Good luck to him, I thought. I had nothing to hide. And he’d never find the blackmail note since Sushmita had burned it long ago.

A little after five, the white Mercedes pulled through the gate. Willy and Sushmita stepped out as a light rain fell. Govind, Chhotu, and I met them in the yard. Willy was all smiles. Sushmita kept her guard up in the company of the odious Chhotu.

Willy and Sushmita emerged from their rooms around six thirty, bathed and refreshed. Govind inquired if they were hungry or thirsty after their journey. Willy was ready for a drink. Would Chhotu and I join him? The big fella volunteered to lead the charge.

“What about you, Sushmita?” I asked. “Will you have something? A fresh lime soda?”

She smiled and told me she’d rather have a kuch nahin.

“Afraid I don’t follow, old girl,” said Chhotu.

“Do you find me old?” she asked, and he blushed.

Govind served Willy an Aperol, something nonalcoholic to Sushmita, and presented me with my usual. He gave Chhotu a large pour of the Macallan.

“How did you find Bombay?” asked Chhotu.

“As always,” said Willy. “Raining like hell. You weren’t too bored here, Danny Boy?”

“Not at all. I hope you don’t mind that I asked Govind to drive me around.”

Willy dismissed my concerns. “Of course not. He’s an excellent guide.”

“I meant to ask you what you thought of the Dagdusheth Ganpati Temple,” said Chhotu. “You must tell us, Dan.”

“It was quite moving,” I said, wondering how he knew I’d gone to the temple in the first place. Had he been following me? Or maybe Govind had spilled the beans.

I received no visit that night. Sushmita must have felt it impossible under the circumstances. I lay awake in bed until one, picking through the Wodehouse without any real enthusiasm. As I switched off the light, I happened to recall that Nixon had resigned exactly one year earlier on the ninth. It wasn’t lost on me that he might have attempted to hold on, maybe even seize power, much the way Mrs. Gandhi had done. But he hadn’t. He’d resigned. How sad was it that Richard Nixon had set the integrity standard higher than the Indian PM?

SATURDAY, AUGUST 9, 1975, 9:53 A.M.

It was nearly 10:00 by the time I’d made myself presentable for the world. I found Willy and Sushmita at the dining table, each reading a newspaper.

“Good morning,” I said. “Where’s our friend Chhotu?”

“Back to Bombay,” answered Willy.

“No rest for the wicked.”

Willy looked up from his paper and regarded me closely for a long moment. Then he spoke.

“May I have a word with you after breakfast, Danny?” he said. “I’d like to ask you for a favor.”

“Of course.”