The Case of the Missing Servant

by Tarquin Hall

  Half an hour later, as Puri was enjoying Rumpi’s khichri with homemade curd and tart mango pickle, and reflecting on the perks of being shot at, a car honked its horn outside the front gate and the dogs began barking.

  The detective listened as the gate was opened and a vehicle’s tires ground against the gravel. Two doors banged shut and footsteps approached the house. A few seconds later, Puri heard the sound of his mother’s voice in the corridor.

  “Namaste,” she said to Rumpi. “I came directly, na. But traffic delay was there. So many cars you can’t imagine. At Ring Road junction, the light was blinking, causing backup. Police were being negligent in their duty. Drivers were just honking and shouting and such. But what a terrible thing has happened! Everyone is all right, though, na? Thank God. Where is Chubby? He is OK? That is the main thing.”

  Puri heaved a drawn-out sigh and looked affectionately at the TV like a lover bidding his sweetheart a reluctant adieu. He switched it off and pushed himself off the couch. As his mother entered the room, he bent down and touched her feet.

  “Thank God you are all right, my son,” she said, tears welling in her eyes as she raised him up by the shoulder. “As soon as I came to hear, then directly I called your number. But the line was totally blocked. Must be there is commotion here and such. So I rushed right away. Of course, I felt certain everything would be all right. But Ritu Auntie was in agreement I should come. This shooting person must be found and I’ve little else to do.”

  The fact that Ritu Auntie, an insatiable gossip, had encouraged Mummy to drive over came as no surprise to him. Nor did the fact that his mother had learned about the shooting so quickly. Although recently retired and living with the detective’s eldest brother twelve miles away, Mummy-ji had a staggering number of mostly female friends and acquaintances who acted as her own intelligence network across the city (and often well beyond).

  Puri was in little doubt that the leak had emanated from his servants. One of them had told the subzi-wallah about the shooting and he in turn had passed on the news to one of his other customers, more than likely one of the drivers working for a household a few doors down. This driver had told his mistress, who in turn had informed her cousin-sister, who in turn had called up the auntie living next door. In all likelihood, this auntie was a bridge player who had paired up with Mummy at a recent kitty party and they had swapped telephone numbers.

  Puri had learned from hard experience that it was impossible to hide dramatic developments in his life from his mother. But he would not tolerate her nosing about in his investigations.

  True, Mummy had a sixth sense and, from time to time, one of her premonitions proved prescient. But she was no detective. Detectives were not mummies. And detectives were certainly not women.

  “Mummy-ji, there is no need to come all this way,” said Puri, who always sounded like a little boy when he addressed his mother. “I am fine. Nothing to worry about. No tension.”

  She made a disapproving tut. “Tension is there most definitely,” she replied firmly. “Quite a bad bump you’ve got, na.”

  Mummy found the armchair nearest the door and perched on the edge of the seat, her back perfectly straight. Despite the abruptness of her departure from home and the race through Delhi’s pollution and traffic, she was calm and composed. The former headmistress of Modern School, she wore her silver hair, which had only been cut once in her life, pulled back from her face into a sedate bun. Her cotton sari was a conservative green and matched her emerald earrings.

  “For tension, bed rest is required. Two days minimum,” she continued.

  “Mummy-ji, please. I don’t need bed rest,” protested Puri, who was sitting back on the blue leather couch. “Really, I am fine.”

  A silence fell over the room. Puri noticed the Most Usual Suspects file still lying next to him and hoped that his mother wouldn’t notice it.

  “There are clues?” asked Mummy, suddenly.

  Puri hesitated before answering. “No clues,” he lied.

  “Empty cartridges?”

  “No, Mummy-ji.”

  “You’ve made a thorough investigation of the scene?”

  “Of course, Mummy-ji,” he said, sounding as stern as he could when addressing his mother. “Please don’t get involved. I have told you about this before, no?”

  Mummy replied impatiently, “Peace of mind will only be there once this goonda is behind bars. He may be absconding, but he will revert. Meantime, there is one other matter I wish to discuss.” She hesitated before continuing. “Please listen, na. Chubby, last night, I was having one dream…”

  The detective let out a loud groan, but his mother ignored him.

  “Just I see you walking through one big house,” she said. “Lots of rooms there are, and peacocks, also. I believe it is in Rajasthan, this place. You’re entering one long passage. It is dark. One flashlight you are carrying, but it is broken. At the end, there is one young girl. Just she’s lying on the ground. She is dead. So much blood, I tell you. Then from behind comes one goonda. Most ugly he is. And he’s carrying a knife and…”

  Mummy stopped talking and looked confused.

  “And what, Mummy-ji?” interrupted Puri.

  “Well, see, at that moment I was waking.”

  “So you don’t know the end?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “OK, Mummy-ji, thank you for telling me,” he said to appease her. “Now, let’s have no more talk of knives or goondas or shootings. We’ll take tea and then, you are right, I should take bed rest. Tension is most definitely building.”

  The detective called out to Sweetu, who was in the kitchen. In double time, he appeared in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically alert.

  “Bring masala chai and biscuits,” instructed the detective.

  “Sir, what to do with Auntie’s tachee?” he asked.

  “Tachee?” repeated Puri.

  “My trunk case,” explained Mummy. “I’ll be staying for some days. It’s my duty to remain, to make sure you are all right, na? I’m your mummy after all. When you are safe, then I will revert. Meantime, don’t go to Rajasthan, Chubby. I forbid it. There is grave danger and such awaiting you there.”

  Six

  The following morning, Puri left the house at the usual time, saying good-bye to Mummy and Rumpi on the doorstep. He took with him his briefcase, stainless steel tiffin and a cardboard box holding files and papers.

  The detective was not heading for the office, but he did not tell anyone his destination, not even Rumpi, for fear of having to listen to another of Mummy’s lectures.

  Handbrake only found out where they were headed once he had pulled away from the gate.

  “We are going out-of-station,” said Puri, nursing the bump on his head, which was less sore than the night before but had turned a dark purple.

  He addressed the driver in Hindi peppered with the odd English term and phrase.

  “Where to, Boss?” asked a surprised Handbrake, regarding Puri curiously in the rearview mirror.

  “Jaipur.”

  “No bags, Boss?”

  “I have packed my overnight things in that cardboard box. It was not possible to explain all this to you at home.” Puri reverted to English: “Everyone is doing gossip.”

  Handbrake decided not to pry further; he knew it was not his place to ask questions about his employer’s business or to complain about the sudden departure and the fact that he had not been given the opportunity to bring along a change of clothes. Such was the lot of the Indian chauffeur. Still, he could not help wondering why Puri was being so secretive about his plans. Surely it must have something to do with the shooting yesterday?

  Working for the detective was certainly proving exciting. Handbrake had started the job almost a month ago, a busy month in which he had found himself tailing errant spouses and working alongside undercover operatives. On one occasion, Boss had asked him to follow a client whom he suspected of keeping two wives. Last week, he had drive
n his employer to South Block for a meeting with the defense minister. Yesterday, someone had tried killing him. And now, it seemed, they were on the trail of a hit man.

  Handbrake still couldn’t quite believe his luck. For the past five years, he had worked at the Regal B Hinde Taxi Service behind the Regal Hotel. Home had been a dirty tarpaulin erected by the side of the road, where he’d slept on a charpai shared on a shift basis with two other drivers. The hours had been grueling and the owner, “Randy” Singh, had been a miser who exacted a punishing percentage of all fares.

  To add to Handbrake’s woes, he had rarely been able to visit his wife and new baby girl, who remained in his father’s house in the family’s “native place,” a village in the hills of Himachal Pradesh, a ten-hour drive north of the capital.

  But after visiting the Sai Baba temple on Lodhi Road, Handbrake had seen his fortunes change for the better.

  That very afternoon, Puri’s former driver had suddenly resigned due to ill health, and Elizabeth Rani had had to call the Regal B Hinde Taxi Service and ask for a car. Handbrake had been first in line for a fare, and after picking up the detective from Khan market, he spent the day driving him all over the city.

  That evening, Boss had complimented him on his knowledge and asked him four questions.

  Did he have a family? Yes, Handbrake had replied, telling Puri about little Sushma, whom he missed so much it hurt.

  Did he drink? Sometimes, he admitted, feeling ashamed because of the many times since he’d come to Delhi that he’d gotten drunk on Tractor Whisky and blacked out.

  Next the detective had asked him whether he knew what color socks he was wearing.

  “Yes, they are white,” Handbrake had replied, mystified by the question.

  “And which newspaper have I been reading today?”

  “Indian Express.”

  Without further ado, Puri had offered him a full-time job with a monthly salary double his usual earnings. He had thrown in one thousand rupees to buy some new clothes and go for a haircut and shave, and advanced him a further five hundred to rent a room in Gurgaon.

  The job came with certain conditions.

  Handbrake was not to discuss Puri’s business with anyone, not even his wife. To do so was a sackable offense. So, too, were drinking on duty, turning up for work with a hangover, cheating on petrol, gambling and visiting prostitutes.

  The driver was banned from sleeping on the backseat of the car during the day. And he was expected to shave every morning.

  Handbrake had accepted all these conditions willingly. However, there was one proviso to which he had taken exception: his employer’s insistence that he obey Indian traffic rules. Incredibly, Puri expected him to keep to his lane, indicate before he turned, and give way to women drivers. When he attempted going around roundabouts anticlockwise, cutting off autorickshaw drivers or backing the wrong way down one-way streets, he was severely reprimanded. Furthermore, when he exceeded the speed limit on the main roads, he was told to slow down. This meant that he often had to give way to traffic, which was humiliating.

  Handbrake found the drive to Jaipur that morning particularly frustrating. The new tarmac-surfaced toll road, which was part of India’s proliferating highway system, had four lanes running in both directions, and although it presented all manner of hazards, including the occasional herd of goats, a few overturned trucks and the odd gaping pothole, it held out an irresistible invitation to speed. Indeed, many of the other cars travelled as fast as 100 miles per hour.

  Handbrake knew that he could keep up with the best of them. Ambassadors might look old-fashioned and slow, but the latest models had Japanese engines. But he soon learned to keep it under seventy. Time and again, as his competitors raced up behind him and made their impatience known by the use of their horns and flashing high beams, he grudgingly gave way, pulling into the slow lane among the trucks, tractors and bullock carts.

  Soon, the lush mustard and sugarcane fields of Haryana gave way to the scrub and desert of Rajasthan. Four hours later, they reached the rocky hills surrounding the Pink City, passing in the shadow of the Amber Fort with its soaring ramparts and towering gatehouse. The road led past the Jal Mahal palace, beached on a sandy lake bed, into Jaipur’s ancient quarter. It was almost noon and the bazaars along the city’s crenellated walls were stirring into life. Beneath faded, dusty awnings, cobblers crouched, sewing sequins and gold thread onto leather slippers with curled-up toes. Spice merchants sat surrounded by heaps of lal mirch, haldi and ground jeera, their colours as clean and sharp as new watercolor paints. Sweets sellers lit the gas under blackened woks of oil and prepared sticky jalebis. Lassi vendors chipped away at great blocks of ice delivered by camel cart.

  In front of a few of the shops, small boys, who by law should have been at school, swept the pavements, sprinkling them with water to keep down the dust. One dragged a doormat into the road where the wheels of passing vehicles ran over it, doing the job of carpet beaters.

  Handbrake honked his way through the light traffic as they neared the Ajmeri Gate, watching the faces that passed by his window: skinny bicycle rickshaw drivers, straining against the weight of fat aunties; wild-eyed Rajasthani men with long handlebar moustaches and sun-baked faces almost as bright as their turbans; sinewy peasant women wearing gold nose rings and red glass bangles on their arms; a couple of pink-faced goras straining under their backpacks; a naked sadhu, his body half covered in ash like a caveman.

  Handbrake turned into the old British Civil Lines, where the roads were wide and straight and the houses and gardens were set well apart.

  Ajay Kasliwal’s residence was number 42 Patel Marg, a sprawling colonial bungalow purchased by his grandfather, the first Indian barrister to be called to the Rajasthani Bar. The house bore his name, Raj Kasliwal Bhavan, and sat back from the road beyond two red sandstone pillars crowned by stone Rajasthani chhatris. A driveway led through a well-tended front garden where a mali stooped over the beds, planting marigolds.

  Handbrake pulled up in front of the grand, columned entrance and got out to open Puri’s door. The detective was stiff after the long drive and grimaced as his knees creaked under his weight.

  “I’ll be some time,” he told the driver, handing him thirty rupees. “Take lunch and then come back. Also, don’t call anyone in Delhi and tell them where you are.”

  Puri mounted the three steps that led to a veranda with its cane furniture and rush blinds, and yanked the brass bellpull. There was a ringing somewhere deep inside the house, and before long, the door was pulled ajar by a young maidservant.

  “Ji?” she said, her eyes darting over the top of her chunni, which obscured half her face.

  “I am here to see Ajay Kasliwal,” explained Puri in Hindi.

  The girl nodded and let him inside, her head bent shyly. She closed the door behind them and, without another word, led the detective down a hallway lit by an antique smoky-brown Manoir lamp. The inside of the bungalow was cool thanks to its thick granite walls and stone floors. The sound of the maidservant’s chappals scuffling over them was accompanied by the soft squeaking of the detective’s shoes. When she came to the second door on the left, the girl indicated it as if something frightening lurked inside.

  “Is Mr. Kasliwal inside?” asked Puri.

  She shook her head slowly. “Madam,” she whispered with lowered eyes.

  Puri opened the door and stepped into a large sitting room of diminished grandeur. It was furnished with dowdy couches and armchairs draped in crocheted throws. On the floor lay a twenty-foot Persian rug that was faded and, in places, threadbare. Overhead hung a sooty crystal chandelier that gave a feeble light.

  The décor did not detract from Mrs. Kasliwal’s regal bearing. She sat on a thronelike armchair next to the fireplace in a priceless silk sari. Although no great beauty, she benefited from strong bone structure, which suggested strength of character. The gold and black mangal sutra necklace, large red bindi on her forehead and the sindoor in the
parting of her hair also indicated a certain piety.

  “Namashkar, Mr. Puri,” she said, putting aside her knitting. Her tone was inviting but also slightly imperious. “Such an honor, no? Not every day a famous detective visits. The Sherlock Holmes of India, isn’t it?”

  Puri did not like being compared to Sherlock Holmes, who had rather belatedly borrowed the techniques of deduction established by Chanakya in 300 BC and never paid tribute to them. But he hid his irritation well and sat down on the couch in front of the fireplace to the left of Mrs. Kasliwal.

  “Quite a bruise you’ve got there, Mr. Puri. Some criminal type gave you a bash, is it?”

  “Nothing so exciting as that,” replied the detective, quickly changing the subject. “But what a fine house. Must be quite old.”

  “They’re not making them like this anymore, that is for sure.” Mrs. Kasliwal beamed. “It’s been in the family for quite some time. Three generations, in fact. But where are my manners? Something to drink, Mr. Puri? Chai?”

  “I wouldn’t say no, actually, madam,” answered the detective.

  Mrs. Kasliwal rang a bell that sat on a side table along with a portrait of a young man in his graduation cap and gown.

  “What a handsome fellow,” remarked Puri.

  “So kind of you to say so,” she said proudly. “That’s Bobby, taken earlier this year graduating out from St. Stephen’s. Such an intelligent boy, I tell you. And most considerate, also.”

  “He is living with you now?”

  “Living with us, of course, but currently studying in UK at School of Economics, London. In two years, he should be returning and joining Chippy’s practice.”

  Chippy was evidently Ajay Kasliwal’s nickname.

  “So it’s the legal profession for him, also, is it?” asked the detective.

  “Bobby’s always wanted to be a lawyer like his father, Mr. Puri. He’s got all kinds of idealistic visions. Wants to put the world to rights. But I keep telling him to get into corporate law. That is where the money is. You know these fellows are making crores and crores.”