His duty to justice had made him Blake’s direct adversary.īlake always recognised a good opponent. Indeed, the two men had been thrown against each other as opponents when Beram – a suave and mysterious mastermind with an intellect at least equal to Blake’s – sought reprisal for the desecration of a site sacred to his people. Since their last meeting, Blake had believed that a truce had been declared between he and Beram.
Meet me in the Irani café behind the Freemasons’ Hall – I will know when you are there. Its few but forceful words are etched into his memory: “You must come to Bombay. He arrived in Bombay that morning, summoned by the note from enemy-turned-ally, Beram. The man observing is Sexton Blake, the world-renowned detective known for his penetrating intellect and his taste for fine cigars. He is perched behind a desk near the entrance, and appears to be the owner. As new customers enter, they exchange loud greetings with a wizened Irani sporting a prominent moustache and thick steel-rimmed glasses. In a corner, a well-dressed businessman reads The Bombay Chronicle, while a ‘modern’ woman opposite coolly waits for her breakfast. Students (chatting more loudly than they need to) tuck into their plates of omelettes. Families enjoy their morning tea and talk. He takes a sip of his strong chai and studies the character of the Irani café and its patrons. Slightly away from the scene outside, a smartly dressed Englishman with pomaded black hair and a lantern jaw, sits on a bentwood chair in Café Excelsior, an Irani café on Ravellin Street.
Women in saris sit on flower-shrouded mats preparing garlands of roses and carnations and men in white kurtas dash around on errands. Barbers deftly wield razors, while the chappal-seller unpacks neat baskets of shoes from the shoemaker. The roads are thronged with bullock carts, cycles and pedestrians and there is bustle and noise all along the pavement.
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