Vish Puri 02; The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

by Tarquin Hall

  “Mere mortal! Now you are speechless!” she cackled.

  Dr. Jha was now face-to-face with the goddess, still unable to move his feet thanks to some invisible force. He looked terrified and yet he was still laughing.

  “Now die!” screeched Kali in a chorus of voices.

  She raised her sword and drove it down into his chest. Blood flowed from the wound and spewed from his mouth. Clutching his chest, the Guru Buster uttered a last guffaw and then fell backward onto the grass, dead.

  ∨ The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing ∧

  Three

  Puri’s day began without any indication that he would soon be investigating a ‘supernatural occurrence’ destined to capture the imagination of the entire nation – a case that he would later describe as ‘a first in the annals of crime’.

  His Ambassador pulled into the car park behind Khan Market at ten o’clock. Handbrake was dispatched to replace the windscreen while the detective walked his usual route to his office.

  Now the most expensive commercial real estate in all of India, Khan Market was home to new boutiques selling exorbitantly priced cushion covers and ‘size zero’ Indian couture. Trendy bars and restaurants had sprung up, the nocturnal playground for Delhi’s nouveaux riches. Where a greengrocer had once traded, trays of American-style mac-adamia chocolate chunk cookies were on offer at 80 rupees each, more than a day’s wage for most of the country’s working population.

  But a number of the old family-owned businesses still thrived and the place remained scruffy and unkempt, retaining – in Puri’s eyes at least – a reassuring character lacking in the new sanitized shopping malls. Paint blistered and peeled from concrete walls, and spaghetti tangles of wires and cables hung overhead. Many of the shop signs leaned at angles. And the Punjabi princesses who flocked here with their proprietorial airs, high heels and oversize designer sunglasses had to negotiate cracked, uneven pavements cluttered with sleeping pye-dogs and hawkers.

  “Kaise ho?” Puri called out to Mr. Saluja, who stood outside his tailor’s shop, overseeing one of his employees sprinkling water on the pavement to keep down the dust. The key wallah was also getting ready for the morning trade, laying out his medieval tools on a potato sack on a small patch of pavement: hammer, chisels, long metal files and a giant rusty key ring holding the uncut blanks he would use to make duplicates for his customers.

  Mounting the steep, narrow steps that led up to the Most Private Investigators offices above Bahri Sons bookshop, Puri was greeted with a warm smile and a ‘Good morning, sir’ by Elizabeth Rani, whose desk took up a quarter of the small reception.

  The first thing he did upon entering his office – that is, after turning on the air-conditioning – was to light an incense stick in the little puja shrine below the two frames hanging on the wall to the right of his desk. One contained a photograph of his father, Om Chander Puri, the other a likeness of Chanakya, the detective’s guide and guru who had lived around 300 BC and founded the arts of espionage and investigation. The detective said a short prayer, asking for guidance from them both, and then buzzed in his secretary.

  Elizabeth Rani brought his post and messages and ran through a list of mundane matters that required his attention: “Kanwal Sibal’s wife birthed a son. You’ll visit them or I should send nuts and fruit?”

  Door Stop, the tea boy, then brought Puri his morning cup of kahwa, Kashmiri tea steamed with saffron, cardamom, cinnamon, sugar and slivered almonds.

  The detective savored the sweet liquid while bringing himself up to date with the cases on his books. Most Private Investigators was as busy as ever. So far this month, the agency had dealt with seven matrimonial investigations, which required background and character checks to be done on prospective brides and grooms having arranged marriages. An insurance company had hired the firm to ascertain whether a certain Mrs. Aastha Jain, seventy-four, had died of natural causes during the annual pilgrimage to Gangotri (the detective had found her alive and well, living it up in Goa under an assumed name). And Puri had brought to a speedy conclusion the unusual kidnapping of Mr. Satish Sinha’s father. Sinha Senior had been reincarnated as a monkey, and the detective had located him by following the local banana wallah’s best customer home.

  Still, it had been a while since he had dealt with a truly challenging, sensational case. The Case of the Blue Turban League had been a good six months ago.

  As for nuclear scientist Rathinasabapathy’s crisis, well, that was standard fare, albeit satisfying and decently remunerated work. Puri was looking forward to his client’s visit at twelve o’clock, when he would dazzle him with his results. In preparation, he spent ten minutes putting all the photographic evidence in order.

  It was then that he noticed something outside his window – a loaf of white bread dangling like bait on a string.

  It dropped out of sight. But soon a carton of cornflakes appeared. A minute later, a carton of Mango Frooti.

  Zahir, who was blind and owned the tiny general store next to Bahri Sons, was restocking from the storage space he rented upstairs.

  Puri was not altogether happy about this practice. Only recently he had been in the middle of a meeting with a distressed client whose husband had been murdered when pots of instant masala noodles had started knocking against his window. But beyond cutting the string with a pair of scissors, there was little to be done.

  Besides, Puri was particularly partial to some of the products stocked by kindly Zahir – like those nice coconut biscuits, for example. And sometimes, when they appeared in his window, he hauled them in and settled his bill later.

  It was almost uncanny the way packets of coconut biscuits often appeared around the same time every afternoon.

  ♦

  Soon after eleven o’clock, Elizabeth Rani entered Puri’s office, her voice trembling as she placed a copy of the Delhi Midday Standard in front of him.

  “I thought you would want to see this, sir. It’s terrible news, I’m afraid. Such a kindly old gentleman he was. Really, I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

  ♦

  FLOATING GODDESS STABS TO DEATH LAUGHING GURU BUSTER. COPS CLUELESS.

  ♦

  “By God!” exclaimed the detective, sitting up straight in his executive leather chair. He studied the coverage of Dr. Suresh Jha’s murder intently, letting out several sighs and, on three occasions, a pained “Hai!”

  The newspaper quoted the members of the Laughing Club, who described how, after killing Dr. Suresh Jha, the ‘apparition’ had ‘vanished in a big flash’.

  “She was at least twenty feet high, a terrifying sight, like something from a nightmare,” said eyewitness Professor R.K. Pandey. “I thought we would all be killed.”

  Senior advocate N.K. Gupta added: “There is no doubt in my mind it was the goddess Kali. Today we have witnessed a supernatural occurrence. No one should be in any doubt.”

  The article continued: “Many Delhiites have started flocking to temples across the city to seek protection, while hundreds of Kali worshippers have converged on Rajpath to celebrate the goddess’s appearance, which they believe is a divine event.”

  SKEPTICS SKEPTICAL read the headline of another article on page two, which quoted a Mumbai-based rationalist as saying that he was certain Dr. Jha had been murdered not by the goddess – “How could she have done it when she does not exist?” – but by someone masquerading as her.

  “The rationalist was unable to explain, however, how a murderer could have carried out the crime in broad daylight in front of so many witnesses,” the article continued. “He noted that last month, during a live altercation between Dr. Jha and Maharaj Swami, the Godman had promised a miracle to prove his powers. When asked for comment this morning, one of Swami-ji’s aides said off the record that His Holiness was certainly capable of summoning Kali. But so far the Godman himself has been mute on this point.”

  Puri pushed the paper aside with a look of anger and disgust.

  “Madam
Rani, you remember this deceased fellow?”

  “Of course, sir, he’s – ”

  “Dr. Suresh Jha, the Guru Buster,” said the detective, finishing her sentence for her. “I did one investigation for him a few years back. You remember?”

  She did indeed and indicated as much with a nod. But Elizabeth Rani had worked for Puri long enough to know that he was going to recount the details of the Case of the Astrologer Who Predicted His Own Death regardless.

  “It started when one astrologer by name of Baba Bhola Ram predicted the time and date of his very own death,” he began. “Twenty-four-hour news channels, forever chasing eyeballs, got hold the story and turned it into a national spectacle.”

  Elizabeth Rani remembered watching the live coverage on the Action News! station.

  “Vedika, is there any indication yet of how he’s supposed to die?” the anchor had asked a young lady reporter standing outside the astrologer’s front door before the appointed hour.

  “There’s been a good deal of speculation on that point,” the reporter had answered without the slightest hint of irony. “One local tarot card reader is claiming she’s foreseen that something will fall out of the sky and hit him on the head. Baba Bhola Ram himself says he knows only when he’ll die, not how. Will his prediction come true? Certainly he has a lot riding on the outcome, not least his reputation. Back to you in the studio.”

  “Millions tuned in to find out whether this fellow Baba Bhola Ram would live or die,” continued Puri. “Minutes after the predicted hour, only, the astrologer’s wife came out and, in floods of tears, announced that her husband ‘by grace of God almighty went to great abode in sky’.”

  Dr. Suresh Jha visited Most Private Investigators Ltd. the following morning. His charity-cum-foundation, DIRE, labored to ‘explain the unexplained’ and the rationalist wanted to hire Puri to disprove the so-called miracle performed by Baba Bhola Ram.

  “The wool is being pulled over our eyes,” he’d told the detective at the time. “If people carry on believing in this kind of thing, they will remain blind.”

  “Through deductive reasoning and the most thorough examination of evidence at hand, I came to know Dr. Jha’s suspicions were quite correct,” recounted Puri. “The astrologer had indeed been murdered. The evildoers were Baba Bhola Ram’s most trusted and dedicated disciples themselves. Fearful of their guru’s reputation getting ruined, they took it upon themselves to make certain his prediction came true. Knowing of his weak heart, they put some ground castor beans into their master’s chai and thus he expired.”

  Puri lapsed into a contemplative silence. By now, he was leaning forward with his elbows planted on his desk.

  “Naturally I saw to it justice was done,” he added. “But one thing about the case has always been there – one thing that frankly and honestly to this very day troubles me.”

  “What is it, sir?” asked Elizabeth Rani, although she could anticipate what he was going to say.

  “Would Baba Bhola Ram have died at that hour had he not predicted his own death?”

  “I believe that is something we will never know in this lifetime, sir,” said Puri’s secretary.

  “Undoubtedly, Madam Rani!” said the detective, shaking off his mournfulness. “As usual you are quite correct. Only the God can know, isn’t it?”

  Puri’s mobile phone rang and he looked at the name on the screen: JAGAT. He answered it.

  “Inspector! Kidd-an?”

  The call lasted no more than two minutes. It ended with the detective saying: “I will be reaching in one hour.”

  He glanced at the clock on his desk, a gift from the Federation of Automobile Dealers Associations (India).

  “Mr. Sam Rathinasabapathy would be here any moment,” he told Elizabeth Rani. “Thirty minutes maximum is required. After, my presence is requested on Rajpath. Not for the first time, Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh would be needing my expert guidance.”

  “You’re going to investigate Dr. Jha’s murder, sir?” asked his secretary, sounding hopeful.

  “Nothing is confirmed, Madam Rani. But I can hardly be expected to stand by and watch this crime go unpunished, no? Myself and Dr. Jha were not in agreement on all matters, that much is certain, but he was a most upstanding fellow all round.”

  Elizabeth returned to her desk, fully confident that her employer would be taking on the case, even though it would mean working without pay.

  The idea that Vish Puri could resist getting involved in such a tantalizing murder was preposterous. There was as much chance of him going without his lunch.

  ♦

  Sam Rathinasabapathy was fifteen minutes late. A traffic ja-wan had issued him a challan on Panchsheel Marg.

  “The cop said I failed to signal when I turned right! Can you believe that? I mean, Mr. Puri, have you ever seen anyone in this country use their signals – ever? Personally, I think he was after a bribe. He kept mentioning the word ‘lifafa’. That means ‘envelope’, right?”

  “Correct, sir,” said Puri patiently, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

  “I can’t believe how corrupt this place is. Everyone’s got their hand out the whole time. I can’t even get a cooking gas canister without paying baksheesh. No wonder the country’s such a mess!”

  “Sir, no need to do tension,” said Puri, motioning Rathinasabapathy into one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. “Allow me to give you some advice. Most definitely you will thank me for it later.”

  “Sure, Mr. Puri,” said the nuclear physicist with a sigh as he took a seat.

  “An educated, well-to-do gentleman such as yourself should not go round hither and thither without a good driver. Frankly speaking, sir, it does not look right. Just you should sit in the backseat, only. That way you won’t be facing this type of harassment. Police wallahs will know you’re someone of importance and not a part of the riffraff.” Puri rolled his Rs with gusto.

  “But I’m used to driving myself,” protested Rathinasaba-pathy.

  “Believe me, sir, I understand. You value your independence. But allow me to find a suitable driver. He should be of good character and naturally not a drunkard. Those from hill states are best. Such types have to learn to control their vehicles on all those tight bends. Otherwise they’d go right off the edge.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose that would be an advantage,” said Rathinasabapathy.

  “Very good! Later, I’ll get my man to revert with some candidates. You need pay five, six thousand per month max-i-mum.”

  “OK, Mr. Puri, whatever you say. Now are you going to tell me what happened last night at the Food Village place? Where’s my money?”

  Puri reached down behind his desk and picked up a sports bag, setting it down on his desk.

  “It’s in here, sir. Two lakhs exactly.”

  “You got it back! But how?”

  “Actually, sir, it never left this room.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Just I’ll explain. It was necessary for you to make the withdrawal in case they were keeping an eye on you. But the cash you gifted was not the money you withdrew from the bank.”

  “I don’t get it. What was in the bag I gave to what’s-his-name? The fat guy in the silk shirt. Mr. Ten Percent.”

  Puri smiled. “His real name is Rupinder Khullar. He’s a professional lizer.”

  “A what?”

  “Lizer,” repeated the detective. “Means a man who gets things fixed up. Delhi is full of such types. I tell you, throw a stone in any direction and most definitely you will hit one. Such individuals will arrange anything for the right fee. Get your son a job in a government ministry, lobby the right MLA to get emissions certificates passed on your factory. Mr. Rupinder Khullar is particularly well connected politically. You might say he’s got a finger in every samosa.” Here Puri uttered a light chuckle.

  “So what did I give him?” asked Rathinasabapathy, who didn’t seem to find the metaphor humorous.

  �
�Counterfeit money,” answered the detective.

  “I gave him what?” cried the nuclear physicist, rising half out of his chair.

  “Please, sir, remain calm. Rest assured everything is two hundred percent all right. Pukka! I borrowed it from an old batchmate in the Anti-Counterfeit Section. Naturally on condition every last note be returned. It is evidence from another case. These days so much of funny money is being sent across our borders by Pakistan, I tell you.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Sir, in India the line between what is legal and what is not is often somewhat of a fuzz.”

  Puri opened the Rathinasabapathy file and pulled out the photographs that Tubelight had taken of Mr. Ten Percent. They served to illustrate the narrative about the middleman’s movements after the meeting.

  His first stop had been a hotel bar, where he had ‘taken a few pegs imported whisky’ with a local politician. Two hours later, Mr. Ten Percent visited an apartment in Sector Nine, DLF City, where he spent a couple of fun-filled hours with his mistress, a twenty-six-year-old VJ with a job he had fixed for her on a prominent music channel.

  “The place is registered in his name. She is a PG, so to speak.”

  “PG?”

  “Means ‘paying guest’.”

  Mr. Ten Percent then returned to Raja Garden, his home, wife, two children, three servants and a Pekinese.

  “This morning first thing, he drove to Ultra Modern School,” continued Puri. “There, he handed over the two hundred thousand to Mr. S.C. Bhatnagar.”

  Bhatnagar was the school principal. Last week he had offered Rathinasabapathy two places for his children in return for a hefty bribe.

  “Their entire conversation was captured on hidden video cameras secreted inside Mr. Bhatnagar’s office,” continued Puri. “On tape, these two can be clearly seen and heard, also, discussing your case and Rupinder Khullar’s fee.”

  “Let me guess. Ten percent?”

  “Correct.”

  “But how did you get the money back – the counterfeit money?”