He’d come back empty-handed, but a servant—Govind, I presumed—followed a moment later, bearing a tray with two glasses, a large ice bucket, and a chilled green bottle of wine. Once he’d placed the tray on the low table in front of Sushmita, he asked her in Hindi what she would like. She said simply, “Kuch nahin.” Govind wagged his head and withdrew.

“What’s that?” I asked, trying once more to prove my sophistication, and sure I’d get it right this time. “Fresh lime soda?”

She snorted a tiny laugh through her nose. “Oh, Danny, no. Kuch nahin is Hindi for nothing.”

Stinging from my faux pas, I turned to Willy, who was now pouring us each a glass of Vouvray. Maybe he didn’t trust Govind to serve it. Or maybe he wanted to hold on to one of his European pleasures, that of being the one in charge of the wine.

“Danny, this story of the bomber is fantastic,” said Willy as he handed me my glass. “Have you approached the police?”

“Not yet.”

“Why don’t you speak to your inspector friend?” asked Sushmita.

“I suppose I’ll have to,” I said. “When I go back to Bombay.”

“You sound reluctant,” said Willy. “Why?”

“I wonder if he suspects I have a photograph of the bomber and I’m withholding evidence.”

“And, of course, you do.”

“Right. What if he throws me in jail until I cooperate?”

“Oh, no. You don’t want to spend any time in an Indian prison. Trust me.”

“Are you saying you’ve been in jail here yourself?”

“Goodness, no. But I had a friend, Pier Mertens. He was arrested for drugs. Now, of course, he’s gone. He died nearly twenty years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Willy shrugged. “Never mind. Now we must worry about your problem, Danny Boy.”

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “You will stay here for a while. No one knows where you are. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can find out what that inspector’s intentions are.”

“How?”

He bent over to retrieve the bottle from the bucket and refreshed our drinks. “I’m a member of the Cuffe Parade Residents’ Association,” he said. “We often meet with the police on matters of safety. I will make some inquiries.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Willy,” I said, recalling exactly how I’d thanked him the night before.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SATURDAY, JULY 12, 1975, 8:01 P.M.

I’d spent the afternoon by myself. Sushmita and I couldn’t exactly fraternize freely. Even if Willy hadn’t been there, the house staff—the guard at the gate, Govind, and the cook, Kamal—would always be a concern. Willy graciously invited me to phone my office to offer an explanation of my absence. He reminded me not to mention where I was.