The Case of the Missing Servant avpm-1

by Tarquin Hall

  "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 held 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.

  She covered the distance that separated the two of them in just a few seconds and tackled the man from behind. He went down flat on his face and, in a flash, she pinned him to the ground, pulling back one of his arms.

  The intruder let out a cry of agony and begged to be let go. His pleas brought Jaya running from the kitchen.

  "Seema, what are you doing?" she cried. "Have you gone mad? Let him go!"

  "No, Jaya, stand back!" insisted Facecream. "This man is dangerous! He killed Munnalal!"

  "Dangerous? That's Dubey! He's a rickshaw-wallah! He's my…friend."

  "You're sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure! He wants to marry me."

  Facecream released Dubey and the poor, shaken man stood up. He was still clutching a red rose that he'd brought for Jaya, but it had been badly crushed.

  "I'm so sorry. I thought you were…" said Facecream.

  But the rickshaw-wallah had taken to his heels with Jaya hurrying after him.

  Ten minutes later, Puri stood with Shekhawat next to his Jeep in the driveway. On the backseat, in handcuffs, sat Dr. Chandran. He was glaring with venomous eyes at his captors through the window.

  "You think he'll give her up?" asked the inspector.

  "I doubt it," said Puri. "To do so would be to admit his guilt. He'll claim he's been framed, try to buy off or intimidate the witnesses. His trial will go on for years. It takes time to put away a man with his kind of connections."

  "And her? She goes unpunished?"

  "Oh no, Inspector. It is all over for her. She might have escaped prison, but no human being ever escapes punishment. One way or another, justice is always served. All of us must answer to the God eventually."

  Puri rubbed his stomach and grimaced.

  "Personally I'm now answering for the kachoris I ate at lunch," he added with a smile.

  Shekhawat remained stony faced and aloof. His pride was too badly wounded. And he was not about to admit his mistakes-not here and now, and certainly not in his official report.

  "Well, I'll be going," he said. "There's the killer Babua to track down and I've got a good idea where to find him."

  "Oh, there's no need, Inspector," said Puri airily. "Didn't I tell you, I've got him locked in the trunk of my Ambassador?"

  For once, Shekhawat was visibly dumbstruck.

  "There?" he asked, pointing to the car, his eyebrows knitted together.

  "That's right, Inspector. One advantage with Ambassadors is they have large secure trunks."

  "But…?"

  "I picked him up this afternoon after tracing his mobile phone. Let me show you."

  They walked over to the car and Handbrake opened the back. Inside lay a burly man, bound and gagged, his eyes defiant and angry.

  "Allow me to present one Om Prakash, alias Babua," said Puri triumphantly. "A right bloody goonda if ever there was one."

  Twenty-Nine

  At the end of every big case, Puri dictated all the details of his investigation to his personal secretary Elizabeth Rani, who could do speed typing.

  He did so for two reasons.

  Firstly, it was not uncommon for trials to drag on for years, sometimes decades. So it was imperative to keep a detailed record of events, which the detective could refer to when he was called upon to give evidence.

/>   And secondly, Puri was planning to leave all his files to the National Archive because he was certain future generations of detectives would want to study his methods and achievements.

  The detective also liked to entertain the idea that someday a writer would come along who would want to pen his biography. He had thought of the perfect title: CONFIDENTIALITY IS MY WATCHWORD. And what a spectacular Bollywood film it would make. Puri's favorite actor, Anupam Kher, would play the lead, and Rekha would be perfect for the part of Rumpi. Her screen persona would be that of a good, homely woman who also happened to be a talented and alluring exotic dancer.

  "Sir, one thing I don't understand," said Elizabeth Rani after Puri had finished relating the twists and turns in the Case of the Missing Servant. "Who was the dead girl found on the Ajmer Road?"

  Puri's secretary always asked such elementary questions. But he didn't mind spelling it out for her. Not everyone could have a mind as sharp as his, he reasoned.

  "She's just one of dozens upon dozens of personages who go missing across India every year," he explained. "No doubt we'll never know her name. So many girls are leaving the villages and traveling to cities these days. And so many are never returning. Just they're turning up dead on railway tracks, in canals, and getting raped and dumped from vehicles. With their near and dear so far away, no one is there to identify the bodies. I tell you, frankly speaking Madam Rani, it is an epidemic of growing proportions."

  Elizabeth Rani moved her head from side to side mournfully.

  "Such a sad state of affairs, sir," she said. "Thank the God there are gentlemen such as yourself to protect us."

  "Most kind of you, Madam Rani!" Puri beamed.

  The two of them were sitting in the detective's office: he behind his desk; she in front of it with a laptop computer. Elizabeth Rani saved the document in which she had typed his dictation and closed the screen.

  "Sir, one other thing," she said as she stood from her chair to leave.

  "Yes, Madam Rani," said Puri, who had been expecting more questions.

  "You said Mary got pregnant, sir. But what happened to the baby?"

  "Sadly, she lost it on the train to Ranchi."

  "That poor girl," commiserated Elizabeth Rani. "How she has suffered. Is there any hope for her and Bobby?"

  "Sadly, there is no Bollywood ending. Mary refused to see him. Most likely, it is for the best. Too much hurt is there, actually. The poor girl has suffered greatly. This morning we brought her to Delhi, Rumpi and I. We've made arrangements for her to start work with Vikas Chauhan's family. Ajay Kasliwal has also promised to pay for her dowry so she might one day go the marriage way. He's being most generous and appreciative, I must say."

  "And Bobby, sir?"

  The detective rubbed the end of his moustache between his fingers in a contemplative fashion before answering.

  "Seems like he and his mother will never speak again, Madam Rani," said Puri sadly. "He's sworn he'll not so much as be in the same room with the woman."

  His secretary sucked in her breath and said, "Hai, hai."

  "Mrs. Kasliwal's actions were certainly deplorable. Which one of us could forgive her in our hearts? But Bobby's actions, although innocent, were hardly decent. Such a well brought up and educated young man should have known better, actually. There is a right and proper place for physical relations and it is between husband and wife only. When young people go straying outside those boundaries, there can only be hurt and misfortune."

  "Quite right, sir," said Elizabeth Rani.

  Puri tucked a pen he'd been using into the outside pocket of his safari suit next to two others.

  "India is modernizing, Madam Rani, but we must keep our family values, isn't it? Without them, where would we be?"

  "I hate to think, sir," she said.

  "Well, Madam Rani, that will do for now. Place the file in the 'conclusively solved' cabinet. Another successful outcome for Most Private Investigators, no?"

  "Right away, sir."

  Elizabeth Rani returned to her desk, closing the door to his office behind her.

  Puri leaned back in his chair and looked up at the portraits of Chanakya and his father on the wall, both of them wreathed in garlands of fresh marigolds. Putting the palms of his hands and fingers together, he respectfully acknowledged them both with a namaste.

  With Diwali, the festival of lights, the biggest holiday in the Hindu calendar, due to begin the next day, Puri gave his staff the afternoon off and asked Handbrake to drive him to the airport to pick up his youngest daughter, Radhika.

  He could hardly contain his excitement as he waited outside the arrivals hall. It had been three months since he'd seen his chowti baby, the longest they'd ever been separated. He'd missed her sorely.

  As the other passengers emerged from the building, pushing trolleys piled high with baggage, and taxi-wallahs vied for their custom, the detective stood up on his toes, trying to peer over the heads of the crowd gathered around the exit.

  When he finally spotted Radhika, her young, eager face searching for his among the banks of strangers, he felt a lump form in his throat and cried out his nickname for her: "Bulbul! Bulbul!"

  "Hi, Papa!"

  Grinning from ear to ear, she skipped forward, flung her arms around him and gave him a kiss and a big hug.

  "By God, let me look at you," he said, holding her by the shoulders and giving her a fond, appraising look. "So thin you've become, huh! They're not feeding you at that college or what? Come! Mama's making all your favorites and she can't wait to see you. Mummy-ji's at home, also. Both your sisters are arriving tomorrow."

  He took hold of her trolley and they headed into the car park to find Handbrake and the Ambassador.

  "So, all OK?" he asked.

  And from that moment until they reached the house, Radhika regaled him with everything that had happened to her in the past few months.

  "Papa, you know we've been learning…"

  "Papa, you'll never guess what my roommate Shikha said…"

  "Papa, something amazing happened…"

  "Papa, did you know that…"

  Puri sat basking in her youthful enthusiasm and innocence, succumbing to her infectious laughter. Occasionally, he reacted to her anecdotes by saying things like, "Is it?" and "Don't tell me!" and "Wonderful!" But for the most part, he just sat and listened.

  By the time they pulled up in front of the gates and Handbrake honked the horn, he felt that the weight he'd been carrying on his shoulders-the weight he'd become so used to-had vanished.

  Like millions of other Hindu, Sikh and Jain households across India, every inch of Puri's house had been cleaned ahead of Diwali. In the kitchen, all the cupboards had been emptied and the shelves wiped down. The marble floors had been scrubbed and scrubbed again. Dusters had swished away cobwebs. Special lemon and vinegar soap had left all the taps, sinks and mirrors gleaming. And all the wood in the house had been lovingly polished.

  The exterior wall that surrounded the compound had been whitewashed and a cracked tile on the porch replaced.

  Rumpi had also been busy making preparations for entertaining all the family members and friends who were expected to visit them over the next few days.

  Gift boxes of dried fruit, almonds, cashews and burfi had been packed and wrapped, and then stacked in one corner of the kitchen. Monica and Malika had been preparing huge pots of chhole and carrot halva, and deep frying batches of onion and paneer pakoras. And Sweetu had been sent to the market to buy bagfuls of "perfect ice," savoury matthis and oil for the diyas.

  Puri's remit (he knew it only too well but Rumpi reminded him more than once) was to buy all the liquor, firecrackers and puja offerings-in the form of coconuts, bananas and incense-that would be made to Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth.

  It was also his responsibility to pick up new decks of playing cards and some poker chips. No Punjabi Diwali could be complete without a bit of friendly gambling. And if this holiday was anything like last year's, they
were in for at least one all-night session of teen patta.

  After dropping Radhika at home, Puri went to the nearest market. He found it packed with people rushing around buying last-minute items. The shops were decked with colored lights and tinsel decorations. Devotional music blared from the temples. Every few seconds, bottle rockets whizzed and exploded overhead.

  He returned after dark to find Rinku's Range Rover-license plate 1CY-parked in the driveway.

  Before entering the house, Puri gave Handbrake his Diwali bonus and enough money to get an auto to Old Delhi railway station. By mid-morning the following day, he would be home with his wife and baby daughter in their village in the hills of Himachal.

  "Thank you, sir," said the driver, beaming with happiness. "But, sir, one thing you promised me. The first rule of detection. What is it?"

  Puri smiled. "Ah yes, the first rule," replied the detective. "It is quite simple, actually. Always make sure you have a good aloo parantha for breakfast. Thinking requires a full stomach. Now you'd better be off."

  Puri saw Handbrake to the gate and made his way inside the house.

  "So we've got out first visitor, is it?" he shouted as he stepped into the hallway.

  He found Rumpi, Mummy and Radhika sitting with Rinku having tea and sharing platefuls of pakoras.

  "Happy Diwali, Chubby!" Rinku said, greeting Puri with a hug and the usual matey slap on the back.

  "You too, you bugger. Let me fix you something stronger."

  "No, no, I've got to be off," said Rinku. "The traffic to Punjabi Bagh will be murder."

  "Just one peg! Come on!" insisted Puri.

  "OK, just one," replied Rinku who never needed much convincing when alcohol was on offer. "But you're going to get me into trouble."

  "Then we'll be even!"

  The detective poured both Rinku and himself generous glasses of Scotch, and soon they were telling Sardaar-ji jokes and splitting their sides with laughter.