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

by Tarquin Hall

  “Fingerprinting comes into play when we find a murder weapon and need to match prints to a suspect,” he’d explained. “Most investigating officers don’t bother collecting forensic evidence. They rely on confessions from suspects for convictions.”

  When Mummy had asked him to run a DNA test on her fingernail cutting, he’d responded: “Auntie-ji, I think you’ve been watching too much of CSI on Star TV, isn’t it?”

  Mummy had not understood what he’d meant by this; she never had time to watch television, what with all her duties as a mother and grandmother (she still lived with her eldest son, Bhupinder, and his wife and four children) and her numerous weekly social engagements and charity work – not to mention the occasional bit of sleuthing.

  But she had not been put off by this setback.

  “Look at bright side,” Mummy told her daughter-in-law as they discussed their next move in the back of the car. “Fingerprints will come in useful once we’ve got hold of those goondas. Now it’s time for B Plan.”

  Rumpi could not remember what B Plan was. Nor if there was a C or D Plan, for that matter. She was finding that detective work did not come naturally to her. It required a suspicious mind, and she was still struggling to come to terms with the idea that one of her friends had betrayed the trust upon which all kitty parties were based.

  “You’re sure it couldn’t have been one of the ladies’ husbands?” asked Puri’s wife.

  “You tell Chubby about your kitty, is it?” asked Mummy.

  “Of course not!”

  “My point exactly, na? No Indian wife is sharing such information with her husband of all people. Her private savings and jewelry worth remain top secret at all times.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Mummy-ji.”

  Rumpi was still not entirely convinced that the matter wasn’t best left to the professionals. But Jaiya had gone off for the day visiting friends, so she had decided to keep her mother-in-law company – if for no other reason than to make sure she didn’t get into trouble.

  She had specified one condition, however. Mummy was never to tell Puri that they had worked together.

  “You know how he feels about mummies doing investigations. God only knows what he’d say about wives!”

  They had agreed to keep up the pretense of going shopping together.

  “Where are we going now?” asked Rumpi.

  “Like I said earlier, na, some intelligence is required.”

  “And where do you plan to find it, Mummy-ji?”

  “When it comes to finding out what all well-to-do Dilli ladies are up to, there is only one place to go.”

  They both smiled and said in unison: “Arti’s Beauty Parlor.”

  ♦

  A French cosmetics company had set up a swish new salon called Chez Nous (known locally as ‘Shahnoos’) across from Arti’s in Khan Market. It offered the latest ‘cleansing systems’ from Paris and a free glass of chilled white wine for every new customer. The photographs of pouting Gallic models with flawless skin in the windows extolled the benefits of laser hair removal.

  By contrast, Arti’s Beauty Parlor was outdated and dingy. The walls were covered in florid pink wallpaper and posters of models sporting the kind of big hairstyles that had gone out of style in the 1980s. The booking system was still done in a thick ledger with pencil-smudged pages rather than a flash Apple Mac. The beauticians wore uniforms that made them look like hospital orderlies. And the sweeper boy charged with keeping the floors clean did so on his hands and knees, weaving through an obstacle course of legs and shoes with a grimy wet cloth.

  For the slim young things who arrived at Khan Market in their chauffeur-driven sedans with Louis Vuitton handbags dangling from the crooks of their arms, the choice between the two rivals was obvious.

  The French establishment attracted lots of young male customers as well. They were to be spotted through the windows undergoing the latest skin-lightening techniques at the hands of academy-trained therapists dressed in black. “Because beauty really is only skin deep,” read the slogan on the backs of their T-shirts.

  Chez Nous’s contrived trendiness did not appeal to Arti’s middle-aged customers, but other factors guaranteed their loyalty as well. Her prices were cheaper and she offered natural Indian products and traditional techniques like henna treatment for the hair. Nationalism had played its part, a prejudice actively exploited by Arti, who was positively xenophobic about the French – “That George W. Bush had a point, no?” And there was no beating the general intimacy, in which banter and tittle-tattle thrived.

  Mummy and Rumpi arrived to find the salon’s reclining swivel chairs all occupied. Mrs. De Souza’s daughter was getting married that week and was being fussed over by a coterie of beauticians giving her the works: waxing, threading, manicure, premarital ubtan body scrub, herbal steam and almond-meal facial. Mrs. De Souza was getting a pedicure and a chin wax. One of the bridesmaids looked as if she had fallen facedown in mud, the whites of her large eyes set off by a darkening sandalwood mask.

  Arti, who wore green eye shadow, moved back and forth across the room, giving instructions to her beauticians, fussing over her customers, making the odd bawdy joke and bestowing advice of a personal nature in a loud voice for all to hear.

  “You really must go for a bra fitting!” she admonished one woman. “I’ll give the number of the girl. That thing you’re wearing is two sizes too big. Makes you look all saggy.”

  To the bride-to-be she said: “How you got so much of acne? You’ve been eating chocolate? Or perhaps it’s all those hormones, hmmm? Must be thinking of your wedding night!”

  When she spotted Mummy and Rumpi waiting in reception, Arti exclaimed in a thrilled voice: “I heard about the robbery! What a thing to happen! Arora Madam was here this morning and told me all about it. Her pooch is in a coma! Poor thing doesn’t respond to its name. Who do you think did it? Probably some of those Purvanchali types. The authorities should send them packing back to their villages!”

  Her attention was drawn away by a mini-crisis in the salon. A customer’s wax was too hot and she had let out a yelp as it had been applied to one of her arms.

  Rumpi was escorted into a private treatment room by her regular beautician, Uma.

  Uma, who had been working at the parlor for some fifteen years, always told Puri Madam about her problems – the drunkard husband, the roof that let in the rain, the in-laws who demanded money, the abysmal standard of teaching at her three children’s schools. Her job paid just enough to feed and clothe herself and her family. When the price of cooking gas and vegetables rose, she quickly felt the pinch.

  In recent months, though, things had begun looking up and Uma was wearing a smile on her face.

  Today was no exception.

  “I take it your shares are doing well?” said Rumpi in Hindi as she changed into a clean but worn sleeveless smock.

  “Bharti Airtel is up twenty rupees on last week!” she replied.

  For weeks now, Rumpi had been hearing about the beautician’s success playing the stock market. Initially, Uma had invested half her savings, roughly 10,000 rupees, in a company called InfoSoft. Only a week or so later, the company had been bought by an American firm and her shares had trebled in value. The beautician had cashed in her 20,000-rupee profit and used it to buy shares in an Indian gas company named – appropriately enough – India Gas. Less than a month later, it was awarded a contract by the Delhi government to lay domestic pipelines throughout the city. Within hours, Uma’s shares were worth 35 percent more than she had paid for them.

  Rumpi suspected that the beautician was getting tips from one of her clients. But Uma claimed to have made her canny investment decisions based on what the experts were saying on the TV business channels.

  “So, any more good tips for me?” asked Rumpi, genuinely interested, given Uma’s success.

  “Yesterday, madam, I bought two-thousand-worth shares in Dr. Reddy’s Laboratories. It’s a very strong company. But
whatever you do, don’t buy any shares in InfoSoft!”

  “Why?”

  “You didn’t see on the news what happened, madam? Two weeks back, the shares plunged seventy percent.”

  “How much did you lose?” asked Rumpi, suddenly concerned.

  In the past, she had cautioned Uma to bank her profit in a savings account.

  “A few thousand, madam. But I’m still ahead. I took your advice and put fifteen thousand in the bank.”

  The beautician emptied a tin full of sticky honey-colored sugaring wax into a small electric warmer.

  “So you heard about the robbery?” asked Rumpi, knowing full well that it would have been the main topic of conversation in the beauty parlor since yesterday afternoon.

  “Mrs. Devi was here earlier and told me all about it,” said Uma breathlessly. “It must have been frightening!”

  “Yes, it was. The head dacoit had a gun. He was very threatening.”

  “I hear they arrested the servants – and some physical trainer called Babbi from a local gym? The police think he masterminded the robbery.”

  Rumpi scoffed.

  “You don’t think it was him, madam?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s possible,” she answered, remembering that Mummy had warned her not to tell any of the beauticians about her suspicions. “Perhaps the police know something we don’t.”

  Rumpi sighed. “I just hope they get the cash back,” she said. “Not all of us are made of money. Not like Mrs. Azmat. Her husband is a dentist from what I understand. His practice must be flourishing. Recently he took her on a luxury cruise of the Great Lakes. I saw the photographs. It must have cost a packet.”

  “Great Lakes, madam?”

  “In Canada.”

  “Oh yes, that’s where my cousin lives,” said Uma as she spread wax on Rumpi’s left leg. “She says it’s a very friendly place. Lots of Indians.”

  Rumpi steered the conversation back on track: “Mrs. Jain is never short of money either.”

  “Of course not,” interjected Uma. “Her husband is a high court judge. I hear he owns properties all over Delhi and a beach house in Goa as well.”

  After a short interruption by the tea boy, who knocked on the door asking for empty glasses and was given short shrift by the beautician, Rumpi said: “Poor Mrs. Bansal. She was very upset. She never seems to have much money.”

  “Ha! That one’s cheaper than a Marwari!” sneered Uma. “She never tips me more than five rupees. And she has not paid her bill.”

  “Really?” Rumpi said, all innocence. “How much is it?”

  “Four thousand plus. Arti Madam was talking about it only yesterday – saying how embarrassing it’s getting. Mrs. Bansal keeps saying she’s going to settle up but never does.”

  “I wonder what the problem is?”

  By now Uma was finishing Rumpi’s right leg, expertly spreading the warm wax with a butter knife and then whipping it off with muslin strips. She lowered her voice and said: “Last time she was here I heard her talking on the phone. Sounds like her husband is in some kind of trouble.”

  “Any idea what kind?”

  “Where men are concerned, it’s not hard to guess.”

  ♦

  Back in the car, Rumpi told Mummy about Mrs. Bansal’s unpaid bill.

  “Arti was telling she paid the total amount this morning, only,” said Mummy, who had got chatting with the proprietor while having her treatments in another private room.

  “It could be a coincidence,” suggested Rumpi, still holding out hope for another explanation for the crime.

  “Assumption should not be made,” agreed Mummy. “But Mrs. Bansal is suspect nonetheless.”

  Puri’s mother then outlined what else she had learned. Arti had told her that Mrs. Devi, another member of the kitty party, was ‘doing hanky-panky with some toy boy’.

  “Anita? But she’s twice my size!”

  “Seems she and he meet thrice weekly.”

  Rumpi sat in stunned silence for a while and then said: “I suppose it just goes to show that you never really know some people. But I can’t see her masterminding a robbery, Mummy-ji. Her husband’s swimming in money.”

  None of the other women seemed to be having any kind of financial or marital difficulties.

  “So what’s the next step, Mummy-ji?” asked Rumpi, looking at her watch. It was nearly six o’clock, time for her to return home and start preparing the evening meals for herself, Jaiya and Chubby, who had called earlier to say that he was on the way back from Haridwar.

  “Some background checking is required.”

  “Of Mrs. Bansal? What did you have in mind?”

  “We’ll do interrogation of servants. These types see and hear everything that is going on, na?”

  ∨ The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing ∧

  Twelve

  Inspector Singh was not in the best of moods. When his aloo paranthas were placed in front of him, he scowled at the plate and growled, “Where’s the aachar?”

  The Gymkhana Club waiters, a slothful bunch, had long since grown immune to the complaints of the club’s members, many of whom were professional whingers. Puri had often watched people yell at them with the contempt and abrasiveness of drill sergeants, to little or no effect. In Singh, though, they had met their match. The combination of his size, police uniform and menacing snarl had them flapping around like penguins.

  In double time, a bowl full of mango pickle was fetched and placed on the table before him. The inspector did not look up or say thank you, but with an ill-disposed murmur ripped off a piece of parantha, scooped up a large lump of aachar, dunked it in his curd and then crammed the food into his mouth. As he began to chew, apparently satisfied, the waiters drew a collective sigh of relief, keeping a wary eye on him from behind their serving station.

  Puri, who had arrived home from Haridwar late Thursday night and then set off at seven this morning for what had been billed by the inspector as an urgent meeting, was sitting across from his guest at a table in the Gym’s breakfast room.

  He could tell that Singh had not enjoyed a good night’s sleep. The NCR had been hit by three hours of load shedding, and the inspector, who lived in modest housing in Mustafabad, northeast Delhi, didn’t have a backup inverter to run his ceiling fans.

  Such systems did not come cheap. The police wallah, who had six mouths to feed, couldn’t afford one on his salary and wasn’t prepared to extort the price of one from the public. His ill temper, then, was a credit to him.

  “I tried calling you yesterday but seems you were out of station?” he said, his mouth half full.

  “Some family business was there,” lied Puri, who was keeping his visit to Haridwar, and the fact that he had planted an undercover operative inside the ashram, strictly under wraps.

  The detective quickly changed the subject.

  “Since last we met I’d a run-in with a cricket bat,” said Puri, who went on to describe how he had been ambushed in Dr. Jha’s office.

  “Sir, I hope you weren’t breaking and entering again,” said Singh reproachfully. He took a dim view of some of Puri’s methods.

  “Nothing of the sort. The side door was perfectly open, actually. Just I surprised some intruder engaged in going through Dr. Jha’s files. How he got the better of me remains a mystery. My reflexes are like lightning.”

  The faintest hint of a smile flickered across Singh’s face as he took another bite of his parantha and then asked: “Did you see who did it?”

  For a moment, Puri seemed lost for words.

  “My memory of events is something of a fog,” he said. “It is like I had a dream but certain details are missing. I remember someone familiar to me saying something. Just I cannot put my finger on who or what.”

  “I’m sure it will come back to you, sir,” said Singh helpfully. His breakfast and salty tea seemed to be improving his temperament.

  “Just I hope it is not weeks or months. So frustrating it is.”

&
nbsp; A waiter arrived bearing a plate of idlis arranged on a banana leaf and placed it in front of Puri. He immediately cut off a portion of one of the rice patties, drowned it in coconut chutney and some spicy sambar and devoured it.

  “So tell me. What is so urgent I had to come into town so early, Inspector?”

  Singh, who had finished his food, wiped his hands on his napkin and placed it on the table. “Sir, the chief knows you’re investigating the Jha case,” he said with solemnity.

  Puri shrugged. “That is hardly a surprise, no? Delhi is like a village with women gossiping round the water pump. Eventually everyone gets to know everyone else’s business.” He took another bite of his food.

  “He knows I took you to the murder scene and he’s furious. He ordered me to meet you this morning and warn you off.”

  “Then I will consider myself warned,” said Puri with a grin.

  Singh sipped his tea. “But tell me, sir – strictly between us. Have you made any progress?”

  “Come now, Inspector, you know I don’t have the habit of sharing my theories until they are tried and tested,” answered Puri. The truth was, though, that he still had little to go on – just a few scraps of information and a hunch or two.

  Not that Puri was worried. Not especially. He had solved many a case in the past with less evidence available to him at this stage in the investigation. In India, perhaps more than anywhere else in the world, the methodology of undercover intelligence gathering established by Chanakya nearly two and a half millennia ago was often the only surefire way of solving a mystery. Patience was required.

  “I know, sir, but is it really necessary to keep me completely in the dark?” asked Singh. “We’re on the same side after all. I feel useless – impotent.”