One Maharaja too many

It had been some years since I had found a reason to visit Bombay.

The last time I had been here, I had thought it rather a crass, provincial entrepôt, barely worthy of being called a city. But now, as 1909 waned and a new decade approached, business was booming. There was much talk of war looming in Europe, and with such rumours came renewed prosperity for the colonies. The mills were working overtime, droves of immigrants were pouring in, and the acrid stench of greed seemed to permeate the very air, making me want to gasp.

I had been halfway to Aden when a chance remark from a stranger drove me to disembark at Karachi. Thirty-nine long and exhausting hours later, after changing trains at Kotri and Mirpur Khas, I finally arrived at the Colaba Terminus. The man I had travelled such a distance to see was staying nearby, at Watson’s Hotel, in the heart of the Esplanade district. I had never been there before, but it was said to be frequented by only the most discerning of travellers. My first impression when I reached its threshold was that this exalted reputation was somewhat overrated, for it was rather an ugly building, its gaudy edifice dressed by an excess of cast iron, making it seem more like a prison than a hotel.

Inside, it was equally hideous, Minton tiles and plaster molding and damask wallpaper everywhere you turned, and an oddly shaped glass atrium that was fighting a losing battle against a relentless flock of pigeons. Stifling a grimace, I wasted no time in presenting my letter of introduction to the concierge, explaining that I had telephoned ahead to arrange an appointment. The man eyed me with more than a hint of suspicion; I did not much look the part of a box-wallah, although I had been careful to dress conservatively, in a simple achkan . It was something about the eyes, I imagine, that spooked him, a predatory quality, the unwavering intensity of a hunter who has at last, managed to close in on his elusive prey.

After a moment’s hesitation, I was ushered into a private morning-room, a dimly lit parlour furnished in a style that could only be described as mock Georgian. At the centre of the room, a satinwood Hepplewhite table stood, matched by two brocade covered gentlemen’s chairs. Fidgeting impatiently, I took one, trying to keep my excitement from getting the better of me.

The man I had travelled so far to meet kept me waiting for the better part of an hour. Just as I was beginning to lose patience, the door swung open, and he finally made an entry, traipsing in as louchely as a Cavalier.

“Good morning,” he said, offering me one hand. “I am Sikander Singh, the Maharaja of Rajpore.”

Tentatively, I took his hand, making every effort not to wrinkle my nose, for he was wearing far too much Trumper’s Cologne for my liking. To my relief, he did not seem to notice my reticence. Instead, smiling affably, he took the chair I had vacated so recently, settling into it with a theatrical groan.

I took a moment to study him intently. He certainly looked the part, dressed in a well-cut mohair suit in a discreet shade of grey herringbone, although he had chosen to pair it with a red silk vest that was unnecessarily startling. He was younger than I had expected, with a sharpness to his features that made me dislike him. His hair was just a smidgen too long, smeared with an excess of brilliantine, and his smile too ready, too convivial. A callow man, I thought, much too sure of himself, which meant he was a man who could not be trusted.

“Well,” he said, peering down at my calling card, “What can I do for you?”

“I am surprised that I was able to catch you, Your Highness. I heard you had departed for Suez on the Mooltan four days ago.”

His face hardened. “My itinerary is no concern of yours,” he said frostily. “I am a busy man, and have no time to waste making chit-chat.”

“Forgive me,” I replied. “I meant no offence.” Leaning forward, I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I have heard, Your Majesty, from a reliable source that you have some personal items you wish to dispose of. That is why I am here.”

Pursing his lips, he took a good long while to examine me. I held my breath nervously, trying to seem as innocuous as I could, as benign. What did he make of what he saw? I wondered. A man of about 40, dusty from an arduous journey, his hair tonsured close to his skull, a fine beard, if on the shaggy side, gaunt cheekbones, certainly not handsome, but with the rigid posture and bearing of someone who was not afraid of trouble.

“Can I trust you?” he asked at last.

“I assure you, you most surely can.”

“Excellent!” he smiled, a disarming grin that would have worked on most people, but I have found that I have always had an immunity to charming people. They make me suspicious, for it is my natural state not to accept anything or anyone at face value. “As it occurs, I find myself in a bit of a bind. A little over a year ago, you see, I discovered a love of fan-tan. It is a Chinese card game, rather popular amongst the less than reputable set.”

“I am familiar with it.”

“Ah, a man of the world! Well, to my regret, my enthusiasm for the game rather exceeded my skill, and as a result, I find myself in the hole, so to say, towards rather a generous sum.”

“That,” he pointed at me, “is where you come into the picture.”

Reaching into the inside pocket of his blazer, he pulled out a chamois pouch, tossing it carelessly onto the table between us. It had to be a carefully contrived move, for the mouth of the purse fell open and out poured a stream of rubies, a blood-red mound of flawless stones the size of grapes, glinting so brightly that they made even someone as jaded as myself sit up with a gasp.

“I find myself gripped by the need to liquidate a fraction of my personal assets with some degree of haste, and require a trustworthy man to sell these baubles for me discreetly.”

“Why not sell them yourselves, Your Majesty?”

“That is exactly what I cannot do,” he replied with a frown. “I cannot afford for the English to find out about my debts. Unfortunately, I already have all too colourful a reputation, and have managed to make far too many enemies in high places. If they were to find out that I had lost such a fortune wagering at cards, they would be quick to try and remove me from my throne and supplant me with my uncle. No, what I need is a proxy, a man who can broker the sale for me, and do so quietly.” He looked at me, arching one expressive brow. “Of course, such a man can expect to be handsomely recompensed.”

“What exactly did you have in mind?”

He responded by waving one hand dismissively, as if to say it was beneath him to speak of money.

“I would be happy to offer, say 10 per cent, as a commission.”

“A generous offer,” I countered, “but 20 per cent would be much more enticing.”

Another smile, baring an expanse of sharkish teeth. “I think I could manage that.”

“In that case, sir, I am your man.” I reached out to gather up the pouch, but he forestalled me by clearing his throat rather pointedly.

“Hold on for a moment. You do not think I shall just hand over a fortune in rubies to a complete stranger, do you? There are contracts to sign, and of course, I shall require a small advance to satisfy my more eager creditors.”

“What manner of advance?” I asked warily.

“I was thinking of about a thousand guineas.”

That number caused me to let out a low whistle. Even though gold guineas were no longer minted, the equivalent value in pounds sterling was a little over 1 pound, or 21 shillings, per guinea, to be precise. And at the conversion rate of roughly 15 rupees to a pound, it meant a 1000 guineas would be equal to roughly 20,000 rupees, which was a princely sum indeed.

“Is that too rich for your blood?”

Rather than responding to this jibe, I picked up one of the rubies and held it up to catch the light. Delving into my cummerbund, I extracted a small Zeiss magnifying glass, intending to examine the stone more carefully.

“What exactly do you think you are doing?” he squawked. His easy bonhomie had vanished, replaced instead by a barely repressed outrage. “Do you dare to doubt my word?”

“Not at all, sire. It’s just the old adage. Caveat Emptor, Buyer beware!”

I offered him a rueful shrug, but he was not amused, not in the slightest.

“You may show yourself out,” he said, his tone so cold it could have made an Eskimo shiver. “I shall find someone else to assist me.”

“Please, huzoor , I made a mistake,” I wheedled, trying to sound servile, even though it was something to which I was entirely unaccustomed. Bowing my head, I made a great show of feigning remorse as I replaced the ruby on the table. “I did not mean to impugn Your Majesty, not in the least.”

Thankfully, he was gullible enough to buy my act, affected though it was.

“Very well! I take it we have an arrangement then,” he said, rather too genially.

“I am glad to say we do. I shall have a draft drawn up for the requisite sum immediately.”

“No!” He interjected hastily, “I would prefer cash. I intend to leave for France tomorrow, and I have no time to chase down bankers.”

I bit back a smile, realising that I had him now, hook, line and sinker.

“That is very irregular,” I said, furrowing my brow hesitantly. “I am not used to dealing with such large amounts of currency.”

The slightest hint of dismay flickered across his features, a mere frisson, but for someone with my observational capacities, it was as good as a grimace.

“I understand, but nonetheless, I am afraid, I must insist. It is cash, or nothing.”

He sat back, crossing his arms expectantly. I spent a few minutes pretending to dither, as was expected, before sighing in surrender.

“Very well, huzoor . As you wish!”

Raising my fingers to my lips, I let out a piercing whistle. Immediately, the door clattered open, and in marched an enormous Sikh, flanked by two khaki-clad Naiks of the Bombay Constabulary.

“Arrest him,” I commanded, “He is an impostor, a confidence trickster.”

The big Sikh laughed and lumbered straight over to the so-called Maharaja, one massive hand closing on the back of his neck as he hauled him bodily to his feet.

“What...what is the meaning of this?” The man’s mouth gaped open, utterly stunned by this unexpected turn of events.

I let out a bemused chuckle. “It was an interesting plan,” I said, “a variation of the Spanish Prisoner I have not encountered before. You assumed that the Maharaja’s name and these opulent surroundings, coupled with innate human greed, would be enough to get me to advance you a thousand guineas in exchange for these gemstones. And of course, by the time I realised they were counterfeit, you would be long gone, along with my money.”

“It might even have worked, but sadly, you made one cardinal mistake. You chose the wrong Maharaja to impersonate. After all, the success of a good swindle is always in the details, and if you had spent a little more time getting your research right, you would have realised the man you are trying to pose as does not like to shake hands. Also, you use far too much perfume for any respectable gentleman, and the state of your fingernails, frankly, is deplorable.”

Turning to the policemen, I nodded. “You may take him away now.”

Even as they clapped manacles around his wrists and bundled him towards the door, he wrestled free and turned to face me.

“Wait,” he exclaimed, “Who are you? Tell me your name, damn you!”

“Oh,” I grinned, bowing slightly, “I guess I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Sikander Singh, and I am, amongst other things, the Maharaja of Rajpore.”

Arjun Raj Gaindis the author of the non-fiction graphic novel 'Empire of Blood'. His first prose novel 'A Very Pukka Murder' will be released by HarperCollins later this year

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