Cat O'Nine Tales (2006) Read online

  George was pouring himself a glass of red wine—after all, he had performed all his official duties—when the old man appeared.

  George leaped to his feet the moment he saw him standing alone at the entrance to the garden. He placed his glass back on the table and walked quickly across the lawn to welcome the unexpected guest.

  Andreas Nikolaides leaned heavily on his two walking sticks. George didn’t like to think how long it must have taken the old man to climb up the path from his little cottage, halfway down the mountain. George bowed low and greeted a man who was a legend on the island of Cephalonia as well as in the streets of Athens, despite the fact that he had never once left his native soil. Whenever Andreas was asked why, he simply replied, “Why would anyone leave Paradise?”

  In 1942, when the island of Cephalonia had been overrun by the Germans, Andreas Nikolaides escaped to the hills and, at the age of twenty-three, became the leader of the resistance movement. He never left those hills during the long occupation of his homeland and, despite a handsome bounty being placed on his head, did not return to his people until, like Alexander, he had driven the intruders back into the sea.

  Once peace was declared in 1945, Andreas returned in triumph. He was elected mayor of Cephalonia, a position which he held, unopposed, for the next thirty years. Now that he was well into his eighties, there wasn’t a family on Cephalonia who did not feel in debt to him, and few who didn’t claim to be a relative.

  “Good evening, sir,” said George stepping forward to greet the old man. “We are honored by your presence at my niece’s wedding.”

  “It is I who should be honored,” replied Andreas, returning the bow. “Your niece’s grandfather fought and died by my side. In any case,” he added with a wink, “it’s an old man’s prerogative to kiss every new bride on the island.”

  George guided his distinguished guest slowly round the outside of the dance floor and on toward the top table. Guests stopped dancing and applauded as the old man passed by. George insisted that Andreas take his place in the center of the top table, so that he could be seated between the bride and groom. Andreas reluctantly took his host’s place of honor. When Isabella turned to see who had been placed next to her, she burst into tears and threw her arms around the old man. “Your presence has made the wedding complete,” she said.

  Andreas smiled and, looking up at George, whispered, “I only wish I’d had that effect on women when I was younger.”

  George left Andreas seated in his place at the center of the top table, chatting happily to the bride and groom. He picked up a plate and walked slowly down a table laden with food. George took his time selecting only the most delicate morsels that he felt the old man would find easy to digest. Finally he chose a bottle of vintage wine from a case that his own father had presented to him on the day of his wedding. George turned back to take the offering to his honored guest just as the chimes on the cathedral clock struck twelve, hailing the dawn of a new day.

  Once more, the young men of the island charged onto the dance floor and fired their pistols into the air, to the cheers of the assembled guests. George frowned, but then for a moment recalled his own youth. Carrying the plate in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, he continued walking back toward his place in the center of the table, now occupied by Andreas Nikolaides.

  Suddenly, without warning, one of the young bandoliers, who’d had a little too much to drink, ran forward and tripped on the edge of the dance floor, just as he was discharging his last shot. George froze in horror when he saw the old man slump forward in his chair, his head falling onto the table. George dropped the bottle of wine and the plate of food onto the grass as the bride screamed. He ran quickly to the center of the table, but it was too late. Andreas Nikolaides was already dead.

  The large, exuberant gathering was suddenly in turmoil, some screaming, some weeping, while others fell to their knees, but the majority were hushed into a shocked, somber silence, unable to grasp what had taken place.

  George bent down over the body and lifted the old man into his arms. He carried him slowly across the lawn, the guests forming a corridor of bowed heads, as he walked toward the house.

  George had just bid five thousand pounds for two seats at a West End musical that had already closed when he told me the story of Andreas Nikolaides.

  “They say of Andreas that he saved the life of everyone on that island,” George remarked as he raised his glass in memory of the old man. He paused before adding, “Mine included.”

  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 counseling. 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 sha