‘For God’s sake, what is taking you so long?’ said the Sub-Inspector impatiently to his subordinates. ‘Come on. How far is it from here?’
‘Just two minutes away.’
‘Then we’ll go in your tonga. Hemraj, use the police jeep to get the doctor. Don’t fill in more than a line in the daily diary. I’ll do the rest later. If he’s still alive maybe I’ll get an FIR from him rather than from the tonga-wallah. I’m taking Bihari with me. The other Assistant Sub-Inspector will handle the station while I’m gone.’
Within two minutes they had got to Firoz. He was semi-conscious and still bleeding. It was immediately clear to the Sub-Inspector that if his life was to be saved there was no question of first aid and bandages. Time was of the essence. He should be moved to the hospital forthwith.
‘Bihari, when the doctor comes, tell him to hurry to the Civil Hospital. We’re going there by tonga. Yes, give me the bandages – I’ll see what I can do on the way to stop the blood. Oh, yes, follow the blood if you can: keep two torches, I’ll take one. I’ll take statements from the tonga-wallah and the injured man. Check the walking-stick for a hidden blade. See if the weapon’s lying around, and so on. His wallet is on him – it doesn’t seem as if he’s been robbed. But maybe someone tried to rob him and he managed to get away. On Cornwallis Road!’ The Sub-Inspector shook his head, licked the right side of his moustache, and wondered what Brahmpur was coming to.
They lifted Firoz into the tonga and got in themselves, and it clopped off into the mist. The Sub-Inspector shone his torch carefully at Firoz’s face. Even with the wavering torchlight shining on his pale and distorted features, Firoz’s face looked familiar. The Inspector noticed that he was wearing a woman’s shawl and frowned. Then he opened his wallet, and saw the name and address on his driving licence; and his frown became one of real concern. He shook his head slowly. This case was going to mean trouble and would have to be handled carefully. As soon as they got to the hospital and put Firoz in the hands of the emergency ward staff, the Sub-Inspector telephoned the Superintendent of Police, who himself undertook to inform Baitar House.
17.15
THE emergency ward – which had recently been renamed the casualty department – represented a scene of organized chaos. A woman, clutching her stomach, was screaming in pain in a corner. Two men were brought in with head injuries from a lorry accident – they were still living, but there was no hope for them. A few people had minor cuts of one kind or another, bleeding to a greater or lesser degree.
Two young house surgeons examined Firoz. The Sub-Inspector filled them in on the background: where he had been found, and his name and address.
‘This must be Dr Imtiaz Khan’s brother,’ said one of them. ‘Has the police informed him? We would like to have him on hand, especially if permission is needed for an operation. He works at the Prince of Wales College Hospital.’
The Sub-Inspector told them that the SP was getting in touch with Baitar House. Meanwhile, could he speak to the patient? He needed to file a First Information Report.
‘Not now, not now,’ said the doctors. They checked Firoz’s pulse, which was shallow and irregular, his blood pressure, which was low, his respiration, which was rather fast, and the responses of his pupils, which were normal. He was pale and his forehead was clammy. He had lost a lot of blood and appeared to be in shock. He was still speaking a few words, but they were incoherent. The Sub-Inspector, who was an intelligent man, tried to make what sense of them he could. In particular he noted Saeeda Bai’s name, the words ‘Prem Nivas’, and several agitated mentions of a sister or sisters. These might help him to discover what had happened.
He turned to the doctors. ‘You mentioned he had a brother. Does he also have a sister?’
‘Not that I know,’ said one doctor, shortly.
‘I believe he does,’ said the other. ‘But she doesn’t live in Brahmpur. He’s lost too much blood. Sister, get a drip ready. Normal saline.’
They removed Firoz’s shawl and cut away part of his kurta and vest. All his clothes were covered with blood.
The policeman murmured: ‘I’ll have to get you to write a medical report.’
‘I can’t find a vein in the arm,’ said one of the doctors, ignoring what the Sub-Inspector was saying. ‘We’ll have to cut down.’ They cut a vein in Firoz’s ankle, drew out a little blood, and inserted a drip. ‘Sister, please take this to the lab for tests, and for grouping and matching. Pretty shawl, that. Dyeing doesn’t improve it.’