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“I’m not writing another Inspector Dhar movie,” Farrokh informed the actor. “I’m going to have a press conference and identify myself as the man responsible for Inspector Dhar’s creation. I want to call an end to it, and let you off the hook—so to speak. If you don’t mind,” the doctor added uncertainly.
“Of course I don’t mind,” John D. said. “But you should let the real policeman find the real murderer—you don’t want to interfere with that.”
“Well, I won’t!” Dr. Daruwalla said defensively. “But if you’d only come to lunch … I just thought you might remember something. You have an eye for detail, you know.”
“What sort of detail have you got in mind?” John D. asked.
“Well, anything you might remember about Rahul, or about that time in Goa. I don’t know, really—just anything!” Farrokh said.
“I remember the hippie,” said Inspector Dhar. He began with his memory of her weight; after all, he’d carried her down the stairs of the Hotel Bardez and into the lobby. She was very solid. She’d looked into his eyes the whole time, and there was her fragrance—he knew she’d just had a bath.
Then, in the lobby, she’d said, “If it’s not too much trouble, you could do me a big favor.” She’d showed him the dildo without removing it from her rucksack; Dhar remembered its appalling size, and the head of the thing pointing at him. “The tip unscrews,” Nancy had told him; she was still watching his eyes. “But I’m just not strong enough.” It was screwed together so tightly, he needed to grip the big cock in both hands. And then she stopped him, as soon as he’d loosened the tip. “That’s enough,” she told him. “I’m going to spare you,” she said too softly. “You don’t want to know what’s inside the thing.”
It had been quite a challenge—to meet her eyes, to stare her down. John D. had focused on the idea of the big dildo inside her; he believed that she would see in his eyes what he was thinking. What he thought he’d seen in Nancy’s eyes was that she’d courted danger before—maybe it had even thrilled her—but that she wasn’t so sure about danger anymore. Then she’d looked away.
“I can’t imagine what’s become of the hippie!” Dr. Daruwalla blurted out suddenly. “It’s inconceivable—a woman like that, with Deputy Commissioner Patel!”
“Lunch is tempting, if only to see what she looks like … after twenty years,” said Inspector Dhar.
He’s just acting, thought Dr. Daruwalla. Dhar didn’t care what Nancy looked like; something else was on the actor’s mind.
“So … you’ll come to lunch?” the doctor asked.
“Sure. Why not?” the actor said. But Dr. Daruwalla knew that John D. wasn’t as indifferent as he seemed.
As for Inspector Dhar, he’d never intended to miss the lunch at the Duckworth Club, and he thought he would rather be murdered by Rahul than resign his membership under a threat so coarse that it had to be left in a dead man’s mouth. It was not how Nancy looked that mattered to him; rather, he was an actor—a professional—and even 20 years ago he’d known that Nancy had been acting. She wasn’t the young woman she’d pretended to be. Twenty years ago, even the young John D. could tell that Nancy had been terrified, that she’d been bluffing.
Now the actor wanted to see if Nancy was still bluffing, if she was still pretending. Maybe now, Dhar thought, Nancy had stopped acting; maybe now, after 20 years, she simply let her terror show.
Something Rather Odd
It was 6:45 in the morning when Nancy awoke in her husband’s arms. Vijay was holding her the way she loved to be held; it was the best way for her to wake up, and she was astonished at what a good night’s sleep she’d had. She felt Vijay’s chest against her back; his delicate hands held her breasts, his breath slightly stirred her hair. Detective Patel’s penis was quite stiff, and Nancy could feel its light but insistent pulse against the base of her spine. Nancy knew she was fortunate to have such a good husband, and such a kind one. She regretted how difficult she was to live with; Vijay took such pains to protect her. She began to move her hips against him; it was one of the ways he liked to make love to her—to enter her from behind while she was on her side. But the deputy commissioner didn’t respond to the rolling motion of his wife’s hips, although he truly worshiped her nakedness—her whiteness, her blondness, her voluptuousness. The policeman let go of Nancy’s breasts, and simultaneously (with his retreating from her) she noticed that the bathroom door was open; they always went to sleep with the door closed. The bedroom smelled fresh, like soap; her husband had already had his morning shower. Nancy turned to face Vijay—she touched his wet hair. He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“It’s almost seven o’clock,” the detective told her.
Detective Patel was normally out of bed before 6:00; he usually left for Crime Branch Headquarters before 7:00. But this morning he’d let her sleep; he’d showered and then he’d got back into bed beside her. He’d merely been waiting for her to wake up, Nancy thought; yet he hadn’t been waiting to have sex.
“What are you going to tell me?” Nancy asked him. “What have you not told me, Vijay?”
“It’s really nothing—just a little lunch,” Patel replied.
“We are—at the Duckworth Club,” the policeman told her.
“With the doctor, you mean,” Nancy said.
“With the actor, too, I imagine,” the detective said.
“Oh, Vijay. No … not Dhar!” she cried.
“I think Dhar will be there,” Vijay told her. “They both know Rahul,” he explained. It sounded crude to him, to put it the way he’d said it yesterday, to the doctor (“to compare notes”), and so he said, “It could be valuable, just to hear what all of you remember. There might be some detail that would help me …” His voice trailed off. He hated to see his wife so withdrawn. Then she was suddenly wracked with sobs.
“We’re not members of the Duckworth Club!” Nancy cried.
“We’ve been invited—we’re guests,” Patel told her.
“But they’ll see me, they’ll think I’m horrible,” Nancy moaned.
“They know you’re my wife. They just want to help,” the deputy commissioner replied.
