The Case of the Missing Servant

by Tarquin Hall

  It was locked.

  Curious, she took out a hair grip and metal nail file and, in a few seconds, popped the cabinet open.

  On the shelves inside, she found an unmarked bottle filled with pale yellow liquid and two syringes. She took the bottle and put it into her glasses case in her handbag.

  Just then she heard Mrs. Gupta’s voice in the bedroom. “Come this way, it’s through here.”

  The handle on the door turned and there was a knock.

  “One moment,” called out Mrs. Duggal.

  She locked the medicine cabinet, sat down on the toilet and quickly stood up again. Sure enough, it flushed automatically.

  Mrs. Duggal opened the door to find Mrs. Gupta and three other women who had come to inspect the bathroom waiting on the other side.

  “You’re quite right, the toilet really is a wonder,” she gushed. “So much easier on the hips.”

  Twenty

  At about 10:30 that evening, just as Puri reached home after dropping off Mrs. Duggal, the front door of Munnalal’s house in Jaipur suddenly swung open with a thud.

  A beggar with a horribly deformed hand who was crouching against a wall ten feet away watched as Munnalal stepped outside. In one hand he was carrying his mobile phone, his thumb working the keypad. From his pocket protruded the wooden butt of a revolver.

  Munnalal’s wife appeared in the open doorway with an anguished, searching expression.

  “Your food is ready!” she screeched to his back as he set off down the lane. “Where are you going? It’s late!”

  “None of your business, whore!” he bawled over his shoulder. “Go back inside or I’ll give you a thrashing!”

  The beggar, seeing Munnalal striding toward him, made the mistake of holding out his deformed hand, which looked like a melted candle, and pleaded for alms—“Sahib, roti khana hai.”

  In return he received a hail of abuse.

  “Bhaanchhod!” Munnalal called him as a passing shot, kicking his begging bowl and the few pitiful coins that it contained into the open drain.

  The unfortunate man howled, scrambling on all fours after the receptacle, which had landed upside down in fetid slime.

  “Hai!” he moaned after retrieving it and retaking his position against the wall where he had been sitting all evening.

  A couple of passing locals, who had seen how cruelly Munnalal had behaved, took pity on the beggar and dropped a few rupees at his feet.

  “May Shani Maharaj bless you!” he cried after them, picking up the coins and touching them to his forehead and lips.

  The beggar watched his benefactors continue on their way, passing Munnalal’s front door, which, by now, had been slammed shut. Then he stood up, collected his pitiful possessions and, when he was sure no one was watching, twisted off his deformed hand. He shoved it under his soiled lungi and set off down the lane.

  “Bastard Number One’s on the move, heading in your direction,” said Tubelight’s man Zia into the transmitter concealed in the top of his cleft walking stick.

  “Roger that,” came back a voice in the clunky plastic receiver in his ear.

  The voice belonged to Shashi, his partner, who had watched too many American cop shows and insisted on using the lingo.

  “Who is this Roger?” hissed Zia into his communicator.

  “Your papa, yaar,” quipped Shashi.

  “Shut up, OK!”

  “Ten-four,” replied his colleague.

  Munnalal hurried down the lane, stopping briefly at the cigarette stand, where he bought a sweet paan. Greedily he stuffed it into his mouth and tossed a grubby note onto the vendor’s counter.

  Soon, he reached the busy main road, where he stepped beyond the broken, piss-stained pavement at the edge of traffic. Amid a haze of dust and diesel fumes, with horn-blaring Bedford trucks hurtling past, Munnalal went about trying to hail an autorickshaw.

  Zia decided to watch him from the entrance to the lane, staying in the shadows and telling Shashi, who was parked nearby, to keep his engine running.

  Much to their shared—and in Munnalal’s case, obvious—frustration, all the autos that drove past were occupied. Some carried as many as eight people with six on the backseats and another couple clinging to the sides like windsurfers.

  Five minutes passed. A blue Bajaj Avenger motorcycle driven by a man wearing a helmet with a tinted visor pulled up on the other side of the road.

  At first, Zia paid the driver cursory attention. But after Munnalal succeeded in hailing an auto and drove away in the direction of the old city, the Avenger made a quick U-turn and set off after him.

  Zia and Shashi were not far behind on an old Vespa.

  “Someone else is following Bastard Number One,” said Zia.

  “Roger that. Did you get a pozit-iv eye dee?”

  “Huh?”

  “Po-zit-iv eye dee! Means did you recognize him?”

  “How could I recognize him, you fool? He’s got a helmet on and his numberplate is covered in mud.”

  “Ten-four. Do you think he’s a perp?”

  “Speak Hindi, will you!”

  “A perp means a goonda type.”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Think we should get between them?”

  “No, but don’t fall behind.”

  “Copy that.”

  Munnalal’s auto buzzed and spluttered its way down M.I. Road, past Minerva cinema. Occasionally, he spat great gobs of paan juice out the side of the vehicle, painting the road’s surface with intermittent red streaks.

  Ten minutes later, the auto turned down the lane that ran behind Raj Kasliwal Bhavan. Finally it came to halt outside the deserted bungalow with the overgrown garden.

  Munnalal got out and paid the driver, who promptly drove off in search of another fare. He looked up and down the street to make sure no one was following him and then slipped through the leaning iron gate. A second later he was lost amid the long grass and shadows.

  The motorcyclist, having dismounted and watched Munnalal’s movements from behind the corner, took off his helmet and, leaving it on his bike, continued his pursuit on foot.

  Zia and Shashi, who had pulled up a safe distance behind him, rounded the corner in time to see the motorcyclist pass through the gate and enter the garden.

  “No way I’m going in there,” whispered Shashi as they crossed the lane. “I heard an owl!”

  “They’re harmless, yaar. All they do is sit in trees and go hoo hoo.”

  “OK, hero, you go in there and I’ll wait here and cover you.”

  “What is this ‘cover me’ business? Bloody half-wit. Think you’re Dirty Hari?”

  “It’s Dirty Harry,” corrected Shashi.

  “Whatever, yaar. You stay here. Relax. Maybe take a nap.”

  Cautiously, Zia headed into the garden. Shashi watched him go and, finding himself alone, had a change of heart.

  “I thought I’d better watch your back,” he whispered when he caught up with his partner.

  Together, the two of them crept forward through the long grass and weeds. The owl started hooting again, causing Shashi to grip Zia’s arm. And then suddenly a figure ran straight into them, knocked them both to the ground and sprinted off in the direction of the lane. Zia and Shashi were dazed and it took them a few seconds to pick themselves off the ground.

  “Go after him! I’ll check ahead!” ordered Zia.

  “Ten-four!”

  Shashi gave chase, but he was too slow. As he reached the lane, the motorcycle kicked into start and, with a roar of the engine, made a 180-degree turn and sped away.

  Shashi watched the Bajaj Avenger disappear from sight, knowing that his cousin’s Vespa was no match for it, and went to find his partner.

  They met outside the gate.

  “He got away!” said Shashi in a loud voice.

  “Keep your voice down, you fool!”

  “Don’t call me a fool!”

  “OK, half-wit! What happened?”

  “He
took off. What about Bastard Number One?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure!” snapped Zia. “He’s lying behind that abandoned house with a knife sticking out of his throat.”

  Shashi’s eyes widened.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, it wasn’t suicide!”

  Shashi held his hands over his face and kicked at the ground. A pall of dust rose around him.

  “That’s just our luck!” He cursed. “Bloody fat bastard goes and gets himself terminated while we’re on duty. Boss and Tubelight are going to kill us!”

  “I know! It’s all your fault. You should have rubbed the mud off the numberplate and written it down when you had a chance,” said Zia.

  “What do you mean I should have? What about you?”

  “It was your turn to do the thinking.”

  Shashi paced back and forth a couple of times. Then a thought occurred to him.

  “What about his mobile phone? Did you get it?”

  “It wasn’t there.”

  “Sure?”

  “I checked all his pockets!”

  “Wallet?”

  “Gone as well?”

  There was a pause.

  “What do we do now? Call the cops?”

  “No, you idiot, we get out of here before someone sees us.”

  “Right…I mean Roger that,” said Shashi.

  “Bloody fools!” was Puri’s reaction to news of Munnalal’s murder and the events leading up to it.

  It was Tubelight who broke it to him at two in the morning.

  “Do the cops know?” asked the detective as he tried to shake off the deep, restful sleep he had been enjoying.

  “Doubtful. The body is probably lying unnoticed, it being nighttime, Boss. Should I make an anonymous call? Tip off the cops?”

  “Not yet. They’ll trample the scene. I’ll try to get there as fast as I can.”

  Puri hung up the phone and switched on the light in the panel behind his bed. Rumpi stirred.

  “What is it, Chubby?” she asked sleepily.

  “Trouble,” he answered. “Where’s the driver?”

  “I put him in with Sweetu.”

  “Wake him and then pack my things, will you? I’ve got to return to Jaipur immediately. The case has taken a turn for the worse. Someone has been murdered.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “The man who held all the answers.”

  Puri changed and went into his study. Opening the safe, he took out his .32 IOF and slipped it into his trouser pocket.

  By the time he went downstairs, his wife was standing by the front door with his packed overnight case, a few cold rotis wrapped in tinfoil and a flask of hastily made “dip tea.”

  The detective smiled and gently took her cheek in his right hand. “Meri achhi biwi, my good wife,” he said.

  She could feel the cold metal of Puri’s pistol against her thigh as she gave him a fond hug.

  “Take care,” she said.

  The detective chuckled. “Don’t worry about me, my dear. When it comes to danger, I’ve got a sixth sense.”

  “Danger doesn’t worry me,” answered Rumpi. “But those deadly pakoras and chicken frankies you like so much do.”

  Puri managed to get a couple of hours’ sleep and reached the Jaipur city limits at dawn. An apologetic and sleepy Tubelight was waiting for him at Ajmeri Gate. They headed straight to the murder scene. But the police had beaten them to it. Three Jeeps and the coroner’s wagon, which looked like an armored milk van, were parked outside the gate of the derelict house. Five impassive constables stood nearby, chatting among themselves.

  Puri told Handbrake to stop the car across the road, from where he watched and waited. A few minutes later, a procession emerged from the garden. It was led by a couple of orderlies carrying a stretcher with a blanket draped over Munnalal’s body. Two more constables with rifles slung over their shoulders followed. Bringing up the rear was Shekhawat, smoking a cigarette.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” said Puri as he got out of the Ambassador.

  “What are you doing here, sir?” he asked, surprised to see the detective.

  “Just I was on my way to see my client for an early morning conference,” he answered cheerily.

  “At this time?” The inspector looked at his watch. “It’s not even six.”

  “What to say? I like an early start.”

  Puri gave a nod in the direction of the stretcher, which was being slid into the back of the coroner’s wagon.

  “Who have you got there?” he asked.

  “Male, mid-forties, found with this knife sticking out of his throat.”

  Shekhawat held up the bloody murder weapon, which he’d put in a plastic bag.

  “By God,” said Puri, feigning surprise. “Any identification?”

  “Nothing. So far he’s a naamaalum, unknown. He was carrying this.”

  Shekhawat held up Munnalal’s revolver, also now in a plastic bag.

  “May I see the body?” asked Puri.

  “Why all the interest, sir?”

  “The murder occurred behind my client’s house. Might be I know the victim, isn’t it.”

  Shekhawat led the detective over to the coroner’s wagon and told the orderlies to pull back the blanket.

  Munnalal’s face was frozen in an expression of sheer horror. The wound was on the left of the neck and the blood had soaked his shirt.

  His lips and chin were also stained with paan juice.

  “Do you recognize him, sir?” asked Shekhawat.

  The detective made a face that suggested ignorance.

  “Unfortunately not, Inspector.”

  The orderlies replaced the blanket back over Munnalal’s face. Puri and Shekhawat turned and walked away.

  “Any theories?” asked the detective.

  “We got an anonymous tip-off in the middle of the night. Someone called and said he saw two men hurrying out of the garden and driving away on a Vespa. He gave us the numberplate. My guess is these two murdered him for his wallet and phone.”

  “So a robbery then,” suggested the detective.

  “Seems that way,” answered Shekhawat.

  Puri was looking down at the dust on the street where a number of vehicles had left tracks, privately cursing the police for being such bunglers. If only he had reached the scene before them.

  “Well, Inspector, I can see that you have everything well in hand,” he said. “I’ll wish you a good day.”

  The detective got back into his car.

  “Go straight to Raj Kasliwal Bhavan,” he told Handbrake tonelessly.

  As the Ambassador pulled away, Puri watched the reflection of the inspector in the rearview mirror. Shekhawat in turn watched the back of Puri’s vehicle. The curious expression on his face made the detective uneasy.

  It was only a question of time before he found out that Munnalal once drove for Kasliwal and his murder was bound to reflect badly on his case. Puri could see tomorrow’s newspaper headlines already:

  HIGH COURT LAWYER’S FORMER DRIVER

  FOUND DEAD. COPS SUSPECT FOUL PLAY.

  “Can your boys’ vehicle be traced back to them?” asked Puri, with some urgency.

  “No way, Boss, but why?”

  “Shekhawat has the numberplate.”

  “How, Boss?” exclaimed Tubelight.

  “Most probably the killer himself gave it to him. Your boys have been most careless. Tell them to go back to Delhi right away. I would want to talk to them once this thing is over.”

  The Ambassador turned right at the end of the road, then right again and pulled into Raj Kasliwal Bhavan.

  After coming to a stop, Puri sat for a moment in a gloomy silence.

  “What’s wrong, Boss?” asked Tubelight.

  “I’ve come to a theory about what all has been going on. If I’m right, it would not end well for anyone.”

  Tubelight knew not to ask Pu
ri about his theories. There was no point. The detective always kept his cards close to his chest until he was sure he had solved the case. This secrecy was derived partly from prudence and partly from his controlling nature.

  “Any luck at the Sunrise Clinic?” he asked Tubelight.

  “I chatted with the receptionist. Says no girl matching Mary’s description was brought in. I think she’s lying. I’m going back at seven to meet the security guard on duty the night Mary was murdered.”

  “Allegedly murdered,” Puri reminded him.

  “Right, Boss. What’s your plan?”

  “Just there’s some checking up I need to do here. Take the car and send it back for me. I’ll pick you up around eight o’clock.”

  Puri got out of the vehicle, but turned and said through the open door, “Be alert! Whatever miscreant did in Munnalal knew what he was doing.”

  “A professional, Boss?”

  “No doubt about it at all. A most proficient and cold-blooded killer.”

  Twenty-one

  Puri followed the brick pathway that led along the right-hand side of Raj Kasliwal Bhavan, rounded the corner of the house and paused outside the door to the kitchen. It was closed. All was quiet inside.

  The detective surveyed the garden to see if anyone was around. Finding the coast clear, he walked over to the servant quarters and edged along the space between the back of the building and the property’s perimeter wall.

  Facecream’s small window was easily identifiable from the thread that went up the wall and disappeared inside. Puri knocked on the glass three times and made his customary signal: the call of an Indian cuckoo.

  A moment later, the window opened and Facecream appeared.

  “Sir, you shouldn’t have come!” she whispered in Hindi. “It won’t be long before everyone is up. Memsahib does her yoga at seven on the lawn!”

  “Munnalal was murdered last night in the garden right behind this wall,” said Puri.

  “Last night, sir? Just here? I didn’t hear anything.” There was a wounded indignation in her tone.

  “Could the killer have come from inside?” asked the detective.

  “There’s no way anyone can come in and out without my knowing, Boss,” said Facecream.