She pulled over at the next petrol bunk, where, reaching for something in the glove compartment, she asked if I knew how to change a tire. We climbed out of the car. I examined the four tires and pointed out that they were all fine, properly inflated, and didn’t need changing.

She crouched next to the driver’s-side rear tire and plunged a screwdriver into the tread. “What about this one?” she asked.

“Why would you give yourself a flat tire on purpose?”

“Because it will confirm the story of why our clothes are wet and dirty. We had a puncture and had to change the tire in the driving rain. By the time you’d figured out how to work the jack, I was too annoyed to continue driving. We decided to spend the night in the car.”

“In the car?” I asked. “Why not say we went to the bungalow?”

“Willy doesn’t know anything about the bungalow. And he’s not going to know. Understood, Danny?”

I unbolted the tire and switched it with the spare in the trunk. It only took me ten minutes. My first car had been an old Chevy Nova with bald tires, which, for some reason, blew out one by one in the weeks after I’d bought it. I became an expert grease monkey thanks to that crappy car and its tires.

“Rub your trousers and shirt from last night on the punctured tire,” she said. “And mine too.”

“Why?”

“If we changed the tire last night, our clothes would surely have grease stains. You’re really useless sometimes.”

Sushmita had some soap, and using the water and the cloth from the night before, I scrubbed my hands mostly clean. She said a little black under my fingernails would make our story more believable.

The thoroughness of her lie impressed and troubled me at the same time. Why, for example, didn’t Willy know she owned a bungalow in Lonavala? It sat only a couple of miles from the Bombay-Poona Road, which he drove regularly. Surely he might occasionally need to stop for the night on his trips. Why not there?

Another question nagging me was whether her deviousness was a skill she’d developed over time or a spontaneous stroke of inspiration. Either way, she was damn good at it.

We rehearsed our story and vetted it for holes. Then it was time to get moving again. I fastened my lap belt and encouraged her to wear hers. But she declined.

“Why wouldn’t you use it?” I asked. “It’s there for your safety.”

“Because if I’m strapped down, I can’t do this.” She leaned over and planted her warm mouth on mine for a long kiss. “Any more questions?”

SATURDAY, JULY 12, 1975, 12:07 P.M.