DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Concluding part.

(If you haven't read the earlier parts of this story, click on the title.)

Dead Man looked disappointed. “Apparently, your accountant isn’t very smart,” was his rejoinder. As I started the car he added, “Do keep the Christmas Eve date.”

First thing I did on reaching home was to visit Koottil Bank’s website. Photo of the ‘special safe’ was quite prominent. There was one of Joseph Koottil Sr. as well, wearing or bearing a different body of course. Picture of the former Chief Minister placing one hundred and one rupees in the safe, was also given.

How much money that iron box contains, I wondered. Five million? Ten? More? As a good citizen, I should report the matter to the authorities. I was aware that my reward would be twenty per cent of the unaccounted money seized. That should be sufficient to get my project off the ground. After pondering for two days, I decided that to succeed one had to take risks, and contacted a senior officer in the Income Tax Department.

The raid came the next Saturday afternoon.

According to the media, it was the largest search of its kind in Cochin till then. The bank premises and the three Koottil residences were combed simultaneously. The operation lasted well into the night.

Front page headline in next morning’s Cochin Chronicle summed up the exercise, “Koottil Bank Raid – MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.” The only unaccounted money the tax sleuths unearthed was the former Chief Minister’s contribution. I couldn’t claim my share of Rs.20.20 even if I wanted to because the officials had ignored the find.

The aftermath of the raid was tumultuous. People from all walks of life, banker’s associations, and trade unions protested against what was generally considered as an unwarranted offensive action against a financial institution with an impeccable record.

Newspapers and TV channels picked up the story. Suddenly Koottil Bank was in the national limelight. A prominent analyst wrote an Op-Ed article in Economic Mirror titled “Koottil – A Rock Among Smaller Indian Banks.” Speculative reports about Koottil going public, international banks approaching them with tie-up proposals and so on were published almost daily. The financial community developed a sudden interest in local banks and big players began buying available shares on the quiet.

I was on fear mode. On couple of nights I dreamt of my mutilated body floating around in the Cochin backwaters. Now even the Income Tax people were unhappy with me.

Days dragged on and nothing happened.

Koottils might have let me go, I felt, because they hadn’t lost anything. Or had they taken a hit and kept quiet about it? Some one could have cleaned up the ‘special safe’ ahead of the raid. There were other possibilities as well. A tip off from the Income Tax Department couldn’t be ruled out. May be Dead Man had given his sons a ghostly warning. Or, perhaps, he had bluffed me in the first place.

On a sudden impulse I went to Neptune on Christmas Eve, not really expecting Dead Man there. But he was at my table with the same body he had on at our first meeting, and greeted me warmly.

“You are,” I said suspiciously after the orders were placed, “having the same body. I thought they came from the top of the pile.”

Dead Man laughed. “Money,” he said, “can do wonders. Now I have three bodies reserved for me at the cemetery. A small problem is that the clothes on them can’t be changed. They’re pre-fixed.”

He went on talking. In two months he had practically become the boss of St. Patrick’s cemetery. That very night a dozen souls including the supervisor were in town enjoying at his expense. He had the freedom to go out whenever he wanted. But he was unhappy.

“Why?” I asked.

“I visited home in the morning,” he said. “As a spirit, of course. The fight between my daughters – in – law has flared up sooner than I expected. My wife is too simple to handle them. The sons would succumb to their wives and the Bank will be wrecked.”

“That’s the problem with several family business establishments,” I said sympathetically.

“I’m planning to tell the boys to sell out and go their separate ways. Now we’re getting fantastic offers.”

“Tell them?”

“There’s a method of communication.”

“Fourth generation bank, and doing very well,” I said. “Aren’t you sentimental?”

“Sentimentality without discipline is dangerous.”

We drank in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked, “Didn’t you bluff me about the ‘special safe’?”

“I told you once,” the reply came with vehemence, “that I’m an honest dead man. The money was there and I needed it. The day after we met I found an accomplice. We took what was required and I warned my sons to clean up. I knew you would squeal.”

“Look here-”

“OK, I’ll rephrase it – I knew your patriotism would overcome particularly with the twenty per cent reward.”

I looked away.

“Have you found the money for your project?” he asked.

“No.”

“Thought so. Tell you what. Apply to our bank for a venture capital loan. Say 1.5 millions. New players have a tendency to underestimate project cost. Employ a consultant the bank recommends.”

“But,” I expressed my doubt, “will they help me after what happened?”

“Oh,” Dead Man was exasperated. “You’re a technician, not a businessman. Do you know how much market value you’ve added to the Bank? They’ll give you the money all right. Of course, the project has to be good.”

The project was excellent. Perhaps, I thought, I should follow his advice.

“Are you really a dead man?” I asked suddenly.

“An entrepreneur who cannot decide things by himself, is unlikely to succeed,” he stated and ordered another round of drinks.

Ends.

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