I settled on the sofa and watched as Ramu placed my whisky before me. He mimed a question to ask how much ice I wanted. I held up two fingers, and he fulfilled the request.

“Now sit,” he said. “Take rest. Khana, bis minnit,” and he showed ten fingers twice. Twenty minutes.

I resolved to put myself in his capable hands and enjoy the drink he’d poured me. If I’d been able to listen to some Oscar Peterson—maybe with some air-conditioning—the tableau would have been perfect. I tried to avoid thinking of Sushmita, three floors above, probably still stewing at me for my remarks about her flat. What a jerk I’d been. And yet, I can’t deny, I still wondered whose place it was. She hadn’t exactly cleared up the mystery. And the residents’ board in the lobby listed Willy Smets, not Sushmita Deshpande, as the owner.

Twenty minutes later, more or less, Ramu delivered on his promise of khana. He brought out the dishes one after the other and placed them on the Formica dining table. There was pulao—rice and peas—dal, chole, and bhindi—okra—and a salad of onion, tomato, and cucumber. He laid out a variety of pickle, a sort of spicy relish. As I dug in, the bhoot reappeared with, of all things, a bottle of wine. Who knew if it was any good, given the heat and the wretched storage conditions? I gave it a try and was not disappointed. Not the best thing that had ever passed my lips, but it tasted like wine.

“Tell me, Ramu,” I said, as he cleared the dishes onto a platter. “Where did you get all this food and wine?”

He didn’t seem to understand, claiming—I believe—that it had come from the kitchen. He’d cooked it.

“No, I mean the money. Paise. Where did you get the money to buy everything? Surely I owe you.”

“Money?” he asked. “Sir has gave. No issues.”

Sir was Lokhande, I figured, and let it drop. I’d pay back the cop the next time I saw him. He’d named his price, after all. A bottle of Chivas Regal.