Читать книгу Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Donald J. Hauka - Страница 4

Staff Sergeant Graham was a veteran of three decades of police work and the closest thing that Jinnah had to a friend on the Vancouver Police Force. Their relationship was a long-standing one with a few knock-down, drag-out fights sprinkled in between. This particular afternoon, the death of Sam Schuster occupied very little of Graham’s consciousness. The Duty NCO had called in sick and so had the Media Liaison Officer. Graham was filling in for both. So when there was a fatal accident downtown at the beginning of rush hour and the news crews descended on the corner of Cambie and Nelson Streets, it was his painful duty to supervise the operation and speak to the media on site. He hated scrumming with television reporters about something as routine as a traffic accident, but Graham knew the TV stations had early afternoon shows to fill up and the radio reporters had hourly and half-hourly deadlines to meet. So the dour Scottish-born officer stood stoically on the corner in the brisk afternoon breeze giving the bare bones of what had happened and hiding behind the phrase “that’s still under investigation,” when he didn’t have an answer. The pack had just dispersed and he was looking forward to a coffee when he caught sight of Jinnah coming towards him.

“Oh, God!” said Graham.

“Pleased to see you as well, Sergeant Graham sir!” beamed Jinnah. “Finished with that pack of ambulance chasers?”

“If you want a statement you’ll have to beg for the tape from one of the radio guys,” said Graham wearily. “I can’t help it if you’re late for —”

“Relax, Sarge,” said Jinnah, stepping up onto the small traffic island where Graham was standing. “I’m not here about any accident. I’m here about a murder.”

“Not Sam Schuster again!” cried Graham. “Look, Jinnah, I’ve told you — I can’t give you anything more on that.”

Jinnah grunted and lit up a cigarette. In front of them, firefighters were prying the twisted remains of a small car from under the front section of a cement truck. Three policemen from the traffic section — two constables and a corporal — were busy measuring the skid marks and recording other details. Jinnah waved to them and the corporal grinned back. Jinnah took in a deep lungful and held it for a moment before letting it out. Graham coughed and waved an angry hand as a cloud of blue smoke burst from Jinnah’s mouth and played around his nostrils.

“I should give you a ticket!” Graham coughed.

“Your anti-smoking bylaw doesn’t cover street corners as yet,” laughed Jinnah. “Besides, is it any worse than all the exhaust you’ve been inhaling this afternoon?”

“It’s not the state of my lungs that concerns me. It’s the state of your ears. Apparently you’ve developed that periodic deafness that afflicts you when I say the words ‘No comment.’”

“Come on, Sarge! Just let me talk to Chan.”

“No.”

“Why not, for God’s sake?”

“I have my reasons.”

“All I want to do is make him a hero.”

“You can do that without talking to him. He’ll probably have a bloody relapse.”

The firefighters had succeeded in freeing the wreckage of the compact car from the cement truck. Jinnah made a face as the jaws of life were brought out.

“Aren’t those a bit academic?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Graham. “But I suspect the victim’s loved ones will want the remains. Now unless you’d like to join him in the beyond —”

“Sergeant Graham, all I’m asking for is five minutes of the man’s time —”

“Forget it, Hakeem. I wish I could comply so you’d harass him instead of me, but I can’t. Orders.”

Jinnah arched an eyebrow.

“Orders from whom?”

“Above. Honestly, I’d like to help, Hakeem, but I can’t.”

Jinnah threw his cigarette down and kicked it to tiny particles of blue, black, brown and white. Graham thought him quite calm for someone who’d been crushed.

“Listen, my friend, you have to give me something. Will you at least say that Robert Chan is a hero? Will you do that?”

“Certainly,” said Graham. “Robert Chan is a hero. You can quote me on that.”

Jinnah took out his notebook and scribbled the quote onto a page. He looked up suddenly at Graham.

“Do you really mean that or are you just being obliging?” he said fiercely.

Graham was somewhat taken aback.

“Of course I mean it! He’s very brave — misguided, perhaps, but brave.”

“Misguided —”

“Don’t put that bit in!”

“Okay. I’m quoting you as saying Robert Chan is a hero and a very brave man. But I doubt your sincerity.”

Sergeant Graham was not used to having his personal word doubted. He was especially unused to having Hakeem Jinnah say so to his face.

“In all honesty, Hakeem —” he started.

Jinnah abruptly held up his notebook, thrusting it and his pen at the policeman.

“Then sign it,” he said.

“Sign it?”

“Your name and rank, so the editor won’t say I made it up,” insisted Jinnah.

“This is ridiculous —”

“I have to put my name on the line in the paper very day. Why shouldn’t you?”

“Yes, but —”

“Sarge, for me. Please.”

“Oh, for the love of God …”

Graham seized pen and notepad and scribbled his name and rank on the bottom of the page. As he did so, he had a vague feeling of uneasiness — an emotion that usually preceded the realization that Jinnah had somehow pulled one over on him. But he could not see what use Jinnah could possibly put such innocuous quotes to.

“Is that all?” asked Graham, handing Jinnah back his pen.

“No,” said Jinnah. “I would like to know if you intend on telling Mister Chan that he is a hero — in person.”

“I’m a bit tied up right now,” sighed Graham.

Sparks flew as the jaws of life sawed through the twisted metal frame of the car.

“Then I shall pass on your regards, with your permission.”

“By all means, Jinnah.”

Jinnah took a step off the curb and paused, looking at the accident.

“Just what the hell happened anyway, Sarge?”

“Cement truck’s brakes failed. Sailed through a red light. Poor bastard in the car never knew what hit him.”

“Jesus,” Jinnah swore softly. “Makes you feel unsafe on the roads.”

“Nowhere are we secure, Mister Jinnah,” said Graham.

“Very comforting. Good afternoon, Gus.”

“I hope I have been of some modest assistance you, Hakeem.”

“Sarge, you have no idea,” said Jinnah with a smile that Graham did not like at all.

Jinnah walked away and gave a wink to the traffic corporal as he passed. The corporal gave him a knowing smile and turned his gaze sourly on Graham. The staff sergeant didn’t notice. He was preoccupied, wondering how Chan would taken his heart-felt comments on his bravery when he saw them in the newspaper the next morning.

Robert Chan was watching the hockey game on television in his private hospital room when the nurse announced he had a visitor. His face lit up.

“Kathy?” he asked hopefully.

The nurse shook her head.

“Some guy who claims to be on police business.”

“Not another one — they’ve interviewed me twice,” Chan shuddered, putting the game on mute. “Might as well show him in.”

“All right,” said the Nurse. “But make it short.”

Chan adjusted his hospital gown as best he could and sat up in bed. His burns weren’t that serious and he would likely be released tomorrow. The doctors had been more concerned about the trauma he’d suffered seeing a human incinerated than the second and third-degree burns he’d received. He expected a uniformed officer to walk in and was taken aback when a slender man of East Indian descent wearing civilian clothes and large, gaudy gold jewellery came through the door.

“Robert Chan, I have a message for you from Staff Sergeant Graham of the Vancouver Police Department,” the stranger said in a deep, rich voice that was as warm and cloying as honey.

“Ah, yeah,” said Robert Chan. “And you are?”

“My name is Hakeem Jinnah. Here.”

Jinnah had closed and locked the door before walking over to Chan’s bed and handing him a folded piece of paper. To Chan, it looked like a page torn from a spiral notepad. He unfolded it and saw the words that Jinnah had written down with Graham’s signature at the bottom. Try as he might, he could not decipher Jinnah’s hasty scrawl. He turned the page sideways.

“Is this shorthand or something?” he asked.

“It says Robert Chan is a hero and a very brave man,” said Jinnah smoothly. “You must forgive my handwriting. It is appalling.”

“Are you with the cops?” asked Chan. “I’ve already given a statement.”

Jinnah pulled up one of the heavy visitor’s chairs and sat on it backwards, arms resting along its back.

“My friend, the police think you’re a hero and so do I. And in fact, I am here to make sure that the world knows about it.”

Chan looked down at the signature on the torn piece of paper, rather flattered.

“A hero? Geez — that’s an improvement. My wife thinks I’m an idiot.”

“Does she now? A sign of love, no doubt.”

“If being supremely pissed at me for nearly burning myself to death for no good reason is a sign of love, I guess you’re right,” he grinned. “I take it you’re married too?”

“Affirmative. Behind each successful man there stands a surprised woman.”

“This letter should go to Kathy. She’s the hero.”

“Really? Tell me about that.”

“She dragged me away from the car — and her not even five feet tall!”

“Golly! You’re kidding!” said Jinnah, pulling out his notebook.

Robert Chan’s body froze as his friendly smile slowly melted.

“Are you a reporter?” he said weakly.

“Did I not mention I was from the Tribune?” said Jinnah, sounding surprised. “I apologize. Naturally, we are anxious to have your first-hand account —”

“I really don’t think I should be talking to you — no offence.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Jinnah, closing his notebook.

Chan was even more shocked by this than the news that Jinnah was a reporter.

“You do?” he said.

“Oh, absolutely, my friend,” said Jinnah, tucking his pen neatly into his shirt pocket. “The police will have warned you not to talk to the press, hmm?”

“Er, yeah. How did you —”

“Crime is my beat, Mister Chan. I am constantly up against the veil of police silence. Normally, I would give you my standard lecture about this not being a police state, but a democracy where freedom of speech is guaranteed.”

Jinnah stood up. Chan felt somehow disappointed as well as relieved.

“So I don’t deserve the lecture?” he asked.

“A hero deserves time to heal. And I am used to witnesses being reluctant to talk.”

“I guess you’ve had a few people hang up on you in your job.”

Jinnah looked at Chan with what he hoped was a noble expression.

“My friend, I have knocked on many doors of silence in my time.”

Chan was now somewhat confused. He didn’t like the idea of a reporter sneaking into his room and trying to con him into an interview. At the same time, being called a hero was quite gratifying. And the thought of having that in print to show to his friends and family — not to mention his wife — was tempting.

“You’ve had a few of those doors slammed in your face, I bet,” he said, hoping Jinnah would stay a while longer.

“Indeed, sir. I recall one particular case: a multiple-murder in East Vancouver. A whole family wiped out by an axe-murderer — all save the grandfather. It was my painful duty to ask him how he felt about it.”

“Jesus,” said Chan. “What happened?”

“The old bastard slapped me as hard as he could and asked me how that felt. Then he slammed the door in my face.”

“Did he break your nose?’

“No. But he very nearly fractured my foot.”

Chan laughed for a second, then grew suddenly serious.

“Why do you ask people how they feel about these things? Shouldn’t it be obvious?”

“In my experience, Mister Chan — and it is considerable, hmm? — most people need to talk about these things in order to get over them. It is very seldom that I don’t get a quote of some kind.”

“Did you quote the grandfather?”

Jinnah smiled a crooked smile, twisting his skinny, brown lips in amusement.

“I wrote that he was too overcome by grief to share his feelings with reporters.”

There was a pause. Jinnah was still standing, coat on, notebook tucked inside his pocket. This was the moment of truth. He was either shit out of luck or in like flint. He would know which in a second. Finally, Chan broke the silence.

“Funny. I sure didn’t feel better telling my story to the cops.”

Jinnah glowed inwardly. He was in. He put an exploratory knee back on the chair.

“Oh?” he said. “Why’s that, my friend?”

Chan hung his head down.

“They wouldn’t let me talk, really. Kept interrupting and asking questions. Hardly therapeutic.”

“The police have a job to do, Robert. You don’t mind if I sit down? Thanks. For them, exact times, dates, and distances are crucial. For me, what’s crucial is how you risked your life to save a complete stranger.”

“Kathy’s the one who saved me,” said Chan. “You should write a story about her.”

Jinnah took out his notebook.

“With your help, I could easily do so.”

Chan hesitated.

“Kathy’s not big on the media,” he said. “She says publicity means trouble.”

Jinnah arched an eyebrow.

“Trouble? What sort of trouble could you possibly get into?”

“I don’t know — crank calls, stalkers. There are a lot of nuts out there.”

“Let me tell you something, Robert,” said Jinnah, leaning over the back of the chair. “You’d be amazed how many decent, good people are out there. I am constantly astonished at the outpouring of affection and sympathy that follows a hero story —”

“Outpouring?” asked Chan.

“— the calls, the letters, the gifts —”

“Gifts?”

“— money donated to cover medical expenses, especially for young people without adequate medical benefits —”

“Yeah, well, that’s really great but as I said, Kathy is the hero here.”

Jinnah opened his notebook and took out his pen. He slowly took his jacket off. He looked at Chan with what he hoped was an overpowering intensity.

“Now, Robert — I believe you and your wife Kathy were out for a walk on the night in question, hmm?”

The story came out hesitantly at first, then gushing forth in great, excited torrents. Jinnah let Chan talk, confining his own interruptions to exclamations of amazement and admiration. He ran down the mental checklist of questions in his head when Chan digressed to unimportant matters. Nearly half an hour had elapsed before Jinnah decided it was time to clarify a few niggling points.

“You say this poor man had sunglasses on?” asked Jinnah. “Are you sure?”

“Well, no,” admitted Chan. “It might have been a trick of the light and shadows. I think I saw all sorts of things —”

Chan stopped dead and his dark eyes widened. Oh-ho, thought Jinnah.

“What is it, Robert?” he asked, oozing concern. “Something troubling?”

“I just remembered something,” said Chan, looking down. “I thought it was a shadow or something, but I just had a flash.”

“Was it a living something or a dead something?” Jinnah prompted.

“Living. A man. Running away towards the river …”

Jinnah’s heart-rate doubled, he started sweating and his breath was short — sure signs that his inherent instincts were tingling.

“Ah, Robert, you have told the police about this, yes?”

“Sort of,” said Robert. “I mentioned that I thought I saw someone, but wasn’t sure. Now, going over it again, I can see him clearly. It’s funny.”

Not funny, just usual, Jinnah thought. The interview had just moved up several notches from standard hero stuff to the far better “brush with a killer” story.

“Can you describe this man?” asked Jinnah gently. “Take your time.”

Chan did. He closed his eyes and, not for the first time, Jinnah noted how odd they looked without either lashes or eyebrows.

“He’s just the outline of a man,” he said finally, opening his eyes. “Medium-height. In an overcoat of some kind. Pale skin, I think — probably white. Running from behind the car to the river. That’s all I remember before the second blast took me out.”

Jinnah put down his pen and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes for just the right effect of the seasoned professional who has seen it all. If he handled this correctly, he would not just blow that bastard Grant off the front page, he’d force Sergeant Graham to sing like a bird. But it had to be dealt with carefully.

“Robert, my friend, you do know what this means, don’t you?” he said seriously.

Robert Chan did know. But he wasn’t about to admit it.

“It means I saw someone else out for a walk, probably,” he said grudgingly.

“Robert, not many people go for a walk in an abandoned sawmill site at the same instant a car explodes into flames.”

Jinnah looked at Chan with his dark eyes, but Chan said nothing. Tact, Hakeem, lead him gently …

“Do you really think the man was just out for a walk, Robert?” he asked quietly.

Chan looked up at Jinnah, sweating.

“That’s what I’d like to think,” he said quickly. “But —”

“But you can’t help thinking maybe you came this close to Sam Schuster’s murderer, hmm? Isn’t that right?”

It was right. And at that moment, the perils of talking to the press came home to Robert Chan quite clearly and he cursed himself for being so stupid. Kathy was right after all: he wasn’t a hero, he was a dope.

“I think you’d better go,” he said, rising from his bed. “And all that interview stuff I told you? That was off the record.”

Chan reached for the nurse’s call button. Jinnah’s experienced hand got there a fraction of a second ahead of him. He smiled reassuringly.

“Robert, Robert,” he chuckled. “Relax! Do you know who Sam Schuster was?”

Chan shook his head.

“A stock promoter. A con-man. He’d burned more investors than the noon-day sun at a nudist colony bereft of tanning lotion,” said Jinnah.

“Really?”

“Yes. His killer is almost certainly an investor who lost money on one of his share ventures. That’s his motive — personal revenge. What are the chances he’ll go after you?”

“Pretty high, I’d say,” said Chan emphatically.

“Not to be insulting, Robert, but don’t flatter yourself,” said Jinnah, putting his glasses back on. “It’s probably the first murder he’s ever done, judging from the amateurish manner in which it was carried out, hmm? And you’ve admitted you didn’t see his face, right? So what threat are you to him?”

“You really think so?” said Chan, looking slightly less panicked.

“In my vast experience, Robert, such first-time revenge killers turn themselves in within forty-eight hours. You have nothing to fear.”

Robert Chan relaxed back onto the bed and Jinnah’s hand dropped from the call-button. The rest of the interview went smoothly, even the part where Jinnah managed to con Robert’s photographs of himself and Kathy from the confines of his wallet.

“They’re just stupid airport passport machine photographs,” Robert had said, fumbling with his one good, unbandaged hand in his jacket in the tiny locker against the far wall of his room.

“You’d be amazed what the photo boys can do with digital enhancement these days,” Jinnah had encouraged him. “They can make you look like anything you want from Genghis Khan to Charley Chan.”

Chan had laughed.

“Something in-between would be fine. Just do my wife justice.”

Jinnah had looked at Kathy Chan’s picture appreciatively.

“My friend, your wife needs no artificial enhancement. She will be reproduced in all her natural glory.”

“You do that and I’ll sue!” Chan had joked.

The only awkward moment came just as Jinnah was leaving. He had idly asked Robert what he and Kathy had been discussing on their walk and Chan had volunteered it had been about an investment opportunity. Jinnah’s eyes grew wide.

“If you’re in the market for something, I have just the investment vehicle for you,” he said and, fishing a copy of the Orient Love Express prospectus from his jacket, handed it to Chan.

“You’ll see that the return on investment is a guaranteed fifteen percent,” Jinnah said as Robert’s eyes grew wide running over the lurid colour pages. “And it could be higher, depending on the number of units —”

It was at this point that Kathy Chan came in, still on her crutches and with her left arm in a sling. Robert’s face initially lit up, then flushed. Jinnah, instantly sizing up the situation, decided that some patented Franco-African charm was in order. He strode over to Kathy and bowed low.

“Mademoiselle,” he murmured, seizing her right hand and pressing it to his lips. “Enchantés. Vous’êtes une femme formidable!”

Kathy Chan was stunned into silence. Jinnah leapt through the opening to make good his escape.

“My compliments to you both,” he said, grabbing his jacket from off the chair. “You have my card if you need me. Adieu, mes enfants!”

Jinnah had learned a smattering of French while loafing about in Paris as a student. The language suited his deep, rich voice, but never failed to startle, coming as it did from a face most people in North America associated with other Indo-European languages. It was a Robert Chan destitute of explanation who faced his wife, who was looking pointedly at the prospectus clutched against his chest.

“It’s okay, honey! He’s not a stock promoter, I swear!” said Robert.

Kathy looked at her husband with a mixture of dumbfounded disbelief and disappointment.

“Oh?” she said. “That looks like a prospectus you’re holding.”

“It’s not like that at all,” said Robert.

“So what was he doing here?” demanded Kathy.

“Interviewing me,” said Robert defensively. “He’s a reporter.”

Kathy’s gaze ran the gamut from amazement to anger and back to disbelief. She honestly didn’t fathom Robert sometimes.

“What did you tell him?” she asked.

“About how I saw Sam Schuster’s killer just before you rescued me.”

Kathy Chan was silent for a long time.

“A reporter? Well,” she said at last acidly. “I suppose that makes everything all right then.”

Everything was all right for Jinnah by the time he got back to the Tribune and wrote his story. Well, almost everything. The call to Sergeant Graham had not gone well. Perhaps, Jinnah thought, in retrospect he could have been a bit less belligerent. But that was not the Jinnah way.

“You son of a bitch,” Jinnah had said in greeting. “You never told me Chan saw a suspect at the scene!”

At the other end of the line, Graham’s tone resembled tempered steel.

“Jinnah, there is only one possible way you could have found that out!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jinnah. “So I exercised my freedom of association under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Going to throw me in jail?”

“If the man responsible for this death walks, I will! For obstruction of justice!”

“So then you admit you are investigating this suspect and you think he’s responsible?”

“I never said that!”

“You mean you never meant to admit it.”

Graham was by now breathing very heavily into the receiver.

“Hakeem, we have reasons for not going public on this.”

“There are usually two reasons, Sergeant Graham,” said Jinnah affably. “One is that you know who it is and you don’t want to make him run. The other is you don’t have a clue and in that case, you need my help.”

There was a longish pause, punctuated by little snorts from Graham. Jinnah looked at the clock. It was pushing deadline.

“Anything else?” he asked. “I’m a busy man, Sarge.”

“Jinnah, if you print this, I will launch a complaint with the B.C. Press Council. I will denounce you at the morning press conference. I will —”

“Do all the things you usually do or threaten to do when you are angry,” Jinnah cut him off. “Then when you cool down, you’ll see that I’m right and we’ll work together as usual.”

“Not this time.”

“Listen, Sarge, you know you can’t rule the possibility out.”

“You know damn well that we can’t rule out space aliens, a naked matador from Bolivia or your own self without checking it out thoroughly, so don’t give me that bullshit!” cried Graham. “If this guy walks —”

“So you’re telling me printing this will jeopardize the investigation?” said Jinnah, cutting to the bottom line.

There was an even longer pause. Jinnah sat, feet up on the desk, fingertips together, flexing his hands slightly.

“It wouldn’t be helpful —” Graham admitted.

“In other words, no, not really,” Jinnah interrupted him. “Great, fine. Thanks for the confirmation then, Sarge.”

Jinnah hung up. Five seconds later, the phone rang and Jinnah didn’t need the call display to tell him who it was. He ignored it and wrote his stories. He filed and went for a cigarette, looking over the lights of the city from the balcony’s third-floor vantage point. Somewhere out there was Sam Schuster’s killer. Likely not a professional and soon to be apprehended. Certainly, Graham had let it be known they were close to picking someone up. At least they knew who he was. And Hakeem Jinnah, not that bastard Grant, would have the line story, complete with photographs, on the front page of the paper tomorrow. Everyone would be chasing his stuff. It made Jinnah feel good.

When he went back down to the newsroom to check in with Perma-Frost, the good feeling vanished. Frost had Jinnah’s prose up on his screen.

“Hakeem,” he said. “This guy Chan saw: how can you call him a suspect?”

“What do you mean, Frost?” asked Jinnah, slightly nervous inside but betraying nothing in his outward manner.

“There’s nothing to connect him to the murder. He could have been a bum looking for bottles.”

“Come on, for God’s sake!” cried Jinnah. “You have Chan’s quote about seeing the face of a killer.”

“Only he didn’t see his face. What makes him a suspect?”

Jinnah closed his eyes and tilted his head heavenwards. Why was he always having to explain these things?

“Police suspect he may have something to do with it,” he replied. “That makes him a suspect.”

Perma-Frost rolled his own blue eyes and hit the send button. He had long ago learned that, if Blacklock didn’t specifically ask for a lawyer to read Jinnah’s copy, it was best to leave well enough alone and not ask too many questions.

“Don’t leave the country, okay Hakeem?” he said, dismissing the reporter.

“I don’t know, Peter,” beamed Jinnah. “I may catch the Orient Love Express out of town. All aboard!”

Jinnah made his way down to the company parkade and unlocked his van. It was his pride and joy — a huge customized Ford. Jinnah was afraid of flying and drove everywhere he could. He had told Sanderson (and Crystal the receptionist) that it had a heated waterbed in the back, but that was a lie. It did have a fridge and sink and a few other accoutrements, but the custom option Jinnah was most proud of was the satellite up-link and navigation system. Using this expensive computer hardware, he could punch in his co-ordinates and find out where he was anywhere in North America — in Los Angeles, sometimes down to the alleyway. Not that Jinnah needed any help finding his way around Vancouver or to his own house, for that matter. He had built-in radar for that. Jinnah simply liked to impress people and he got a kick out of following the lights on the map and listening to the computer voice messages that reminded him “you should be in the left-hand lane” or “according to your pre-set course, you should turn right in two blocks.” Jinnah hummed to himself as he wheeled the satellite-guided Love Machine through the light, early evening traffic. Soon he would be home in the bosom of his own family. It had been a challenging day, but in the end, he had triumphed. The rest of it could be spent relaxing with his wife Manjit and his son, Hussein. Jinnah almost relaxed.

Until he saw the car parked in the driveway of his modest East Vancouver home. It was an old, battered, gold-coloured Buick, not the sort of car that one would expect the president of a multi-national corporation to be driving. Nevertheless, it was all his cousin-in-law Sanjit could afford. Jinnah grew tense and cursed himself for not having made time to call him from the office. If he had been at the Jinnah residence for any time, he had already filled his wife’s head with all sorts of nonsense about what could go wrong here and how this will go wrong there. Sanjit was actually Manjit’s cousin, not Jinnah’s, and like Manjit, Sanjit was a Sikh. Like Hakeem, he was a born worrier. But Jinnah at least was an optimist. It was with a sinking feeling of leisure lost that Jinnah opened the door to his house.

“Hello,” he called without enthusiasm.

Manjit met him in the hall. Her jet-black hair was piled high on her head and she wore a blue, sequined scarf around her shoulders, setting off the creamy white of her sari. Jinnah smiled, a sense of relief and security flooding over him. He looked into his wife’s eyes and, not for the first time, wondered how she put up with him.

“Sanjit is here,” she said sweetly. “I have invited him for dinner.”

All sense of well-being and equanimity vanished from within Jinnah’s breast. He now wondered why he had put up with his wife’s kind-heartedness for so long. It was fine when it was focused on him, but Manjit had this tendency to be nice to everyone. It was a flaw in her character that Jinnah had been unable to alter.

“What?” he cried. “How long has he been here?”

“About two hours,” said Manjit, her smooth clear face untroubled. “He wants to discuss business with you.”

“Son of a bitch,” muttered Jinnah, putting on his slippers.

“I made some naan to go with the chicken,” said Manjit, taking his coat and hanging it up neatly. “Don’t worry — the curry’s not too spicy.”

“I won’t enjoy it anyway,” grunted Jinnah. “Sanjit has a way of spoiling meals.”

“No worse than a husband who is often two hours late for dinner himself,” said Manjit brightly. “Hussein and I have already eaten, so we won’t disturb you.”

“How very thoughtful, darling,” muttered Jinnah.

In the dining room at the head of the long table sat Sanjit, who was as unlike Jinnah physically as you could get. Sanjit rose heavily to his feet, hefting his bulk up with an effort.

“Hakeem, I have been waiting,” he puffed, beads of sweat surmounting a broad and fleshy brow. “It is awfully kind of you to have me over for dinner.”

Jinnah shook the massive paw Sanjit offered.

“You have Manjit to thank, not me. Now what’s so important?”

Sanjit sat down with a little groan and surveyed the table eagerly.

“I spy some homemade naan,” he observed. “Manjit makes the finest naan.”

“There’s chicken curry too, but you won’t find it hot enough,” said Jinnah, collapsing into his own chair. “Is food more important than business?’

Sanjit looked at Jinnah much the same way Hakeem himself looked at Sanderson when explaining what he considered an obvious point. His double chin wobbled.

“There is no profit in business discussed on an empty stomach,” said Sanjit, stroking his thin, black beard. “In breaking bread, we ensure success.”

Jinnah rolled his eyes and passed Sanjit the naan. His cousin-in-law resembled a bear and had the appetite of one. He helped himself to a little basmati rice. The state of his stomach would not allow him to consider the other culinary delights that his wife had prepared. Sanjit was not so handicapped and to ensure their discussion was fruitful, piled on the food. Jinnah rose and went over to the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Black Dog Indian scotch and poured himself a healthy two fingers. Sanjit looked up from his meal and scowled.

“You shouldn’t pollute yourself like that Hakeem,” he scolded. “Remember what your Prophet has said.”

Jinnah bristled. Sanjit was a much more devout Sikh than Jinnah was an observant Ismali. He took prohibitions against drinking very seriously. But this was Jinnah’s house and Sanjit would have to observe Jinnah’s rules, not Mohammed’s or Guru Nanak’s. He sat down and sipped his drink.

“I am perfectly aware that the Prophet says wine is the blood of Shaitan,” he said. “Fortunately, the Quran is silent on the question of scotch. Can I pour you one, cousin?”

Sanjit’s face turned darker still and he attacked his chicken and mango chutney with devout fervor. Jinnah nursed his drink and watched. There could be no doubt Sanjit was more nervous than usual, but there was no hope of getting to the root cause of his anxiety until he was ready to talk. The rest of the meal progressed in silence. Sated at last, Sanjit wiped his mouth and hands off with his serviette.

“An excellent repast,” he enthused. “Cooking of the highest quality.”

“Yes,” said Jinnah sourly. “It looked good from here.”

Sanjit pushed his plate away and put his elbows on the table. Here it comes, thought Jinnah.

“Hakeem, I am worried about our cash flow,” he said.

“Jesus Christ!” swore Jinnah. “The company hasn’t even been listed on the CDNX yet, Sanjit! The only cash flow we have is out.”

“I know, I know, Hakeem. But there have been so many expenses.”

Sanjit’s hands were on his napkin, wringing it slowly into tighter and tighter knots, mirroring the process that was swiftly accelerating in Jinnah’s intestines.

“Sanjit, listen — we have enough cash reserves, hmm? The money I gave you from the sale of my other house? Your savings? Unless you’ve done something stupid —”

“Oh no, no, it’s nothing like that!” cried Sanjit, waving his hands about.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Jinnah said darkly. “How long has it been since you moved out of my basement?”

Sanjit smiled pathetically. Jinnah had been good to him after he’d lost his shirt during that gold coin business. It had been Sanjit’s first experience with a pyramid scheme, a scam that had swept through Vancouver’s Indo-Canadian community like wild-fire. Many lost their life savings. Sanjit also lost his house, his wife Rani, and his children, who returned to Kenya in disgust to live with his in-laws. With Jinnah’s help, he put himself back on his feet and there was some talk of reconciliation with Rani. Reflecting on this, Jinnah was not surprised Sanjit was a little over-anxious about their current business venture — his entire future was riding on it. He regretted his remark.

“Look, Sanjit, don’t worry about it. Everything’s covered, hmm? Would you like some coffee?”

“Thank you,” said Sanjit.

While Manjit made the coffee and hovered discreetly in the kitchen, Sanjit appeared to relax somewhat. Jinnah’s own stomach had stopped doing backflips to the extent that he was now nibbling on some of the naan as Sanjit made polite conversation.

“You have written a story today, Hakeem?” he asked.

“Indeed, Sanjit. About a most perplexing murder.”

At this Sanjit looked up sharply.

“Murder? Whose murder?”

“Sam Schuster. Businessman. You may have heard of Schuster the Shyster?”

“Something, perhaps,” said Sanjit guardedly. “How was he killed?”

“In a quite unusual manner. Someone put him in his Cadillac, dowsed it with gas and set it on fire. He was burnt to a crisp.”

Beads of sweat had once again broken out on Sanjit’s forehead. His voice quavered slightly.

“Name of God! Who could have done such a thing?”

“Take a number,” Jinnah grunted. “Any one of a thousand shareholders who suffered at his hands, that’s who.”

Sanjit’s breathing was becoming laboured. Jinnah looked at him, cocking his head to one side. His cousin was an extraordinarily emotional man who got upset over the slightest things. But he’d never seen Sanjit so overwrought about the death of stock promoter, and a white one at that.

“Terrible! Terrible,” he muttered. “His wife. His family. His business —”

“Will do just fine, I imagine,” Jinnah cut in. “His business partners will likely pick up the pieces — if there are any pieces left … what is it now?”

To Jinnah’s astonishment, there were tears in Sanjit’s eyes and his lower lip was quivering. He was gasping for breath.

“For God’s sake, man! Was Schuster a close personal friend of yours?” demanded Jinnah. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, Hakeem!” Sanjit blurted out as he burst into tears, hands covering his face. “I am so worried that I will end up like that unfortunate man!”

Jinnah’s inherent instincts were tingling once again and when finances were involved, that was a bad sign. The naan in his mouth turned to ashes and dust and a half-dozen possibilities — all of them catastrophic in nature — flashed through his mind. He put an arm around Sanjit’s burly shoulders.

“Hey, hey! Sanjit! Get ahold of yourself!” he said, giving him a friendly shake. “For the love of God, what’s this about burning?”

Sanjit looked up at Jinnah, his face streaked with tears.

“It will end in flames, I tell you!” he blubbered. “Just like Sam Schuster.”

The alarm bells were going off non-stop in Jinnah’s head. God, he groaned inwardly, don’t let it be another gold coin scheme …

“Listen, Sanjit! Sam Schuster was murdered by disgruntled shareholders. You don’t have any shareholders as yet. Everyone is fully gruntled, as far as I know. And Buick’s are damn near fire-proof, I understand.”

“It is not our future shareholders,” said Sanjit tearfully. “It’s Mister Puri.”

Jinnah sat back down in his chair with a thump, one arm still around Sanjit’s expansive shoulders.

“Name of God,” he muttered, removing his hands from his cousin’s person and feeling in his pockets for a cigarette. “What now?”

“Mister Puri came to see me last week, Hakeem,” sniffled Sanjit, struggling for control. “He is, as you know, a very devout man.”

As well as a powerful and rich one, thought Jinnah. Puri had considerable influence in the Indo-Canadian community. One did not dismiss his concerns lightly.

“So, what did he want?” asked Jinnah grimly, lighting up.

Sanjit coughed and waved his hands vigorously.

“You really shouldn’t smoke at the dinner table, Hakeem.”

“This is my house and it is a designated smoking area in its entirety! Now, what did Puri want?”

Sanjit was getting a grip on himself — or as much of one as could be expected.

“He has grave concerns about the Orient Love Express. He wonders if perhaps it may be perceived as immoral.”

Jinnah choked on his cigarette. He almost wished Sanjit had told him he’d embezzled the entire start-up fund than hear this.

“Immoral?” Jinnah squeaked, his deep voice tightening and reaching the range of a teenager’s. “All we’re doing is selling a service!”

“Mister Puri is concerned over the appearance of the services we are selling, Hakeem. He thinks they may reflect badly on the community.”

“Was he serious?”

Sanjit looked at his cousin with a watery, wobbly face.

“He called us Islamabad pimps. He said we would burn in hell! Is that serious enough for you?”

It was serious, all right. Jinnah chewed his finger-nails and muttered to himself while Sanjit fought back a fresh round of tears. One had to be very, very careful in such situations. Jinnah and Sanjit were hoping to raise much of their money within the community. A word from Puri could drive business almost entirely away. Was he really morally offended? Or did he simply want in on a good thing?

“Did he really say we would burn in hell?” Jinnah asked.

“Apparently he feels there is a special circle in hell for those people who sell flesh for illicit purposes,” said Sanjit.

Jinnah finished his scotch. He thought hard. His faint sense of morality fought desperately with his business instincts. His business instincts, as usual, won.

“Sanjit,” he asked. “Did you offer Mister Puri any shares at a preferred rate?”

Sanjit sat up straight, his tear-lined face hardening, his tone indignant.

“Hakeem! Don’t be ridiculous! Mister Puri’s principles cannot be bought!”

“No, no, of course not,” said Jinnah soothingly.

But, Jinnah thought to himself, his scruples might be assuaged if I dropped off a prospectus and explained in person there is no sin in buying and selling introductory services for a lot of Asian infidels. Surely I can persuade the old man of that.

“I will talk to Mister Puri tomorrow, Sanjit,” he said gently. “Now, come on! Stop blubbering like a baby, for God’s sake.”

It took coffee and two helping’s of Manjit’s tapioca pudding to calm Sanjit enough to say goodnight and drive home in his golden chariot. Jinnah watched from the living room window as the Buick lurched away into the night. Manjit was behind him.

“What will you say to Mister Puri, Hakeem?” she said quietly.

“I will tell him to get on board the Orient Love Express, Manjit,” Jinnah replied, watching the red tail-lights of Sanjit’s car fade into the night. “I suspect a piece of the action will ease any moral guilt Mister Puri feels.”

“I think you may be misjudging him,” said Manjit softly.

Jinnah turned and closed the drapes. He put his hand on his wife’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry, darling. I will let my inherent instincts guide me. The last thing I need is a fatwah against me and my cousin.”

“I know you’ll be careful.”

Manjit hugged him and suddenly Jinnah felt very, very tired. It had been a long and challenging day and the morrow looked just as demanding.

“I think I’ll let my instincts guide me to bed,” he said.

“Perhaps you will allow your wife to assist you?”

Manjit pushed Jinnah upstairs to the bedroom and got his nightshirt and toiletries ready while her temperamental husband undressed. Jinnah was asleep almost as soon as he hit the pillow. His last conscious thought was how nice it would be to bask in the glory of everyone chasing him after the paper hit the streets. And then sleep took him.