19
OUR LADY OF VICTORIES
Another Author in Search of an Ending
The second Mrs. Dogar also suspected Dhar of unconventional sexual interests. It was frustrating to the former Rahul that Inspector Dhar had not returned the recently married woman's attentions. And although both the disapproving Mr. Sethna and Dr. Daruwalla had observed the unrequited flirtations of Mrs. Dogar, neither gentleman had truly appreciated the seriousness of Mrs. Dogar's designs. The former Rahul did not suffer rejection lightly.
While Farrokh had been struggling to begin his first artistic screenplay, his first quality picture, the second Mrs. Dogar had also undertaken the first draft of a story-in-progress; she had hatched a plot. Last night at the Duckworth Club, the second Mrs. Dogar had loudly denounced her husband for having had too much to drink. Mr. Dogar had had no more than his usual one whiskey and two beers; he was surprised at his wife's accusations.
"This is your night to drive--this is my night to drink!" Mrs. Dogar had said.
She'd spoken distinctly, and deliberately in the presence of the ever-disapproving Mr. Sethna--one waiter and one busboy had overheard her, too--and she'd chosen to utter her criticism at a lull in the other conversations in the Ladies' Garden, where the grieving Bannerjees were the only Duckworthians still dining.
The Bannerjees had been having a late, sober dinner; the murder of Mr. Lal had upset Mrs. Bannerjee too much to cook, and her intermittent conversation with her husband had concerned what efforts they might make to comfort Mr. Lal's widow. The Bannerjees would never have guessed that the second Mrs. Dogar's rude outburst was as premeditated as her intentions to soon join Mrs. Lal in the state of widowhood. Rahul had married Mr. Dogar out of eagerness to become his widow.
Also deliberately, Mrs. Dogar had turned to Mr. Sethna and said, "My dear Mr. Sethna, would you kindly call us a taxi? My husband is in no condition to drive us home."
"Promila, please ..." Mr. Dogar began to say.
"Give me your keys," Mrs. Dogar commanded him. "You can take a taxi with me or you can call your own taxi, but you're not driving a car."
Sheepishly, Mr. Dogar handed her his ring of keys.
"Now just sit here--don't get up and wander around," Mrs. Dogar told him. Mrs. Dogar herself stood up. "Wait for me," she ordered her husband--the rejected designated driver. When Mr. Dogar was alone, he glanced at the Bannerjees, who looked away; not even the waiter would look at the condemned drunk, and the busboy had slunk into the circular driveway to smoke a cigarette.
Rahul timed how long everything took. He--or, rather, she (if outward anatomy is the measure of a man or a woman)--walked into the men's room by the door from the foyer. She knew no one could be in the men's room, for none of the wait-staff were permitted to use it--except Mr. Sethna, who so disapproved of peeing with the hired help that he made uncontested use of the facilities marked FOR MEMBERS ONLY. The old steward was more in charge of the Duckworth Club than any member. But Mrs. Dogar knew that Mr. Sethna was busy calling a taxi.
Since she'd become a woman, Mrs. Dogar didn't regret not using the men's room at the Duckworth Club; its decor wasn't as pleasing to her as the ladies' room--Rahul loathed the men's room wallpaper. She found the tiger-hunting motif brutal and stupid.
She moved past the urinals, the toilet stalls, the sinks for shaving, and into the darkened locker room, which extended to the clubhouse and the clubhouse bar; these latter facilities were never in use at night, and Mrs. Dogar wanted to be sure that she could navigate their interiors in darkness. The big windows of frosted glass admitted the moonlight that reflected from the tennis courts and the swimming pool, which was presently under repair and not in service; it was an empty cement-lined hole with some construction debris in the deep end, and the members were already betting that it wouldn't be ready for use in the hotter months ahead.
Mrs. Dogar had sufficient moonlight to unlock the rear door to the clubhouse; she found the right key in less than a minute--then she relocked the door. This was just a test. She also found Mr. Dogar's locker and unlocked it; it took the smallest key on the ring, and Mrs. Dogar discovered that she could easily find this key by touch. She unlocked and relocked the locker by touch, too, although she could see everything in the moonlight; one night, she might not have the moon.
Rahul could quite clearly make out the shrine of old golf clubs displayed on the wall. These were the clubs of famous Golfers Past and of some living, less famous Duckworthians who had retired from active play. Mrs. Dogar needed to assure herself that these clubs could be easily removed from the wall. After all, it had been a while since Rahul had visited the men's locker room; she hadn't been there since she'd been a boy. When she'd handled a few of the clubs to her satisfaction, she went back into the men's room--after assuring herself that neither Mr. Sethna nor Mr. Bannerjee was using the facilities. She knew her husband wouldn't leave the table in the Ladies' Garden; he did what he was told.
When she could see (from the men's room) that there was no one in the foyer, she returned to the Ladies' Garden. She went directly to the Bannerjees' table--they weren't friends of the Dogars's--and she whispered to them, "I'm sorry for my outspokenness. But when he's like this, he's virtually a baby--he's so senile, he's not to be trusted. And not only in a car. One night, after dinner--he had all his clothes on--I stopped him just before he dove into the club pool."
"The empty pool?" said Mr. Bannerjee.
"I'm glad you understand," Mrs. Dogar replied. "That's what I'm talking about. If I don't treat him like a child, he'll hurt himself!"
Then she went to her husband, leaving the Bannerjees with this impression of Mr. Dogar's senility and self-destructiveness --for her husband being found dead in the deep end of the club's empty pool was one of the possible outcomes for the first draft that the second Mrs. Dogar was hard at work on. She was merely foreshadowing, as any good storyteller does. She also knew that she should set up other options, and these alternative endings were already in her mind.
"I hate to treat you like this, darling, but just sit tight while I see about our cab," Mrs. Dogar told her husband. He was bewildered. Although his second wife was in her fifties, she was a young woman in comparison to what Mr. Dogar had been used to; the old gentleman was in his seventies--he'd been a widower for the last 10 years. He supposed these swings of mood were characteristic among younger women. He wondered if perhaps he had drunk too much. He did remember that his new wife had lost a brother to an automobile accident in Italy; he just couldn't recall if alcohol had been the cause of the wreck.
Now Rahul was off whispering to Mr. Sethna, who disapproved of women whispering to men--for whatever reason.
"My dear Mr. Sethna," the second Mrs. Dogar said. "I do hope you'll forgive my aggressive behavior, but he's simply not fit to wander about the club--much less drive a car. I'm sure he's the one who's been killing the flowers."
Mr. Sethna was shocked by this allegation, but he was also eager to believe it was true. Something or someone was killing the flowers. An undiagnosed blight had struck patches of the bougainvillea. The head mali was stymied. Here, at last, was an answer: Mr. Dogar had been pissing on the flowers!
"He's ... incontinent?" Mr. Sethna inquired.
"Not at all," said Mrs. Dogar. "He's doing it deliberately."
"He wants to kill the flowers?" Mr, Sethna asked.
"I'm glad you understand," Mrs. Dogar replied. "Poor man." With a wave, she indicated the surrounding golf course. "Naturally, he wanders out there only after dark. Like a dog, he always goes to the same spots!"
"Territorial, I suppose," said Mr. Sethna.
"I'm glad you understand," Mrs. Dogar said. "Now, where's our cab?"
In the taxi, old Mr. Dogar looked as if he wasn't sure if he should apologize or complain. But, before he could decide, his younger wife once more surprised him.
"Oh, darling, never let me treat you like that again--at least not in public. I'm so ashamed!" she cried. "They'll think
I bully you. You mustn't let me. If I ever tell you that you can't drive a car again, here's what you must do ... are you listening, or are you too drunk?" Mrs. Dogar asked him.
"No ... I mean yes, I'm listening," Mr. Dogar said. "No, I'm not too drunk," the old man assured her.
"You must throw the keys on the floor and make me pick them up, as if I were your servant," Mrs. Dogar told him.
"What?" he asked.
"Then tell me that you always carry an extra set of keys and that you'll drive the car home, when and if you choose. Then tell me to go--tell me you wouldn't drive me home if I begged you!" Mrs. Dogar cried.
"But, Promila, I would never ..." Mr. Dogar began to say, but his wife cut him off.
"Just promise me one thing--never back down to me," she told him. Then she seized his face in her hands and kissed him on his mouth. "First, you should tell me to take a taxi--you just carry on sitting at the dinner table, as if you're smoldering with rage. Then you should go to the men's room and wash your face."
"Wash my face?" said Mr. Dogar with surprise.
"I can't stand the smell of food on your face, darling," Mrs. Dogar told her husband. "Just wash your face--soap and warm water. Then come home to me. I'll be waiting for you. That's how I want you to treat me. Only you must wash your face first. Promise me."
It had been years since Mr. Dogar had been so aroused, nor had he ever been so confused. It was difficult to understand a younger woman, he decided--yet surely worth it.
This was a pretty good first draft, Rahul felt certain. The next time, Mr. Dogar would do as he was told. He would be abusive to her and tell her to go. But she would take the taxi no farther than the access road to the Duckworth Club, or perhaps three quarters of the length of the driveway--just out of the reach of the overhead lamps. She'd tell the driver to wait for her because she'd forgotten her purse. Then she'd cross the first green of the golf course and enter the clubhouse through the rear door, which she would have previously unlocked. She'd take off her shoes and cross the dark locker room and wait there until she heard her husband washing his face. She'd either kill him with a single blow from one of the "retired" golf clubs in the locker room, or (if possible) kill him by lifting his head by his hair and smashing his skull against the sink. Her preference for the latter method was because she preferred the swimming-pool ending. She'd be careful to clean the sink; then Mrs. Dogar would drag her husband's body out the rear door of the clubhouse and dump him in the deep end of the empty pool. She wouldn't keep her taxi waiting long--at the most, 10 minutes.
But killing him with a golf club would certainly be easier. After she had clubbed her husband to death, she would put a two-rupee note in his mouth and stuff his body in his locker. The note, which Mrs. Dogar already carried in her purse, displayed a typed message on the serial-number side of the money.
... BECAUSE DHAR IS STILL A MEMBER
It was an intriguing decision--which ending Rahul would choose--for although she liked the appearance of the "accidental" death in the deep end of the pool, she also favored the attention-getting murder of another Duckworthian, especially if Inspector Dhar didn't give up his membership. The second Mrs. Dogar was quite sure that Dhar wouldn't resign, at least not without another killing to coax him into it.
The Way It Happened to Mr. Lal
It was an embarrassed and exhausted-looking Mr. Dogar who appeared at the Duckworth Club before 7:00 the next morning, looking every inch the portrait of a hangover. But it wasn't alcohol that had wrecked him. Mrs. Dogar had made violent love to him the previous night; she'd scarcely waited for the taxi to depart their driveway, or for Mr. Dogar to unlock the door--she'd given him back his keys. They were fortunate that the servants didn't mistake them for intruders, for Mrs. Dogar had pounced on her husband in the front hall; she'd torn the clothes off both of them while they were still on the first floor of the house. Then she'd made the old man run up the stairs after her, and she'd straddled him on the bedroom floor; she wouldn't let him crawl a few feet farther so that they could do it on the bed--nor had she once volunteered to relinquish the top position.
This was, of course, another first-draft possibility ... that old Mr. Dogar would suffer a heart attack while Rahul was deliberately overexciting him. But the second Mrs. Dogar had resolved that she wouldn't wait as long as a year for this "natural" ending to occur. It was simply too boring. If it happened soon, fine. If not, there was always the golf-club, locker-room ending; in this version, it amused the second Mrs. Dogar to imagine how they might finally find the body.
She would report that her husband had not come home for the night. They would find his car in the Duckworth Club parking lot. The wait-staff would relate what had transpired after the Dogars had eaten their dinner; doubtless, Mr. Sethna would convey more intimate information. It was possible that no one would think to look for Mr. Dogar in his locker until the body began to stink.
But the swimming-pool version also intrigued Rahul, The Bannerjees would confide to the authorities that such a dive in the pool was reputed to be the old fool's inclination. Mrs. Dogar herself could always say, "I told you so." For Rahul, the hard part about this version would be maintaining a straight face. And the rumor that old Mr. Dogar was pissing on the bougainvillea was already established.
When the ashamed Mr. Dogar appeared at the Duckworth Club to claim his car, he spoke in apologetic tones to the disapproving Mr. Sethna, to whom the very idea of urinating outdoors was repugnant.
"Did I seem especially drunk to you, Mr. Sethna?" Mr. Dogar asked the venerable steward. "I'm really very sorry ... if I behaved insensitively."
"Nothing happened, really," Mr. Sethna replied coldly. He'd already spoken to the head mali about the bougainvillea. The fool gardener confirmed that there were only isolated patches of the blight. The dead spots in the bougainvillea bordered the green at the fifth and the ninth holes; both these greens were out of sight of the Duckworth Club dining room and the clubhouse--also, they couldn't be seen from the Ladies' Garden. As for that bougainvillea which surrounded the Ladies' Garden, there was only one dead patch and it was suspiciously in a spot that was out of sight from any of the club's facilities. Mr. Sethna surmised that this gave credence to Mrs. Dogar's urine theory--poor old Mr. Dogar was peeing on the flowers!
It would never have occurred to the old steward that a woman--not even as vulgar a member of the species as Mrs. Dogar--could be the pissing culprit. But the killer was no amateur at foreshadowing. She'd been systematically murdering the bougainvillea for months. One of many things that the new Mrs. Dogar liked about wearing dresses was that it was comfortable not to wear underwear. The only thing Rahul missed about having a penis was how convenient it had been to pee outdoors. But her penchant for pissing on certain out-of-the-way plots of the bougainvillea was not whimsical. While in the pursuit of this odd habit, Mrs. Dogar had been mindful of her larger work-in-progress. Even before the unfortunate Mr. Lal had happened upon her while she was squatting in the bougainvillea by the fatal ninth hole (which had long been Mr. Lal's nemesis), Rahul had already made a plan.
In her purse, for weeks, she'd carried the two-rupee note with her first typed message to the Duckworthians: MORE MEMBERS DIE IF DHAR REMAINS A MEMBER. She'd always assumed that the easiest Duckworthian to murder would be someone who stumbled into her in one of her out-of-the-way peeing places. She'd thought it would happen at night--in the darkness. She'd imagined a younger member than Mr. Lal, probably someone who'd drunk too much beer and wandered out on the nighttime golf course--drawn by the same need that had drawn Mrs. Dogar there. She'd imagined a brief flirtation--they were the best kind.
"So! You had to pee, too? If you tell me what you like about doing it outdoors, I'll tell you my reasons!" Or maybe: "What else do you like to do outdoors?"
Mrs. Dogar had also imagined that she might indulge in a kiss and a little fondling; she liked fondling. Then she would kill him, whoever he was, and she'd stick the two-rupee note in his mouth. She'd nev
er strangled a man; with her hand strength, she didn't doubt she could do it. She'd never much liked strangling women--not as much as she enjoyed the pure strength of a blow from a blunt instrument--but she was looking forward to strangling a man because she wanted to see if that old story was true ... if men got erections and ejaculated when they were close to choking to death.
Disappointingly, old Mr. Lal had offered Mrs. Dogar neither the opportunity for a brief flirtation nor the novelty of a strangulation. Rahul was so lazy, she rarely made breakfast for herself. Although he was officially retired, Mr. Dogar left early for his office, and Mrs. Dogar often indulged in an early-morning pee on the golf course--before even the most zealous golfers were on the fairways. Then she'd have her tea and some fruit in the Ladies' Garden and go to her health club to lift weights and skip rope. She'd been surprised by old Mr. Lal's early-morning assault on the bougainvillea at the ninth green.
Rahul had only just finished peeing; she rose up out of the flowers, and there was the old duffer plodding off the green and tripping through the vines. Mr. Lal was searching for a challenging spot in this jungle in which to deposit the stupid golf ball. When he looked up from the flowers, the second Mrs. Dogar was standing directly in front of him. She'd startled him so--for a moment, she thought it would be unnecessary to kill him. He clutched his chest and staggered away from her.
"Mrs. Dogar!" he cried. "What's happened to you? Has someone ... molested you?" Thus he gave her the idea; after all, her dress was still hiked up to her hips. Clearly distraught, she wriggled her dress down. (She would change into a sari for lunch.)
"Oh, Mr. Lal! Thank God it's you!" she cried. "I've been ... taken advantage of!" she told him.
"What a world, Mrs. Dogar! But how may I assist you? Help!" the old man shouted out.