The Redhead of Rajastan, Chapter 5, The Case of Count Davidoff

The continuing story of Mem-Sahib Cynthia Jackson, the 16 year old owner of of Jackson’s Jazz Club, the hottest nightclub this side of Bombay.

Our story thus far:

When: Friday, March 17, 1933

Where: Rajastan, a fictional island in the Arabian Sea, northwest of India, roughly parallel with Gujarat.

What: the police are investigating the death of Count Nikolai Davidoff

Who: the late Count Davidoff, Jasmine, a dancer; Timothy Akbar Patel, the club manager, accountant, and number 2 tabla drummer; “the Gurkha,”the club bouncer; Malachi Ford, the pianist; Dr. Seamus Delaney, a half-caste physician; Chief Constable Angus McGregor, and his nephew, the Rev. Mr. Duncan McGregor, and the Redhead of Rajastan herself, Cynthia Jackson.

Why: “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.”

There was a knock on the door. Both the chief constable and Patel called out, “Come in.”

The door opened and Constable Joshua Aravind stepped inside, “Your pardon, Sahib, but the young lady, Miss Jasmine, wishes to be excused and retire for the evening. Mr. Ford, the piano player has volunteered to escort her to purdah, if that is permitted.”

“What is purdah, Uncle Angus?” the younger McGregor asked quietly.

“Women’s quarters,” the chief constable whispered back. “Beyond the door, it’s off limits to men.”

Patel and Cynthia exchanged speaking glances at that tidbit of news. Chief Constable McGregor noticed their silent conversation but could not interpret it. “Why do I have the feeling that you two know something that I don’t?”

Patel explained slowly, “Jasmine was interested in the late Count Davidoff. Mr. Ford is interested in Jasmine.”

“His attention was not reciprocated, I take it?” McGregor-Sahib asked.

“An American pianist, especially one of Ethiopian heritage, is not of the same caliber as a Russian count to an ambitious young woman,” Patel pointed out.

“No, I should imagine not,” McGregor-Sahib agreed. “I should like to speak to Miss Jasmine before she retires for the night. Miss Jackson, would you be willing to stay as a chaperone? I suspect it would make her more comfortable.”

Cynthia nodded. “Aravind, would you please bring the young lady here?”

“At once, Chief Constable.” PC Joshua Aravind slipped quietly out of the office. He returned a few minutes later with a brown-skinned native girl, dressed in a red gown, a cheap copy of a Parisian designer gown, with jade bracelets, earrings, and a jade necklace.

“Good evening,” Jasmine said in Urdu. She looked around the office: the two McGregors, Dr. Delaney, Cynthia, Patel, and PC Aravind. Her gaze fell on Cynthia. “Mem-sahib,” she continued speaking in rapidfire Urdu.

“Yes, of course,” Cynthia said in English. “She says it’s been a long, stressful day, and she’d like to go to bed early tonight.”

“Quite understandable,” Chief Constable McGregor agreed in slow, slightly mispronounced Urdu. “A few questions, first, while your memory is still fresh. What is your name?”

She laughed. “I am not likely to forget that. I am Yasmeen Mohammed.”

PC Aravind removed a notebook and pencil from a jacket pocket and began writing down her answers.

“Miss Mohammed, please tell me what happened with Count Davidoff this evening.”

“We danced. We had some drinks. Mine didn’t taste right, so he traded drinks with me — Oh, no! If he hadn’t taken my drink, I would’ve been the one lying dead on the floor.”

“Please, Miss Mohammed, slow down; my Urdu is not that good,” Chief Constable McGregor said.

“I could interview the lady,” Aravind offered, “if Mem-sahib Jackson is willing to chaperone.”

“For the death of Count Davidoff, I wish to be personally involved in this investigation,” McGregor replied.

To be Continued