Then, with little to eat or drink in the house, I made do with toast and tea. I settled in to watch a Marathi-language serial on the crappy TV set, wondering what the hell the family in the show was getting so dramatic about. They looked healthy and well off. But the grown daughter and the mother were constantly crying. And the severe father looked like a stroke was in his future.

The doorbell rang. I glanced at my watch: 9:12. Peering through the eyehole, I saw a slight young man with a skinny mustache. He looked familiar. Then I placed him. It was Sandip, Willy Smets’s manservant. Was that a better word for it? I couldn’t tell anymore. He was bearing a large plastic tray with three heavy bowls and a bag of something lying flat.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “From Willy sahib.”

“Come in, Sandip. Put the tray down on the table.”

He did as I asked, but not before slipping out of his sandals, which he left on the landing. Once he’d placed the gifts on the table and rubbed some blood back into his arms, he produced a small envelope from his pocket.

“From Willy sahib,” he repeated.

After a cursory namaste, he left, pausing only to step back into his sandals. I bolted the door and sliced open the envelope. The note was from Willy, but written in a woman’s hand. I smelled sandalwood on the paper, and wondered if Sushmita was wearing it or if they’d been burning incense up in the penthouse.

Danny Boy,

We are back from Poona, and I am worried about you. You’ve no help. The durwan told us your servant was arrested, and you’re at work all day. I’m sure you’ve nothing to eat in the flat, so I’m sending you some dinner. And a little drink to enjoy with it.

Since you have no servant, please join us tomorrow evening at nine for cocktails. Bring a guest if you like. We will be eleven or twelve at dinner, which will be served at ten thirty.

Cheers, Willy

Inside the bag was a liter of Chivas Regal scotch. Damn good stuff. And, given the difficulty in finding foreign spirits in Bombay, I didn’t want to waste it washing down a spicy Indian meal, no matter how delicious. And it smelled great. No, whisky would not do justice to a hungry man’s dinner. I’d save it for another time.

I unwrapped the plates with care. Taped to the edge of each bowl was a label—again in a woman’s hand—to identify the dishes by name. Without the cheat sheets I’d never have known what I was eating. I spooned out an aromatic pulao, some baingan bharta—smoky eggplant—a Maharashtrian varan, and rajma masala, a rich kidney bean dish in gravy. Pure veg, as the restaurants advertised.