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.’