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

by Tarquin Hall

  By now, the detective had taken nine of his opponent’s pieces and had ten remaining. But Dr. Ghosh was far from beaten and quickly launched a counterattack on Puri’s left flank, taking his remaining iratham, or chariot (the equivalent of a rook). Puri’s defenses suddenly crumbled and within a few moves he found his raja standing alone, signaling the end of the game. He had lost again.

  “You were bluffing, is it?” asked Puri.

  “Forgive me, Chubby. I’ve been playing with my nephew. He’s brilliant, only eleven – going to give that Viswanathan Anand a run for his money one fine day. He bluffs a lot – often sets up the illusion that he’s losing.”

  Puri stared at him blankly.

  “What’s wrong, Chubby?” asked Dr. Ghosh.

  No reaction.

  “Chubby?” prompted his friend, looking worried.

  “By God!” exclaimed the detective. And then louder: “What a bloody fool I’ve been these past days! Of course! It is an illusion within an illusion!”

  He stood up. The geriatrics lowered their newspapers and stared.

  “Finally I know! I tell you, this thing has been driving me mad!”

  “Know what, Chubby?”

  “Who it was who knocked me for six!”

  “You were knocked unconscious? When? You didn’t tell me. Have you been examined?”

  “Shubho-dada, I must go. No delay!”

  And before Dr. Ghosh could say another word, the detective was out the door.

  ♦

  Fifteen minutes later, Puri reached the south end of Rajpath to find the road still barricaded by the police. A constable on duty informed him that it would not reopen until tomorrow; in the meantime, he was welcome to proceed on foot.

  Frustrated but with no other option, the detective set off on his own, umbrella held aloft, retracing the steps Dr. Jha had taken five days earlier.

  By now it was almost noon and the heat of the sun bore down on him like a blowtorch. He moved as fast as his left leg would allow him, the insides of his shoes squelching with sweat, until he reached the shade of the jamun tree where the Kali illusion had been staged. The police cordon around the crime scene had by now been removed, as had the incense sticks and offerings left on the ground by worshippers. On either side of the tree trunk lay a flea-bitten pye-dog and a laborer, both of whom were sleeping soundly despite the heat and the flies.

  It took Puri a minute or so to recover from the walk and to wipe the salty perspiration from his eyes. And then he began to scour the murder scene.

  He slowly circled around the area three times. Then he started to walk backward away from it to get a different perspective.

  When he had gone about twenty feet, he noticed something odd. The grass in the vicinity where Kali had levitated was a shade darker, as if it had received more rainfall or perhaps been watered. It was a subtle difference, one that could easily be overlooked.

  He hurried back to the spot, cast aside his umbrella and, with some difficulty given his girth, got down on one knee. Taking out his key chain, which had a Swiss Army penknife attached, he pushed the largest blade down into the grass. At a depth of two inches, it came into contact with something solid. He twisted the blade. It felt like metal.

  “Heartiest congratulations, Mr. Vish Puri, sir!” he exclaimed out loud with a chuckle, pronouncing heartiest ‘hartees’.

  He probed with his knife in six other spots, each time with the same result, before getting back to his feet. For a minute or so, he stood looking down at the ground, contemplating whether to go and fetch a helper with a shovel and dig up the grass, but decided this would have to wait.

  He still needed proof that it had been Professor Pandey who had hidden the pieces of metal under the grass.

  Given that it was a Sunday, this was going to take some time.

  ∨ The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing ∧

  Seventeen

  Facecream was serving lunch. For an hour, she and her fellow devotees worked their way back and forth along the rows of visitors seated on the floor of the tent, ensuring that each person received their fill.

  Amongst them sat a wiry young man with thick glasses, pockmarked cheeks and sharply parted hair that glistened with Brylcreem. His moustache was but a wisp, the hairs thin and fluffy like a caterpillar’s legs, and his clothes served to enhance his physical immaturity, being devoid of any flair. He wore a gray Western shirt untucked over a pair of straight gray trousers. The breast pocket was stuffed with pens and marked with biro stains. From his belt hung a clump of keys and a multitool.

  Facecream could not help but smile at the sight of him. It was rare to see Flush out in the field. Sitting there shoulder to shoulder with ordinary people, he looked uncharacteristically unsure of himself. His natural habitat was a darkened room where day and night were not easily discernible, surrounded by monitors, soldering irons, circuit boards and empty pizza boxes. On his days off, he read graphic novels and admired the cover girls of the Indian edition of Maxim magazine.

  Ironically, however, the computer and electronics whiz fulfilled the first requirement of successful undercover work: to assume a persona that blended into the surroundings and didn’t attract undue attention. His unmistakably yokel Uttar Pradesh Hindi helped complete the picture of a socially awkward nerd who was quickly forgettable and of no threat to anyone.

  When it came to handing over the small packet Facecream had requested, he did so without raising suspicions, simply slipping it under his plate when she cleared it.

  Flush then made his way back to the hotel across the road from the ashram. He had taken a room overlooking the main entrance. And from there he was still endeavoring to hack into the Abode of Eternal Love’s network.

  Facecream, meanwhile, went to check the contents of the packet in the privacy of a toilet cubicle: one small flashlight; a set of skeleton lever-lock keys and a small metal file; a silver pendant engraved with the om symbol, which had a USB data key concealed inside; and last but not least, a reliable watch. This was everything she needed to break into Maha-raj Swami’s private residence.

  Until this morning, she had had serious reservations about doing so on her own. There were too many people around, and she had asked Puri to send Tubelight and a couple of his boys who specialized in breaking and entering to help.

  But then chance had played into her hands.

  At eight o’clock this morning, a helicopter had landed in the middle of the ashram, picked up Swami-ji and the man in the black sherwani whom Facecream had seen in the reception of the private residence and taken them to Delhi. Word had circulated amongst the devotees (none of whom seemed puzzled, let alone disillusioned, by the contradiction of their guru making use of a crude flying machine when he was supposed to be able to teleport from one side of the planet to the other) that his holiness would not return until tomorrow, and so Facecream had decided to try to get into his audience chamber tonight.

  ♦

  With offices closed in Delhi for the weekend and many officials away on holiday, it took the rest of the day and a good deal of cajolery to obtain the proof Puri needed.

  By then it was seven in the evening and he had not eaten since brunch. Spotting a Nirulas on his way to West Delhi, he stopped for a couple of chicken frankies, which he ate with plenty of green chutney and a salty lassi. Then he called Tubelight.

  “Meet me in Shalimar Bagh West in forty minutes,” he said.

  “Means you’ve solved the case, Boss?”

  “Thank God the answer came to me in the nick of time, otherwise there would have been so much of egg on my face,” answered the detective with uncharacteristic modesty. “For once, Vish Puri has been slow on the uptake. Must be this hot weather wreaking havoc with my brain and all. The solution has been staring me right in the face. Pandey and his accomplices have really pulled off the perfect murder, one can say.”

  “I should bring my pistol?”

  “No need. There won’t be any trouble. Of that much I am certain.
”

  Puri bought himself a piece of Black Forest gateau for the road and continued on his way. When he reached Pan-dey’s house, Tubelight, Shashi and Zia were waiting for him across the street.

  They reported that the professor had spent the rest of the day in his front room, apparently tinkering with his inventions.

  “His driver is there, also?” asked Puri.

  “Yes, Boss,” reported Shashi.

  “Tip-top,” said Puri, who was giddy with excitement, like a little boy about to spring a trap. “I’m looking forward to this. Quite a surprise those two are going to get.”

  “Those two, Boss?” said Tubelight.

  “He and his partner in crime.”

  “The driver?”

  “Undoubtedly!”

  The operatives all regarded him quizzically, clearly itching to know the truth. But they knew better than to press him further.

  “Want us to watch the back of the house in case they try to get down the alley?” asked Tubelight.

  “No one is going to run away. Stay in position. I would not be more than fifteen, twenty minutes maximum.”

  Puri approached the front gate and pressed the buzzer. A bar of ‘Jingle Bells’ played somewhere inside the house.

  Thirty seconds passed with no result. The detective peered through the narrow gap between the solid metal gate and the gatepost. He could see a light on in the front room on the ground floor. The shadow of a figure moved across the curtains. The detective tried the bell again. Still nothing. He banged on the gate with his fist.

  “Professor-ji! Open up, yaar! No need for games!”

  The detective’s words were answered by a gunshot.

  Puri spun around, disoriented. His left leg got caught on his right ankle and he toppled over onto his side.

  “That came from inside, Boss!” shouted Tubelight, running across the street toward him. “Don’t think it was aimed at you.”

  “By God, someone’s shooting!” cried the detective, appalled. “How that is possible?”

  Sounds of a struggle came from inside the house. Something crashed to the ground. One of the ground-floor windows was smashed. Glass tinkled onto the concrete.

  Tubelight helped Puri onto his feet as Shashi and Zia reached them.

  Another shot was fired. A man’s voice cried out.

  Zia shoved his shoulder against the front gate, but it was locked from the inside. Without a moment’s hesitation, he began to scale the gate.

  “You two get around back!” the detective ordered the others.

  “Right, Boss!”

  Tubelight and Shashi took off down the street.

  A third shot rang out. About ten seconds later came a fourth.

  By now, Zia was on top of the gate with his right foot balanced precariously between its crown of spikes. He managed to jump down to the other side, landing on the hood of Pandey’s car.

  A moment later, the gate swung open.

  Zia and Puri skirted around the now dented car, keeping their heads down. They approached the front door. It was unlocked. In the corridor beyond lay a couple of pairs of shoes and a pile of old newspapers. There was a radio on somewhere inside the house playing All India Radio’s FM Gold station.

  They could hear laughter as well.

  Cautiously, Puri made his way down the corridor and entered the front room. Professor Pandey was lying on his back in a pool of blood near the window. He was chuckling to himself as if daydreaming about something funny he had seen or heard.

  In horror, Puri rushed to his side and shouted back over his shoulder: “Fetch a doctor! Jaldi karo!”

  The detective peeled back the wounded man’s blood-soaked shirt. He had been shot in the stomach.

  “Professor, can you hear me?” He tilted back Pandey’s head to keep his air passages clear. “Who did this? You saw?”

  The dying man chuckled again and began to cough. Blood spluttered from his mouth. He arched his back and grimaced with pain.

  “Try to relax. Help is making its way here. Tell me, who did this?”

  The professor smiled, as if a lovely thought had suddenly occurred to him, and then his body went slack and his eyes glazed over.

  “By God, Professor-ji, what you went and got yourself into, huh?” mumbled Puri as he moved to search the rest of the house.

  ♦

  Tubelight and Shashi turned into the alleyway behind Professor Pandey’s house. They spotted a male figure fifty yards ahead hurrying toward them. He stopped in his tracks, turned and sprinted off in the opposite direction.

  “Oi, rook!” shouted Tubelight.

  Puri’s operatives gave chase, soon reaching the far end of the alleyway. Here they turned right and, with Shashi in the lead, pursued the figure down the residential street that led past Modern Public School.

  Three stray dogs joined in the chase. Scrambling after the fleeing man, they snarled and snapped at his heels. One of them got hold of his trouser leg, and for a moment, it looked as if the cur might stop him. But then another shot rang out and the animal yelped and collapsed in a bloody heap.

  Whimpering, the other two canines hightailed it in opposite directions.

  Tubelight and Shashi briefly took cover behind a parked car.

  “That’s five shots,” said Tubelight, who was out of breath. “He should only have one more.”

  The killer crossed Jhulelal Mandir Marg, causing a couple of cars to come to a screeching halt, and climbed over the railings surrounding the old Mughal Shalimar Bagh Gardens.

  Half a minute later, his pursuers followed him inside.

  The killer sprinted down a path that passed the forlorn ornamental fountains and fruit trees once so beloved of the Emperor Shah Jahan. He reached the crumbling central pavilion and disappeared inside.

  A few seconds later, a sixth bullet whizzed past Tubelight and Shashi. Instinctively they dropped to the ground.

  “That should be his last,” panted Tubelight. “There’s only one way in and out of there. Wait here and make sure he doesn’t double back.”

  Tubelight crept toward the small building.

  “There’s no escape!” he called out in Hindi, mounting the steps. “The police will be here soon. Give yourself up!”

  His words echoed off the bare walls. They went unanswered. He inched past the columns at the entrance. Moonlight filtered through a window in the domed roof, illuminating the dusty interior. Tubelight almost gagged on the stench of bat droppings that littered the floor. There was no one inside.

  Confused, he crept back to the entrance.

  “Did he double back?” he hissed to Shashi over his shoulder.

  “No, chief.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “But… that’s impossible. There’s no other way out of this place.”

  They both made another search, but the figure had vanished.

  ♦

  Cautiously Puri searched the back rooms on the ground floor of Professor Pandey’s house.

  He passed through the kitchen and into a small yard, where he noticed a couple of rubber mats, like the ones found in cars, draped over the top of the back wall.

  The detective returned inside and mounted the stairs.

  He found a bloodstain on the third step. Another on the fifth. He hurried up the landing and turned the corner around the banisters.

  There he found another man lying facedown in a pool of blood.

  Puri knew who it was without having to turn the body over.

  He checked for a pulse, hoping vainly that perhaps the man could still be saved. Finding none, he slumped down on the top stair with his face in his hands.

  This was where the doctor found him ten minutes later.

  “I’m afraid this one’s dead as well,” he said after examining the body. “Did you know him?”

  Puri didn’t answer. His eyes were creased with sadness.

  “Sir, do you know the name of the deceased?”

  The d
etective let out a long, anguished sigh.

  “Yes, I knew him,” he replied. “His name was Dr. Suresh Jha.”

  ∨ The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing ∧

  Eighteen

  “What the hell is going on here, sir?” demanded Inspector Singh when he reached the murder scene. “I thought Dr. Jha was dead. How can he be dead – again?”

  “One thing at a time, Inspector,” replied Puri calmly. “Just I’m attempting to retrace the killer’s steps.”

  He was in the sitting room standing on a chair examining a bullet hole in the ceiling.

  “Most probably it was a double-action revolver,” the detective said half to himself, a sad resignation to his voice. He got down off the chair, squinting in the flashing blue light cast by the emergency beacon on top of Singh’s Jeep, which had pulled up outside only moments earlier.

  “Inspector, by chance, you could switch that disco thing off?” asked Puri, holding his hand over his eyes.

  Singh went to the window and shouted through the broken pane angrily at his driver, “Off karo!”

  “Most kind of you,” said the detective as the order was promptly acted upon.

  They walked through the kitchen to the yard behind the house. The murderer, Puri explained, had come in over the wall, having first laid a couple of rubber car mats on top of the shards of glass jutting out of the top. Finding the kitchen door open, he had proceeded to the sitting room. The professor had been sitting at his workbench – his smoking pipe was lying there, still warm.

  “The murderer was already present when I rang the bell. Most probably the sound distracted him. Thus he and Pan-dey took to struggling and the weapon was discharged upward, the bullet getting lodged in the ceiling.”

  As the scuffle had continued, one of Pandey’s gutted TV sets was sent crashing to the ground. The professor had been shoved hard against the window, breaking the glass. When the revolver was discharged for the second time, it had been in close proximity to his belly. This suggested that both he and the murderer had been fighting for possession of it at the time.

  “See the powder burns on his shirt and fingers, also.”