Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [76]
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