The Case of the Missing Servant

by Tarquin Hall

  Puri accepted the family’s invitation to stay for dinner and, before the sun went down, managed to snap a surreptitious picture of Mary with his mobile phone.

  After dark, by the light of a paraffin lantern, they sat eating a simple meal of fish, rice and daal. The food, which was prepared by Mary and her mother, was delicious. Throughout the meal, Puri complimented the cooking and ate seconds and thirds.

  Afterward, as he, Jacob, Father Peter and the driver, who had joined them, shared the priest’s pipe, he made his host an offer:

  “I would very much like to give your daughter a job working in my house in Delhi,” he said. “The salary would be four thousand rupees a month and she would stay in the servant quarters.”

  Mary looked horrified by this suggestion. “No, Father, I won’t go!” she protested immediately.

  Puri ignored her protest, adding, “Of course, I can understand why you would be concerned about her safety. You are welcome to bring her there yourself. I will provide the train tickets and we can all travel together. Perhaps Father Peter would like to come as well and we can find him a new cross for his church?”

  The detective knew it was too good an offer for Jacob to turn down. It was the answer to all his prayers.

  Sure enough, despite Mary’s misgivings, her father soon agreed to Puri’s terms. They would leave for Delhi the next day.

  Twenty-three

  Mummy’s little Maruti Zen crept along the road in Mehrauli, southwest Delhi. The road was lined with imposing walls topped with shards of broken glass. Behind these lay “farmhouses,” some of the largest and most expensive properties anywhere in the capital, all of them built on land illegally appropriated by the wealthy and well connected. Mummy had visited one a few years ago during Holi. It had been like a mini-Mughal palace—all marble archways and perfumed gardens.

  “Twenty-two!” called Majnu, Mummy’s driver, as they passed another set of ornate wrought-iron gates and he read from the Italian marble plaque, which had been engraved with the owner’s name: “KAKAR.”

  Mummy was looking for number nineteen.

  She had been reliably informed by Neelam Auntie, one of her former neighbors in Punjabi Bagh, that it belonged to Rinku Kohli, Puri’s childhood friend. Apparently, he spent most of his time in Mehrauli these days, often returning to Punjabi Bagh and his wife, children and elderly mother in the early hours of the morning.

  Everyone knew what Rinku got up to in his farmhouse. It was an open secret. But his standing had not suffered in the community as a result. Punjabi Bagh’s men admired him because he was rich, drove a Range Rover and liked to drink a lot of imported Scotch, watch cricket and tell dirty jokes. And the women were always ready to forgive a good Punjabi boy for his improprieties, just so long as he respected his elders, observed all the family rituals and raised strong, confident boys of his own.

  “Must be making a packet,” Neelam Auntie had commented admiringly.

  Mummy, though, had always understood Rinku’s weaknesses. The fact that he had turned out rotten like his father had come as no surprise to her—neither did the fact that he and Chubby had chosen such different paths. But Rinku had practically grown up in her house and she had always been kind to him.

  Which was why Mummy felt confident asking for his help now. A serial adulterer and crook he might be, but nice, grey-haired Punjabi Bagh aunties still commanded his respect.

  “There it is! Stop!” she shouted.

  Majnu, who was sulking again because he had been working long hours helping shadow Red Boots, pulled up to the gate. A uniformed security guard approached his window.

  “Tell Rinku Kohli he’s got a visitor,” Mummy called over the driver’s shoulder.

  “Madam, there’s no one here by that name.”

  “Just tell him Baby Auntie is here. I’ve brought his favorite ras malais.”

  The guard hesitated.

  “Listen, I know he’s living here, na. So might as well get on with it!”

  Reluctantly, the guard returned to his hut and picked up a phone. Mummy could see him through the glass talking to someone. Another minute passed before he emerged again and opened the gates.

  Majnu started the engine again and pulled inside.

  The “farmhouse” was set on three acres of immaculate, emerald lawns trimmed with neat hedges and lush flower beds. The house defied elegance, however. A modern redbrick structure with oblong windows and yellow awnings, it looked like a House of Fun at a fairground. At the back, Mummy spied a swimming pool and two tanned goris in bikinis sunning themselves. A lean, attractive Indian man in shorts and sunglasses was standing nearby, talking on a mobile phone and smoking a cigar.

  Majnu stopped in front of the house and, as Mummy got out clutching her Tupperware container, Rinku came bounding down the steps.

  “Baby Auntie, what a surprise!” he said, bending down to touch her feet.

  “Namaste beta. Just I was passing, na,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “No inconvenience caused, I hope?”

  “Not-at-all! You’re most welcome any time, Auntie-ji, any time. Come, we’ll have some tea.”

  He was about to head back into the house and then thought better of it.

  “Actually, let’s go on the lawn. It’ll be quieter there.”

  He led her to a spot where a garden table and chairs were arranged in the shade of a tree.

  “Oi! Chai lao!” he called to a servant who had emerged from the front of the house.

  Rinku and Mummy sat down and “did chitchat.”

  “Where is Chubby?” asked Rinku.

  “Who knows where? So secretive he is.”

  When the tea arrived, Rinku served her himself and then tucked into one of the ras malais, making suitably appreciative noises.

  “Wah!”

  Mummy saw her chance.

  “Beta, you heard some goonda did shooting at Chubby, na?” she said.

  Rinku’s face darkened. He took off the sunglasses he’d been wearing and placed them on the table.

  “I heard, Auntie-ji. I’m sorry.”

  “So close it was. Just one inch or so and he’d have been through. Fortunately, his chili plants saved the day.”

  “Thank God,” intoned Rinku.

  “Problem is, beta, Chubby’s not doing proper security. When I help, he gets most upset. You of all people are knowing how stubborn he can be, na.”

  “Only too well, Auntie-ji.”

  “You know and understand. That is why I’ve come,” she continued. “But, beta, you’re not to tell Chubby we’ve talked. Equally, I won’t go telling him you’re helping in this matter.”

  Rinku patted her fondly on the hand.

  “Auntie-ji,” he said. “Chubby has always been like a brother to me. And you’ve been like a mother. We are family. Just tell me what I can do.”

  Mummy proceeded to tell Rinku about how she had tracked down Red Boots, a corrupt police inspector called Inderjit Singh; and how he had met Surinder Jagga at the Drums of Heaven Restaurant, where, over spring rolls and whisky, they’d discussed a murder.

  “Since then I’ve done checking. Turns out, this fatty-throated fellow has desire to build one office block on Chubby’s home. Already he’s bought up some nearby plots. Recently one elderly neighbor, Mr. Sinha, sold out. Must be under pressure, but it has been hushed up.”

  “Did Jagga come to Chubby with an offer?” asked Rinku.

  “Rumpi says Jagga visited some weeks back and offered Chubby a large sum for the land, but he turned him down flat. Jagga didn’t threaten him, so naturally my detective son is unaware he did the shooting.”

  “Jagga and Singh must have decided the best course of action was to get rid of Chubby,” said Rinku. “They probably thought someone else would get the blame and then Rumpi would take their offer and sell up.”

  “Jagga and Inspector Singh are bad sorts, that is for sure,” added Mummy.

  Rinku looked as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether to congra
tulate Mummy on her brilliant detective work or scold her for taking so many risks.

  “You’ve been keeping quite busy, isn’t it, Auntie-ji.” Rinku smiled, quietly impressed.

  “Well, what to do, beta? Someone’s got to look out for Chubby, after all.”

  “I know, Baby Auntie, we all worry about him. He doesn’t look after himself, actually. But at your age you shouldn’t be running around getting involved in this kind of thing. These people can be dangerous. Property brokers are the worst kind.”

  “Don’t be silly, beta, I’m quite capable of looking after myself, na.”

  Rinku laughed. “I’ve never doubted that, Baby Auntie. But you’ve done more than enough. Leave this with me, OK? I’ll take care of it.”

  “You know this Jagga fellow, is it?”

  “I know people who know him,” said Rinku, a little hesitantly. He paused. “Auntie-ji, I promise I’ll sort it out. Trust me.”

  “Don’t do rough stuff, beta, please.”

  “Of course not, Auntie-ji!”

  “And not a word to Chubby.”

  “Not one word! Now I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Flush was also busy while Puri was in Jharkhand. But he was finding keeping tabs on Mahinder Gupta deeply unsatisfying.

  Never before had he trailed such a boring individual.

  Mr. Gupta’s routine was numbingly predictable.

  On the day before Puri returned to Delhi with Mary, he woke at a quarter to six, spent ten minutes on his automatic toilet (which sluiced and dried his bottom and told him to “have a nice day”), changed out of his pajamas into his tracksuit, and made his way to the kitchen.

  There he gulped down a protein shake.

  At 6:30, Bunty, his one-thousand-rupee-per-hour personal trainer arrived and, for the next thirty minutes, put Gupta through his paces in his personal gym.

  Afterward, the BPO executive had a shower and then changed into a smart business suit and tie.

  At 7:30, he took the lift down to the underground car park to his BMW. Pavan, the car-saaf-wallah, had finished washing and waxing the blue paintwork to perfection, and for this he received payment of twenty rupees.

  The car sparkled in the early morning sunshine as the driver pulled out of the gates and took the turning for the NOIDA expressway toll road. He did not have to fight too hard for space amid the frenetic traffic. Given the Beemer’s Brahmanical status at the top of India’s vehicular caste system (bicyclists being the dalits of the road), few cars dared to cut in front of it or venture too close lest they contaminate its uncorrupted, venerated bodywork.

  Gupta, meanwhile, sat on the backseat with the automatic windows closed and the air-conditioning on, blissfully isolated from the diesel fumes and wretched hawkers. He kept half an eye on his in-car LCD TV, which was tuned to a morning business program, while reading his overnight emails from Hong Kong on his BlackBerry. He also put in calls to New York, Mumbai and Singapore.

  At the main gate to Analytix Technologies, Gupta’s employers, the guards stood to attention as the BMW left the dusty, bumpy feed road and glided over the pristine tarmac of the car park, pulling up at the entrance to the glass-paneled office block.

  Briefcase in hand, Gupta took the elevator up to his office on the executive floor.

  He stayed inside the building all day.

  For lunch, he ate a dosa at his desk.

  At precisely 8:15 in the evening, he left work, having already changed into his golf kit—green mock turtleneck, long Greg Norman plaid trousers and a Tiger Woods cap.

  Gupta reached the Golden Greens Golf Course at 8:30 and teed off with a senior futures manager, Pramod Patel.

  He scored an eagle on the fifth, a birdie on the eighth and finished seven under par.

  Back in the clubhouse, he had a Diet Coke at the bar and, shortly after ten o’clock, returned home.

  There he changed out of his golf clothes, took another shower and spent an hour talking on the phone, first with his parents and then his fiancée.

  He fell asleep watching the second day of the Vallarta Golf Cup in Mexico.

  “I bet all he dreams are about little white balls,” Flush muttered to himself as he sat in his white van, which was parked near Celestial Tower, listening to his mark snoring.

  A week of surveillance had thrown up nothing incriminating. Gupta’s bank and phone records were clean. He had not visited any porn sites. He was not in touch with illegal bookies. He had not made any big unaccounted-for cash withdrawals.

  When he wasn’t working, playing golf or sitting on his automatic toilet, Gupta went to the Great Place Mall, where he liked to watch sappy Bollywood love stories in the super luxury Gold Class Lounge cinema and buy organic handmade lavender soap at Lush.

  Flush was growing increasingly frustrated with his failure to dish up the dirt. Seeing middle-class Indians living such ostentatious lives while the vast majority of the population survived on next to nothing riled him. He wanted badly to put a dent in Mahinder Gupta’s perfect life.

  The only glimmer of hope was the unmarked bottle of yellow liquid Mrs. Duggal had discovered in the medicine cabinet.

  But what could it be? Was he HIV positive, perhaps?

  One thing was for sure: he was not taking recreational drugs. Gupta had not had contact with any of the hundreds of dealers now operating in Delhi.

  “He’s not even had pizza delivered, Boss,” Flush had reported to Puri at the end of another fruitless day.

  Twenty-four

  After returning from Jharkhand and leaving Mary and her father with Rumpi, Puri drove to his office.

  Sitting behind his desk and feeling especially pleased with himself, he sent Door Stop, the office boy, to fetch him a couple of mutton kathi rolls with extra chutney. These he devoured in a matter of minutes, ever vigilant about getting incriminating grease spots on his safari suit, and then got back to work.

  His first call was to Tubelight, whom he informed about his success in Jharkhand—“A master stroke” was how he described his triumph. He also shared his plan, which did not involve breaking the good news to the Kasliwals just yet.

  “I’ve something else in mind,” he said. “What’s Bobby been up to?”

  “Doing timepass,” said Tubelight. “He’s hardly come out of his room. Facecream says he’s depressed. Had a big argument with his mother.”

  “What about?”

  “She couldn’t tell, but there was a good deal of shouting. That apart, he’s gone to the Central Jail to visit his Papa every day.”

  Next, Puri talked to Brigadier Kapoor to assure him that that the investigation was “very much ongoing.” He promptly received a harangue on how he wasn’t doing enough and should try harder.

  Finally, Puri turned his attention to the small matter of the attempt on his life and put in a few more calls to some of the informers and contacts to find out if they’d heard anything useful.

  One, a senior officer at the CBI whom the detective had helped on a couple of cases in the past, ruled out Puri’s top suspect, Swami Nag. There had been a confirmed sighting of the fraudster at a Dubai racetrack on the very day of the shooting, so he had not been in Delhi as previously thought.

  “Unless of course His Holiness can bilocate and be in two places at once,” joked the officer.

  No one else had any leads.

  Exhausted from the overnight train journey from Ranchi, Puri tilted back in his comfortable executive chair, put his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes.

  In seconds, he was fast asleep and dreaming.

  He found himself standing before the legendary walls of Patliputra, the ancient capital of the Maurya Empire, with its 64 gates and 570 towers. Nearby, under an ancient peepul tree sat a sagely figure with a shaven head, ponytail and an earring in one ear. Across his forehead were drawn three parallel white lines denoting his detachment from the material world.

  Puri recognized him as his guru, Chanakya, and went and knelt before him.

 
“Guru-ji,” he said, touching his feet. “Such an honor it is. Please give me your blessings.”

  “Who are you?” asked Chanakya, busy writing his great treatise.

  “I’m Vish Puri, founder and director of Most Private Investigators Ltd. and the best detective in India,” he answered, a little hurt that the sage had never heard of him.

  “How do you know you are the best?” asked Chanakya.

  “Guru-ji, I am the winner of the Super Sleuth World Federation of Detectives award for 1999. Also, I was on the cover of India Today magazine. It’s a distinction no other Indian detective has achieved to date.”

  “I see,” said Chanakya with an enigmatic smile. “So why have you come to me for help? What can I, a simple man, do for you?”

  “Guru-ji, someone tried to kill me and I need help in finding whoever it was,” explained Puri.

  Chanakya closed his eyes and gave the detective’s request some thought. It seemed like an age before he opened them again and said, “Do not fear, Vish Puri. You will receive the help you need. But you must accept you don’t have power over all things. All of us require a helping hand from time to time.”

  “Thank you, Guru-ji! Thank you! I’m most grateful to you. But please, tell me, how will I be helped?”

  Before Chanakya could answer, Elizabeth Rani’s voice broke in. She was calling him over the intercom. Puri woke with a start.

  “Sir, I’ve the test back from the laboratory. Should I bring it?”

  The detective looked at his watch; he’d been asleep for more than half an hour.

  “Yes, by all means,” he said drowsily, buzzing in his secretary.

  The test Elizabeth Rani was referring to was the analysis of the mystery liquid Mrs. Duggal had retrieved from Mahinder Gupta’s bathroom.

  After looking over the results, and drinking a cup of chai, Puri called Flush on his mobile phone to tell him the news.