The Case of the Missing Servant

by Tarquin Hall

  “I tell you, Madam Rani, it’s a good thing Sanjay Singla came to me,” he added. “Just think of the bother I’ve saved him. That bloody Ramesh Goel would have made off with a fortune! A most slippery fellow if ever I met one. Undoubtedly!”

  Elizabeth Rani, a stolid widow whose husband had been killed in a traffic accident in 1987, leaving her with three children to provide for, did not have a head for mysteries, intrigue or conspiracies, and often found herself lost in all the ins and outs of his many investigations—especially given that Puri was usually working on two or three at a time. Her job required her to keep Boss’s diary, answer the phones, manage the files and make sure Door Stop, the office boy, didn’t steal the milk and sugar.

  But unofficially, it was also Elizabeth Rani’s remit to listen patiently to Puri’s expositions and, from time to time, give his ego a gentle massage.

  “Such a good job you have done, sir,” she said, placing the Ramesh Goel file on Puri’s desk. “My sincerest compliments.”

  The detective grinned from his executive swivel chair.

  “You are too kind, Madam Rani!” he answered. “But as usual, you are correct. I don’t mind admitting this operation was first class. Conceived and carried out with the utmost professionalism and secrecy. Another successful outcome for Most Private Investigators!”

  Elizabeth Rani waited patiently until he had finished congratulating himself before giving Puri his messages.

  “Sir, a certain Ajay Kasliwal called saying he wishes to consult on a most urgent matter. He proposes to meet at the Gym tonight at seven o’clock. Shall I confirm?”

  “He give any reference?”

  “He’s knowing Bunty Bannerjee.”

  A smile came over the detective’s face at the mention of his old friend and batchmate at the military academy.

  “Most certainly I’ll see him,” he said. “Tell Kasliwal I’ll reach at seven come rain or shine.”

  Elizabeth Rani withdrew from the office and sat down behind her desk in reception.

  Her tea mug was halfway to her lips when there was a knock at the door. Apart from the various clients coming into Most Private Investigators Ltd., there was a small army of wallahs, or people charged with specific tasks vital to the rhythm of everyday Indian life. Ms. Rani found the lime and chili woman at the door and remembered it was Monday. For three rupees per week, the woman would come and hang a fresh string of three green chilies and a lime above the door of each business in the market to ward off evil spirits. Ms. Rani was also in charge of paying the local hijras during the festival season, when they approached all the businesses in the market and demanded bakshish, and ensured that the local brass-plaque polisher kept the sign on the wall next to the doorbell shiny. Engraved with a flashlight, the company’s symbol, it read:

  MOST PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS LTD.

  VISH PURI, MANAGING DIRECTOR,

  CHIEF OFFICER AND WINNER OF ONE

  INTERNATIONAL AND SIX NATIONAL AWARDS

  “CONFIDENTIALITY IS OUR WATCHWORD”

  Meanwhile, Puri turned his attention to the evidence he had compiled against Ramesh Goel and, having satisfied himself that everything was in order, prepared for the imminent arrival of his client, Sanjay Singla.

  Reaching into his drawer for his face mirror, he inspected his moustache, curling the ends between his fingers. His Sandown cap, which he only ever took off in the privacy of his bedroom, also required adjustment. Next, he glanced around the room to check that everything was exactly as it should be.

  There was nothing fancy about the small office. Unlike the new breed of young detectives with their leather couches, pine veneer desks and glass partitions, Puri remained faithful to the furniture and décor dating back to his agency’s opening in the late 1980s (he liked to think that it spoke of experience, old-fashioned reliability and a certain rare character).

  He kept a number of artifacts pertaining to some of his most celebrated cases on display. Among them was a truncheon presented to him by the Gendarmerie Nationale in recognition of his invaluable help in locating the French ambassador’s wife (and for being so discreet about her dalliance with the embassy cook). But pride of place on the wall behind his antique desk belonged to the Super Sleuth plaque presented to him in 1999 by the World Federation of Detectives for solving the Case of the Missing Polo Elephant.

  The room’s focal point, however, was the shrine in the far corner. Two portraits hung above it, both of them draped in strings of fresh marigolds. The first was a likeness of Puri’s guru, the philosopher-statesman, Chanakya, who lived three hundred years before Christ and founded the arts of espionage and investigation. The second was a photograph of the detective’s late father, Om Chander Puri, posing in his police uniform on the day in 1963 when he was made a detective.

  Puri was staring up at the portrait of his Papa-ji and musing over some of the invaluable lessons his father had taught him when Elizabeth Rani’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Sir, Singla-ji has come.”

  Without replying, the detective pressed a buzzer under his desk; this activated the security lock on his door and it swung open. A moment later, his client strode into his office—tall, confident, reeking of Aramis.

  Puri met his visitor halfway, shaking him by the hand. “Namashkar, sir,” he said. “So kind of you to come. Please take a seat.”

  Puri sounded obsequious, but he was not in the least bit intimidated at having such a distinguished man in his office. The deference he showed his client was purely out of respect for hierarchy. Singla was at least five years his senior and one of the richest industrialists in the country.

  Private detectives on the other hand were not held in great esteem in Indian society, ranking little higher than security guards. This was partly because many were con men and blackmail artists who were prepared to sell their aunties for a few thousand rupees. Mostly it was because the private investigation business was not a traditional career like medicine or engineering and people did not have an appreciation—or respect—for the tremendous skills the job required. So Singla talked to Puri as he might to a middle manager.

  “Tell me,” he said in a booming voice, adjusting his French cuffs.

  The detective chose not to begin immediately. “Some chai, sir?”

  Singla made a gesture with his hands as if he were brushing away a fly.

  “Some water?”

  “Nothing,” he said impatiently. “Let us come to the point. No delay. What you have found? Nothing bad, I hope. I like this young man, Puri, and I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character. Ramesh reminds me of myself when I was a young man. A real go-getter.”

  Singla had made it clear to Puri during their first meeting a fortnight earlier that he had reservations about commissioning an investigation. “This spying business is a dirty game,” he’d said.

  But in the interest of his daughter, he’d agreed to make use of the detective’s services. After all, Singla did not really know Ramesh Goel. Nor Goel’s family.

  How could he?

  Up until two months ago, they—the Singlas and the Goels—had never met. And in India, marriage was always about much more than the union between a boy and a girl. It was also about two families coming together.

  In the old days, there would have been no need for Puri’s services. Families got to know one another within the social framework of their own communities. When necessary, they did their own detective work. Mothers and aunties would ask neighbors and friends about prospective brides and grooms and their families’ standing and reputations. Priests would also make introductions and match horoscopes.

  Today, well-off Indians living in cities could no longer rely on those time-honored systems. Many no longer knew their neighbors. Their homes were the walled villas of Jor Bagh and Golf Links, or posh apartment blocks in Greater Kailash and NOIDA. Their social lives revolved around the office, business functions and society weddings.

  And yet the arranged marriage remain
ed sacrosanct. Even among the wealthiest Delhi families, few parents gave their blessing to a “love marriage,” even when the couples belonged to the same religion and caste. It was still considered utterly disrespectful for a child to find his or her own mate. After all, only a parent had the wisdom and foresight necessary for such a vital and delicate task. Increasingly, Indians living in major towns and cities relied on newspaper ads and Internet websites to find spouses for their children.

  The Singlas’ advertisement in the Indian Express had read as follows:

  SOUTH DELHI HIGH STATUS AGRAWAL BUSINESS FAMILY SEEKS ALLIANCE FOR THEIR HOMELY, SLIM, SWEET-NATURED, VEGETARIAN AND CULTURED DAUGHTER. 5'1". 50 KG.

  WHEATISH COMPLEXION. MBA FROM USA. NON-MANGLIK.

  DOB: JULY ’76 (LOOKS MUCH YOUNGER). ENGAGED IN BUSINESS BUT NOT INCLINED TO PROFESSIONAL CAREER.

  BOY MAIN CONSIDERATION. LOOKING FOR PROFESSIONALLY QUALIFIED DOCTOR/INDUSTRIALIST BOY FROM DELHI OR OVERSEAS. PLS SEND BIODATA, PHOTO, HOROSCOPE. CALL IN CONFIDENCE.

  Ramesh Goel’s parents had seen the advertisement and applied, providing a detailed personal history and a headshot of their son.

  At twenty-nine, he ticked all the boxes. He was an Agrawal and was Cambridge educated. His family was not fabulously wealthy (Goel’s father was a doctor), but for the Singlas, caste and social status were the main concern.

  From the start, their daughter, Vimi, liked the look of Ramesh Goel. When she was shown his head shot, she cooed, “So handsome, no?” Soon after, the two families had tea at the Singlas’ mansion in Sundar Nagar. The rendezvous was a success. The parents got along and provided their consent for Vimi and Ramesh to spend time together unchaperoned. The two went out on a couple of dates, once to a restaurant, a few days later to a bowling alley. The following week, they agreed to marry. Subsequently, astrologers were consulted and a date and time was set for the wedding.

  But with less than a month before the big day, Sanjay Singla, acting on the advice of a sensible friend, decided to have Goel screened. That was where Puri had come into the picture.

  During their initial meeting at Singla’s office three weeks ago, the detective had done his best to assure the industrialist that he was doing the right thing.

  “You would not invite a stranger into your house. Why invite any Tom, Dick or Harry into your family?” he’d said.

  The detective had told Singla about some of the cases he had handled in the past. Only recently, he’d run a standard background check on a Non-Resident Indian (NRI) living in London who was betrothed to a Chandigarh businessman’s daughter and discovered that he was a charlatan. Neelesh Anand of Woodford was not, as he claimed, the owner of the Empress of India on the Romford Road, but a second-order balti cook!

  As Puri had put it to Singla: “Had I not unmasked this bloody goonda, then he would have made off with the dowry and never been heard of again, leaving the female in disgrace.”

  By disgrace he’d meant married, childless and living back at home with her parents—or worse: on her own.

  Of course, the Anand case had been a straightforward investigation, a simple matter of calling up his old friend, retired Scotland Yard inspector Ian Masters, and asking him to head down to Upton Park in east London for a curry. Most pre-matrimonial cases that came Puri’s way—there were so many now, he was having to turn them away—were simple.

  The Goel investigation, however, had been far more involved. Singla had been persuaded to commission the Pre-Matrimonial Five Star Comprehensive Service, the most expensive package Most Private Investigators provided. Even Ramesh Goel’s parents’ financial dealings and records had been scrutinized by forensic accountants.

  The file now lying on Puri’s desk was testimony to the long hours that had gone into the case. It was thick with bank statements, phone records and credit card bills, all acquired through less than legitimate channels.

  There was nothing in the family’s financial dealings to raise suspicion. It was the photographic evidence that proved so damning.

  Puri laid a series of pictures on the desk for his client to see. Together they told a story. Two nights ago, Goel had gone to a five-star hotel nightclub with a couple of male friends. On the dance floor, he had bumped into Facecream, who’d been dressed in a short leather skirt, a skimpy top and high heels. The two had danced together, and afterward, Goel had offered to buy her a drink, introducing himself as Romey Butter. At first she’d refused, but Goel had insisted.

  “Come on, baby, I’ll get your engine running,” he’d told her.

  The two had downed a couple of tequila slammers and danced again, this time intimately. At the end of the evening, Facecream, going under the name Candy, had given Goel her phone number.

  “On the coming night, he set out for the female’s apartment at two-oblique-twelve, A Block, Safdarjung Enclave,” Puri told Singla. “Inside, he consumed two pegs of whisky and got frisky with the female. He said—and I quote—“Wanna see my big thing, baby?” Then he got down his trousers. Unfortunately for him, the female, Candy, had dissolved one knockout drug in his drink and, forthwith, he succumbed, passing out.”

  An hour later, Goel awoke naked and in bed, convinced that he had made love to Candy, who assured him that he was “the best she’d ever had.”

  Lying next to her, Goel confessed that he was getting married at the end of the month. He called his fiancée, Vimi Singla, a “stupid bitch” and a “dumb brat” and proposed that Candy become his mistress.

  “He said, ‘I’ll soon be rich, baby. I’ll get you whatever you want.’”

  The detective handed the last photograph to his client. It showed Goel leaving Candy’s apartment with a big grin on his face.

  “Sir, there is more,” said Puri. “We have done background checking into Goel’s qualifications. It is true he attended Cambridge. Three years he spent there. But he never so much as saw one university lecture. Actually, he attended Cambridge Polytechnic and concerned himself with drink and chasing females.”

  The detective paused for breath.

  “Sir,” he continued, “as I intimated to you previously, my job is gathering facts and presenting evidence. That is all. I’m a most private investigator in every sense. ‘Confidentiality’ is my watchword. Rest assured our dealings will remain in the strictest confidence.”

  Puri sat back in his chair and waited for Singla’s reaction. It came a moment later, not in English, but Punjabi.

  “Saala, maaderchod!”

  With that, the industrialist gathered up the photographs and roughly shoved them back into their file. “Send me your bill, Puri,” he said over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

  “Certainly, sir. And if I can ever be…”

  But the industrialist was gone.

  No doubt he was heading home to call off the wedding.

  From everything Puri had read in the society pages, his client would be out of pocket by crores and crores. No doubt the Umaid Bhavan Palace in Jodhpur was already paid for. So, too, Céline Dion and the Swarovski crystal fountains.

  The detective heaved a sigh. Next time he hoped the Singla family would consult with Most Private Investigators before they sent out four thousand gold-leaf-embossed invitations.

  Three

  The rubber soles of Puri’s new shoes squeaked on the marble floors of the Gymkhana Club reception. The noise caused Sunil, the incharge, to look up from behind the front desk. He was holding a phone to his ear and murmuring mechanic ally into it, “Ji, madam, o-kay madam, no problem madam.” He gave the detective a weary nod, placing the palm of one hand over the receiver.

  “Sir. One gentleman is awaiting your kind attention,” he said in a hushed voice.

  It was not unusual for a prospective client to ask to meet Puri at the club. The prominent members of society who came to him often guarded their privacy and preferred not to be seen coming and going from the detective’s offices.

  “Mr. Ajay Kasliwal is it?” asked Puri.

  “Yes, sir.
Thirty minutes back only he reached.”

  The detective acknowledged this information with a nod and turned to look at the notice board. The club secretary, Col. P. V. S. Gill (Ret.), had posted a new announcement. It was typed on the club’s letterhead and, in no fewer than five places, blemished with whitener.

  NOTICE

  THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SHIRT

  AND A BUSH SHIRT IS CLARIFIED AS UNDER:

  UNLIKE A SHIRT, THE DESIGN OF THE

  UPPER PORTION OF THE BUSH SHIRT

  IS LIKE THAT OF A SAFARI.

  This made instant sense to Puri (as he believed it should to anyone coming to the club wearing bush shirts or indeed safaris) and his eyes turned to the next notice, a reminder from the undersecretary that ayahs were not permitted on the tennis courts. The chief librarian had also posted a note appealing for funds to replace the club’s copy of the collected works of Rabindranath Tagore, which had “most unfortunately and due to unforeseen and regrettable circumstance” been “totally destroyed” by rats.

  Next, the detective cast a quick eye over the dinner menu. It was Monday, which meant mulligatawny soup or Russian salad for starters; a choice of egg curry, cabbage bake with French fries or shepherd’s pie for mains; and the usual tutti-frutti ice-cream or mango trifle for dessert.

  The thought of shepherd’s pie followed by tutti-frutti ice cream stirred the detective’s appetite and he regretted not having come over to the club for lunch. As per Dr. Mohan’s instructions, Rumpi was packing his tiffin with only weak daal, rice and chopped salad these days.

  Finally, Puri turned to the list of new applicants for club membership. He read each name in turn. Most he recognized: the sons and daughters of existing members. The others he jotted down in his notebook.

  As a favor to Col. P. V. S. Gill (Ret.), Puri ran background checks on anyone applying for membership who was not already known in the right Delhi circles. Usually this meant making a couple of discreet phone calls, a service Puri gladly provided the Gym for free. Standards had to be kept up, after all. Recently, a number of Johnny-come-lately types had made applications. Just last month, a liquor crorepati, a multimillionaire, had asked to join. Puri had been right to flag him. Only yesterday, the man had been featured in the social pages of the Hindustan Times for buying the country’s first Ferrari.