The Case of the Missing Servant

by Tarquin Hall

  Facecream could see Jaya through the kitchen window now; she was taking something out of the fridge.

  The other servants were all accounted for. Bablu had gone home. Kamat was in town watching a film. And the mali was stoned in his room, tendrils of sweet smoke drifting out of his open window.

  Boss should be arriving any minute now, Facecream told herself.

  If Munnalal’s killer did make a play for him, he was likely to approach through the back way. But she was ready. Before taking up her position, she had checked her trip thread and it was still taut.

  No one else had passed through the gap in the wall since Facecream had laid her trap and she was beginning to wonder if she would ever know the identity of the person who had tried her door that first night.

  “Backside clear, over,” she whispered into the minitransmitter Tubelight had smuggled into the grounds earlier along with the earpiece receiver.

  “Frontside clear, also—over,” responded Tubelight, who was loitering on the main road in front of the entrance to Raj Kasliwal Bhavan.

  Puri’s Ambassador pulled into the driveway at 8:10. Tires crunched on gravel as the vehicle came to a halt.

  “Boss has made penetration, over,” reported Tubelight.

  The detective stepped up to the front door and paused to take a deep breath.

  Rarely had he found himself in such an unenviable position.

  True, he had accomplished what he had been hired to do: against all the odds, he had managed to track down the missing servant and ensure that the spurious, half-baked charges against Ajay Kasliwal had been dropped. By any standard, it had been a brilliant piece of detective work—one that would rank in Puri’s self-congratulating oratory in the years ahead.

  But a great injustice had been done—not to mention a gruesome, premeditated murder—and Puri could not see it go unpunished no matter how devastating the truth might prove for his client.

  The detective patted the outside pocket of his jacket, reassured by the feeling of his trusty .32 IOF pistol, and pulled the bell chain.

  Footsteps clipped and echoed down the corridor inside the house. A lock was unlatched. The door opened and Ajay Kasliwal’s face appeared in the gap.

  “Puri-ji! Thank God you’re here!” said the lawyer.

  “How is she?” asked Puri.

  “Sedated. The doctor’s with her now. He says she’s suffered some kind of mental breakdown. He’s recommending she be kept here overnight and taken to his clinic in the morning for testing. She’s been saying the craziest things, Puri-ji. Like you’re out to ruin the family.”

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this, sir,” said the detective. “But I had to produce Mary in court. It was the only way.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why did my wife insist it wasn’t her?”

  “I’ll need to explain a few things,” answered Puri. “But first things first. Something more urgent is there. Bobby has—”

  “Yes, where is Bobby?” demanded Kasliwal, interjecting. “He was at the courthouse but disappeared. I couldn’t find him anywhere and had to bring home his mother on my own. The media nearly ate us alive!”

  “Sir, Bobby tried to—”

  The detective’s words were swallowed up by the sound of a vehicle tearing into the driveway and braking hard behind the Ambassador. It was a police Jeep. Inspector Shekhawat stepped out of it and opened one of the back doors. Bobby emerged into the light cast from the veranda.

  “What’s this?” exclaimed Kasliwal as the inspector led his handcuffed son to the door. “Bobby, are you all right? What’s happened? Puri-ji, for God’s sake, explain!”

  “He was caught trying to enter Mary’s room at the hotel where Mr. Puri and Mary are staying,” butted in Shekhawat, officiously. “I was going to take him down to the station for questioning. But given Mr. Puri’s cooperation in the past few hours, I agreed to do as the detective asked and bring him here first.”

  “Those handcuffs aren’t necessary,” said Puri. “He’s not going to abscond.”

  The police-wallah appraised the prisoner like a fisherman trying to decide whether or not to put his young catch back into the river.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said, although he didn’t sound convinced. “But I’m only willing to play along a little longer, Mr. Puri. I want to know what’s been going on here. If I don’t get some answers soon, then we’ll do things my way.”

  Shekhawat unlocked the cuffs and Ajay Kasliwal ushered the party down the corridor.

  Entering the sitting room, they found Mrs. Kasliwal lying deeply sedated on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. Her doctor, a man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, was sitting at her side monitoring her pulse. At the sight of them, he made an irritated gesture.

  “What’s this, Ajay-ji?” he hissed, standing up. “I said no visitors. She’s not to be disturbed.”

  Walking around the couch, he addressed Puri and Shekhawat directly.

  “You must leave immediately! She’s extremely sick. Ajay-ji, I don’t know who these gentlemen are…”

  “I’m Inspector Rajendra Singh Shekhawat,” said the inspector, flashing his badge. “And this is Vish Puri, a private detective. Who are you exactly?”

  “I’m Dr. Chandran, Mrs. Kasliwal’s personal physician,” he answered haughtily.

  “Dr. Sunil Chandran, is it?” asked Puri.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I understand you are Madam Kasliwal’s rakhi-brother. Is that so?”

  “Yes, we grew up together. We’re like brother and sister. Now, what’s all this about?”

  “There’s been a murder and we’re here to find out who did it,” Shekhawat answered.

  “Well, now’s not the time. She’s had a mental breakdown. I’ve seen it before. The stress causes a kind of brain fever. You’ll have to come back another time.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t wait,” said Puri. “Why don’t you pour yourself a drink, Doctor-sahib, and sit down? I’m glad to see you, actually. You’ve saved us time in coming here.”

  “But I’m finished here for the time being.”

  “You’re finished, that is for sure, Doctor-ji,” said Puri sternly. “Now sit down.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort!” shouted the doctor. “Ajay-ji, I’m leaving. Take Savitri’s temperature every hour and let me know of any change. You’ll be able to reach me on my mobile.”

  Dr. Chandran gathered up his stethoscope and bag and made for the door. But he found his exit blocked by Shekhawat who had one hand on the revolver peeking out of his shoulder holster.

  “Do as Mr. Puri says, Doctor-sahib,” said the inspector, his muscular jaw rigid with determination.

  Puri positioned himself by the fireplace. Bobby knelt next to his mother, a mixture of anger and anxiety clouding his young face. His father stood expectantly, looking at the detective for answers. The doctor was sitting involuntarily in one of the armchairs with his arms crossed in defiance. The inspector guarded the door.

  “The case has been a complicated one and required all my skills as a detective, but fortunately I was up to the task,” began Puri.

  Shekhawat rolled his eyes and looked at his watch.

  “Mr. Puri, please, I don’t have all night,” he interrupted impatiently. “Who killed Munnalal?”

  The detective bristled at the younger man’s impertinence. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was having people butt in while he was trying to conclude a case. This was his moment and he would not be rushed.

  “During my many years of service and duty I have learned not to share information about ongoing cases with my clients,” he went on. “Often it is important they remain in the dark. This gives the impression that I am sitting idle. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. Vish Puri does not do meter down. Thus, on the very day Munnalal met his fate, I went to his residence.”

  Puri paused to clear his throat and then continued.

  “An extremely unpl
easant and most slippery fellow he was all round. There and then, I confronted him with certain evidence. Namely, I told him I knew it was he who carried Mary’s body from her room and placed it in the back of Kasliwal-ji’s Sumo on August twenty-first night.”

  “Mr. Puri, please,” said Bobby, suddenly snapping out of his reverie. “What’s this about Mary’s body?”

  “Allow me to explain. The maidservant Jaya saw Munnalal carrying Mary from her room to your father’s vehicle and placing her inside. At the time, she assumed he had murdered her. Terrified, she told no one.”

  “But what happened to Mary?” asked Bobby.

  “This same question I put to Munnalal. He did not deny taking her away. But he denied totally murdering the girl. He said she attempted suicide only. Afterward he drove her to the Sunrise Clinic.”

  At the mention of the clinic’s name, Bobby and his father both turned and stared hard at Dr. Chandran. “That’s your place, Doctor-sahib,” said the elder Kasliwal.

  “I’m well aware of that,” replied the doctor. “But I don’t remember any girl. Clearly, this Munnalal was lying. The detective himself called him a ‘slippery fellow.’”

  “Munnalal was a first-class Charlie, that is for sure,” said Puri. “But for once, he was not lying. Your night security guard remembers Mary most clearly, Doctor-sahib. He says after her admittance, you returned to the clinic. Must have been around midnight. Thus it seems you cared for her yourself.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” said the doctor dismissively.

  “Then why is it, the following night, you took Mary by taxi to the train station?” he said. “Knowing full well she was too weak to make the journey and might easily die along the way, you bought her a ticket on a local train to Ranchi. A coolie identified you at the scene.”

  By now Bobby was glaring at Dr. Chandran contemptuously. “Uncle is…is this true?” he asked him.

  “Not one word of it, beta. Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to blacken the family name, divide and conquer like the British.”

  “He’s doing nothing of the sort,” snapped Kasliwal. “But what I don’t understand is how a maidservant tried killing herself in my own home and I knew nothing about it?”

  “Sir, you are never around. Your work keeps you at the office, and at night you are out a good deal. You’re a very sociable individual, we can say. Running of the house, with servants and all, is Madam’s responsibility. Thus the facts were kept secret from you.

  “But to continue,” added Puri, urgently, before anyone else could get a word in, “after dropping Mary at Sunrise Clinic, Munnalal returned here to Raj Kasliwal Bhavan. In the wee hours, Mary’s blood was washed away and her possessions taken. The kitchen knife she used Munnalal threw over the back wall from where it was recovered and is now in my possession. Only things left behind were two wall posters and a few stones.”

  Puri modestly revealed his foresight in having Mary’s stones analyzed and how they had led him to Jadugoda. But his client could not have been less interested.

  “What about Munnalal? Why was he murdered?” Kasliwal asked.

  “Just I was coming to that, sir. You see, he was an instrument only. Some other person did direction of his actions. When he found Mary bleeding to death in her room, he called that person to ask what to do. Thus he was ordered to rush the girl to the hospital. But along the way Munnalal got thinking. For him, Mary’s suicide attempt was a golden egg. Such a man knows many secrets. He stores gossip for rainy days. Thus he understood why Mary tried the suicide and why it had to be hushed up. Next day, he demanded compensation to the tune of many lakhs.”

  “But that can only mean…” said Kasliwal.

  Bobby finished his sentence in a flat monotone. “Ma. It had to be Ma.”

  There was a long silence. Every pair of eyes in the room save Mrs. Kasliwal’s were now riveted on the detective.

  “The boy is correct: it was your wife, sir,” said Puri. “She told Munnalal to take Mary to the Sunrise Clinic and asked her rakhi-brother, Dr. Chandran, to patch her up and send her on her way.”

  “Puri-ji, I’ve been married to this woman for twenty-nine years and I can’t believe she’d do that.” Turning to Dr. Chandran, he implored him, “Doctor-sahib, tell me this isn’t true!”

  “I tell you, Ajay-ji, every word is a filthy lie.” The doctor sneered. “We should call Mr. Malhotra and ask him to come here immediat—”

  “Dr. Chandran, your mobile phone records show you made four calls to Mrs. Kasliwal on the night Munnalal was murdered,” interrupted Puri. “One was twenty-five minutes after he was killed.”

  “We’ve always talked a lot. She was having trouble sleeping and—”

  “Oh, shut up!” broke in Ajay Kasliwal. “I want to hear the rest. Carry on, Puri-ji; tell us what happened.”

  The detective went on to explain that, minutes after his meeting with Munnalal, the former driver had called Mrs. Kasliwal. He’d asked for more money to buy Puri’s silence. She in turn had asked him to come to the house after dark. That evening, he’d set off by auto. Following behind on his motorcycle was Bobby, who wanted to ask Munnalal if he knew of Mary’s whereabouts.

  “Bobby followed him all the way into the empty property behind the house only moments after Munnalal was murdered,” said Puri. “Stumbling upon the body in the dark, he got blood on him and ran from the scene.” Shocked and totally confused, Bobby passed the time since mostly in his room. Must be he was asking himself many unanswered questions about what all happened to Mary and why someone killed Munnalal. Also he was scared he’d get accused of doing the murder. But he was never Vish Puri’s suspect.”

  “Well if it wasn’t Bobby who murdered Munnalal, who was it?” demanded Shekhawat.

  “From the wound, I could make out it was a professional. He surprised Munnalal from behind. One hand drove the knife into the neck, the other was placed over the mouth—hence there was so much of betel juice on Munnalal’s lips and chin. Must be you came to the same conclusion, Inspector?”

  “Yes, of course,” lied Shekhawat, shifting uneasily. “It was obvious. But you assured me earlier today you knew the identity of the killer!”

  “Most certainly I know, Inspector,” said Puri. “He is one hit man called Babua.”

  Bobby piped up, “But, Uncle, are you saying Ma…she had…she had Munnalal…murdered…”

  “It is hard to believe she could not have known. But there’s no conclusive evidence connecting her to Babua. Dr. Chandran took out the contract. He made a number of calls to the killer in the hours before the murder.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Shekhawat.

  Puri hesitated before answering. “We all have our ways and means, Inspector.”

  “But for God’s sake, why?” broke in Kasliwal. He was gripping the back of the couch where his wife lay. “Why, Puri-ji? None of this makes any sense!”

  “Unfortunately, it makes perfect sense, sir,” answered the detective calmly. “An Indian mother will do almost anything to protect her son and his reputation.”

  There was another long silence. And then Bobby broke into deep, shameful sobs.

  “Papa, I…I should have told you,” he said. “But I…I didn’t know what had happened. I…I never meant…for any of this…”

  “What happened, Bobby? I want to hear it from you. Tell me once and for all,” said Kasliwal, now standing over his son.

  “Papa, I…”

  “Out with it!”

  The boy swallowed hard.

  “It was this summer, before…before I went to London. Most days I…I was here alone in the house studying…and Mary…well, you see, Papa, sometimes we’d, um, talk. She was…so…so nice, Papa. And smart. We used to sit together…in my room. I…I was teaching her to read and write and we used to play Bagha-Chall. She always used to beat me.”

  Bobby’s lower lip was trembling. “Well, one day…you see…I loved her, Papa…”

  Ajay Kasliwal he
ld up a hand to silence his son.

  “I understand,” he said. He turned and addressed the detective. “I take it my wife found out, Puri-ji.”

  “About a month after Bobby left for London, Mary discovered she was pregnant,” said Puri.

  “Pregnant?” exclaimed Bobby.

  “Desperate, she went to Madam. But the idea of a servant—a dirty tribal being with her son disgusted her. She abused Mary verbally, threatened her and ordered her to leave the house immediately.”

  “…And so that poor girl took a knife from the kitchen, went to her room and cut her wrists,” murmured Ajay Kasliwal.

  Facecream watched the evening’s events unfold through the French windows of the sitting room.

  First Boss appeared with Inspector Shekhawat and Bobby. Then Boss gave one of those long-winded soliloquies he so enjoyed. And finally, Ajay Kasliwal broke down in tears and attacked the doctor, punching him in the face.

  Bobby, Shekhawat and Boss tried to restrain him and in the confusion, the latter was knocked over.

  Now, Facecream watched as the inspector clapped a pair of handcuffs on the doctor and led him away.

  Puri came and stood silhouetted by the French windows nursing his bruised cheek, while Bobby sat with his distraught father.

  Facecream decided to stay put. Munnalal’s murderer was still at large, after all.

  Another five minutes passed. Jaya appeared again in the kitchen, standing at the sink, her face framed in the window. Suddenly, in the quiet night, Facecream heard the sound of the bell tinkle inside her room.

  Someone had come through the gap in the wall.

  A twig snapped underfoot. And then a man of average height appeared around the corner of the servant quarters carrying something long and narrow in one hand. He stopped, looked furtively from left to right, and then set off across the garden, sticking to the shadows on the left side of the lawn.

  Facecream sprang forward and raced after him, her bare feet moving nimbly and silently over the grass.