The Pearl of Bengal (7 page)

Agatha and Dash watched as Naveen
Chandra was handcuffed. He didn’t resist. The two guards escorted him into the street and toward the prison.

Captain Deshpande took a seat at the cousins’ table, his expression serene. “Well, I won’t need any reinforcements now, my friends,” he said, stirring the gravel with his bamboo cane. “I finally found a reliable witness. That fisherman is Amitav Chandra’s neighbor. He’s just returned from a two-day trip up the river,” he explained. “If only I had been able to question him earlier!”

With a small smile, Agatha opened her purse. “Do you want the witness statements back, Captain?”

He shrugged. “Keep them, Miss, keep them!” he said with a happy sigh, ambling slowly away. “This case is closed!”

Agatha wasn’t so sure.

T
hey dined that night on the Tiger Hotel’s rooftop terrace, enjoying a spicy shrimp curry and charcoal-grilled naan bread. A fiery sunset lit up the sky, its colors reflected in the still waters of the Ganges. The night sounds of the forest made the scene even more exotic.

“But the case isn’t closed at all,” Agatha told Uncle Rudyard and Chandler. “The captain has put Naveen Chandra in jail, but his father’s still missing and so is the pearl.”

“You don’t think he’s guilty, Miss Agatha?” asked the butler, his broad shoulders aching from
carrying Rudyard’s heavy scuba equipment.

Agatha paused, making sure they were all paying attention. “Everything Naveen told us today corresponds with the statement he gave to Deshpande,” she said. “But the captain didn’t check out his alibi. The boy at reception confirmed that Naveen Chandra never left his room on the night of the theft.”

Dash choked on his jasmine rice. “What?” he coughed. “Didn’t you say yourself that he could have just climbed out his window?”

Agatha signaled her companions to follow her to the balcony railing. “Look down,” she said, pointing at the undisturbed muddy soil under Naveen Chandra’s window. “No footprints. And even if he let himself down with a rope—well, you can see for yourselves.” The walls of the hotel were surrounded by a dense thicket of mangroves, bamboo canes, and spiny plants.

“He couldn’t have
gone that way, not even with a machete,” Uncle Rudyard commented wryly. “He’d be covered with scratches.”

Agatha turned to her cousin. “Did you notice any cuts or bandages on Naveen Chandra today?” she asked.

“Hmm, let me think,” Dash ruminated. “Nope. Not a scratch.”

“So his alibi stands, and Captain Deshpande has got the wrong man,” Agatha concluded.

Everybody agreed.

Only Dash, who’d been hoping to fly back to school with an easy A, seemed a bit disappointed.

As darkness fell, the five companions set out to tell Captain Deshpande about his mistake.

“Naveen Chandra’s arrest could actually work in our favor,” mused Agatha, tapping her nose with her finger. “The real culprit will be feeling secure now, so he’ll be more likely to let something slip.”

“Good point,” agreed Dash. Rudyard nodded.

“How do you plan to proceed, Miss?” asked Chandler.

“The Spanish tourists and Brahman Sangali are the only ones left on our list of suspects,” said Dash. “Should we question them now?”

“One step at a time.” Agatha smiled.

She pulled the folder of statements from her purse and showed Dash the names of the two Spaniards. “Could you please check their criminal records on your EyeNet?”

Dash nodded. “I’m on it.”

He powered up his gadget, instantly accessing Eye International’s criminal archive.

Looking over his shoulder, Uncle Rudyard watched him scroll down the long list. “You wouldn’t be able to get me one of those thingamajiggers, would you?” he whispered. “Be handy for tracking down poachers!”

Dash’s eyes were fixed on the fast-moving
screen, and he didn’t reply. Then he exclaimed, “Incredible! Got ’em!”

“Let’s hear it,” said Agatha. “What did you find?”

Dash began rattling off his discoveries. “They’ve done heists all over the world! Listen to this: a solid-glass model of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, a miniature Colosseum from Rome, a Mickey Mouse puppet from Disneyland. It goes on and on!”

Agatha burst out laughing. The others looked at her, stunned.

“What’s so funny?” hissed Dash, his pride wounded. “They’re international criminals!”

Chandler and Uncle Rudyard looked at Agatha, waiting.

“Puppets and souvenirs aren’t the usual loot for professional thieves,” she explained. “I just flipped through one of my memory drawers and pictured one of Mom’s medical texts. I was
skimming through it a couple of months ago…” She paused for a moment, closing her eyes in concentration. When she reopened them, she asked in a whisper, “Have you ever heard of kleptomania?”

Chandler frowned. “Give us a hint,” said Dash.

“It’s an uncontrollable urge to steal objects that have little value, just for the pleasure of doing it,” Agatha explained as Uncle Rudyard scanned the list of thefts on the EyeNet.

“This is a list of trinkets!” he snorted. “It’s all worthless junk!”

“Since the Bengal Pearl is invaluable,” Chandler concluded, “it seems obvious they didn’t steal it.”

“Excellent deduction!” Agatha congratulated him.

Dash slumped back into his seat, sighing deeply.

Agatha passed Watson a tidbit of tandoori chicken. “Don’t worry, Dash,” she consoled him. “Deshpande’s list still has one name on it: Brahman Sangali. Do you know him, Uncle?”

Rudyard Mistery shook his head. “Never met the man.”

“All right, let’s go have a chat with him,” proposed the girl. She picked up her purse and headed downstairs. Watson trotted behind her.

The others quickly followed, switching on their flashlights as they left the Tiger Hotel.

It was just past 7:30, but there were few lights in the village. The people of Chotoka rose with the sun and had already retired to their homes to sleep. There wasn’t a living soul on the main street as Agatha and her companions made their way toward the temple. The road became steeper and narrower the farther they went into the jungle. Dash tried very hard not to think about scorpions, snakes, leopards, and tigers.

After a short while, they heard voices. Snapping off their flashlights, they walked forward cautiously until they reached the edge of a clearing where a group of faithful devotees sang sacred chants by the glow of small fires.

The air was thick with the musky scent of incense. Through the spiraling smoke, Agatha caught sight of the ancient sanctuary. Her mouth fell open.

It was a square stone tower, some forty feet tall, surrounded by narrow stone steps. Every level was decorated with frescoes and stone carvings dedicated to the goddess Kali. In the flickering firelight, it gave off a spooky, menacing air.

“Look, there’s a guard at the temple door,” whispered Dash. “Captain Deshpande still has it under surveillance.”

“That’s strange,” Chandler said. “Since he already thinks he’s got the culprit.”

“Maybe he’s waiting until Amitav Chandra is found, too,” suggested Uncle Rudyard in his booming voice.

The groups of kneeling devotees suddenly realized they weren’t alone and stopped chanting their sacred litany.

One of them stood up abruptly, advancing in large strides, his finger to his lips. He wore a black tunic that left his sinewy arms bare, and a full white beard framed his face.

In spite of his priestly robes, he had a sinister presence.

Agatha decided to make the first move. “Good evening, Brahman Sangali,” she whispered, clasping her hands and bowing.

He paused for a moment, then signaled to the devotees to resume their chanting. Then he ushered the foreigners behind a large tree. “Have we met before, Miss?” he asked in a low voice.

The girl followed her instincts. “Amitav Chandra told me about your differences of opinion,” she lied. “You two didn’t agree on much, did you?”

Brahman Sangali looked very uncomfortable. “We had different duties,” he mumbled. “He was the temple’s custodian, and I oversee the sacred rituals. It’s normal for minor disagreements to come up from time to time.”

Dash understood Agatha’s plan. She was putting the priest under pressure so that he would tell them as much as possible.

“Did you plot to steal the Pearl of Bengal?” she asked bluntly. “Maybe with the help of your followers?”

Uncle Rudyard and Chandler folded their arms, waiting for his reply.

“Never!” the Brahman exclaimed indignantly. “Only a foreigner could think such a thing! Do you know what grave misfortunes will befall our village if the pearl is not recovered? We are praying night and day that it be returned to our goddess. Kali is the Mother of the World for us Hindus, the most powerful deity of all. She is the only one who can save us from disasters, from war, and from the earth’s sicknesses. We would not dare to offend her and encourage her wrath!” His voice shook with terror.

After this heartfelt outpouring, Agatha was certain Sangali was telling the truth. His words matched what she had read about Kali and the Hindu religion. She apologized to the Brahman for questioning him so rudely, explaining that they, too, were doing their best to recover the priceless pearl.

Still shaken, the priest accepted her apology, and added, “Would you care to join in our chanting?”

“As you say, we are foreigners,” said Agatha tactfully. Then a strange idea struck her. “Brahman, have any new pilgrims arrived in the last few weeks?”

Sangali reflected. “Three, perhaps four,” he replied vaguely.

“Could you point them out to me, please?”

They turned back to the clearing in front of the temple.

The priest hesitated. “It is not easy to see who is who in the dark,” he admitted. “And well, you know, pilgrims come and go. It’s easy to mistake one for another.”

The girl observed the kneeling devotees, swaying in front of their flickering fires. For a split second, one of the men seemed familiar, but the sensation vanished immediately.

The small group walked back toward the Tiger Hotel. Uncle Rudyard said good night at the gate, continuing on to the dock where the raft to his seaplane was moored.

Before she slipped under the sheets, Agatha reviewed Deshpande’s list of suspects with Dash and Chandler. They had eliminated every last one from suspicion. So who was the thief?

They fell asleep with no answer in sight.

But they had completely forgotten the one hotel guest who remained in the garden, watching the light in their bedroom click off: the gentleman with the pince-nez glasses who’d been reading the newspaper that afternoon.