Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [77]
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 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 offense 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