"Why did you let her in? I told you not to let anyone in. Why did you let her in?" I had asked the same thing three times before. Amrita had answered three times. I sat with my back against the wall where I was slumped to the floor. My forearms rested on my raised knees and my broken finger jutted whitely. Amrita sat very straight on the edge of the bed, one hand lying primly atop the other. Inspector Singh sat nearby in a straight-backed chair, scrutinizing the both of us. The door to the hall was closed.

"She said she had brought the material back," said Amrita. "She wanted to exchange it. You and I were leaving in the morning."

"But . . . aw, Christ, kiddo —" I stopped and lowered my face.

"You didn't say not to talk to her, Bobby. I knew Kamakhya."

Inspector Singh cleared his throat. "Yet it was very late, Mrs. Luczak. Did this cause you any concern?"

"Yes," said Amrita and turned toward Singh. "I kept the chain hooked and asked her why she had come so late. She explained . . . she seemed embarrassed, Inspector . . . she explained that she had not been able to leave the house until her father was asleep. She said that she had called twice earlier."

"And had she, Mrs. Luczak?"

"The phone did ring twice, Inspector. Bobby had told me not to answer it. I didn't."

They both looked at me. I met Singh's gaze. I could not meet Amrita's.

"You are sure that you do not require medical assistance, Mr. Luczak? There is a doctor on call with this establishment."

"No. I'm sure." After the first few minutes, when Singh had asked what had happened to me, I had blurted out the entire story. It could not have been very coherent, but I omitted nothing but the fact that I had been the one who gave the pistol to Das. Inspector Singh had nodded and taken notes as if he heard such stories every evening.

It did not matter.

He turned back to Amrita. "I'm sorry to make you go back over this again, Mrs. Luczak, but can you estimate how long you were out of the room?"

Amrita trembled a bit through her icy control, and I could see the pit of hysteria and grief that lay under the surface. I wanted to go to her and take her in my arms. I did nothing.

"A minute, Inspector. Perhaps not that long. I was speaking to Kamakhya when suddenly I felt very dizzy. I excused myself, went into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, and returned. Perhaps forty-five seconds."

"And the child?"

"Victoria . . . Victoria was asleep there. On the bed near the windows. We use . . . we use the pillows and cushion as a kind of . . . she likes to nestle, Inspector. She likes her head to be against something. And she won't roll off with the cushion there."

"Yes."

I pushed myself to my feet and walked to the foot of Amrita's bed. Anywhere as long as I didn't have to look at the other bed with it's empty circle of pillows and Victoria's blue and white blanket, still crumpled and moist where she had pulled it against her face in her sleep.

"You've heard all of this before, Inspector," I said. "When are you going to quit asking questions and get busy hunting for . . . for the person who has our baby?"

Singh looked at me with dark eyes. I remembered the pain in Das's gaze, and I understood a little better now that there might be no limit to hurting.

"We are searching, Mr. Luczak. The entire Metropolitan Police Force has been notified. No one in the hotel saw this woman leave. People on the street do not remember seeing such a person carrying a child or a bundle. I have sent a car to the address which Mrs. Luczak remembers from the sari shop. As you see, we have extended extra phone lines from the adjoining rooms so that we can receive communications while your line remains open."

"Remains open? Why?"

Singh glanced down, ran a thumb along the sharp crease of his trousers, and looked back. "For a ransom demand, Mr. Luczak. We must assume that there will be a ransom element to this kidnapping."

"Ah," I said and sat down heavily on the bed. The words had cut through me like sharp metal tabs that had to be swallowed. "I see. All right." I took Amrita's hand in mine. It was cold and limp. "But what about the Kapalikas?" I asked. "What if they're involved?"

Singh nodded. "We are checking into that, Mr. Luczak. You must remember that it is very late."

"But I gave you the description of the factory area where I met Das."

"Yes, and that may prove to be very helpful. But you should understand that there are scores of such places near the Hooghly in Old Calcutta. Hundreds, if you count warehouses and dock areas to the north. And all of them are private property. Many are owned by foreign interests. Are you sure, Mr. Luczak, that this place was near the river?"

"No. Not positive."

"And you remember no landmarks? No street names? No easily identifiable references?"

"No. Just the two chimneys. There was a slum —"

"Was there any sign that this was a permanent location for these men? Any sign of long-term habitation?"

I frowned. Other than Das's meager shelf of belongings, there had been no such sign. "There was the idol," I said at last. "They used the place as a temple. That idol couldn't be too easy to cart around."

"The idol that walked?" asked Singh. If there had been the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice, I would have gone for him then, broken finger and everything.

"Yeah."

"And we do not know that they are involved, do we, Mr. Luczak?"

I cradled my hand and glared at him. "She's M. Das's niece, Inspector. She's bound to be involved somehow."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

Singh took out a gold cigarette case. It was the first time that I had even seen anyone in real life tap a cigarette against a cigarette case before lighting up. "I mean, no, she is not M. Das's niece," he said.

Amrita gasped as if someone had slapped her. I stared.

"You said, Mrs. Luczak, that Miss Kamakhya Bahrati was the niece of the poet M. Das. The daughter of Das's younger sister, according to her own account. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"M. Das had no sisters, Mrs. Luczak. At least, none who survived infancy. He had four living brothers, all farmers, all citizens of the same village in Bangladesh. You see, I have been case officer on the disappearance of Mr. M. Das for eight years. I am well acquainted with his circumstances. If you had mentioned being contacted by this woman when we spoke, Mr. Luczak, I could have informed you of this fact." Singh exhaled smoke and removed a shred of tobacco from his tongue.

The phone rang.

We all stared. It was one of the extra phones. Singh answered it. "Ha?" There was a long silence. "Shukriya," he said at last, and added, "Very good, sergeant."

"What is it?" I demanded.

Inspector Singh stubbed out his cigarette and stood. "There is little else we can do tonight, I am afraid. I will return in the morning. My men will be in the adjoining rooms through the night. Any call to your room will be monitored by an officer at the switchboard downstairs. That was my sergeant on the phone. The address Kamakhya Bahrati gave the shop was a false one, of course. She had returned to the shop to pick up the fabric in person. It took some time for my men to locate the street number she had given the store, since the address is in a location where there are few buildings." He hesitated then and looked at me. "The address she gave is a public laundry park," he said. "A laundry park and cremation grounds."

Amrita was by far the braver and the smarter of the two of us during the hours and days that followed. I might have remained sitting on the bed for hours after Singh left if Amrita had not taken charge, gotten me out of my reeking clothes, and set the broken finger as best she could using a small toothbrush holder as a splint. I threw up again when she tugged the finger into place, but there was nothing left to vomit and the dry heaves would have soon turned to sobs of fury and frustration if Amrita hadn't thrust me under the shower. The water was tepid and under-pressured, but wonderful. I stood there for half an hour, actually falling asleep for a while, allowing the flow of water to pound away memories and terrors. Only a fierce core of sorrow and confusion continued to burn through my fatigue as I dressed in clean cotton and joined Amrita for a silent vigil.