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

by Tarquin Hall

  The room was well stocked with the everyday accoutrements he needed to be a successful miracle worker – ‘sacred’ stone eggs that he claimed to produce from his stomach; fake thumb tips into which he concealed pellets of condensed vibhuti; camphor tablets that burned harmlessly on the skin or the tongue.

  In one of the metal trunks, Facecream also came across a collection of notebooks in which Aman kept meticulous notes on how his illusions were performed. There were a couple of pages illustrating how he levitated in the darshan hall (as she’d suspected, he sat on a Perspex stand; this in turn was mounted on the platform of the hydraulic lift). And she discovered diagrams pertaining to new miracles he was in the process of developing. The most ambitious involved producing hundreds of fish from a single specimen. He was also working on walking on water.

  Facecream could find no reference to the Kali illusion, but there was a file on Dr. Suresh Jha. Much of the information it contained had been gathered over the past few years by a private detective in Delhi, one of Puri’s rivals. Bank details, names and addresses of family members, a short biography of his secretary, Ms. Ruchi, even pictures of the Laughing Club taken on a telephoto lens. There were transcripts of telephone conversations, which indicated that DIRE’s phones had been tapped, and a special dossier on whom the Guru Buster had talked to during his investigation into the death of Manika Gill. A letter to Vivek Swa-roop marked confidential and dated a month earlier warned that Jha had gathered ‘a great deal of information’ on the case and was planning to ‘petition the Supreme Court to order a murder investigation’.

  Facecream returned the file to the shelf and noticed some video equipment at the back of the room – a recorder and a monitor. These, she soon discovered, were linked to a hidden camera inside Swami-ji’s audience chamber. A cabinet also contained a collection of mini DV tapes.

  ‘Manika’ was written on one tape dated two days before she died. Damayanti’s tapes took up an entire shelf.

  There wasn’t time to watch any of them: it was nearly four-thirty. She had stayed longer than she had planned. So Facecream grabbed Manika’s tape and one of Damayanti’s and headed for the door.

  ♦

  The moment she opened the fireproof – and apparently soundproof – door, she knew she was in trouble.

  Maharaj Swami’s audience chamber throbbed with a thudding noise.

  The helicopter had returned.

  The light came on in the entrance hall.

  Voices.

  Tucking the tapes into the elastic of her underwear, she made for the secret door, retrieved her chappal and hurried down into the underground passage.

  She had gone only about thirty feet when the overhead lights in the passage were switched on.

  Footsteps.

  She broke into a run.

  Reaching the darshan hall exit, Facecream scrambled up the stairs and pushed up the trapdoor.

  Standing onstage with a revolver trained on her was Vivek Swaroop, the man in the black sherwani.

  ∨ The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing ∧

  Twenty

  “Please don’t kill me! I was just trying to see Swami-ji again. I swear!”

  Facecream had put on a look of exaggerated terror.

  “He said that when I was, like, ready, I should come to him and then I heard his voice calling to me in my dream… I know I shouldn’t be here, but I couldn’t stay away.”

  Vivek Swaroop, still holding his revolver on her, said in a camp Indian accent: “I suppose in this dream of yours Swami-ji told you where to find this trapdoor and how to get into his chambers, did he?”

  “That’s right!” she replied, sounding relieved. “He told me exactly where to come! That’s how I knew! You see, I – ”

  “Enough!” he snapped angrily. “You can drop all the spiritual bullshit. I’m immune. I want to know what you were doing down in the tunnels and up in the private residence.”

  “But I just told you!” said Facecream, all innocence. “Swami-ji promised to cleanse my chakras.”

  “If that’s the case, then what are you doing with this?” He stepped forward and snatched the om pendant from around her neck. “I’ve got the exact same one. They sell them at the airport.”

  Gripping one end between his teeth, he pulled it apart to reveal the USB data key inside.

  “Somehow I doubt Swami-ji gave you this.”

  Swaroop dropped both sections of the pendant on the stage and crushed them beneath the heel of his shoe. Then, with his revolver pressed against Facecream’s temple, he frisked her and found the tapes.

  “I’ve warned him before about these falling into the wrong hands,” he said, stomping on them as well. “But he doesn’t listen. That’s the trouble with Godmen. They come to believe they’re infallible, like they actually have supernatural powers.”

  He cocked the pistol.

  “Now, madam,” he continued. “I’m going to ask you one last time: What’s your game?”

  Facecream’s eyes narrowed and she regarded him with contempt.

  “I’m an officer with the CBI,” she said.

  “Oh, please!” Swaroop’s voice was half-mocking. “The CBI wouldn’t dare set foot in here. Besides, their agents don’t play James Bond. They come knocking on the door with warrants.”

  “I work for a special section,” she said. “It’s covert, just been set up. We’re investigating corrupt Godmen. You wouldn’t have heard of us.”

  Swaroop regarded Facecream askance.

  “My colleagues know exactly where I am,” she added in a calm, even voice. “They’re outside. And if you don’t want kidnapping added to the charges of rape, money laundering and murder you’re facing, then you’d better let me go now.”

  A slow grin suffused his features. “You’re really very good, do you know that? For a moment you actually had me going – ”

  “I’m telling you the truth.” Facecream looked him straight in the eye. “Our office address is first floor, block number four, CGO complex, Lodhi Road, Delhi, area code 110003. My boss is R.K. Narendra. If you shoot me I guarantee you’ll hang for it later.”

  Swaroop turned his head to the right, keeping one eye on her.

  “What do you think?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Maharaj Swami stepped out of the shadow at the back of the stage. His eyes were cold, his face expressionless.

  “Take her to the river,” was all he said before descending down through the trapdoor.

  Swaroop smiled. “You heard the Godman. Let’s go.” He motioned with the pistol toward the front of the stage. “Keep your hands up where I can see them.”

  Soon they were outside, where it was still dark. In slow procession, they walked to the back of the grounds and passed through the gate that led to the path along the river.

  “Shooting me isn’t going to solve anything,” said Facecream.

  “Shooting wasn’t what I had in mind – although don’t get me wrong, I’ll shoot you if I have to,” said Swaroop. “With a bullet there’s always so much explaining to do. Whereas someone slipping off a cliff in the dark – well, that happens from time to time, doesn’t it? Especially around here. Very narrow and treacherous, the pathway up ahead. Someone really should put up a sign warning people.”

  “Is this what happened to Manika Gill?” asked Facecream. “She met with one of your accidents?”

  “Manika Gill, Manika Gill,” said Swaroop, mulling over the name. “Oh, her! Don’t tell me that’s what you’re investigating.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Aman seduced her, didn’t he? She told her parents, so you murdered her.”

  “Just keep moving.”

  “Aman only chooses the ones whose parents are die-hard devotees, doesn’t he? He must really get off on that. Knowing that his victims are terrified of telling their parents. What a sense of power it must give him.”

  Swaroop gave her a shove. Facecream stumbled forward. “Did you bring Manika down here yourself and hold her under
the water?” she asked, recovering her balance.

  “Didn’t have to. Poor little Manika was so scared that she came and jumped in all on her own.” He let out a short, psychotic chuckle. “I don’t suppose you’d be prepared to save me the bother and do the same? A suicide note would come in very handy as well. ‘Farewell, cruel world!’”

  Facecream walked on in silence. They reached the cliff edge. Below the waters of the Ganges crashed and swirled around rocks and boulders. She turned to face him.

  “Last chance,” he said, brandishing the revolver. “Tell me who you work for.”

  “All right, all right, you win!” she said, glancing back at the precipice. Facecream sounded frightened for the first time. “I work for a private detective. We’re investigating the murder of Dr. Sureshjha.”

  “So that’s it!” Swaroop shook his head as if in pity. “I should have known. And what’s the name of this private detective you work for?”

  Facecream didn’t answer.

  He took a step forward. “Well?”

  Just then a twig snapped behind him.

  In the second that Swaroop was distracted, Facecream struck, delivering a swift kick to his wrist and then another to his left kneecap.

  He stumbled and fell back on the ground, firing off a shot into the air.

  “Bitch!”

  Facecream sidestepped him and hurled herself toward Flush, who had been trying to sneak up on Swaroop.

  “Run!” she shouted.

  Together the two operatives sprinted up the path.

  Three rounds whizzed over their heads. The sounds echoed and re-echoed off the cliffs, half drowning out their pursuer’s curses.

  “Get back here! I’m going to kill you, you bitch!”

  They turned a bend in the path and Facecream stopped. Picking up a branch, she motioned for Flush to hide behind a bush and readied herself.

  Her baseball-style swing could not have been better timed. It caught Swaroop square in the face, sending him reeling backward, bloody and unconscious.

  “That was incredible!” marveled Flush as Facecream kicked the revolver into the undergrowth.

  “Save the congratulations. Let’s go.”

  As they reached the gate and reentered the ashram grounds, the sun was coming up and the devotees were beginning to make their way in silence to the gazebo. The two operatives returned their nods and smiles, walking slowly past the darshan hall.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Facecream spotted Maharaj Swami emerging from the main reception building.

  Spotting her at the same time, he turned to the senior devotees accompanying him and pointed in their direction.

  “Hurry!” Facecream urged Flush, grabbing him by the arm. “They’re coming.”

  They ran through the car park, watched by a group of bewildered-looking devotees, and pushed past the chowki-dars on duty at the main gate.

  A local bus bound for Haridwar happened to be passing along the road and they jumped on board.

  Looking back as it pulled away, Facecream saw their pursuers sprinting after them, shouting for the driver to stop, but getting left behind.

  “We’d better jump off at the next bazaar,” she suggested. “Til get a change of clothes and we’ll hire a car.”

  They took a minute to catch their breath. Then Flush said: “I waited for you on the side of the residence hall at five like you told me to do, but the helicopter landed and I had to hide. Who was that lunatic with the gun?”

  “That’s Maharaj Swami’s number two,” explained Facecream.

  She went on to describe in a whisper what she had found in the Godman’s room.

  “But Swaroop smashed the data key and the tapes, so now we’ve got nothing.”

  Flush grinned. “Have faith,” he said.

  ∨ The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing ∧

  Twenty-One

  Rumpi rose at five-thirty the next morning. She checked in on Jaiya, who was still sleeping soundly in her room, and then went downstairs to make herself the glass of warm water with lemon juice and black salt that constituted an essential part of her morning ritual.

  The photographs from the godh bharai party had come back from the shop yesterday evening and for a while she had sat at the kitchen table looking through them again with a contented smile. Monika joined her from the servant quarters, admired the pictures herself, giggled about funny things people had done and said during the baby shower and started making the tea. While the milk, cardamoms and black Darjeeling leaves boiled, she talked excitedly about the Saif Ali Khan movie she had watched the night before. Naturally the plot sounded extremely convoluted and the actor had taken off his shirt at almost every opportunity.

  Rumpi switched on the radio and listened to the headlines on All India Radio as she started to prepare aloo paranthas, Jaiya’s favorite.

  First, she added jeera, chili and turmeric powder to the boiled aloo and then mixed the atta in a bowl with a little water until it turned into dough. Then, while Monika mopped the floor, Rumpi heated her tava and retrieved the ghee from the fridge.

  Puri’s wife often found that she did her best thinking while cooking. She had never completely understood why – there was something about preparing food that was relaxing, therapeutic even – but often, while she stood chopping ginger or stirring the paalak paneer, some name she’d had trouble remembering earlier would suddenly pop into her head or a solution to a problem would miraculously bubble up to the surface.

  This morning, it was the act of making little dough balls, stuffing them with a potato mixture and rolling them out into flat disks that led – not immediately, it should be said – to the identification of the mastermind behind the kitty party robbery.

  When this eureka moment came, Rumpi stopped what she was doing, quickly washed her hands, told Monika to finish preparing breakfast and then reached for the phone.

  First she called Arti of Arti’s Beauty Parlor and asked for Uma’s number, saying that she needed to ask her about some recipe.

  It took Rumpi more than five minutes to get Arti off the line. Then she called her beautician.

  “Uma? That’s you? This is Puri Madam this side. Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” She had to raise her voice. “I said this is Puri Madam. Yes, that’s right. Good morning. Sorry to call you so early. Tell me, you’ll reach work at what time? Hello? Hello?”

  Practically shouting now: “Uma? You’ll reach work at what time, exactly? It’s your off? I see. Actually, something important has come up. You’ll be at home? What’s your address, Uma, I need to see you. No, no, nothing bad, I promise. Something I want to ask you. I would need only five minutes of your time…”

  Next Rumpi called her mother-in-law.

  Yesterday, Mummy-ji, who had refused to give up the investigation, had spent the day following Lily Arora around Delhi.

  The kitty party hostess had lunched with a handsome young man who wore expensive shoes and had driven her to a luxurious farmhouse in Najafgarh, where the two had spent a couple of hours.

  Expensive Shoes had turned out to be a party organizer who was helping Lily Arora plan her husband’s surprise sixtieth birthday party. The kind of money she was spending on the function was far in excess of the amount that had been stolen and Mummy had concluded that the Aroras could not be facing any kind of financial difficulties.

  “Something we’ve overlooked is there, na,” she’d told Rumpi in the evening. “One lady is hiding something, that is for sure.”

  Rumpi had reminded her mother-in-law that she was no longer involved in the investigation.

  Now she had to backtrack.

  “I think I know who it is,” she said. “Last night I was watching the news and there was a story about how an accountant who audits several big companies has been accused of profiting from insider information. Then this morning something Uma told me the other day suddenly clicked.”

  “It came to you while cooking, is it?” asked Mummy.

  “While I was pre
paring the paranthas.”

  “That is always the way.”

  ♦

  Uma lived in Chhatarpur, a vast warren of three-story apartment blocks. Although ‘completed’ in the past three years, they looked half-finished – bare brickwork, missing window frames, loose cinder blocks in place of missing steps leading up to missing front entrances. The heat, humidity, pollution and monsoon rains, together with the streaks of paan spit and urine on the walls, also conspired to make the buildings look twenty years older.

  Twenty-five hundred rupees a month, almost half her monthly salary, rented Uma three small rooms. The living room – all often feet across – doubled as a bedroom for her husband, herself and their three children. The kitchen was half that size and comprised a two-ring stove and a fridge that stood idle because the electricity supply was too sporadic and too expensive. There was also a toilet and a small washing area, but water had to be brought from a bore well in the street, which was shared by three buildings – twenty-seven families altogether.

  The rooms, though, were clean, with the TV lovingly draped in a piece of fabric to keep off the dust and the family’s shoes stacked on a rack next to the door.

  A metal cabinet with glass doors contained a few effigies and her three children’s school textbooks. Pride of place was given to a china tea set, a Diwali gift from a nice Swiss client who had been going to Arti’s Beauty Parlor for years.

  As Mummy and Rumpi sat squeezed together on the two-seater settee, Uma carefully retrieved the teapot and, cradling it in one arm, carried it into the kitchen.

  When she returned, the spout was steaming and she filled three cups with hot milky chai. A plate of biscuits was also placed on the small coffee table.

  Uma sat down on a stool, making all sorts of apologies for not having something more substantial to serve them, or more comfortable furniture for them to sit on, and for how hot it was (the family relied on an overhead fan, which thankfully was on).

  Recognizing Uma’s embarrassment and awkwardness at having to entertain well-to-do guests, Rumpi and Mummy sought to put her at ease, admiring the cups and saucers, complimenting the tea and repeating that it was they who were sorry for imposing upon her on her one day off.