“Claims he studied at Oxford and worked in Manchester and Toronto. And he speaks with what the Indians call a haw-haw accent. Veddy British, in an exaggerated, almost comical way. Sounds like George Sanders.”

Harlan said he’d contact his office back home, as well as Ranjit in Poona. He’d request as much information on Chhotu as they could find. He wrote some more before leaning back in his chair and regarding me with an invasive stare. “And that brings us to your Sushmita.”

I gave him as much history as I knew. I described the way Willy had tried to save her father—who’d been a scientist of some kind—from cancer, and that she’d inherited the two properties from him. Yes, I left out two important details. One, that her father had taught in Lonavala at the naval school and, two, that Sushmita had actually inherited a third property, our love nest in the very same Lonavala. Why had I kept that information to myself? Obviously because I wasn’t sure things were over between us. If, by some miracle, this whole thing got straightened out, I wanted the lifeline to the bungalow to be there. I might have to reveal all to Harlan at some point but, for the moment, it was my secret.

I was sure she hadn’t told Willy about the place. It was her childhood home. And, of course, she was well aware that I knew about it. If they were hiding there, I could easily lead the police to them. No, Willy didn’t know about the bungalow.

Harlan then turned to the subject of Willy.

“He’s Belgian,” I said. “I don’t know where he was born, but he claimed he was in the same class as Jacques Brel in Brussels. The Institut Saint-something.”

“That helps.” He made a note.

“He speaks French, Flemish, English, and German. Probably some Hindi and Marathi.”

“We knew that. But we can’t locate any evidence of him in Belgian records. Maybe the school name will help. Go on.”

Willy smoked Gauloises Bleues and liked wine and whisky. Had two cars: a white Mercedes, which the police had taken after it was stranded in Kharadi, and a blue Ambassador. I gave Harlan the names of all the servants I’d observed, both in Bombay and Poona. But I didn’t know their family names, so I doubted that would help.

“You’re sure the houses are hers, not Smets’s?”

I felt I was betraying her. “Yes,” I croaked. “Hers. The money and—I’m pretty sure—everything else is his.”

“Did you see any evidence of his business dealings in the Poona house?” he asked.

I tried to recall. Nothing came to mind except his meetings with Chhotu. Then I remembered. “There was an Australian guy named Clive who came to the house one day. There seemed to be some tension between them.”

“Do you know Clive’s last name?”