A Dead Hand
A Dead Hand
“I had always regarded this light as a reminder that I was in Calcutta; now this brightness was like an apparition of Mrs. Unger. She was warmth and light to me, she was my reason for being in the city, she was life to me—my first thought as I drew a breath that morning, feeling her fingers on my hands. I yawned and sat on the edge of my bed, limp but rested after the deep sleep.
The telephone rang. I guessed who it might be. I fumbled with the receiver as though I'd just settled to earth. The r...oom phones at the Hastings were heavy black Bakelite specimens with stiff twisted cords, phones that had been junked as obsolete everywhere else in the world, but in Calcutta nothing was obsolete. Before I could say anything, I was jarred by a man's voice.
"Dr. Mukherjee here, speaking from police headquarters." "Yes. Do you have any news about the, um, item?" "Just a preliminary report regarding fingerprints." "What did you find?" "Better question. What did we not find?" he said, pleased with himself for being paradoxical.MoreLess
The telephone rang. I guessed who it might be. I fumbled with the receiver as though I'd just settled to earth. The r...oom phones at the Hastings were heavy black Bakelite specimens with stiff twisted cords, phones that had been junked as obsolete everywhere else in the world, but in Calcutta nothing was obsolete. Before I could say anything, I was jarred by a man's voice.
"Dr. Mukherjee here, speaking from police headquarters." "Yes. Do you have any news about the, um, item?" "Just a preliminary report regarding fingerprints." "What did you find?" "Better question. What did we not find?" he said, pleased with himself for being paradoxical.MoreLess
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