The Redhead of Rajastan: Chapter 4, The Case of Count Davidoff

{Our story thus far: Jackson’s Jazz Club on the fictional island of Rajastan boasts the hottest jazz this side of Bombay. The club is owned by Cynthia Jackson, one of the few redheads in Rajastan, and run by Timothy Akbar Patel, manager, accountant, and number two tabla drummer. One of the club’s regulars, Count Nikolai Davidoff has just taken ill and died at the club. Dr. Seamus Delaney, a half-caste physician, suspects poison.

Serves him right. If he’d been driving a taxi in Paris like most expatriate Russian counts, he’d still be alive. Oh well, in 1933 expatriate Russian counts were a dime a dozen. Two weeks prior to the events of this chapter, Patel called on Lord Joseph Swanlea, the British ambassador, and asked his help in finding a husband for Cynthia.}

Friday, March 17,1933

Fifteen minutes after Timothy Akbar Patel hung up the telephone, Chief Constable Angus McGregor showed up at the door of the club. He had four uniformed police constables with him, two Europeans, and two natives, and a young European man in a gray suit and a tartan tie.

Patel smiled when he saw the young man. ‘He even has red hair. Their children will be beautiful,’ Timothy Akbar Patel murmured to himself. He strode forward to greet the chief constable and the young man in gray, as he wondered whether to give the British ambassador a bottle of aged Scottish whiskey or a bottle of wine as a thank you gift.

“Good evening, McGregor-Sahib. Thank you for coming so quickly. May I get you a whiskey?”

“No, I’m on duty. A cuppa would be grand, though. Where is the deceased? Ah” McGregor turned his head and saw the body. “Is that Delaney?”

“Yes, yes. Dr. Delaney, you have the honor of the acquaintance of the chief constable, do you not?” Patel asked, prepared to perform the necessary introductions if the answer were no.

“Yes, of course.”

“What has happened?” Chief Constable McGregor asked.

“Count Davidoff is dead.” The doctor’s voice seemed unnecessarily loud to Patel, who asked discreetly asked, “Gentlemen, would it be possible to continue this in my office? And may we remove the body? I’m afraid some of our customers, especially our lady guests, are becoming naturally distressed.”

“Winthrop, come here and bring your camera,” McGregor ordered.

Sgt. Charles Winthrop appeared at his chief’s side in a moment and began photographing the body.

“Once you’ve got that taken care of, you can remove the body,” McGregor directed.

“Right-o, Chief,” Winthrop agreed with a cheerful enthusiasm unbecoming to the situation.

“There’s a good chance this might have been poison,” Dr. Delaney interrupted. “You might want to photograph his table, too. I already told the staff not to clear his drinks away.”

“As you say, sir.” Winthrop nodded to Dr. Delaney.

After four or five snaps of the late count and two of his table, including one of Jasmine, Winthrop covered the body with a borrowed oilcloth tablecloth, and organized the two native police constables to remove the corpse.

On stage, the trombonist called out “Saints,” and began blowing the first few notes of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The rest of the band joined in. “Little Nelson,” the shortest member of the band put down his oboe and began singing. Those of the band who knew the words joined in; the rest attempted to fake their way through the notes.

# * # * # *

In Patel’s office, Dr, Delaney refused the pro-offered cup of tea.

“Something stronger, perhaps?” Patel asked.

“You’ll forgive me for being rude, Mr. Patel, but when there is the chance of poison, I would rather not have anything to drink.”

“You really think it was poison, Doctor?”

“I cannot be sure without the proper tests,” Delaney admitted, “but given his symptoms and the behavior the waiter described, it seems likely.”

“I know you’re careful about the quality of your supplies, Patel,” McGregor said, “so if it is poison, that means murder.”

“Who would want to kill Count Davidoff?” Patel asked. “No one here had any reason to do so. He was one of our few guests who paid his tab on time.”

“I should like to speak to his waiter,” McGregor announced.

“I shall have him fetched, McGregor-Sahib.” Patel stood and left the room.

Patel returned a few minutes later with a man half his size and ten years younger. The redhaired young sahib followed them.

“Gopal Bhasa, one of our waiters,” Patel presented him to the chief constable.

“You waited upon the count tonight? What did he have?”

“Lord Davidoff began the evening with vodka martinis and a cheese sandwich. For his final beverage, Jasmine ordered Cuba Libres for them both. Then the Gurkha changed the order. He said Davidoff-sahib had had enough to drink, and to bring a straight Coca-Cola instead.”

“What is a Cuba Libre?” the young man in the gray suit asked.

“The Rev. Duncan McGregor, one of my nephews,” the chief constable introduced him somewhat belatedly.

“Four ounces of Coca-Cola, two ounces of rum, and a third of an ounce of lime juice,” Gopal recited.

“Is that unusual for the Gurkha to change a customer’s order?” Duncan McGregor asked.

“The Gurkha is our bouncer. If he thought Count Davidoff had enough to drink, I trust his judgment. Indeed, I thought myself that the count was not himself tonight.”

“In what way?” Chief Constable McGregor wanted to know.

“His behavior was disrespectful when he danced with Miss Cynthia.”

McGregor turned to Gopal. “I may have more questions for you later. For now, you are dismissed. Please ask Mem-Sahib Jackson to come speak with me.”

Duncan looked around the office. Other than the chairs being wicker instead of oak or pine, it looked like any ordinary office in Great Britain. A desk, chairs, filing cabinets, potted plants. A framed photograph of a European man pushing a little girl in a swing sat on the desk. Duncan couldn’t help noticing the little girl bore a distinct resemblance to the pianist in the green gingham dress. A terracotta statuette of one of India’s legion of many-armed goddesses stood on the window shelf. Her legs were in a dancing pose. Two of the arms played a sitar.

A gentle tapping at the door interrupted Duncan’s survey of the room.

“Come in,” the chief constable called out.

The door opened and the strawberry blonde in the green gingham dress walked in. “How may I help you, Chief Constable?”

“I am given to understand you spoke with Count Davidoff tonight.”

“Yes, I did.”

Patel stood and silently gestured to Cynthia that she should take his chair.

“Uncle Angus, would you be so kind as to introduce me to the young lady?”

“Miss Jackson, may I present my nephew, the Rev. Mr. Duncan McGregor, who is visiting me before he settles down to parish life? Duncan, your hostess for the evening, Miss Cynthia Jackson of Jackson’s Jazz Club.

“How do you do, Mr. McGregor?”

“How do you do, Miss Jackson? I must confess I am surprised to find a young lady running a nightclub.”

“Oh, I only own it. Mr. Patel,” she nodded at Patel, “runs it. He’s the real boss.”

“The mem-sahib is too kind.” Patel gave her a half-bow.

“Count Davidoff,” McGregor drew her attention back to the matter at hand. “I have heard it said he was disrespectful to you.”

“He was drunk again, not unusual for him. And he got a little handsy. But you don’t kill a man for being a masher. You step on his foot and kick his shin. I didn’t even do that tonight. I certainly didn’t kill him.”

Duncan blinked at her matter-of-fact tone. Maybe nightclub women took mashers and murderers for granted. Perhaps, despite her youth, she was a heartless Jezebel.

“After he danced with me, he danced with Jasmine.”

“Do you know if he got ‘handsy’ with her?”

“If he did, I didn’t see. Malachi Ford, our pianist, was under the weather. I had to fill in for him.”

“Under the weather? Could he have eaten or drank the same thing as Count Davidoff?”

“Ford wasn’t actually sick. Just — not himself.”

“As a policeman, I mistrust coincidence. Two men not quite themselves and now one of them is dead. Perhaps as a precaution, Dr. Delaney should check out your pianist.”

“I wouldn’t say Count Davidoff wasn’t himself. He drank like a fish. Not to be rude about the dead, but he did. It certainly wasn’t the first time he forgot his manners when dancing.”

“Why did you not complain of this before?” Patel demanded.

“I’m sixteen, old enough to take care of myself,” she protested.

Only sixteen. Duncan had thought she was older. If she was heartless, it was in the way a child is “young and gay and heartless” — too young to realize how serious the situation was, he realized.

“I do not think Jasmine would complain if the count were ungentlemanly with her,” Patel said.

“Probably not,” Cynthia agreed.

“Because he was a guest of the club and she didn’t want to make trouble?” McGregor asked.

“More because like many girls, she wishes to marry a rich sahib.If she had managed to bring Nikolai Davidoff ‘up to scratch,’ she would have been a countess.”

“Ambitious for a dancing girl,” McGregor commented.

Patel nodded.

To be continued….