The Case of the Love Commandos

by Tarquin Hall

“I’ve seen him working at the chai stand on the highway.”

  “Is there anyone you don’t know in the village, Uncle?”

  “I see them all passing my gate!”

  “Did you see that murdered woman?”

  “I did. She came just after dark, walking on her own.”

  “She was on her way to the highway?”

  “Where else?”

  “Who could have done such a terrible thing?”

  “I told you last night, it’s dangerous to be out at night.”

  “You mean someone from the village might have killed her?”

  The question went unanswered as Atif called out to some Muslim neighbors walking toward them.

  “Salaam alaikum!” (“Peace be upon you.”)

  The children began to arrive at seven. Facecream could see right away that she’d inherited a mixed bunch. The majority belonged to the Shudra laborer caste and wore an array of ill-fitting hand-me-downs. There were half a dozen Yadav kids, those whose parents had not escaped the toil of unskilled labor; two Brahmin boys easily identifiable from the holy threads visible beneath their white cotton shirts as well as their distinctly lighter skin tone; and Facecream counted three Muslim girls in head scarves.

  When Facecream, aka Miss Padma Jaiteley—or “Jaiteley Madam,” as she came to be known—told all twenty-eight children to gather beneath the banyan tree, they arranged themselves into caste groupings. Schisms became apparent even amongst the Dalits, with the Chamars, who’d traditionally been condemned to collect dead animals and cure skins, automatically separating themselves from the rest.

  This was only one of the challenges she faced. There were also big age differences within the group. The youngest of the children was three or four, while the eldest, a Yadav boy, was developing facial hair and was a disruptive influence with no regard for her authority.

  And who could blame him? The school’s “official” teacher, Mr. P. Joshi, had by all accounts spent his days sitting around drinking tea—that is, if he’d bothered to turn up at all. This served to explain why none of the children—not one—had learned to read or write.

  Standing there at the head of the “class,” it occurred to Facecream that she might have bitten off more than she could chew. Her task, after all, was to retrace Kamlesh’s movements in the hours before her murder. In order to maintain her cover, all she needed to do was take down the attendance record and call it a day. This was as much as they and hundreds of thousands of other children in government schools across the country expected.

  But she found the urge to make a difference too strong to resist. How could she live with herself if she didn’t try to set a good example? These kids had never been given a chance and she wasn’t about to let them down now.

  She would need to tread carefully, of course. Sending home the underage children would only create ill will. And if she started lecturing on universal equality, not to mention common humanity, she’d be tossed out of the village on her ear.

  There were other means, however.

  Once she’d achieved a semblance of order, she told the children to stand up and began to sing the national anthem.

  “Thou art the ruler of the minds of all people, / Dispenser of India’s destiny.”

  Taken aback at first, her class hesitantly joined in.

  “The saving of all people waits in thy hand, / Thou dispenser of India’s destiny.

  “Victory, victory, victory to thee,” they sang more or less in unison.

  Puri’s hotel in Lucknow was an old British establishment with high ceilings and musty bed coverings. He slept through his alarm and woke with a start at ten past eight. By the time he’d washed and gotten dressed, breakfast had been brought up to his room on a tray. The masala omelet appeared to have been cooked in motor oil, the toast was so white it was hard to imagine it contained any nutrition, and the jam, an alarming bright red, looked like it might glow in the dark.

  He took the unprecedented step of pushing the food to one side, opting only for a cup of tea. Then he reached for the Lucknow Gazette, journalist Vijay Tewari’s rag.

  The headline on page one brought a broad grin to his face.

  EX-SPOOK IN CITY—SUSPECTED WORKING FOR ACCUSED VISHNU MISHRA.

  “Hari Kumar of Spycatcher Private Investigators, Delhi, was last night putting up at Grand Hotel,” read the article beneath. “Well-placed sources said Kumar, formerly of Indian intelligence, or RAW, and infamous for busting a Chinese spy ring some years back, is working on behalf of Vishnu Mishra, accused in the murder of a Dalit woman. It is believed the private investigator is working to clear his client’s name and locate his absconding daughter, Tulsi. Kumar himself was not available for comment late last night. Repeated calls to his room went unanswered.”

  Puri clapped his hands together with glee at the thought of Hari being harassed by a pesky journalist. Oh, how that bugger must be wondering who shopped him, he thought with a guffaw before cutting out the article for his scrapbook.

  Puri decided to head out of the hotel in search of a proper breakfast. In the elevator, he made a mental list of the tasks ahead of him. Top priority was a call to Tulsi, who was still lying low with the Love Commandos in Agra. Despite having been under her father’s guard for the past three months, there was a chance she might be able to shed some light on how Ram had made his money. If not, she would at least be able to provide him with a list of Ram’s friends who might be able to help.

  After that, Puri needed to call Flush, his young electronics and computer whiz, whom he’d already assigned to hacking into Ram’s mobile phone account. And at eleven o’clock, he was due to pick up Tubelight from Lucknow train station and give him a full briefing. Puri was setting him the task of doing “background checking” into Dr. Bal Pandey, the Brahmin politician, and finding out whether any six-foot-one, left-handed killers ranked amongst his coterie.

  He reached the lobby, still chuckling to himself about the story he’d planted in the paper about Hari, and took his key to the front desk.

  “Sir, it is a great honor to have such a famous detective as your good self staying as a guest in our hotel,” said the receptionist. “Anything we can do to make you comfortable. The restaurant is always open.”

  Puri was used to being recognized, given his occasional appearances on television, and thought nothing of it.

  “Just I left some laundry on the bed,” he said. “One trouser leg has got mud on it.”

  “Pleasure, sir.”

  Puri headed across the lobby toward the front door, but the words “Best of luck with the murder case” stopped him in his tracks.

  He turned around slowly and shot the receptionist a quizzical look. How could he possibly know about the investigation?

  “Sir, it is in the newspaper—front page!” said the now beaming receptionist, brandishing a copy of the Uttar Pradesh Herald, the Lucknow Gazette’s competitor.

  Puri grabbed it from him. His own image stared out from the front page. Beneath it, the copy read: “Private Eye Vish Puri arrived in Lucknow yesterday morning. His presence here and the murder of a Dalit woman whose body was discovered yesterday in the canal can hardly be considered a coincidence entirely. However, the identity of Mr. Puri’s client remains a mystery. His agency, Most Private Investigators Ltd., which was once one of Delhi’s premier private detective firms, is said to have hit hard times. Mr. Puri has been scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to cases. Most recently he was involved in retrieving a kidnapped pet dog from a Delhi gang, handing over lakhs in ransom. But though Mr. Puri might have entered the twilight of his career, his appetite remains legendary and the city’s restaurateurs can expect a brisk trade, according to sources.”

  The detective mashed the paper between his hands.

  “Bloody bastard!” he bawled at the dismayed receptionist before tossing the paper aside and storming out of the lobby.

  While he waited for his hire car, Puri paced up and down the car park, kicking l
oose stones across the tarmac, muttering, “Hard times, is it? I’ll give you hard time, by God!” and trying to fathom how Hari had found out he was in Lucknow.

  Had someone recognized him at the station or perhaps the hospital?

  Another, stronger possibility came to mind: if Hari was working for Vishnu Mishra, the latter would have told him about running into a purported police officer by the name of Lal Krishna, one of Puri’s old aliases.

  Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Hari. He waited a moment or two, steeling himself before answering in a gruff voice, “Puri this side.”

  “Aah, there you are!”

  “Good morning,” he heard himself say in a cordial tone.

  “I understand you’re in Lucknow. By a strange coincidence, so am I. Why don’t you come for breakfast? I’m at the Grand—down in the café.”

  Puri knew he had no choice but to go.

  “I’m very much busy,” he said. “So many meetings and all.”

  “I’ll expect you in ten minutes,” said Hari.

  • • •

  To witness Vish Puri and Hari Kumar greeting each other, one would never have guessed they were bitter rivals. Their firm, matey handshake was accompanied by broad smiles and ho-ho laughter that echoed off the marble walls, momentarily drowning out the café’s Muzak. Each asked after the other’s wife and children and made small talk about the national cricket team’s recent loss to England on home soil.

  There was no reference made to the stories they’d planted in the newspapers, nor was there the slightest hint of the anger they had both exhibited independently earlier in the morning. When they inquired after each other’s business, they both answered in turn, “Couldn’t be better,” and “World-class,” their claims to be delighted studies in faultless speciousness.

  This was customary. Neither man had ever raised a word of anger at the other, regardless of what they had to say behind each other’s backs. To do so would have been to show weakness and vulnerability. Their infrequent conversations, therefore, were a trial of wits, each trying to provoke and rattle the other with sangfroid. Even their handshake was a tournament of sorts, with neither detective willing to let go before the other.

  Standing on either side of Hari’s table, the palms of their hands locked together in an increasingly sweaty grasp, they only disengaged when a waiter approached with a couple of menus, therefore giving both men an excuse to call it a tie.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you where you get your safari suits made,” said Hari as they sat down at the table, ensuring that his guest took his seat first. “I’ve an uncle with a birthday coming up. He goes in for that style. But it’s not easy to find old-fashioned tailors these days. They’re a dying breed.”

  “A man with taste and refinement, your uncle, evidently,” said Puri. “Not one of these flashy fellows who goes in for foreign cuts and all.”

  “ ‘Flashy’ is definitely not a word one would use to describe my uncle. He’s almost ninety after all.”

  “Ninety, is it? Just goes to prove the safari is timeless and eternal.”

  There was a genial exchange of smiles across the table—the opening round acknowledged by both men as a draw.

  The waiter returned and asked to take their order.

  Knowing Hari to be a skinflint, at least when it came to spending money on anyone other than himself, Puri was happy to stick him with as large a bill as possible.

  “I’ll take one full English breakfast,” he replied. “Bring me one glass of fresh juice and ready-made tea, also.”

  “The healthy option for me,” said Hari. “A plate of idli and one mint tea.”

  He dismissed the waiter with a wave of his hand and adjusted the silk handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket of his blazer. The silver buttons on his cuff glinted in the fluorescent spotlights pointing down from the ceiling. Puri could taste his aftershave on his tongue, it was so strong.

  “So, Mr. Vishwas Puri, I take it you’re not here in Lucknow on vacation,” said Hari, who was one of the few people who ever addressed the detective using his full name. “The newspaper article I read suggested you were investigating the murder of that unfortunate lady who washed up in the canal yesterday.”

  “You should never believe what you read in the papers, Hari—journalists being corrupt and complacent and all.”

  “Well, you can hardly be taking a vacation. You don’t do that.”

  “I’m indeed making inquiries as to the circumstances of that poor lady’s death. But whatever else was written is a flat-out lie.”

  Puri felt another rush of anger as the wording of the article came back to him but didn’t let it show. “And you, Hari? What are you doing in Lucknow, exactly?” he asked.

  “Seeking the truth, what else? That is what we do, the two of us, is it not?”

  “In our own different ways, yes, I suppose.”

  No less than three waiters arrived simultaneously at the table, a testament, if ever there was one, to the abundance of the country’s cheap labor. The first bore Hari’s mint tea, the second Puri’s orange juice and chai, while the third stood and watched. All three then withdrew in perfectly choreographed synergy.

  “We’re agreed the killer was six foot tall and left-handed?” said Hari as he stirred a sachet of sugar substitute into his tea.

  “Six foot and one inch exactly. Totally ruthless, also. The shot was made at point-blank range.”

  Puri pictured Kamlesh’s face again—and that strange, bewildered expression. He almost wished he could ask Hari whether he’d noticed it, too, and what, if anything, he’d made of it.

  “Presumably you’ve visited the village and the canal and come to the conclusion that Vishnu Mishra is innocent?”

  “Of the murder—yes, there can be no doubt. But is he capable of such a heinous crime? Undoubtedly. He’s not the type I’d want as a client, that is for sure,” Puri said pointedly.

  “Aaah, but not all of us are possessed of such faultless moral fiber as your good self, Mr. Puri saar. We mere mortals are made of weaker stuff, I’m afraid.”

  Hari sipped his mint tea, studying his adversary over the top of his cup. “I hear there’s been something of a delay in recovering the loot from that jewelry job,” he said. “Don’t tell me India’s number one detective is stumped?”

  “A temporary setback, only. We are all prone to facing them from time to time, no? I was thinking of that kidnapping you handled few years back—the Sushil Jha case. Turned out it was your client himself who had the boy locked in the cellar.”

  Hari gave a nod, as if to say, “Touché.” The score remained even.

  Puri fortified himself with half a cup of chai, then asked, “You came across the hole in the ground behind Ram’s house?” he asked.

  “It did not escape my attention,” answered Hari.

  Nor the smiley stamp on Kamlesh’s hand, Puri thought to himself. But was there anything else, anything that he might have overlooked and Hari had spotted? He was a hard one to read. His conceit manifested itself in the self-satisfied smirk that was never quite absent from his face. Behind his lingering, confident gaze, Puri always got the impression that he was mocking him.

  “Let us get to the point, shall we?” said Hari. “It’s obviously no coincidence that we’re both here. We’re clearly working on the same case. I propose that we put aside our rivalry and combine our resources. Spycatcher and Most Private Investigators united for once.”

  A slow grin suffused Puri’s features. He didn’t buy Hari’s pitch for a second. He wasn’t interested in cooperation. The man was only out for himself.

  “Whether Vishnu Mishra hangs is of no concern to me,” he replied.

  “And you imagine it is to me?” asked Hari.

  Puri felt as if the earth had suddenly dropped away beneath him. He’d got it completely wrong, he realized. Hari wasn’t working for Mishra. “No, no, not at all,” he stuttered in an attempt to conceal his surprise. But his miscalculation wasn’t los
t on Hari. He leaned across the table to press home his advantage.

  “This thing is bigger than you realize,” he said. “There’s gold at the end of the rainbow.”

  “Gold, is it?”

  “Twenty-four karat.”

  Their food arrived at the table, affording Puri some breathing room. If Hari wasn’t working for Vishnu Mishra, then what was he up to?

  “Why don’t you stop all this dancing around and tell me who all you’re working for, Hari?” asked Puri once the waiters had again withdrawn.

  “You know I can’t tell you that—not until I meet Ram in person. But I give you my word, my client has the boy’s best interests at heart. He’s also willing to offer you a handsome fee should you produce the boy. Not a paisa less than fifty lakhs.”

  Puri couldn’t help but smile again. His competitor’s entire approach—the offer of a financial reward, the whole breakfast, in fact—had been leading up to this crucial question. It was designed to determine whether he knew of Ram’s whereabouts. And it meant that Hari too had been commissioned to find him.

  “You’re wasting your time. I might have been born at night, but not last night.” Puri started to tuck into his breakfast. “Now, tell me,” he said, “you watched the Sri Lanka game? Quite an innings from Laxman, no?”

  Hari regarded him with something approaching deference. “I missed it,” he said.

  “You were on the way from Agra no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  They made more small talk as they ate and then Hari called for the bill. When it was brought to the table, Puri went through the motions of offering to pay, but his competitor would have none of it.

  “You seem to be without your wallet,” he said. “You usually keep it in your jacket pocket.”

  Puri managed to feign surprise. “Must be I left it at the hotel,” he replied.

  “Really? For a moment there, I thought maybe it was lost or stolen,” said Hari.

  “No, no, heaven forbid! Nothing like that,” said Puri with a loud, nervous guffaw.

  Ten

  Hari had an advantage. He’d come to the case from a different angle and saw the bigger picture. In other words, he probably understood what Ram had got himself mixed up in. Which meant that he probably also understood how the young Dalit had come by so much money and what had been inside the metal container buried behind the house, Puri surmised.