‘It must have been a good tamasha,’ said the subinspector with a grin. ‘We will have some more. I am going to release Malli’s men.’

The constable looked puzzled. Before he could ask any questions, the subinspector dismissed him with a lordly wave of the hand.

‘Policy, you know! You will learn when you have been in the service as long as I have. Go and see if the head constable has had his tea. Say it is important.’

A little later the head constable arrived, belching contentment. He had the smug expression of one ready to protest against any commendation of his efficiency. The subinspector ignored the modest smile the other wore and asked him to shut the door and sit down. The head constable’s expression changed from contentment to concern. He shut the door and stood on the other side of the table. ‘Yes, sir. What are the orders?’

‘Sit down. Sit down,’ the subinspector said. His voice was cool. ‘There is no hurry.’

The head constable sat down.

The subinspector rotated the sharp end of a pencil in his ear and examined the brown wax which stuck to it. He got a cigarette out of his pocket and tapped its tip on the matchbox several times before lighting it. He sucked it noisily. The smoke poured out of his nostrils, rebounded off the table and spread into the room.

‘Head Constable Sahib,’ he said at last, removing a tiny bit of tobacco from his tongue. ‘Head Constable Sahib, there are lots of things to be done today, and I want you to do them personally.’

‘Yes. sir,’ answered the head constable gravely.

‘First, take Malli and his men to Mano Majra. Release them where the villagers can see them being released. Near the temple, perhaps. Then inquire casually from the villagers if anyone has seen Sultana or any of his gang about. You need not say why. Just make the inquires.’

‘But, sir, Sultana and his lot went away to Pakistan. Everyone knows that.’

The Inspector put the end of his pencil in his ear again and rubbed the wax on the table. He took a couple of pulls at the cigarette and this time pouted his lips and sent jets of smoke bounding off the register into the head constable’s face.

‘I do not know that Sultana has gone to Pakistan. Anyway, he left after the dacoity in Mano Majra. There is no harm in asking the villagers if they know when he left, is there?’

The head constable’s face lit up.

‘I understand, sir. Are there any other orders?’

‘Yes. Also inquire from the villagers if they know anything about the mischief the Muslim Leaguer Iqbal had been up to when he was in Mano Majra.’

The head constable looked puzzled again.

‘Sir, the Babu’s name is Iqbal Singh. He is a Sikh. He has been living in England and had his long hair cut.’