A Suitable Boy

  ‘Bihari, when the doctor comes, tell him to hurry to the Civil Hospital. We’re going there by tonga. Yes, give me the bandages—I’ll see what I can do on the way to stop the blood. Oh, yes, follow the blood if you can: keep two torches, I’ll take one. I’ll take statements from the tonga-wallah and the injured man. Check the walking stick for a hidden blade. See if the weapon’s lying around, and so on. His wallet is on him—it doesn’t seem as if he’s been robbed. But maybe someone tried to rob him and he managed to get away. On Cornwallis Road!’ The Sub-Inspector shook his head, licked the right side of his moustache, and wondered what Brahmpur was coming to.

  They lifted Firoz into the tonga and got in themselves, and it clopped off into the mist. The Sub-Inspector shone his torch carefully at Firoz’s face. Even with the wavering torchlight shining on his pale and distorted features, Firoz’s face looked familiar. The Inspector noticed that he was wearing a woman’s shawl and frowned. Then he opened his wallet, and saw the name and address on his driving licence; and his frown became one of real concern. He shook his head slowly. This case was going to mean trouble and would have to be handled carefully. As soon as they got to the hospital and put Firoz in the hands of the emergency ward staff the Sub-Inspector telephoned the Superintendent of Police, who himself undertook to inform Baitar House.

  17.15

  The emergency ward—which had recently been renamed the casualty department—represented a scene of organized chaos. A woman, clutching her stomach, was screaming in pain in a corner. Two men were brought in with head injuries from a lorry accident—they were still alive, but there was no hope for them. A few people had minor cuts of one kind or another, bleeding to a greater or lesser degree.

  Two young house surgeons examined Firoz. The Sub-Inspector filled them in on the background: where he had been found, and his name and address.

  ‘This must be Dr Imtiaz Khan’s brother,’ said one of them. ‘Has the police informed him? We would like to have him on hand, especially if permission is needed for an operation. He works at the Prince of Wales College Hospital.’

  The Sub-Inspector told them that the SP was getting in touch with Baitar House. Meanwhile, could he speak to the patient? He needed to file a First Information Report.

  ‘Not now, not now,’ said the doctors. They checked Firoz’s pulse, which was shallow and irregular, his blood pressure, which was low, his respiration, which was rather fast, and the responses of his pupils, which were normal. He was pale and his forehead was clammy. He had lost a lot of blood and appeared to be in shock. He was still speaking a few words, but they were incoherent. The Sub-Inspector, who was an intelligent man, tried to make what sense of them he could. In particular he noted Saeeda Bai’s name, the words ‘Prem Nivas’, and several agitated mentions of a sister or sisters. These might help him to discover what had happened.

  He turned to the doctors. ‘You mentioned he had a brother. Does he also have a sister?’

  ‘Not that I know,’ said one doctor, shortly.

  ‘I believe he does,’ said the other. ‘But she doesn’t live in Brahmpur. He’s lost too much blood. Sister, get a drip ready. Normal saline.’

  They removed Firoz’s shawl and cut away part of his kurta and vest. All his clothes were covered with blood.

  The policeman murmured: ‘I’ll have to get you to write a medical report.’

  ‘I can’t find a vein in the arm,’ said one of the doctors, ignoring what the Sub-Inspector was saying. ‘We’ll have to cut down.’ They cut a vein in Firoz’s ankle, drew out a little blood, and inserted a drip. ‘Sister, please take this to the lab for tests, and for grouping and matching. Pretty shawl, that. Dyeing doesn’t improve it.’

  A few minutes passed. Blood was still seeping from Firoz’s wound, and his moments of speech, incoherent as they were, were becoming rarer. He appeared to be sinking into deeper shock.

  ‘There’s a little dirt around the wound,’ said one of the house surgeons. ‘We’d better give him an anti-tetanus shot.’ He turned to the policeman. ‘Did you recover the weapon? How long was it? Was it rusty at all?’

  ‘We haven’t recovered the weapon.’

  ‘Sister, some iodine and cetavalon—please swab the area around the wound.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘There’s blood in the mouth. It’s got to be internal injury: stomach possibly, or upper intestine. We can’t handle this. Better call the registrar and alert the senior surgeon on duty. And, Sister, please get the lab to hurry up with that blood report, especially the haemoglobin count.’

  The senior surgeon, when he came down, took one look at Firoz and at the lab report and said: ‘We will have to do an exploratory laparotomy immediately.’

  ‘I need to get an FIR—’ said the Sub-Inspector aggressively, nudging his moustache with the back of his fist. The First Information Report was often the most important document in the case, and it was good to have a solid one, preferably from the victim’s mouth.

  The senior surgeon looked at him in cold incredulity. ‘This man is not capable of speech now, nor will he be capable of speech for another twelve hours once he is under anaesthetic. And even after that—assuming he lives—you will not be allowed to examine him for at least twenty-four hours. Get your FIR from whoever found him. Or else wait. And, if you wish, hope.’

  The Sub-Inspector was used to the rudeness of doctors, having come into contact—as had most policemen in Brahmpur at one time or other—with Dr Kishen Chand Seth. He took no offence. He knew that doctors and policemen viewed ‘cases’ in a different light. Besides, he was a realist. He had told the tonga-wallah to wait outside. Now that he knew that Firoz would not be able to speak further, he decided that he would get his First Information Report from the man who had in fact given him his first information.

  ‘Well, thank you, Doctor Sahib, for the advice,’ said the Sub-Inspector. ‘If the police doctor comes, could he examine the patient for the medical report?’

  ‘We’ll do all that ourselves,’ said the senior surgeon, unmollified. ‘The patient has to be saved, not endlessly examined. Leave the forms here.’ He said to the Sister: ‘Who is the anaesthetist on duty? Dr Askari? The patient is in shock, so we’d better use atropine for pre-anaesthetic. We’ll wheel him into the theatre now. Who did the cut down procedure?’

  ‘I did, Sir,’ said one of the house surgeons proudly.

  ‘Untidy job,’ said the senior surgeon bluntly. ‘Has Dr Khan come yet? Or the Nawab Sahib? We need signatures on those permissions.’

  Neither Firoz’s brother nor father had arrived yet.

  ‘Well, we can’t wait,’ said the senior surgeon. And Firoz was wheeled through the corridors of the Civil Hospital into the operating theatre.

  The Nawab Sahib and Imtiaz arrived too late to see him being wheeled in. The Nawab Sahib was virtually in a state of shock himself.

  ‘Let me see him,’ he said to Imtiaz.

  Imtiaz put his arm around his father’s shoulder, and said: ‘Abba-jaan, that’s not possible. He’ll be all right, I know. Bhatia is doing the operation. Askari is the anaesthetist. They’re both very good.’

  ‘Who would want to do this to Firoz?’ said the old man.

  Imtiaz shrugged. His face was grim. ‘He didn’t tell you where he was going this evening, did he?’ he asked his father.

  ‘No,’ said the Nawab Sahib. After a pause he said, ‘But Maan’s in town. He might know.’

  ‘All in good time, Abba-jaan. Don’t agitate yourself.’

  ‘On Cornwallis Road,’ said the Nawab Sahib incredulously. Then he covered his face with his hands and started weeping softly. After a while he said: ‘We should tell Zainab.’

  ‘All in good time, Abba-jaan, all in good time. Let’s wait till the operation is over and we know how things have gone.’

  It was almost midnight. The two of them remained outside the operating theatre. The smell of the hospital began to panic the Nawab Sahib. Occasionally a colleague would walk past and greet Imtiaz or commiserat
e with him and his father. The news of the attack on Firoz must have got around, because a reporter from the Brahmpur Chronicle turned up at just after midnight. Imtiaz was tempted to tell him to buzz off, but decided to answer a few short questions instead. The more publicity Firoz got, he decided, the more likely it was that someone who may have noticed something would come forward with a clue.

  At about one o’clock, the doctors emerged from the operating theatre. They looked tired. It was impossible to read Dr Bhatia’s expression. But when he saw Imtiaz, he drew a deep breath and said:

  ‘It’s good to see you, Dr Khan. I hope it will be all right. He was in severe shock when we operated, but we couldn’t wait. And it’s a good thing we didn’t. We did the usual laparotomy. There was severe laceration of the small intestine, and we had to perform several anastomoses, apart from cleaning out the abdominal cavity. That’s why it took us so long.’ He turned to the Nawab Sahib. ‘Your handsome son is now the proud possessor of a handsome seven-inch scar. I hope he will be all right. I am sorry we couldn’t wait for your permission to anaesthetize and operate.’

  ‘May I—’ began the Nawab Sahib.

  ‘What about—’ said Imtiaz simultaneously.

  ‘What about what?’ said Bhatia to Imtiaz.

  ‘What about the danger of sepsis, of peritonitis?’

  ‘Well, let us pray that that has been averted. There was quite a mess inside. But we will keep a close watch. We have given him penicillin. I am sorry, Nawab Sahib, what were you about to say?’

  ‘May I speak to him?’ said the old man falteringly. ‘I know he will want to speak to me.’

  Dr Bhatia smiled. ‘Well, he is still under chloroform. If he does say something, you may not be able to make much sense of it. But you might find it interesting. Indeed, people have no idea what interesting things they say under anaesthesia. Your son kept talking about his sister.’

  ‘Imtiaz, you must call Zainab,’ said the Nawab Sahib.

  ‘I’ll do that at once, Abba. Dr Bhatia, we cannot thank you enough.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all. I only hope they get whoever did this. A single incision, the work of a second, and I don’t mind telling you, Dr Khan, if they hadn’t brought him to us directly, we would not have been able to save him. Indeed—’ He stopped.

  ‘Indeed, what?’ said Imtiaz sharply.

  ‘Indeed, it’s odd that what one person does in a second can take seven of us—and all this—three hours to undo.’

  ‘What did he say?’ said the Nawab Sahib to Imtiaz when Dr Bhatia had taken his leave. ‘What did they do to Firoz?’

  ‘Nothing very exciting, Abba,’ said Imtiaz, attempting reassurance. ‘They cut out the injured parts of his intestinal loops, and joined the healthy parts together again. But we have yards and yards of the stuff, so Firoz won’t miss what he’s lost.’

  In the event, his reply sounded flippant, and far from reassuring to his father.

  ‘So he’s all right?’ said the Nawab Sahib, searching Imtiaz’s face.

  Imtiaz paused, then said: ‘His chances are good, Abba. There were no complications. The only concern now is infection, and we can deal with that much better now than we could just a few years ago. Don’t worry. I am sure he will be well. Inshallah.’

  17.16

  The Sub-Inspector would have followed up the trail of Firoz’s words the next morning if it had not been the case that a trail of his blood led to within a few yards of Saeeda Bai’s gate. When informed of this, he decided to act at once. Together with Bihari and another constable, he arrived at Saeeda Bai’s door. The watchman, who had been questioned in a threatening manner by the policemen earlier, and who had himself been perplexed and worried by the events of the night, admitted that he had seen both the Nawabzada and Kapoor Sahib from Prem Nivas earlier in the evening, as well as Dr Bilgrami.

  ‘We will need to speak with Saeeda Bai,’ said the Sub-Inspector.

  ‘Daroga Sahib, why not wait till morning?’ suggested the watchman.

  ‘Did you not hear me?’ said the Sub-Inspector, smoothing his moustache like a movie villain.

  The watchman knocked and waited. There was no reply. He rapped at the door a few times with the blunt end of his spear. Bibbo emerged, saw the police, shut the door promptly and latched it.

  ‘Let us in at once,’ said the Sub-Inspector, ‘or we will break down the door. We have questions to ask you about a murder.’

  Bibbo opened the door again. Her face was white. ‘A murder?’ she said.

  ‘Well, an attempt at it. You know what we are talking about. It’s pointless to deny it. The Nawab’s son might have been dead by now but for our prompt action. For all we know he might be dead anyway. We want to talk with you.’

  ‘I know nothing—’

  ‘He was here this evening, and so was Kapoor.’

  ‘Oh—Dagh Sahib,’ said Bibbo, looking daggers at the watchman, who shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Is Saeeda Bai awake?’

  ‘Saeeda Begum is taking her rest, as any respectable citizen of Brahmpur would be doing at this time of night.’

  The Sub-Inspector laughed. ‘As any respectable citizen—’ Again he laughed, and the constables joined in. ‘Wake her up. We have to speak with her here. Unless she would like to come down to the police station.’

  Bibbo made a quick decision. She closed the door once again, and disappeared. About five minutes later, during which time the Sub-Inspector asked the watchman a few questions, she came out again.

  ‘Saeeda Begum will see you upstairs. But she has a bad throat, and cannot speak.’ Saeeda Bai’s room was, as always, in impeccable order, with a clean white sheet laid out on the floor. There was no bowl of fruit, no fruit knife. The three khaki uniforms contrasted absurdly with the scent of attar of roses.

  Saeeda Bai had dressed hastily in a green sari. Her throat was wrapped around with a dupatta. Her voice was a croak, and she tried to avoid speaking. Her smile was as charming as ever.

  At first she denied that there had been any quarrel. But when the Sub-Inspector said that Firoz had mentioned Prem Nivas, and that his presence at Saeeda Bai’s had been corroborated not only by the watchman, who had described his crippled bearing when he had emerged from the house, but also by the physical evidence of an irregular trail of blood, she saw that denial was useless. She agreed that there had been a fight.

  ‘Where did it take place?’

  ‘In this room.’

  ‘Why is there no blood here?’

  Saeeda Bai did not answer.

  ‘What was the weapon?’

  Saeeda Bai remained silent.

  ‘Answer these questions, please. Or else come down to the police station and make your statement there. In any case, we will ask you to confirm these statements in writing tomorrow.’

  ‘It was a fruit knife.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘He took it with him.’

  ‘Who did? The attacker or the victim?’

  ‘Dagh Sahib,’ she managed to croak out. Her hands went to her throat and she looked pleadingly at the policeman.

  ‘What is all this about Prem Nivas?’

  Bibbo intervened: ‘Please, Sub-Inspector Sahib, Saeeda Begum can hardly speak. She has been singing so much, and the weather has been so bad these last few days, what with the dust and the mist, that her throat is very sore.’

  ‘What is all this about Prem Nivas?’ insisted the Sub-Inspector.

  Saeeda Bai shook her head.

  ‘That is where Kapoor lives, is it not?’

  Saeeda Bai nodded.

  ‘It is the Minister Sahib’s house,’ added Bibbo.

  ‘And what is all this about a sister?’ asked the Sub-Inspector.

  Saeeda Bai’s body went rigid for a moment, and she began to tremble. Bibbo gave her a sharp and puzzled glance. Saeeda Bai had turned away. Her shoulders were shaking, and she was crying. But she did not say a word.

  ‘What is all this about a sister?’ repeated th
e policeman with a yawn.

  Saeeda Bai shook her head.

  ‘Haven’t you had enough?’ cried Bibbo. ‘Haven’t you had enough of torturing Saeeda Begum? Why can’t this wait till morning? We will complain to the SP about this. Disturbing decent and respectable citizens—’

  The Sub-Inspector did not mention that the SP had told him to treat this case like any other, but with greater urgency and dispatch. Nor did he make a sarcastic comment, though it did come to his mind, about decent and respectable citizens stabbing each other in their salons.

  But perhaps this specific line of questioning could wait till morning, he thought. Even if matters were not entirely clear, it now was obvious enough to him that Maan Kapoor, the younger son of Mahesh Kapoor, had perpetrated the attack on the Nawabzada. But the Sub-Inspector was in two minds about whether to attempt to arrest him tonight. On the one hand, Prem Nivas, like Baitar House, was one of the great houses of Pasand Bagh, and Mahesh Kapoor one of the great names of the province. For a mere Sub-Inspector to think of rousing that august household in the early hours—and for such a purpose—could be interpreted as the greatest insolence and disrespect. But on the other hand the case was a most serious one. Even if the victim lived, the facts spoke of an attempt at culpable homicide, possibly attempted murder, and certainly grievous hurt.

  He had already gone over several levels of authority to telephone the SP earlier in the night. He could not wake him up now to ask him for further instructions. An additional consideration occurred to the Sub-Inspector and determined his course of action. There was, in cases such as these, the danger of the criminal panicking and absconding. He decided to make the arrest at once.

  17.17

  ‘Panicking and absconding’ was in fact an accurate description of what Maan was doing. He was not at home. It was three o’clock in the morning when the household at Prem Nivas was woken up. Mahesh Kapoor had just come back to town, and was exhausted and irritable. At first he almost threw the police out of his house. But then his indignation turned to disbelief and finally to an appalled concern. He went to call Maan, but did not find him in his room. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor—equally horrified by what had happened to Firoz and fearful for her son—wandered through the house, not knowing what she would do if she found him. Her husband, however, was clear in his mind. He would cooperate with the police. He was surprised that a more senior officer had not come to his house to look for Maan, but the lateness of the hour and the suddenness of events must account for this.