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97 pages

English

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He was still a handsome devil. Handsome enough to win the love of one of the prettiest girls he d ever met. He checked his reflection to see if the jewel case was visible. In the front hall, he turned the switch for the chandelier. He squinted in the harsh light reflected off the mirrors everywhere. Goodbye! He called. There was no answer. A series of mysterious thefts, forbidden love and a tapestry of lies lead to the disappearance of the Bluebird diamond, one of Bollywood s great unsolved mysteries. Raj, Nagi and Madhuri round up the unusual suspects and help a faded heroine recover her brilliance. Set in the glimmering high life of backstage Bollywood, Mumbai s darkest secrets are laid bare after more than half a century. But the old adage proves true be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it. Shoot the Bluebird, the fourth book featuring the teen detectives from Mumbai s dazzling film world, the Bollywood Knights, is a suspense thriller studded with lust, lost love and treachery that will keep you guessing until the final, thrilling climax.

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Publié par	Penguin Books Ltd
Date de parution	01 juin 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9789351187233
Langue	English

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Extrait

Nico Raposo

SHOOT THE BLUEBIRD
Book 4 Bollywood Knights

PUFFIN BOOKS

PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
Read more in the Bollywood Knights series
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgements
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Follow Penguin
Copyright
PUFFIN BOOKS
SHOOT THE BLUEBIRD
Nico Raposo is a writer who lives and works in New York s Hudson Valley. He comes from a long line of storytellers, musicians and entertainers whose family has called many countries home, from England to Turkey, India to Brazil. Nico grew up in New York City. He has written fifteen feature film screenplays, three books, seven plays and dozens of teleplays. He has been nominated for two Emmy Awards as well as for the Humanitas Award. Nico is a graduate of Harvard College. To learn more about him and his work, visit www.nicoraposo.com
Read more in the Bollywood Knights series
Shoot the Peacock
Shoot the Crow
Shoot the Falcon
For my wife, Ticky, who puts up with me.
Prologue
Bombay, India 24 January, 1964
In the smoke-filled screening room, film star Martand Acharya stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray next to his seat as the clip ended. He turned in the dark, planting a furtive kiss on his companion s cheek before the next scene started. She clutched his hand on the armrest, and then let it go. As the screen lit up again, Martand turned to look at her-young, beautiful, face poised in anticipation. And he was in love with her. It didn t matter that she was half his age, or that he was married. She made him happy, happier than any of the others. And he was going to make her happy. He felt the velvet box in his jacket pocket as he took out his sterling silver cigarette case. He offered one to his companion; she shook her head. Of course she didn t smoke. Before he d placed the cigarette between his lips, an assistant darted forward in the dark with a lighter. Martand was slightly startled by the boy s action and felt his heart leap in his chest. It fluttered for a few moments more, and he felt a pain in his arm. Then it went away. He was nervous, that was all. It was the girl.
They were watching dailies of Acharya s latest film, Notorious. Every night, the 35 mm film that had been shot that day was removed from the cameras and taken to the lab for processing. The next day, before shooting began, the producers, the director and the stars would meet to view yesterday s daily film. It was a way for them to catch technical errors, but it also allowed the director to see if the actors were hitting their lines. Notorious was a love story set against the backdrop of Independence.
The dramatic lighting of the black-and-white film echoed the push and pull of greedy merchants and the native honesty of the poor farmers. Acharya was always brightly lit, even when in the shadowy realm of the city people. Because the director often kept the camera rolling as he gave direction, there was a lot of laughter as the actors on screen broke character, cracked jokes with each other, or lit cigarettes. They were viewing the clips of when Acharya confronts the merchant. He remembered doing the scene the day before. But there was something suddenly nagging at the back of his mind. Then he watched, horrified, as it unrolled on the screen before him. The director had stopped the action, and Acharya saw himself walk to the back of the set, where the merchant s daughter was standing. And he kissed her. And she kissed him back. It struck him that he didn t even remember the girl s name. It seemed to go on forever.
He turned, startled, hearing his companion gasp. He saw the hurt, the betrayal, in her eyes. She turned to him, tears welling up. Then she stood up. And as fast as that, she was gone, the swinging door to the room bucking back and forth. Damn! he said. He threw his cigarette to the floor and rose. I ll be back!
Darting from the room, he followed the sound of her retreating footsteps. He saw a burst of light ahead of him. She d run outside. He went after her, clutching the jewellery case in his pocket. He called her name as he followed her out into the humid morning air.
Leave me alone! she shouted at him, running along the concrete walkway.
I can explain! Martand shouted, pausing a second to catch his breath. At the same time, he glanced from side to side. It would not do for him to be seen running after one of his paramours. But he did love her, so he ran on, despite the nagging pain in his chest.
You don t love me! she shrieked. You lied to me!
I do. I do, you little idiot!
She rounded the corner of the new sound stage. Built recently, in 1963, it was still gleaming white, and when he finally spotted her, there were two of her, her morning sunlit self and a dark shadow running beside her. He blinked and ran on. Stop! Stop!
She disappeared into the scene shop, where carpenters cut and painted the lavish sets that were little more than plywood. He crashed through the double doors, the smell of paint and varnish thick in the air. Sweetie! Come on!
I said, leave me alone. You don t love me! You said I was the only one!
He came up to her. Her face was wet with tears and her chest was heaving. Come on, I ll prove it to you. I ve got something for you. The girl was pouting now, her lower lip pushed out. She looked just like the petulant teenager she d been until just a few years ago. Here. Look at this . . . He produced the velvet case, noticing his hands shaking as he held it out to her.
What is it? she asked.
Open it. He was fighting for breath. Maybe he should give up the cigarettes.
The girl opened the box. Her eyes widened. Even in the dim light of the workshop, the large diamond glittered. Is it . . . is it real?
Yes, Acharya breathed. And worth a king s ransom.
Where did you get it?
An Englishman. A viscount. It was given to his ancestors by Shah Jahan. It s called the Bluebird. There isn t a diamond like it in India today.
But it must have cost a fortune! she objected. And you re only giving it to me because you feel guilty. You re lying! You bought it for your wife!
I didn t, Acharya said, swallowing hard. I meant to give it to you today. I . . . I wrote this for you. A poem. The diamond is the same colour as your eyes. He indicated a piece of paper in the case, then leaned heavily against a column. It was unsteady under his weight. The poem proves I bought it for you . . . meant to give it to you.
She read the poem in silence. Then she looked up, her face transformed.
Oh, Martand. You do. You do love me.
He could feel the pain down his arm again, and he felt his head swimming. Something was terribly wrong.
Martand?
Martand!
He could hear the confused tone in her voice, but he couldn t find her. Then he saw the floor, the grey concrete floor of the scene shop coming up to meet his numb face.
Then he heard her screaming. It was the last thing he would ever hear.
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Chapter 1
Mumbai, India Present day
It was only 23 degrees Celsius, but the weather was oppressive. Huge storm clouds had gathered over the city and threatened rain, but none had come. As she stood in her bedroom in a damp towel, the last thing eighteen-year- old Madhuri Swami wanted to do was put on the elegant sari Farah had made for her.
Farah Merchant was one of Mumbai s best designers. The open-backed choli was boned, pushing up a little more than Madhuri felt comfortable with. Farah had insisted on the open back.
It s your neck, dear, Farah had said. Unbelievable. They used to call your mother The Swan , but you! Farah waved her hand, fanning herself. They re going to faint. Then she d sent Madhuri to the salon to get her hair cut. Farah had told the girl to give her a Louise Brooks. Madhuri only had a vague idea of the silent film actress when the stylist started cutting. At the end the look, even Madhuri had to admit, was striking, with straight bobbed bangs and a cut angled from the back to just below her jawline.
Farah treated Madhuri as if she were a star, comfortable with displaying her . . . um, assets. But Madhuri wasn t a star, and while she loved fashion, she felt this ensemble was less about fashion than the body under it. It wasn t that it was shocking-Madhuri had seen a lot more skin at premieres and on occasion had shown more skin herself. But the lehenga was a simple satin sheath with velvet banding at the waist and hem. The short choli, made of the same black satin with velvet banding, was only figuratively covered with a sheer dupatta. And Madhuri worked at her body. Half an hour of yoga each morning, a five-kilometre run every other day and gym sessions three times a week kept her fit. Madhuri s bird-like mother, Navneetha Swami, who had been a Bollywood star in her own right, had always made sure they ate the best food, and she and Madhuri often discussed healthy eating. Dieting was not permitted. Living a healthy lifestyle was all you needed. But even so, at moments like this, faced with an outfit like this, Madhuri wondered if she should have had that ice cream after work yesterday. Or the Mocha Frappuccino with whipped cream from CCD. Or the . . . oh, never mind.
She sat down at the mirrored vanity table, removed the towel from her drying hair and brushed it, frankly assessing her look. Her new bangs framed her large, almond-shaped eyes; a feminine, if prominent, nose; high, wide cheekbones; and plump, pouting lips. Madhuri had been compared favourably to Tanvi Khanna, the hot new Bollywood sensation, by many people, including Farah. Personally Madhuri didn t see the connection. She felt people were most likely comparing their hei