trying since yesterday you know, and I left two
messages, don’t you like to work?
–Well...
–Don’t you keep a secretary at least?
–Not on my rates...
–No, but you should answer your phone, how
will you find new clients if you don’t answer the phone?
–I was busy, I said, and placed a finger in my
ear.
–Busy wusy
nothing, I don’t like leaving messages on such delicate matters, no I don’t.
I rubbed the side of my
forehead. Then rubbed it some more.
–Thanks for the advice. How can I help you?
–My name is Mrs. Chatterjee and I want to
discuss something very important.
–Mrs. Chatterbox?
–No, Chatter...jee, don’t you hear very well?
–There’s a lot of loud noise coming from your
side.
–I’ll come to the point.
–That’s a good idea.
–I expect complete secrecy in this Abhay
Chauhan. You see, I think my husband’s having an affair, she said, in a low
conspiring voice.
–What can I do about that?
–Is it not obvious? You seem very slow on the pickup.
–Some people are just slow, it can’t be
helped.
I waved a fly away from
the corner of the table. It flew to the other side, as stubborn flies tend to
do. It was laughing at me and staying here without contributing to the rent.
–What are your rates? I heard you’re quite
cheap, she added.
–Depends on the job, but the standard rate is
fifteen hundred per day, plus expenses.
–Oh I heard right, you are cheap.
–I can double it if you like.
She cleared her throat.
–We will discuss that later. First, I want you
to find if my husband is cheating? I want the answer in three days, maximum.
–How long have you been married?
–Thirty years. And only I know how I’ve
suffered.
–Why do you think he’s cheating, Mrs.
Chatterjee?
–A woman’s instinct.
I smiled and leaned back
in the chair.
–Have you tried to find out with your woman’s
instinct?
–Yes I certainly did, and found nothing so
far.
–Then I doubt I’ll find anything either.
She took a long pause, I
heard several deep breaths and I imagined her shaking her head.
–Really, I thought you were a detective? she
said, with her voice betraying a flash of anger.
–I wonder about that myself sometimes.
–You don’t seem very interested in my personal
and difficult matter.
–Probably because I’m not, I said.
–I think you have poor manners.
–I’ll live with my manners, but anyway, there
are detectives who’ll jump at the opportunity to discover if your husband’s
having an affair. My guess listening to you, is that your husband’s probably
cheating and good luck to the poor fellow.
–How dare you! Oh goodness me! I’ll never be
phoning you ever again!
–It’s a real shame.
She slammed the phone
down. I felt its vibration up my arm. I was losing a steady income stream and
this would be repeat business. There was no cure for vehem, a suspicious mind would ever remain suspicious. But it was
no good, I knew I wouldn’t be able to expose a cheating spouse. The feeling
would be just lousy and leave a bitter taste in the mouth. No, it was better to
live on fresh air until a proper case came along.
I checked the answering machine. She was
right. There were two impatient messages from her, left with heavy sighs. Two
more from R.T. Enterprises, reminders for rent. If I could stay on the
Fernandez case, then that would buy me breathing space for a few months. Hell,
I might even be able to feed myself. Still, I breathed easier as there was
nothing from the Fernandez household and this surprised me. I was sure Mrs.
Fernandez would have convinced her husband to fire me. He was holding firm
against her sweet smiles and charms, and she wouldn’t like that.
I stared at the two steel cabinets to my
left, at the empty chair across the table and the small coffee table. Maybe I
should put my ego to one side and take the infidelity cases. I’d have a full
waiting list and I could hire a good secretary and make her a partner later on.
I was getting ahead of myself again, dreaming too much and doing too little.
The hell with becoming a businessman. Bad cases were like a grumpy uncle you
wished you hadn’t invited to your party. They would always annoy you.
I leaned forward and was
about to light a cigarette, when I heard footsteps coming along the corridor;
the sound of heels nearing the office, hesitant, then rapid, as if the woman
was looking for the right place. She was probably heading to the Jeevan Sathi
travel agency down the corridor. They did package tours around India. The way I
felt right now, I could do with taking one.
The footsteps stopped outside the waiting
room door, perhaps she was reading the title and having a laugh. I received
that reaction often, the few times I had mentioned it. Private detective, I’d
say, and people would give me that knowing look, as if I was a peeping tom, a
man who went after the dirty secrets of the city and of the sexual kind. They
always wore an astounded look, when I stated that I didn’t do that particular
line.
The footsteps again.
Someone had walked confidently into the waiting room; I might actually have a
client. I wanted to welcome them with a garland of flowers as they do on
Hawaii. There was a light knock on the door. Before I could say come in, the
door opened, and the woman strode inside.
