Free Murder in Mumbai by K. D. Calamur

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    â€œWe appreciate you helping us, sir,” Gaikwad said. “But for the time being don’t leave town. We may have more questions.”
    * * *
    Gaikwad had appointments that morning and he told the constable to cancel them. They would have to wait for now. He phoned Uma Rhys. He had expected the call to be awkward, but the woman sounded more amused than anything to hear from him.
    â€œYes, inspector,” she said. “You can come now if you like.”
    He detected a knowing smile at the end of the line. He had not raised the knowledge he had of her relationship with John Barton, but he didn’t need to. Why else would anyone want to speak to her in connection with Liz Barton’s murder?
    Gaikwad did not consider himself a prude. People made decisions that they lived with all the time. They might not be decisions they were particularly happy with or proud of, but they were their decisions nonetheless. Infidelity was one of those decisions. He knew enough men, including friends, who had been unfaithful. That did not make them bad men. It did not even mean that they did not love their families. He once heard someone say that it was extremely difficult to consistently be a decent human being. And there was something to that. Most often it was a momentary lapse of reason; at worst it was a selfish act that could not be helped. But, he had to concede that most of the adulterers—he shuddered at the antiquated notion of the word—he knew were men. They usually boasted of their indiscretions when they had drunk too much. Still, though he did not condone it, he knew it was none of his business. But this woman was different. And her reaction to it was hardly embarrassed. She seemed blasé. Gaikwad did not know how to reconcile himself with that sort of a reaction. Was it sexist? Perhaps. Was his inbuilt Indian moral code kicking in? Probably.
    His motorcycle pulled up in front of the skyscraper in Cuffe Parade. It was the sort of building that exuded the stench of wealth and power and immediately excluded those who did not reside within its walls. There was a hierarchical totem pole. The wealthiest residents, who had both money and power, lived at the top, and the top executives from the state-owned firms, who wielded more power than riches, lived near the bottom. This was in contrast to his own four-story building, which lacked an elevator. The lower floors were more prized there because of the convenience of walking up fewer flights. It was a uniquely Mumbai phenomenon.
    Each flat in this building possessed a servant’s quarter. A guard post at the gate with a watchman armed with a Doberman decided which vehicles and pedestrians could enter. The daily staff—gardeners, maids, drivers, vegetable vendors (because in India even the richest people like a good deal)—existed on a list and were checked off as they showed the building-issued ID card.
    â€œYes?” the guard asked Gaikwad.
    â€œRice,” Gaikwad replied.
    â€œWho?” the guard asked.
    â€œUma Rice.”
    â€œOh! Rhys. Just a minute,” the watchman said, making it a point to reply in English.
    The Doberman looked calm but alert. The guard called a number, but did not take his eyes off Gaikwad. Gaikwad could see him mutter into the receiver, but he could not catch what the man was saying. Soon, he replaced the receiver. “Madam will see you,” he said, still in English.
    Gaikwad rode the elevator to the 23rd floor, near the top but not quite at the summit. The flats on the top six floors belonged, if gossip was to be believed, to diamond traders from Surat, whose modest white shirts and trousers belied their billions. The elevator ascended swiftly and quietly. The attendant pointed to the apartment in question, lest Gaikwad wander where he was not wanted. He rang the bell and waited. A servant opened the door. “Come in,” she said. He did not have to state his business.
    He was