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

by Tarquin Hall

  “Are there any other suspects?” asked Singh.

  “Two exactly.” Iwo!

  “Inspector, please keep down your voice.”

  “OK, sir, but are you going to tell me who they are?”

  “One of them will enter that room before long and then you will have your answer.”

  There was another long silence.

  “Sir, I want to know one thing… When did you conclude there were two suspects?”

  “This evening at six o’clock I met with Professor Pandey’s elder sister and came by certain information that convinced me of as much.”

  Just then, his mobile vibrated again and he returned to the other side of the room to answer it.

  “Boss, Fossil isn’t heading your way,” reported Zia. “He’s crossing the Jamuna.”

  “Fine. Keep him in your sights.”

  “Ten-tour.”

  Puri lay down on the bed to have a rest, but found it incredibly hard and uncomfortable. Curious, he checked under the mattress, only to discover that it was resting on a heavy steel-plate support.

  He concluded steel had been used as a deterrent to thieves, who would make easy pickings of, say, springs or wooden slats.

  Presumably that meant all the beds in the hospital were the same.

  In his mind, an idea began to form.

  ♦

  It was almost eleven. Puri was beginning to regret that he had not bought himself some kheer when the door to Tube-light’s room opened a crack. A thin streak of light shone on the wall. A head appeared, the face masked by shadows. It withdrew. A moment later, the door opened a little wider and a male figure slipped inside.

  Puri stood up slowly, his pistol at the ready, and signaled to Singh.

  The figure closed the door behind him, and as his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, he sized up the room. Silently he approached the first bed and picked up a pillow. Then he made his way across the room to the second bed. He found a gap in the curtain and looked inside. Puri saw him tug out a pistol tucked beneath his belt. He cocked it, buried the muzzle in the pillow and sidled in behind the curtain.

  A moment later, there came three dull thuds.

  Singh, who was by now standing to one side of the connecting doorway with his revolver drawn, shouted out: “Put down your weapon! You are under arrest!”

  Suddenly there came sounds of a struggle. Someone went “Aaaagh!” The killer’s pistol clunked to the ground. And then Tubelight, who had ensconced himself under the bed’s steel-plate support, called out: “I’ve got him!”

  Singh charged into the room and tore back the curtain.

  He grabbed the shooter by both arms and shoved him up against the wall.

  Puri switched on the light.

  Roughly, Singh turned his captive around.

  “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you,” said the detective. “This is one Jaideep Prabhu. Better known as Manish the Magnificent.”

  Cursing, the magician lunged at Puri, his features suffused with malice and hatred, trying to kick at him like a wild mule. Singh kept a strong grip on his captive and pulled him back, giving him a hard slap across the back of the head.

  “That’s enough out of you, bastard!” he shouted. “From now on you speak only when I tell you to speak.”

  Manish the Magnificent cursed Singh as well. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “As far as you are concerned, I am God!” The inspector handcuffed the magician. “I am placing you under arrest for the double murder of Dr. Suresh Jha and Professor R.K. Pandey.”

  The magician scoffed. “You can’t prove anything.”

  By now Puri was holding Manish the Magnificent’s double-action revolver with his handkerchief wrapped around it.

  “You have been good enough to supply all the evidence required,” he said with a smile.

  “That’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before!”

  Singh gave Manish the Magnificent a hard slap across the face. “I told you to shut up!” he bawled, shoving the magician down onto a chair. “Don’t make me tell you again!”

  Manish the Magnificent glowered at him.

  Singh raised his hand again as if to strike. “Oi harami!” he swore. “Keep your eyes down or I won’t just break your bones, I’ll grind them to dust!”

  This time the magician had the good sense to do as he was told.

  “Better,” said Singh. He turned and addressed Puri: “Now before I take this son of a whore to the station, would you mind telling me what the hell has been going on?”

  “Most certainly, Inspector.”

  They stood by the main door to the room, leaving Tube-light closest to the captive.

  “I told you I met Professor Pandey’s sister, no?”

  “You mentioned it, yes.”

  “It was she who told me how her brother invented one revolutionary method by which levitation can be achieved,” said Puri. “He built a pair of extraordinary boots with metal soles made of some substance called” – here Puri had to refer to his notebook – “pyrolytic carbon. Attached to these boots were some whatnots called” – again he had to read the name – “servo mechanisms. They are responsible for maintaining stability.”

  “So these boots just float in the air?” asked Singh, sounding dubious.

  “Not at all, Inspector. Extremely powerful magnets were buried under the grass. This was achieved some months in advance by Dr. Jha and his team. Afterward, they diligently kept the grass watered and seeded so no one noticed the ground had been disturbed.” Puri went on to explain as much as he knew about how the rest of the illusion had been done.

  “So how did this bastard become involved in all of this?” asked Singh, referring to Manish the Magnificent.

  “He watched the French tourist’s video of goddess Kali’s miraculous appearance. But he did so with different eyes. Being a magician, he saw a levitation illusion likes of which had never been achieved before. Thus he wanted to know how all it was done. He visited Rajpath as we two did. Guessing the stage had been set in some way, he thought to probe under the grass. Thus he discovered the magnets.”

  Here Puri added an aside: “Inspector, yesterday only I discovered them myself using my trusty Swiss Army knife.”

  “But what led him to Professor Pandey, Boss?” asked Tubelight, who was listening in on the conversation.

  “Naturally he guessed Professor Pandey, being one inventor and electrical engineer, had invented the means by which levitation could be achieved. What is more, Manish the Magnificent understood such levitation technology was worth many crores. Must be he planned to sell it to fellow magicians the world over. A Godman like Maharaj Swami would have paid him handsomely for it, also.”

  “So he planned to steal the boots?” asked Singh.

  “Correct. He went to the house to demand them from Pandey. Only his plan did not go to plan at all.”

  “And what became of these… these magic boots?” asked the inspector.

  “Unfortunately for Manish the Magnificent, Vish Puri and others were on the scene, so he was forced to flee, failing in his duty to find them. Now they are very much safely out of reach.”

  Singh shook his head in wonder. “You’ve done a first-rate job, sir. It’s amazing how you figured it all out.”

  “Most kind of you, Inspector,” said Puri, beaming.

  “But there’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

  “What exactly, Inspector?”

  “You said your boys chased him into Shalimar Bagh Gardens, but he disappeared. How did he do it?”

  “It is said there is a secret passage built by Shah Jahan that connects those gardens to the Red Fort,” said Puri.

  “But who is to know? Manish the Magnificent is not about to share his secret, that is for sure.”

  Singh went to fetch his prisoner.

  But as he reached down to lift him up by the arm, the inspector suddenly found himself handcuffed to the chair.

  Manish the Magnificent slippe
d past him and, catching Tubelight unawares, knocked him down and rushed for the door. There he found Puri blocking his way with pistol drawn.

  “Not another move or I will shoot,” said the detective. “And believe me, these bullets are not the variety you can catch between your teeth.”

  ♦

  Puri made a quick stop at his office to put his pistol in the safe and then asked Handbrake to drive him home.

  They had just pulled out of Khan Market when a cream-colored Ambassador with a Government of India license plate and a cluster of antennas on the roof pulled them over.

  A smartly dressed peon alighted, approached the detective’s car and knocked on his window.

  “Sir, your presence is requested at Nineteen Akbar Road,” he said politely.

  That was the health minister’s residence.

  “Just I was on my way home, actually,” said the detective. “It is nearly midnight, no? Thank sir for the invitation and I would be pleased to pay him a visit tomorrow morning.”

  “That would not be at all convenient, sir,” said the peon. “You are required on an urgent matter, sir.”

  Another man got out of the Ambassador. Tall, angular, with sharply parted hair, he was wearing a gray safari suit.

  In one hand, he held a military-issue walkie-talkie with an antenna almost the length of a fishing rod. It crackled with static and conversation.

  There was nothing for it but to comply.

  “You think sir will offer me a peg or three?” Puri asked the peon, knowing full well that the minister was an avowed teetotaler.

  “Sir, that I cannot say,” answered the lackey, smiling awkwardly. “He is not in the habit. But maybe I could arrange something.”

  “Most kind of you. Then challo. Lead the way.”

  They passed through the silent streets of New Delhi – the same streets that only a few days ago the ingenious Dr. Jha had brought to a standstill with his antics.

  Border Security Force soldiers stood on guard behind sandbagged positions at the entrance to 19 Akbar Road. One of them checked the undercarriage of Puri’s Ambassador with a mirror attached to a long pole, while another searched the trunk. Puri was then asked to step out of the car to be frisked.

  His license plate was entered into the logbook and then the property’s gates swung open. Beyond lay a wide expanse of lawn as smooth and green as Lord’s cricket ground. At the far end stood a classic Lutyens bungalow with a whitewashed façade and columns lit up by spotlights.

  The driveway, which was edged with flowerpots bursting with plump marigold blossoms, led to a parking area to the right of the building.

  Handbrake stopped the car, got out and opened the door for the detective. The peon then led the way to the front entrance, where an ancient St. Bernard lay snoring on the stone floor of the veranda, a wet patch beneath his quivering jowls.

  The main doors parted and Puri was ushered into the reception, where a liveried servant stood to attention. He showed the detective to one of the armchairs and asked what he could fetch him.

  “Two pegs, ice, soda,” said the detective.

  The servant nodded and went out through a nearby door.

  The peon, meanwhile, took a seat on the other side of the room and checked his watch. Then he folded his hands and placed them in his lap.

  When the servant returned a couple of minutes later, it was with a glass of chilled water. He placed it on a coaster on the coffee table in front of Puri and, without a word, withdrew.

  Under normal circumstances, the detective would have expected a long wait. But given the hour he knew sir would be anxious to get off to his mistress’s bed. Thirty minutes would probably be about right; any less would be a sign of weakness.

  In the event, it was thirty-five.

  Another peon, who could have been the first one’s twin, emerged from the adjacent room and signaled to the detective to enter.

  Puri found Vikram Bhatt, India’s health minister, dressed in his customary collarless waistcoat and immaculately pressed white kurta pyjama sitting behind an expansive antique desk lit by a lead-crystal lamp. He was not alone. On one of the settees in front of the fireplace sat none other than His Holiness Maharaj Swami. Behind him stood Vivek Swaroop, his left eye blackened and his nose swathed in bandages.

  The two men glared at the detective, sizing him up, while the minister continued studying his papers.

  “You’re Puri?” he asked, looking up after the requisite thirty seconds.

  “Vish Puri, Most Private Investigators, at your service, sir,” answered the detective cheerily. He produced a business card and laid it on the desk, adding, “Confidentiality is our watchword.”

  The minister could not have looked less interested; indifferently, he indicated one of the chairs in front of him.

  “You’re sure your name isn’t Lakshmi Garodia?”

  “Garodia? No, sir, quite sure.”

  “Strange. Because a man who looks just like you going by that name visited Haridwar recently. He said he was from Singapore. I have a photograph of him here. Would you like to see it?”

  The minister slid the picture to the front of the desk.

  It was a still captured from CCTV footage of Puri in disguise standing in the reception of the Abode of Eternal Love.

  “Sir, evidently this gentleman has a healthy appetite, as I do,” said the detective, putting the photo back on the desk. “Otherwise I fail to see any similarity.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Puri,” said the minister. “We have very strict laws in India against fraud, you know. The police look on it very seriously. I would hate to come to know that you were engaged in such illicit activity.”

  The minister took off his glasses, breathed on one of the lenses and began to clean it with a cloth.

  “But let us leave that aside – at least for the time being,” he continued. “What is important is that this man Garodia arrived in Haridwar with a beautiful daughter. A very unusual and, shall we say, bhaskar young woman. One night during her time at the Abode of Eternal Love, it seems she broke into a restricted area and attempted to steal property belonging to His Holiness Maharaj Swami.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, sir,” said Puri. “Naturally the police were called.”

  “Actually, I believe Swami-ji wished to deal with the matter internally. Our Indian police can sometimes be heavy-handed with such matters and he wanted to give the woman a chance to reform.”

  “Most considerate of him.”

  Puri could sense that the preamble was coming to an end.

  “Unfortunately this young woman absconded before Swami-ji was able to help her,” continued the minister. “He brought the matter to my attention and I did a little checking of my own. And then I thought, well, why not hire Vish Puri, the famous detective, to find her.”

  “Most kind of you, sir,” said Puri. “Truly I am honored.”

  The minister checked his glasses and began to polish the other lens.

  “All we require is an address where we can find this young woman. That and an assurance that anything she might tell you will remain confidential. Assuming you are willing to take on the case, I can assure you that you will be well compensated.”

  Puri was thoughtfully silent.

  “And if I say no, sir?” he asked.

  “No, Mr. Puri?” replied the minister with a quizzical smile. “That’s not a word I hear very often.”

  “No doubt. But I take it you still understand its meaning, sir.”

  “I can honestly say that I do not. You see, Mr. Puri, on the very rare occasion someone says no to me, they find out very quickly that what they really mean is yes.”

  The detective nodded. “It might take me some time to find the girl in question,” he said.

  The minister looked over at Vivek Swaroop, who gave a slow, uncompromising shake of his head.

  “My friend here is very anxious to see this young lady again.”

  “It is late, sir. She will ta
ke time to locate.”

  Bhatt thought for a moment. “You have until noon tomorrow,” he said. With that he returned to his papers. The interview was over.

  Puri made his way out of the room, wished the peons a good evening and walked calmly to his Ambassador.

  “Get me back to the office – double fast,” he instructed Handbrake.

  ∨ The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing ∧

  Twenty-Six

  The next morning, Elizabeth Rani reached Most Private Investigators at nine, put her tiffin in the fridge, turned on the air-conditioning in reception and then arranged herself behind her desk.

  She was in the process of removing the plastic cover from her computer when Door Stop arrived bearing the stainless steel milk pail he was charged with filling at the nearby Mother Dairy stand every morning.

  “Namaste, madam,” he said before heading into the kitchen to make the first batch of tea.

  Mrs. Chadha came next, greeting Puri’s secretary with the usual pleasantries before making her way into the Communications Room, where her job was to answer phone lines using various fronts and assumed names – and where she managed to get a lot of knitting done at the same time.

  “Mrs. Chadha, before I forget, I’ve got a note here for you,” Elizabeth Rani called after her. “You should be getting a ring on line one sometime this morning for Madam Go Go – it’s in connection with the ongoing Kapoor matrimonial case.”

  The office sweeper (who did her work at the end of the day for fear of brushing away the good fortune precipitated by the goddess Lakshmi) soon appeared at the top of the narrow stairs that led from the street into reception. She had never had cause to complain about Elizabeth Rani, but society as a whole treated her with the same disdain as the interminable dirt it was her lot to sweep, making her as timid as a mole.

  A light tap on the door frame indicated her presence and then she advanced gingerly toward the desk to collect her weekly wage of 200 rupees.

  Soon after the sweeper had retreated back down the stairs, the lights, computer and air conditioner all simultaneously switched off, signaling another power cut. Elizabeth Rani had to tell Door Stop to activate the backup UPS battery.