by Tarquin Hall
“You are putting that young man’s life in jeopardy.”
“Not at all. I was hired to find him and that is what I have done.”
“And his mother. Have you forgotten what happened to her?”
“My client had nothing to do with her murder.”
“And who is your client exactly, Hari? Mind telling me once and for all, seeing as you are the winner?”
“Sorry, saar, no can do. I can’t have you gate-crashing the party.”
“Listen to me, Hari, just this once. My people traced Ram’s mother’s last footsteps. She took one private bus to Baba Dhobi’s party headquarters in Lucknow. He was very much present at the time. Hours later, only, she was murdered.”
Hari was silent on the other end of the line.
“Hari, you know me. I would not lie about such a thing. Believe me, Ram’s blood will be on your hands,” said Puri, and hung up.
Spotting a family-style restaurant, he ordered Handbrake to stop. The driver found a spot in the car park and the detective clambered out of the car.
“Come,” he told Tulsi, poking his hefty frame back into the car. “It is going to be a long night. Let us eat first.”
“But shouldn’t we be looking for Ram?” she asked.
“For that we would require directions,” said the detective.
Tulsi watched him pass through the door of the restaurant.
“How can he eat at a time like this?” she asked Tubelight.
The operative shrugged. “One time, Boss ate a chicken frankie after watching a hanging,” he said by way of an explanation.
The restaurant was packed with families gathered around molded plastic tables making short work of dosas and plates of chaat. Puri ordered three veg thalis and three cups of chai, went and washed his hands and face in the sink outside the toilets, and joined Tubelight and Tulsi at the table where they’d seated themselves. He then set about eating the mango pickle in the little receptacle in the middle of the table. When the food arrived, he devoured the papad with the gusto of Cookie Monster on Sesame Street—or rather his Indian cousin, Biscuit Badshah.
Stuffing himself was perhaps an odd reaction to the evening’s events. But Puri had only eaten three vegetable samosas since breakfast and couldn’t think straight on an empty stomach. To make matters worse, he was exhausted from lack of sleep and his mind was railing against Hari. There wasn’t a Punjabi insult he hadn’t thought of since seeing his competitor’s smug, self-satisfied expression in the car window.
By the time he’d cleared his plate, however, the storm had begun to abate. And once he’d polished off a second helping of daal makhani and gobbled up two gulab jamuns, Puri found that he could think clearly again.
Over a second cup of tea, he sat dissecting the evening’s events, trying to figure out who’d been who in the Moonlight Garden.
Naga he knew about—although Puri had to admit that he’d underestimated the goon.
The boyfriend and girlfriend on the steps had been a couple of Hari’s undercover operatives—no doubt about it at all.
As for the two Nepali types, they’d worn impeccable, perfectly tailored suits and earpieces. Not your garden-variety goondas.
Could they have been Gurkhas? he wondered.
It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility; there were a number of them working in the private security business in India nowadays. With their British army training and Hindi language skills, they were highly sought after as bodyguards for the rich and famous.
Were they part of an internal security outfit maintained by ICMB? Had they been the ones trailing him in the SUV?
Those questions would have to wait. Far more important was Ram’s strange reference to his mother seeking justice with Dr. Basu’s help.
“She said she could help my mother finally get justice as well” had been his exact words.
Justice for what? From whom?
A sudden urge to share his thoughts came over him, and without the slightest preamble, Puri started to talk out loud.
“Three months back, give or take, a certain medical research institute sent a team to Ram’s native place,” he said, drawing curious stares from both Tubelight and Tulsi, to whom this news was a revelation. “There they took blood samples from numerous Dalits, Ram included. Some weeks later, one of three things occurred. Number one, ICMB contacted Ram. Or second, Ram contacted ICMB. Or third, Dr. Basu contacted Ram or vice versa.” He paused for a moment. “Actually, that is four possibilities.”
Both Tubelight and Tulsi looked lost, but he carried on regardless.
“Whatever the case, Ram received two things. Number one, moola—a couple of lakhs at least. Second, information—this being supplied directly by Dr. Basu, seems without the knowledge of her employers.”
“What was this research?” interjected Tulsi.
Puri held up a hand. “Kindly wait, beta. I would explain in due course,” he said before taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “Last week, only, Dr. Basu met her death,” he continued. “Though the scene was arranged and our Indian police played their part to perfection, there is no doubt in my mind she was murdered. Ram said he was of the same opinion, also.”
“That’s right! He said he thought Dr. Basu had been killed because she’d helped him!” exclaimed Tulsi, whose comment was met with a withering stare, prompting her to mumble an apology.
“To continue,” said Puri. “Soon after, Ram returned to his native place, Govind village. He did so at some considerable risk to himself given that Vishnu Mishra was on the lookout for his good self. By now he was scared and cautious. Not even the Love Commandos came to know of his dealings with Dr. Basu. Just he was hoping he would be reunited with his ladylove and get away once and for all.”
The detective took a quick sip of his tea. “The question you’re wondering is, who grabbed him from the Love Commando safe house?” he said.
Tulsi gave a nod.
“Answer is, goons working for ICMB. They got hold of Dr. Basu’s phone records, thus they secured Ram’s mobile number, located its signal and picked him up.”
Tulsi raised a hand like a child in class trying to get her teacher’s attention.
“One minute, only,” said Puri. “Allow me first to explain the chain of events. Dr. Basu provided Ram with the ICMB’s findings. Ram in turn took them to his village. Thus one copy got buried behind his house, most probably for safekeeping, only. Finally, his mother dug it up and took it with her on the bus to Lucknow. There she entered the party headquarters of no less a person than the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh, Baba Dhobi, someone she trusted given their common Dalit background and her loyal support as a constituent.”
Tubelight couldn’t help but blurt out, “Boss, was he there?”
“He was,” said Puri with a nod.
His operative gave a long, low whistle.
“I don’t understand—are you saying Baba Dhobi had something to do with Ram’s mother’s murder?” asked Tulsi.
“That I cannot say for sure, but every great detective must on occasion trust his gut and mine tells me Baba Dhobi or some person connected with him played some part in robbing Kamlesh of her life.”
“But, Boss, what’s the connection between Baba Dhobi and ICMB?” asked Tubelight.
“That is the ten-crore question, no?” said Puri. “Clearly some piece of the puzzle is so far missing.”
He addressed Tulsi: “I want you to think back, beta. Ram said Dr. Basu was helping his mother seek justice. That means anything to you—anything at all?”
Tulsi blinked a couple of times. “Ram talked about his mother a lot. He was very close to her. She made sure he got a good education, got him admission in a good school,” she said.
“Any grievances were there?”
“He often talked about how she’d been treated badly. You know—being a midwife, delivering babies. She was considered polluted. Ram found that sickening—as anyone would. He talked about changing things.” She paused. �
�I seem to remember him saying that she worked in a hospital—I think this was before he was born. He told me once that she was fired.”
Puri put down his tea. “You remember the hospital name?” he asked.
Tulsi looked up at the ceiling as if the answer might be written on the suspended ceiling panels. “Yes, it was Lucknow General. We passed by it one day and he pointed it out.”
“Ram mentioned why she’d been let go?”
“No, but he said that she kept on receiving her salary. I think it was about four thousand rupees a month. Ram said it was just enough for his parents to live on. He said that was why his father didn’t bother working.”
Tubelight sent Puri a quizzical look. “Boss, why she’d get her salary all these years if she was fired?”
But the detective didn’t answer. He simply took out his phone, dialed a number and said into the mouthpiece, “Madam Rani, some information is required. Hello, hello? You can hear me?”
Puri’s next question wasn’t audible to the others thanks to the din coming from the neighboring tables, which forced him to leave the restaurant for the car park.
When Tubelight and Tulsi caught up with him a few minutes later after settling the bill, they heard him say, “So he was general administrator of the hospital from 1987 to 1993. Check one thing further, Madam Rani. Any record is there of Kamlesh Sunder? She served as a midwife at Lucknow General during that time, also.”
He waited until his secretary came back on the line. “Nothing? As I expected,” said Puri before thanking her and hanging up.
“They were both working there,” he told the others.
“Who?” asked Tulsi.
But Puri was dialing another number. He put the phone back to his ear, gestured to Tubelight to wait and then said, “Hello, Mr. Jindal, sir? Haan-ji. Vish Puri this side. We met this morning, only. I would need a word, sir.”
The detective listened for a moment and then said, “Yes, sir, it is past nine o’clock, actually.”
And then: “My apologies to your good wife, but the matter is most urgent. A matter of life or death, we can say. Concerning Ram Sunder. I traced him to Agra and met with him this evening, only. After, he was chased and unfortunately abducted before my very eyes. It is my belief that Ram will be handed over to the very same individual who murdered his mother few days back. If you would be good enough to confirm one detail, then perhaps his murder can be avoided.”
As Puri listened to Jindal, he began to grind his teeth in frustration.
“Sir, I am fully aware of your responsibilities, just as I am aware of my own, also,” he said. “A young man’s life hangs in the balance. I respectfully request that you kindly allow me one question, only. Then at least I will know for sure that I am not barking up a wrong tree.”
Jindal’s answer was lengthy, but Puri listened patiently.
“Sir, you have made your position perfectly clear,” he said. “However, one question is there. Did Dr. Basu provide Ram Sunder with DNA evidence concerning the identity of his real father?”
Again Puri was forced to listen to a lengthy exposition.
“Sir, kindly consider my request and keep firmly in mind that your client’s life is in severe jeopardy” were his final words before he hung up and got into the car.
Tulsi followed him onto the backseat. “Mr. Puri, will you please tell me what’s going on? Where are we going now?”
“We two—that is, you and my good self—are driving to Lucknow directly.”
“And me, Boss?” asked Tubelight.
“You’re to remain here in Agra to watch our backs.”
“ICMB?” asked Tubelight.
“Without doubt they too wish to lay their hands on Ram. And there is the matter of Dr. Basu’s murder, also.”
“Think there are two killers, Boss?”
“Most definitely. But I’m in no doubt that the two murders are connected inasmuch as Dr. Basu was murdered for lending assistance to Ram.”
“And Hari, Boss. Who’s he working for?”
“Come on—that has become obvious, no?”
Twenty minutes later, Puri received an SMS. He read the message with marked relief.
“Thank the God he has come to his senses,” he said.
Twenty-two
Jagdish Uncle was an avid reader of Hindi crime fiction. His favorite author was Surender Mohan Pathak, whose best-selling title was The 65 Lakh Heist. Whenever Pathak’s latest hit the railway stands, where such pulp fiction titles were available for the princely sum of sixty rupees, he would be the first at Jammu Station to purchase his copy. Because Sonam Aunty didn’t approve of his reading such “trrraash,” he would take it with him to the Jammu Club, where, between hands of cards and generous glasses of Old Monk rum, he’d treat himself to the latest adventures of the thief-cum-hero Vimal.
Another of Jagdish Uncle’s characteristics was that he was fiercely loyal to family and generous to a fault. Whenever his sister traveled back to India from America, he insisted on driving ten hours to Delhi airport in order to bring her “home.”
When one of his American nieces came to work in Delhi, he found her an apartment and, after negotiating the rent, conspired with the landlord to pay half the amount without her knowledge.
All of this went to explain why, when Mummy called him in the afternoon from halfway down the mountain and asked that he engage in a little discreet surveillance work, he jumped at the chance.
“Have no fear, ji! I will be like a chameleon—invisible to the naked eye. No one will see me!” he declared in a movie-trailer voice-over tone.
“Kindly don’t do time-waste,” Mummy implored him in the knowledge that Jagdish Uncle was also fond of banter and jokes and often engaged with total strangers in the street. “Situation is serious.”
“I will try my level best,” he assured her. “But with so many of people, how I’ll spot these Dughals?”
“She you cannot miss—size of a buffalo,” said Mummy.
By eight P.M., Jagdish Uncle was in position at the bottom of the mountain, from where he could see the queue of pilgrims backed up along the pathway behind the special security checkpoint that had been set up.
Although he’d donned a baseball cap and black wraparound sunglasses, a number of locals saw through Jagdish Uncle’s disguise and stopped to chat. He was crestfallen at being so easily unmasked. Yet being a self-declared “socially minded person” with a reputation for enjoying a good gossip, he could hardly ignore them.
On a couple of occasions, the temptation to reveal that he was engaged in “top secret work” proved too hard to resist.
The mocking laughter that his claim provoked from a Jammu taxi wallah resulted in Jagdish Uncle blurting out that he was on the lookout for the thieves who’d robbed the Vaishno Devi shrine.
“Go ahead, make fun, but I will be the one smiling when the reward is mine!” he declared.
When the Dughals finally appeared at ten P.M., Jagdish Uncle was talking with a candy floss seller who said that he’d heard that ten million rupees had been stolen from the shrine.
Had the couple not stuck out so prominently from the crowd, they would have slipped by Mummy’s man. And had the same Jammu taxi wallah not reappeared at the very moment that the couple was being helped into the back of a large Toyota four-by-four and called out in a mocking voice, “Oi, detective sahib, you’ll need a big cell to contain those two!” then perhaps Jagdish Uncle might have gone unnoticed as well.
Pranap Dughal, however, turned, caught Jagdish Uncle’s eye, and then climbed into the vehicle.
The Toyota promptly pulled away, the driver flashing his dippers and honking at the dozens of pilgrims and touts milling about on the road.
Fearing that he might have been spotted, Jagdish Uncle deemed it wise to take off his sunglasses and baseball cap before setting off in pursuit in Sweetie. Just like his fictional hero, Vimal, he was also careful to keep his distance as he followed the vehicle along the bypass that skirted K
atra town. This became increasingly challenging when they joined the main road to Jammu and started to wind down through the hills. Despite the hour, the traffic was still heavy, and when the Dughals’ vehicle got stuck behind three trucks, Jagdish Uncle soon found himself only a couple of cars behind.
It was at this point that Mummy called for an update.
“I’m in pursuit, ji,” he assured her. “Target is in my sight. Everything is going to plan.”
He saw no need to mention his earlier indiscretion or the blather-mouthed taxi driver’s faux pas. No harm seemed to have been done.
“The traffic is quite heavy. We will reach Jammu in one hour fifteen minutes,” he reported.
When they reached the next bend, the Toyota managed to overtake two of the three trucks, narrowly missing an oncoming bus and almost forcing a motorcyclist off the edge of the precipice.
Jagdish Uncle, who’d driven this stretch of road countless times, saw nothing unusual in this maneuver, even in the pitch dark, and after another half a mile, he managed to also pass the two trucks without sustaining so much as a nick on the car’s bodywork, although, admittedly, he passed within millimeters of a sedan.
On the next bend, the Toyota cleared the last truck, and not to be outdone, Jagdish Uncle quickly caught up. But when Pranap Dughal turned around in his seat and glared back at him, he knew for sure he’d been rumbled and that he and Sweetie were in for a daring chase. Indeed, on the next open stretch the Toyota accelerated away, and Jagdish Uncle slipped her into fourth and floored the accelerator.
He rounded the next bend at forty, nimbly overtaking an Ambassador.
A queue of cars stuck behind a tractor belching out a cloud of thick diesel fumes proved no obstacle either, and Jagdish Uncle and Sweetie proved yet again how accommodating oncoming traffic could be.
It was a beautiful thing, the synthesis between man and machine, he reflected as the Toyota appeared in his sights once again.
Still, there was no accounting for nature.
Jagdish Uncle had but a second’s warning to brace himself before a small boulder vanished beneath his wheels and there was an almighty crunch.