He would have spat out the snack if he hadn’t already chewed and swallowed it. Instead, he went to the kitchen and rinsed his mouth out with water. Once he’d returned, he lectured me on serving guests the food servants ate. It wasn’t hygienic, he said. After several minutes and a couple of swigs of whisky to kill the germs, he regained his calm.

“Speaking of Ramu,” I said, “I could have sworn I saw him the other night. Near the President Hotel.”

“Could be. He comes and goes.”

“So when can he come back to work for me?”

“Araamse,” he said, then translated. “Not so fast. He’s still of use to us. Remarkable fellow, that Ramu. Smart, nice-looking, and fair. You don’t see that often in a servant.”

“But you still won’t eat his food.”

He softened a bit. “You’re new here, Dan. You don’t understand how things work. The servants have their place for a reason. And we don’t mix things up by sharing food and friendly chats with them.”

I let his comment slide, then noted that I could offer him more than stale snacks if I had Ramu back. He scowled and said he’d see.

“Where did you get this whisky?” he asked, changing course. “I don’t see any tax strip on the bottle. You’re not buying from smugglers, are you?”

“Me? Smugglers? I wouldn’t know where to find them. This was a gift from a friend.”

He finished the last of his drink, wiped his mouth and mustache with his fingers, and stood to leave. “Thanks for the whisky, Dan. I’ll send the bhoot back to you tomorrow. If you’re feeling grateful, a bottle of that imported booze would be nice.”

I saw him to the door, where he paused and asked me if I’d managed to recall anything else about Bikas the bomber. I offered a helpless shrug as an answer. Then I asked him how he’d found out about my meeting with Bikas in the first place.

“I had a nice talk with a fellow named Gopal at the university,” he said. “He was very helpful.”

He pulled his cap on, then opened the door to leave. Sushmita was just exiting the lift. Shit.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SUNDAY, JULY 6, 1975, 8:22 P.M.

“Why do you have policemen visiting you?” asked Sushmita once we were safely alone inside my flat.

“He’s been harassing me about that bomber story. This cop wants to find him. But now he’s taken to making social calls.”

“You’re a man of mystery, Danny,” she said.

“Has he … Has Willy left?”

“Yes, several hours ago.”

“He’s going back to Poona, then?”

“I have no idea. He doesn’t tell me about his business.”

“If he left hours ago, why didn’t you come see me earlier?”