Free Murder with Bengali Characteristics by Shovon Chowdhury

the door. ‘Softly!’ said Phoni-babu. ‘It’s afternoon, you might wake him up.’
    The man was a pillar of society, judging by Phoni-babu’s reaction. Li knocked harder. He drew his revolver. ‘How about this?’ he asked. ‘Do you think this will wake him up?’
    The door opened before Phoni-babu could reply. A slim, dark woman in a faded cotton sari opened the door. Her face was thin. She looked hungry. ‘You’ve come to meet babu?’ she asked softly, hardly glancing at the revolver. She was used to men with guns. Li nodded, and smiled, not wanting to scare her, and she let them in through a dark, narrow corridor. The walls were lined with oil paintings of men with moustaches. ‘Ancestors!’ whispered Phoni-babu. She led them to a room on the left, cut off from the rest of the building. ‘These are his chambers,’ explained Phoni-babu, ‘they can’t let us into the house, because they don’t know what caste we are.’
    ‘Maybe I should go inside and look for him,’ said Li.
    ‘Please sit down, sir,’ said Phoni-babu. ‘Read one of these legal magazines. He is a high person in society. Everyone in his family held good positions, except for one nephew, who became a tabla player. Bhobanipur public is very ferocious. For over one hundred years they have been producing homemade explosives. You’ll cause an incident.’ They sat down in front of the imposing desk. The desk calendar was three years old. The chairs they were sitting on were simple and rickety. The chair on the other side was a monument in leather, with a small, grubby hand towel draped over one arm.
    ‘So a lot of potential recruits live in the neighbourhood?’ said Li.
    ‘Is this any way to talk?’ said Phoni-babu. ‘Please don’t forget to namaste when he comes.’
    The hungry woman brought them cups of tea. Li took a sip. It was terrible, like all the tea in Calcutta. They drank so much, and knew so little. It was odd that they were so useless at it, given that there were more tea shops per square foot here than any other place on the planet.
    A tall man in a spotless white kurta stepped in. The border of his dhoti was intricately embroidered. His hair was silver, and back-brushed smoothly, and he held a silver-topped cane in one hand. Li wasn’t worried. He was better armed. Phoni-babu stood up, rubbing his hands. ‘Sorry for the disturbance, sir, we had one-two questions,’ he said. ‘Please don’t mind.’
    Amalendu-babu settled down in his chair, waving for Phoni-babu to sit too. He smiled at the two of them.
    Amalendu Lahiri had hated the Chinese ever since his foot had been crippled by a Chinese foot massager, which was why he always carried a cane. He had watched the Chinese cancer eat away at the heart of his nation, bit by bit, inexorably, until one day it had eaten his foot, at which point he had stood up on one leg and said, ‘Thus far and no further.’ All his efforts since then had been devoted to their removal.
    ‘How may I help you gentlemen?’ he asked. He was aristocratic and gracious. Inspector Li hated him on sight.
    ‘I’m interested in the New Thug Society,’ said Li, ‘could you tell us something about it?’
    ‘Could you tell me what this is about?’ asked Amalendu.
    Li saw no harm in it. ‘A teacher in Motipur was murdered,’ he said. ‘All the evidence points to a thug attack. You’re the head of the thugs. You advocate the strangulation of fellow citizens. It seemed logical to come and meet you.’
    Amalendu smiled and shook his head. ‘This is a natural misconception. When we talk about strangling, we mean it purely in the metaphorical sense. It’s true that on Sundays and national holidays, we dress up in oddly unsuitable costumes and pantomime ritual murder using handkerchiefs weighted by coins. We’ve been doing so for generations. We practice over and over again, in order to get the hand-movements exactly right. But this is just for physical fitness. It makes the wrists and elbows