Page 70 of The Secret Keeper of Jaipur

I turn my gaze on Ravi, who is looking at me with a bemused expression. But I notice the sheen of sweat on his brow. “What could be easier than mixing up the two kinds of bricks during construction and covering them with mortar cement or plaster? I believe the money Sharma-Singh saves by using cheaper, substandard materials is financing the purchase of contraband gold. Which is then sold on the black market, where there’s a demand for it.”

Samir smiles warily and leans back in his chair. “Abbas, you could have picked up these pieces of brick and cement from anywhere. How do I know they’re from the Royal Jewel Cinema?”

He’s got a point. I shrug. “Because I saw you looking at these, too, the night of the collapse. And I have no reason to lie to you.”

Ravi makes a face. “Yes, you do. If Agarwal loses his job, so do you.”

“I don’t need this job, Ravi. I never needed it. I only came because—”

I stop, look at Samir. I was about to say I’m here because of Lakshmi, and I’ve brought this to Samir’s attention because I owe him that much; he paid for my education. There are so many secrets in our world, aren’t there? Ones we keep, ones we reveal, but only at the right moments. I know now that I should not have said yes to Jaipur, yes to Auntie-Boss. I’ve been happy in Shimla. The air is cooler, the breezes cleaner. I can think in the mountains. And Nimmi is there. How could I have left her there when she begged me not to? When I was just getting to know Chullu and Rekha?

“Because why?” Ravi challenges me.

I say nothing.

Ravi turns to his father. “Papaji, who is this boy to you?”

The room is so quiet that I can hear the second hand of the English clock on the mantel advancing.Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Ravi is watching his father, who is ignoring him.

Samir picks up the mechanical pencil. He screws and unscrews it so the lead moves in and out of its casing. “You said a part of this puzzle was missing, Abbas. So what part is that?”

I glance at father, then at the son.

“What I don’t know is whether you knew anything about this, Samir Sahib, or if it is a one-man operation.You don’t need a mirror to see the wound on your palm.”

I remembered this saying as one of Samir’s favorites.

It’s obvious who is moving all the parts, isn’t it? I’m looking openly at Ravi. He stands just a few inches from his father’s desk, tall, upright, with his broad chest. He’s flexing his powerful hands.

Samir looks at him, too. His voice is calm; it’s hard for me to know what he’s thinking.

“Ravi, do you have anything to contribute?” Samir says to his son.

“Only that it’s a good story, as stories go. A bit like Scheherazade, our Abbas. Keep spinning the tale every which way so he can keep the king awake. Look, it’s embarrassing to have to admit that I inadvertently accepted a bad shipment of bricks, but that’s all it was. And I—we—our company, Singh-Sharma—is paying the price for the reconstruction. It’s costing us plenty, I can tell you that.”

Ravi takes step toward me. “But why am I having to justify anything to you anyway? Who are you, Abbas? Why do you feel you can just come here anytime you please and make accusations?”

He turns to his father. “Papaji, you and I have talked about his obsession with Sheela. It’s insulting! We should bar him from entering our house ever again.”

“I thought we were all playing Parcheesi after dinner.” It’s Parvati. How long has she been standing at the threshold to the room? Her eyes take in the scene. Me, standing in front of Samir’s desk, frowning at Ravi. The gold bar glowing inside the brick cavity. Her son clenching his jaw, looking as if he’d like to slit my throat. Samir, his mouth in a grim line, sliding the lead up and down his mechanical pencil.

It’s never a good idea to underestimate Parvati. She’s as sharp as thepatalNimmi carries for cutting her flowers and stems. She enters the room.

When she is standing next to Samir, she looks down at the desk, sees the gold, scans the telegram. Samir looks up at her and some sort of understanding passes between them. The clock on the mantel trills: it’s nine thirty.

Finally, she turns to me. Her smile is more of a grimace. “I’ve finally figured out why you look so familiar, Abbas Malik. You’re the runt who used to run after Lakshmi, carrying her supplies like the good little servant you are.”

She scans my clothes, my shoes, my watch. I meet her gaze. “And look at thePukkah Sahibnow. Did Lakshmi buy you those things? Is she still your minder? Looking after her minions?” If I respected her more, her words might have the power to hurt.

She looks sideways at Samir. “One thing’s for sure. She certainly knows how to stir up trouble.”

Parvati smiles at me, sweetly this time, and I almost believe it’s genuine until she says, “You tell Lakshmi that jealousy is not an admirable quality. She shouldn’t send her boy around here to get what she wants. Now, take your toys and go. You are not welcome here. Again. Ever.”

Should I explain my theory of the puzzle and the missing piece to Parvati? I steal a glance at Samir, who appears absorbed in his pencil. He looks—mortified? Embarrassed? It’s hard to say, but he won’t meet my eye.

I scoop up my discoveries, tuck them into my pockets and head out the door.

---