The Case of the Missing Servant

by Tarquin Hall

  Ashok Sharma, the “Bra Raja,” who had hired Puri to investigate the bizarre set of events that had led to the death of his brother (the Case of the Laughing Peacock), had suffered a nervous breakdown after spending just one night in Delhi’s notorious Tihar jail.

  Of course, Kasliwal’s cell was positively five-star compared to Tihar. But tomorrow morning, he had a date in front of a magistrate at the District and Sessions Court, where he would be charge sheeted. And if bail was denied—and in the case of a “heinous crime” it often was—he would be remanded into judicial custody and sent to the Central Jail. There, Kasliwal would be forced to share a dormitory with twenty convicted men. If he wished to remain un molested, he would have to pay them protection money.

  “The first thing I must know, sir, is who is representing you?” asked Puri.

  “My wife was here two hours back and says K. P. Malhotra has agreed to take the case. I haven’t talked to him yet; my mobile ran out. He’s meant to come this afternoon.”

  “He’s someone you trust?”

  “Absolutely. We’ve known each other for twenty-odd years. He’s a good attacker and adept at defending his wicket, also.”

  “Badiya—that’s good to hear,” said Puri. “But, sir, if I’m to continue, there can be no other private detective. It will make things too hot in the kitchen.”

  Kasliwal stole a furtive glance at him; Puri guessed that the lawyer’s wife had already sown the seeds of doubt about the detective’s abilities.

  “You’re not satisfied with my work, is it?” he prompted.

  “Well, Puri-ji, frankly speaking, so far I’ve not seen much evidence of progress,” admitted Kasliwal. “Now I’m behind bars charged with rape and murder. Can you blame me for shopping elsewhere? My life and reputation are at stake.”

  “Sir, I assure you everything and anything is being done. But my methods are my business. It is for the client to place his trust in my hands. Not once I have failed in a case and I’m not about to start now. Equally, Rome wasn’t built in the afternoon. These things can’t be rushed.”

  Kasliwal pursed his lips as he weighed his options over the last of the cigarette.

  “I’ll make sure you’re the only one on the case, Puri-ji,” he said eventually.

  “Good,” said the detective. “Now let us waste no more time. Tell me exactly and precisely what occurred when you were brought in. Inspector Shekhawat read you the riot act, is it?”

  “He says he’s got witnesses who saw me dump the body.”

  “Police-wallahs can always find witnesses,” said Puri. “A good lawyer will deal with them in court. What else?”

  “He says a former servant is ready to testify that I raped her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “How should I know, Puri-ji? I kept quiet during the interview, refused to say a word, so naturally I didn’t ask who this woman is.”

  “Did Shekhawat mention any hard evidence?”

  “No, but I’m sure he must be searching for something to spring tomorrow.”

  Kasliwal took a last drag on his cigarette, let the stub fall on the floor and ground it under his heel.

  “Tell me one thing, Puri-ji. In your opinion, the girl they found on the side of the road…she is Mary?”

  “Seems that’s what your Inspector Shekhawat is intimating.”

  Kasliwal’s chin sank to his chest. “So, someone murdered her after all,” he sighed. “But who?”

  “You have some idea?” asked the detective.

  “No, Puri-ji, none.”

  “What about Kamat? Your wife told me he’s a drunkard and was having relations with the female. It’s true?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Tell me about your movements the night that body was discovered. August twenty-second. Can you recall?”

  “I was in court come the afternoon. In the evening, I freshened up at home and…” Kasliwal flushed with embarrassment. Puri could guess what he had been up to.

  “You had ‘takeout,’ is it?”

  The lawyer nodded. “My usual order.”

  Howls of excitement came from the first cell. Evidently another cockroach race was reaching a thrilling climax. When the noise had died down, Puri asked about Kasliwal’s hearing.

  “It’s set for tomorrow at eleven o’clock,” he told the detective. “I’m trying to get it heard by one of the few honest judges. But seems no one’s willing to lift a finger to help. My enemies have made sure of that.”

  Kasliwal cast a look over his shoulder.

  “Looks like I’ll be spending a night in the penthouse suite, huh.” He laughed sardonically. “Thank God there’s a couple of cops in here I helped out some years back, so I shouldn’t be facing harassment. But, Puri-ji, a few hundred bucks wouldn’t go amiss. That way at least I can get some outside food brought in.”

  “You’ll find five hundred stuffed inside the cigarette packet, sir,” whispered Puri.

  Kasliwal nodded gratefully as the woman constable called out, “Time’s getting over!”

  The two men shook hands.

  “I’ll be in court tomorrow for sure,” said the detective. “In meantime, don’t do tension, sir. Rest assured, everything is being done to secure your release. The responsibility is on my head. Already some very promising clues are there. Now take rest.”

  As Puri was making his way out of the station, the duty officer informed him that Inspector Shekhawat wanted “a word.”

  “By all means,” said the detective, who was anxious to get the measure of his adversary.

  Puri was led upstairs straight into his office.

  Shekhawat was in his late thirties, stocky, well built, with a thick head of black hair, an equally thick moustache and dark, deep-set eyes. He was the embodiment of the supremely confident Indian male who is taught self-assurance within the extended family from day one. The kundan studs in his ears did not indicate a hip, arty or effeminate man; he was a Rajput of the Kshatriya or warrior caste.

  “Sir, it’s a great honor to meet you,” he said in Hindi in a deep, booming voice. Shekhawat offered Puri his hand with a big politician’s grin. “I’ve been an admirer of yours for quite some time. Thank you for taking the time to see me. I know that you are a busy and important man.”

  Puri was not altogether immune to flattery, but he doubted Shekhawat’s sincerity. Behind the smile and friendly handshake, he sensed a calculating individual who had invited him into his office with the sole purpose of ascertaining whether he posed a threat.

  “I was hoping we would meet,” said Puri, replying in Hindi, his tone perfectly amicable. “It seems we’re working on the same case but from different ends. We might be able to help each other.”

  Shekhawat seemed bemused by this suggestion. He smiled with slow deliberation as he resumed his place behind his desk and Puri sat down in a chair opposite him.

  “It’s my understanding that Ajay Kasliwal is your client, is that correct?” asked the inspector.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I’m not sure how we can help each other, sir. I want to see Kasliwal convicted; you on the other hand want to see him walk free. There is no middle ground.”

  One of the phones on the inspector’s tidy desk rang. He picked up the receiver. Hearing the voice on the other end prompted a subtle change in the man’s bearing. He stiffened and his eyebrows slowly slid together until they were almost joined.

  “Sir,” he said. There was a pause as he listened. Then he said again, “Sir.” He met Puri’s gaze, held it for a second and then looked down. “Sir,” he repeated.

  While the detective waited, he looked up at the photographs and certificates that hung on the wall behind the desk. From these he was able to piece together much of Shekhawat’s life. He’d gone to a government school in Jaipur, where he’d been a hockey champion. He’d married extremely young; his wife could not have been a day over sixteen. They’d had four children together. He’d attended the Sardar Vallabhai Patel
National Police Academy in Hyderabad and studied to be an officer. Three years ago, he’d been awarded a Police Medal for Meritorious Service.

  “Must have been for a big case,” said Puri when Shekhawat hung up the phone after a final “Sir.” “The Meritorious Service award, I mean.”

  “I caught the dacoit, Sheshnag,” he bragged. “He’d eluded our forces for thirteen years but I personally tracked him down to his hideout and arrested him.”

  “I read about it in the papers. So you were the one,” said Puri. “Many congratulations, Inspector! It was a fine piece of detective work. Must have been very satisfying.”

  “Yes, it was. But frankly, sir, I take far greater satisfaction from arresting a man like Ajay Kasliwal. He is the worst kind of criminal. For too long, men like him have roamed free. Money and influence have kept them safe from prosecution. But thankfully times are changing. Now the big cats must face justice for their crimes like all the animals in the jungle. We are living in a new India.”

  “I admire your principles,” said Puri. “I’m all for evenhandedness. But my client is a good man and he’s innocent.”

  “Sir, with respect, Kasliwal is as guilty as Ravan,” said Shekhawat with an arrogant smirk. “I have all the evidence I need to put him away forever. He raped and murdered that young woman.”

  “You’re certainly confident,” said Puri, hoping to coax the inspector into showing all of his hand.

  “I’ve three witnesses who saw Mr. Kasliwal dump the body by the roadside.”

  “So I understand, but why was no charge brought against my client for two months?”

  Shekhawat answered decisively. “The witnesses took time to come forward because they were scared of intimidation from the client, who threatened them at the scene.”

  Puri allowed himself a chuckle.

  “I very much doubt that will hold up in court.”

  “I have hard evidence as well.”

  “How can there be more evidence when the accused is innocent?”

  “For that, sir, you will have to wait until tomorrow. I am not at liberty to divulge anything more.”

  The detective held up his hands in a gesture of defeat.

  “Well, I can see I’m going to have my work cut out proving my client’s innocence,” he said. “Obviously you are determined to see this thing through, so I suppose I’d better get back to my work.”

  Puri lingered for a moment by the door, looking down absentmindedly as if he’d forgotten something.

  “There’s something else I can help you with?” asked Shekhawat in the patient tone reserved for children and the senile.

  “There is one thing, actually,” said Puri, suddenly sounding unsure of himself.

  He took out his notebook and flipped through the pages until he came to one in the middle crammed with illegible writing.

  “Yes, that’s it,” he said, as if reading from it. “From what I’m told, the girl’s body was cremated after no one came to claim it. Is that correct?”

  “That’s true.”

  “And the photograph taken by the coroner was out of focus and extremely grainy.”

  Shekhawat eyed Puri suspiciously, no doubt wondering how he had come by this information.

  “If you say so,” he said.

  “Also,” continued the detective, “her face was all bashed up, bloody and swollen. She’d obviously been given a severe beating.”

  The inspector’s nod was vague encouragement to go on.

  “Given this, I’m curious to understand how you can be sure she is the maidservant Mary.”

  “That’s not in dispute. Two witnesses have identified her from the coroner’s photographs.”

  “Former or current employees of the Kasliwals, no doubt.”

  “The defense will be informed at the appropriate time,” said Shekhawat officiously.

  Fifteen

  Facecream had discovered a gap in the perimeter wall behind the servant quarters just large enough for a person to squeeze through. She’d made use of it a couple of times in the past two days, sneaking out undetected to go to a pay phone booth a few streets away.

  But Facecream was not the only person using this secret gateway: the earth between it was well trodden.

  This raised the alarming possibility that an outsider was entering the property unseen and unchallenged—perhaps the same person who had tried to open her door that first night.

  Determined to find out who was coming and going through the wall, she had set a trap, stringing a tripwire—or rather a trip-thread—across the gap. Anyone passing through it would now inadvertently tug a bell hanging inside her room.

  In the past two days, she’d had just one bite—a stray pyedog. But the line remained taut. And now, as she set off for a midnight rendezvous with Puri, she was careful not to fall victim to her own ruse. Treading carefully over the thread, Facecream passed through the gap in the wall.

  On the other side lay an abandoned property, an old bungalow with broken windows surrounded by a large garden overgrown with vines and long grass. She stopped, surveying the shadowy terrain ahead for any sign of movement. Nothing stirred in the undergrowth save for grasshoppers. The only sounds were distant ones: the hum of an autorickshaw, the screech of an alley cat. Up above, bats darted through the air. In the moonlight, she caught glimpses of them swooping above the tree line, where their black wings appeared momentarily, stretched against a hazy backdrop of stars.

  Jaya feared the bats and the owl that lived in one of the khejri trees. She had warned her new friend Seema not to go into the garden at night.

  The bungalow, she believed, was inhabited by malicious djinns. They had driven out the owners and guarded their territory jealously. At night, lying in her room, she claimed to be able to hear their terrible, mocking laughter and the cries and screams of those they had entrapped in the spirit world.

  Djinns, Jaya told Seema, often possessed people. Just recently, one had attached itself to her aunt, forcing her to speak in strange tongues. It was only thanks to a travelling hakim that she had been cured. He’d taken her to the tomb of a Sufi saint and exorcised the malicious fiend.

  But Facecream did not fear djinns. Parvati, the mountain goddess, whose magic talisman she wore around her neck, had always protected her against attacks from both ghoulish and human assailants. Living rough on the streets of Mumbai when she’d first come to India had also given her a sixth sense for recognizing danger. And just in case, her Khukuri knife was tucked into her waist.

  Facecream set off across the garden and made her way down the side of the bungalow, nimbly avoiding the odd bits of rusting metal hidden under the tall grass and weeds, and stopping now and again like a deer testing the air.

  When she reached the front of the property, she passed through the leaning iron gate that stood at the entrance to its neglected driveway, tugged her shawl over the back of her head so that it framed her face, and turned left into the quiet lane.

  The security guards in the sentry boxes positioned outside the other neighboring properties were all snoring loudly and she slipped past them unnoticed. The drivers at the bicycle rickshaw stand were all asleep as well, slumped on the seats of their vehicles with their legs stretched out across their handlebars.

  Further on stood a large house surrounded by a high wall and a pair of gates mounted with bright lights. Soon after she had passed these lights, Facecream noticed a shadow creep along the ground in front of her. Then, gradually, it began to shrink.

  She was being followed.

  The distinctive sound of rubber chappals scuffing against the ground told her that her stalker was no djinn.

  For a moment, Facecream considered turning around, drawing her Khukuri and charging. But then she remembered Puri’s advice about controlling her reckless streak and decided to wait for better attack terrain.

  She continued to the next junction, turned right and broke into a sprint. Reaching the first parked car, she hid behind it, lying flat on the groun
d, and watched to see who came around the corner.

  A few seconds later a pair of hairy male legs appeared. They stopped, shifted from left to right indecisively and then hurried on in her direction. Facecream could see from the man’s skinny ankles that he was no match for her. She drew herself up on all fours like a cat and prepared to spring at him. But at the last moment, she held back and let out a loud “Boo!”

  Tubelight staggered back in shock, looking as if he might keel over.

  “What are you doing? Trying to give me a heart attack?” he cried.

  “Ssssh! Keep your voice down! You’ll wake the guards!” hissed Facecream. “What are you doing here?”

  “Boss is running late and asked me to let you know.”

  “So why were you following me?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t want to be seen with me behind the house.”

  “You weren’t trying to sneak up on me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If I’d wanted to do that, I could have easily taken you by surprise.”

  Facecream laughed. “You were making more noise than a buffalo in heat.”

  “Listen, if I’d been on my guard you would never have been able to surprise me.”

  “Whatever you say, bhai.”

  Puri picked them both up and drove them to the Park View Hotel, where he was staying. It was nowhere near a park (his room provided a view of a car park), though it was a modern affair with air-conditioning, clean sheets, and Western-style toilets.

  The trio sat at a table in the otherwise empty restaurant. The night manager placed a bottle of Scotch, some bottles of soda, ice and glasses on the table before returning to the front desk.

  Puri poured a peg for himself and Tubelight and a plain soda for Facecream, who strongly disapproved of alcohol. He’d once heard her describe it as “a curse on women.”

  “So, Miss Seema,” he said. “Your message said ‘urgent.’”