Cat O'Nine Tales

The Commissioner

‘Why does he want to see me?’ asked the Commissioner.

‘He says it’s a personal matter.’

‘How long has he been out of prison?’

The Commissioner’s secretary glanced down at Raj Malik’s file. ‘He was released six weeks ago.’

Naresh Kumar stood up, pushed back his chair and began pacing around the room; something he always did whenever he needed to think a problem through. He had convinced himself — well, almost — that by regularly walking round the office he was carrying out some form of exercise. Long gone were the days when he could play a game of hockey in the afternoon, three games of squash the same evening and then jog back to police headquarters. With each new promotion, more silver braid had been sewn on his epaulet and more inches appeared around his waist.

‘Once I’ve retired and have more time, I’ll start training again,’ he told his number two, Anil Khan. Neither of them believed it.

The Commissioner stopped to stare out of the window and look down on the teeming streets of Mumbai some fourteen floors below him: ten million inhabitants who ranged from some of the poorest to some of the wealthiest people on earth. From beggars to billionaires, and it was his responsibility to police all of them. His predecessor had left him with the words: ‘At best, you can hope to keep the lid on the kettle.’ In less than a year, when he passed on the responsibility to his deputy, he would be proffering the same advice.

Naresh Kumar had been a policeman all his life, like his father before him, and what he most enjoyed about the job was its sheer unpredictability. Today was no different, although a great deal had changed since the time when you could clip a child across the ear if you caught him stealing a mango. If you tried that today, the parents would sue you for assault and the child would claim he needed counselling. But, fortunately, his deputy Anil Khan had come to accept that guns on the street, drug dealers and the war against terrorism were all part of a modern policeman’s lot.

The Commissioner’s thoughts returned to Raj Malik, a man he’d been responsible for sending to prison on three occasions in the past thirty years. Why did the old con want to see him? There was only one way he was going to find out. He turned to face his secretary. ‘Make an appointment for me to see Malik, but only allocate him fifteen minutes.’

The Commissioner had forgotten that he’d agreed to see Malik until his secretary placed the file on his desk a few minutes before he was due to arrive.

‘If he’s one minute late,’ said the Commissioner, ‘cancel the appointment.’

‘He’s already waiting in the lobby, sir,’ she replied.

Kumar frowned, and flicked open the file. He began to familiarize himself with Malik’s criminal record, most of which he was able to recall because on two occasions — one when he had been a detective sergeant, and the second, a newly promoted inspector — he had been the arresting officer.

Malik was a white-collar criminal who was well capable of holding down a serious job. However, as a young man he had quickly discovered that he possessed enough charm and native cunning to con naive people, particularly old ladies, out of large sums of money, without having to exert a great deal of effort.

His first scam was not unique to Mumbai. All he required was a small printing press, some headed notepaper and a list of widows. Once he’d obtained the latter — on a daily basis from the obituary column of the Mumbai Times — he was in business. He specialized in selling shares in overseas companies that didn’t exist. This provided him with a regular income, until he tried to sell some stock to the widow of another conman.

When Malik was charged, he admitted to having made over a million rupees, but the Commissioner suspected that it was a far larger sum; after all, how many widows were willing to admit they had been taken in by Malik’s charms? Malik was sentenced to five years in Pune jail and Kumar lost touch with him for nearly a decade.

Malik was back inside again after he’d been arrested for selling flats in a high-rise apartment block on land that turned out to be a swamp. This time the judge sent him down for seven years. Another decade passed.

Malik’s third offence was even more ingenious, and resulted in an even longer sentence. He appointed himself a life-assurance broker. Unfortunately the annuities never matured — except for Malik.

His barrister suggested to the presiding judge that his client had cleared around twelve million rupees, but as little of the money was available to be given back to those who were still living, the judge felt that twelve years would be a fair return on this particular policy.

By the time the Commissioner had turned the last page, he was still puzzled as to why Malik could possibly want to see him. He pressed a button under the desk to alert his secretary that he was ready for his next appointment.

Commissioner Kumar glanced up as the door opened. He stared at a man he barely recognized. Malik must have been ten years younger than he was, but they would have passed for contemporaries. Although Malik’s file stated that he was five foot nine and weighed a hundred and seventy pounds, the man who walked into his office did not fit that description.

The old con’s skin was lined and parched, and his back was hunched, making him appear small and shrunken. Half a life spent in jail had taken its toll. He wore a white shirt that was frayed at the collar and cuffs, and a baggy suit that might at some time in the past have been tailored for him. This was not the self-confident man the Commissioner had first arrested over thirty years ago, a man who always had an answer for everything.

Malik gave the Commissioner a weak smile as he came to a halt in front of him.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, sir,’ he said quietly. Even his voice had shrunk.

The Commissioner nodded, waved him to the chair on the other side of his desk and said, ‘I have a busy morning ahead of me, Malik, so perhaps you could get straight to the point.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Malik replied, even before he’d sat down. ‘It’s simply that I am looking for a job.’

The Commissioner had considered many reasons why Malik might want to see him, but seeking employment had not been among them.

‘Before you laugh,’ continued Malik, ‘please allow me to put my case.’

The Commissioner leant back in his chair and placed the tips of his fingers together, as if in silent prayer.

‘I have spent too much of my life in jail,’ said Malik. He paused. ‘I’ve recently reached the age of fifty, and can assure you that I have no desire to go back inside again.’

The Commissioner nodded, but didn’t express an opinion.

‘Last week, Commissioner,’ continued Malik, ‘you addressed the annual general meeting of the Mumbai Chamber of Commerce. I read your speech in the Times with great interest. You expressed the view to the leading businessmen of this city that they should consider employing people who had served a prison sentence — give them a second chance, you said, or they will simply take the easy option and return to a life of crime. A sentiment I was able to agree with.’

‘But I also pointed out,’ interrupted the Commissioner, ‘that I was only referring to first offenders.’

‘Exactly my point,’ countered Malik. ‘If you consider there is a problem for first offenders, just imagine what I come up against, when I apply for a job.’ Malik paused and straightened his tie before he continued. ‘If your speech was sincere and not just delivered for public consumption, then perhaps you should heed your own advice, and lead by example.’

‘And what did you have in mind?’ asked the Commissioner. ‘Because you certainly do not possess the ideal qualifications for police work.’

Malik ignored the Commissioner’s sarcasm and ploughed boldly on. ‘In the same paper in which your speech was reported, there was an advertisement for a filing clerk in your records department. I began life as a clerk for the P & O Shipping Company, right here in this city. I think that you will find, were you to check the records, that I carried out that job with enthusiasm and efficiency, and on that occasion left with an unblemished record.’

‘But that was over thirty years ago,’ said the Commissioner, not needing to refer to the file in front of him.

‘Then I will have to end my career as I began it,’ replied Malik, ‘as a filing clerk.’

The Commissioner didn’t speak for some time while he considered Malik’s proposition. He finally leant forward, placed his hands on the desk, and said, ‘I will give some thought to your request, Malik. Does my secretary know how to get in touch with you?’

‘Yes, she does, sir,’ Malik replied as he rose from his place. ‘Every night I can be found at the YMCA hostel on Victoria Street.’ He paused. I have no plans to move in the near future.’

Over lunch in the officers’ dining room, Commissioner Kumar briefed his deputy on the meeting with Malik.

Anil Khan burst out laughing. ‘Hoist with your own petard, Chief,’ he said with considerable feeling.

‘True enough,’ replied the Commissioner as he helped himself to another spoonful of rice, ‘and when you take over from me next year, this little episode will serve to remind you of the consequences of your words, especially when they are delivered in public.’

‘Does that mean that you are seriously considering employing the man?’ asked Khan, as he stared across the table at his boss.

‘Possibly,’ replied Kumar. ‘Why, are you against the idea?’

‘You are in your last year as Commissioner,’ Khan reminded him, ‘with an enviable reputation for probity and competence. Why take a risk that might jeopardize such a fine record?’

‘I feel that’s a little over-dramatic,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Malik’s a broken man, which you would have seen for yourself had you been present at the meeting.’

‘Once a conman, always a conman,’ replied Khan. ‘So I repeat, why take the risk?’

‘Perhaps because it’s the correct course of action, given the circumstances,’ replied the Commissioner. ‘If I turn Malik down, why should anyone bother to listen to my opinion ever again?’

‘But a filing clerk’s job is particularly sensitive,’ remonstrated Khan. ‘Malik would have access to information that should only be seen by those whose discretion is not in question.’

‘I’ve already considered that,’ said the Commissioner. ‘We have two filing departments: one in this building, which is, as you rightly point out, highly sensitive, and another based on the outskirts of the city that deals only with dead cases, which have either been solved or are no longer being followed up.’

‘I still wouldn’t risk it,’ said Khan as he placed his knife and fork back on the plate.

‘I’ve cut down the risk even more,’ responded the Commissioner. ‘I’m going to place Malik on a month’s trial. A supervisor will keep a close eye on him, and then report directly back to me. Should Malik put so much as a toe over the line, he’ll be back on the street the same day.’

‘I still wouldn’t risk it,’ repeated Khan.

On the first of the month, Raj Malik reported for work at the police records department on 47 Mahatma Drive, on the outskirts of the city. His hours were eight a.m. to six p.m. six days a week, with a salary of nine hundred rupees a month. Malik’s daily responsibility was to visit every police station in the outer district, on his bicycle, and collect any dead files. He would then pass them over to his supervisor, who would file them away in the basement, rarely to be referred to again.

At the end of his first month, Malik’s supervisor reported back to the Commissioner as instructed. ‘I wish I had a dozen Maliks,’ he told the chief. ‘Unlike today’s young, he’s always on time, doesn’t take extended breaks, and never complains when you ask him to do something not covered by his job description. With your permission,’ the supervisor added, ‘I would like to put his pay up to one thousand rupees a month.’

The supervisor’s second report was even more glowing. ‘I lost a member of staff through illness last week, and Malik took over several of his responsibilities and somehow still managed to cover both jobs.’

The supervisor’s report at the end of Malik’s third month was so flattering that when the Commissioner addressed the annual dinner of the Mumbai Rotary Club, not only did he appeal to its members to reach out their hands to ex-offenders, but he went on to assure his audience that he had heeded his own advice and been able to prove one of his long-held theories. If you give former prisoners a real chance, they won’t reoffend.

The following day, the Mumbai Times ran the headline:

Kumar’s sentiments were reported in great detail, alongside a photo of Raj Malik, with the caption, a reformed character. The Commissioner placed the article on his deputy’s desk.

Malik waited until his supervisor had left for his lunch break. He always drove home just after twelve and spent an hour with his wife. Malik watched as his boss’s car disappeared out of sight before he slipped back down to the basement. He placed a stack of papers that needed to be filed on the corner of the counter, just in case someone came in unannounced and asked what he was up to.

He then walked across to the old wooden cabinets that were stacked one on top of the other. He bent down and pulled open one of the files. After nine months he had reached the letter P and still hadn’t come across the ideal candidate. He had already thumbed through dozens of Patels during the previous week, dismissing most of them as either irrelevant or inconsequential for what he had in mind. That was until he reached one with the first initials H.H.

Malik removed the thick file from the cabinet, placed it on the counter-top and slowly began to turn the pages. He didn’t need to read the details a second time to know that he’d hit the jackpot.

He scribbled down the name, address and telephone numbers neatly on a slip of paper, and then returned the file to its place in the cabinet. He smiled. During his tea break, Malik would call and make an appointment to see Mr H.H. Patel.

With only a few weeks to go before his retirement, Commissioner Kumar had quite forgotten about his prodigy. That was until he received a call from Mr H.H. Patel, one of the city’s leading bankers. Mr Patel was requesting an urgent meeting with the Commissioner — to discuss a personal matter.

Commissioner Kumar looked upon H.H. not only as a friend, but as a man of integrity, and certainly not someone who would use the word urgent without good reason.

Kumar rose from behind his desk as Mr Patel entered the room. He ushered his old friend to a comfortable chair in the corner of the room and pressed a button under his desk. Moments later his secretary appeared with a pot of tea and a plate of Bath Oliver biscuits. The Deputy Commissioner followed in her wake.

‘I thought it might be wise to have Anil Khan present for this meeting, H.H., as he will be taking over from me in a few weeks’ time.’

‘I know of your reputation, of course,’ said Mr Patel, shaking Khan warmly by the hand, ‘and I am delighted that you are able to join us.’

Once the secretary had served the three men with tea, she left the room. The moment the door was closed, Commissioner Kumar dispensed with any more small talk. ‘You asked to see me urgently, H.H., concerning a personal matter.’

‘Yes,’ replied Patel. ‘I thought you ought to know that I had a visit yesterday from someone who claims to work for you.’

The Commissioner raised an eyebrow.

‘A Mr Raj Malik.’

‘He is a junior filing clerk in the—’

‘In a private capacity, he was at pains to emphasize.’

The Commissioner began tapping the armrest of his chair with the palm of his right hand, as Patel continued. ‘Malik said that you were in possession of a file that showed that I was under investigation for money laundering.’

‘You were, H.H.,’ said the Commissioner, with his usual candour. ‘Following nine/eleven, the Minister of Internal Affairs instructed me to investigate any organization which dealt in large sums of cash. That included casinos, racetracks and, in your case, the Bank of Mumbai. A member of my team interviewed your chief teller and advised him about what he should be on the lookout for, and I personally signed the clearance certificate for your company.’

‘I remember, you briefed me at the time,’ said Patel, ‘but your fellow, Malik—’

‘He’s not my fellow.’

‘— said that he could arrange to have my file destroyed.’ He paused. ‘For a small consideration.’

‘He said what?’ said Kumar almost exploding out of his chair.

‘How small?’ asked Deputy Commissioner Khan calmly.

‘Ten million rupees,’ replied Patel.

‘H.H., I don’t know what to say,’ said the Commissioner.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ said Patel, ‘because it never crossed my mind, even for a moment, that you could be involved in anything quite so stupid, and I told Malik as much.’

‘I am grateful,’ said the Commissioner.

‘No need to be,’ said Patel, ‘but I did think that perhaps others, less charitable...’ He paused. ‘Especially as Malik’s visit came so close to your retirement...’ He hesitated again. ‘And were the press to get hold of the story, it might so easily be misunderstood.’

‘I am grateful for your concern, and the speed with which you have acted,’ said Kumar. ‘I will remain eternally in your debt.’

‘I want nothing more than to be sure that this city rightly remains eternally in your debt,’ said Patel, ‘so that when you leave office it will be in a blaze of glory, rather than with question marks hanging over your head, which, as we both know, would linger on long after your retirement.’

The Deputy Commissioner nodded his agreement as Patel rose from his place.

‘You know, Naresh,’ Patel said, turning to face the Commissioner, ‘I would never have agreed to see the damn man, if you had not spoken so highly of him in your speech to the Rotary Club last month. He even produced the article in the Mumbai Times. I therefore assumed that the fellow had come with your blessing.’ Mr Patel turned to face Khan. ‘May I wish you luck when you take over as Commissioner,’ he added, shaking hands with the deputy. I don’t envy you having to follow such a fine man.’ Kumar smiled for the first time that morning.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ the Commissioner said to his deputy as he left his office to accompany Patel to the front door.

The Deputy Commissioner stared out of the window as he waited for the Chief to return. He munched on a biscuit as he mulled over several possible alternatives. By the time the Commissioner walked back into the room, Khan knew exactly what had to be done. But would he be able to convince his boss this time?

‘I’ll have Malik arrested and behind bars within the hour,’ said the Commissioner as he picked up the phone on his desk.

‘I wonder, sir,’ said Deputy Khan quietly, ‘if that’s the best course of action — given the circumstances?’

‘I don’t have much choice,’ said the Commissioner as he began dialling.

‘You may be right,’ said Khan, ‘but before you make such an irrevocable decision, perhaps we should consider how this is all going to play—’ he paused — ‘with the press.’

‘They’ll have a field day,’ said Kumar as he replaced the phone and began pacing around the room. ‘They won’t be able to make up their minds if I should be hanged as a crook who’s willing to accept bribes, or dismissed as the most naive fool ever to hold the office of Commissioner. Neither scenario bears thinking about.’

‘But we have to think about it,’ insisted Deputy Khan, ‘because your enemies — and even good men have enemies — will happily settle for someone who’s willing to take kickbacks, while your friends will not be able to deny the lesser charge of naivety.’

‘But surely after forty years of service, people will believe...’

‘People will believe whatever they want to believe,’ said Khan, confirming the Commissioner’s worst fears, ‘and certainly you won’t be able to send Malik back to prison until he’s been given the chance to appear in a witness box and tell the world his side of the story.’

‘But who would believe that old—’

‘No smoke without fire, they’ll be whispering in the corridors of the law courts, and that will be tame compared with the headlines in the morning papers once Malik has spent a couple of days in the witness box being questioned by a friendly barrister who sees you as nothing more than a stepping stone in his career.’

Kumar continued to pace around the room, but didn’t respond.

‘Let me try and second-guess the headlines that would follow such a cross-examination.’ Khan paused before saying, ‘“Commissioner accepts bribes to destroy friends’ files” might be the headline in the Times, while the tabloids will surely be a little more colourful — “Bung money left in Commissioner’s office by delivery boy”, or perhaps “Commissioner Kumar employs ex-con to carry out his dirty work”?’

‘I think I’ve got the picture,’ said the Commissioner, as he sank back into the chair next to Khan. ‘So what the hell am I supposed to do about it?’

‘What you’ve always done in the past,’ Khan replied. ‘Play it by the book.’

The Commissioner looked across at his deputy quizzically. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Malik,’ shouted the supervisor at the top of his voice, even before he’d put the phone down. ‘Commissioner Kumar wants to see you, immediately.’

‘Did he say why?’ asked Malik nervously.

‘No, he’s not in the habit of confiding in me,’ replied the supervisor, ‘but don’t hang about because he’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Malik replied. He closed the file he’d been working on and placed it back on the supervisor’s desk. He walked across to his locker, removed his bicycle clips and left the building without another word. It wasn’t until he was outside on the pavement that he began to shake. Had they caught on to his latest scam? Not that it had proved that successful. He unlocked the chain that was attached to the railings and began to consider his options. Should he make a run for it, or simply try to brazen it out? He hadn’t been left with a lot of choice. After all, where would he run to? And even if he did decide to run, it would only be a matter of days, perhaps hours, before they caught up with him.

Malik slipped on his bicycle clips, mounted his third-hand Raleigh Lenton and began to pedal slowly towards the city centre. The dusty brown roads were teeming with other bicycles, cars and countless numbers of people, all heading in different directions. The incessant honking of horns, the multitude of different smells, the beating down of the sun and the bustle of everyday life ensured that Mumbai was like no other city on earth. Street traders thrust out their arms as Malik passed, trying to sell him their wares, while beggars with no arms ran by his side, not assisting his progress. Should he come clean and admit what he’d been up to?

He cycled for a few more yards. No, never admit to anything, a golden rule that he’d learnt after long years in prison. He swerved to avoid a cow and nearly fell off.

Assume they know nothing until you’re cornered. Even then, deny everything. As he rounded the next corner, police headquarters loomed up in front of him. If he was going to make a dash for it, it would have to be now or never. He pedalled on, until he was only a few yards away from the steps leading up to the front entrance. He tugged firmly on the tired brake handles until his bike came to a slow, unsteady halt. He climbed off, and padlocked his one asset to the nearest railing. He walked slowly up the steps to police headquarters, pushed his way through the swing doors and headed nervously towards the reception desk. He told the duty officer his name. Perhaps there had been a mistake.

‘I have an appointment with—’

‘Ah, yes,’ the duty officer replied ominously, without needing to consult his roster. ‘The Commissioner is waiting to see you. You’ll find his office is on the fourteenth floor.’

Malik turned and began walking towards the lifts, aware that the duty officer’s eyes never left him. Malik glanced at the front door. This would be his last chance to escape, he thought, as the doors of one of the lifts slid open. He stepped into a crowded elevator, which made several stops on its slow interrupted journey to the fourteenth floor. By the time Malik reached the top floor, he was sweating profusely, and it wasn’t just the crowded space and lack of air conditioning that caused his unease.

When the doors finally parted, he was on his own. Malik stepped out onto the only thickly carpeted corridor in the building. He looked around and then recalled his last visit. He began to walk slowly towards an office at the far end of the corridor. The word Commissioner was printed in bold stencilled letters on the door.

Malik knocked quietly — perhaps something more important had arisen, causing the Commissioner to leave the office without warning. He heard a female voice invite him to enter. He opened the door to find the Commissioner’s secretary seated behind her desk, tapping away furiously She stopped typing the moment she saw Malik.

‘The Commissioner is expecting you,’ was all she offered. She didn’t smile and she didn’t frown as she rose from her place. Perhaps she was unaware of his fate. The secretary disappeared through another door and returned almost immediately. ‘The Commissioner will see you now, Mr Malik,’ she said, and held the door open for him.

Malik walked into the Commissioner’s office, to find him seated at his desk, eyes down, studying an open file. He raised his head, looked directly at him and said, ‘Have a seat, Malik.’ Not Raj, not Mr, just Malik.

Malik slipped into the chair opposite the Commissioner. He sat in silence, trying not to appear nervous as he watched the second hand of the clock on the wall behind the desk complete a full minute.

‘Malik,’ the Commissioner eventually said as he looked up from the papers on his desk, ‘I’ve just been reading your supervisor’s annual report.’

Malik remained silent, although he could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his nose.

The Commissioner looked back down again. ‘He’s very complimentary about your work,’ said Kumar, ‘full of praise. Far better than I could have hoped for when you sat in that chair just a year ago.’ The Commissioner looked up and smiled. ‘In fact, he’s recommending that you should be promoted.’

‘Promoted?’ said Malik in disbelief.

‘Yes, though it may not prove that easy, as there are not too many appropriate jobs available at the present time. However, I do believe I have come across a position that is ideally suited for your particular talents.’

‘Oh, thank you, sir,’ said Malik, relaxing for the first time.

‘There is a vacancy—’ the Commissioner opened another file and smiled — ‘for an assistant in the city morgue.’ He extracted a single sheet of paper and began reading from it.

‘It would be your responsibility to scrub the blood off the slabs and clean the floor immediately after the bodies have been dissected and stored away. I’m told the stench is not all that pleasant, but a face mask is supplied, and I have no doubt that, in time, one gets used to it.’ He continued to smile at Malik. ‘The appointment comes with the rank of sub-supervisor, along with a corresponding rise in salary. It also has other perks, not least that you would have your own room directly above the morgue, so you wouldn’t have to bed down any longer at the YMCA.’ The Commissioner paused. ‘And, should you continue to hold the post until your sixtieth birthday, you would also be entitled to a modest pension.’ The Commissioner closed Malik’s file and looked directly at him. ‘Any questions?’ he asked.

‘Only one, sir,’ said Malik. ‘Is there any alternative?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied the Commissioner. ‘You can spend the rest of your life in jail.’