Tarquin Hall

by The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken

  A young secretary was waiting for the detective on the top floor. She led him down a long, impersonal corridor that led to Bhatia’s office. A double door opened onto a large room furnished with a conference table, a treadmill positioned in front of a wall-mounted plasma screen and a seating area with a glass coffee table.

  The Call Center King was standing behind his desk, looking out over the panoramic view of NOIDA beyond. He was talking on the phone; to California, according to the secretary.

  Puri couldn’t make heads or tails of what he overheard. What the hell was “dynamic content”? And how could a computer eat cookies? But he was fluent in body language and as he waited, he was able to gain a good measure of the forty-seven-year-old. Bhatia was the embodiment of the Indian IT nerd, right down to the glasses and the oversize collar in which his thin neck looked like a straw protruding from a bottle. His concave stomach, not much wider than the span of a man’s hands, suggested a vegetarian diet, while the kalava around his right wrist spoke of religious belief.

  Two other things evidently mattered to the Call Center King: recognition—framed covers of prestigious business magazines featuring his profile were prominently displayed around the office; and family, in particular his mother. Hers was the largest portrait of all on the wall, even dwarfing the image of Bhatia’s young wife.

  “So you’re a real private detective, Mr. Puri?” he asked as soon as he put down the phone.

  His accent was Americanized—like one of those voices in TV advertisements that tried to make toilet cleaner sound exciting. Puri was reminded that Bhatia had spent a considerable amount of time outside India—in Silicon Valley, mostly.

  “Most Private Investigators at your service,” said Puri, producing a copy of his card and handing it to the young man.

  “So you go after bad guys? Like bank robbers and kidnappers?”

  “All sorts, sir. Murderers, also.”

  “Wow; you know, I grew up reading detective stories. Couldn’t get enough of them. Feluda was my favorite. I used to lie in bed reading his adventures under the covers with a torch.”

  “Feluda is fiction, whereas I am fact,” said Puri rather dryly.

  “Right. So I’m told you’re looking into this Khan business. Any ideas who did it?”

  “That is a work in progress, shall we say.”

  “Am I a suspect? I was sitting right next to the victim.”

  “Putting it bluntly, sir: yes, you are on the list.”

  Bhatia put up both arms in a playful gesture. “I did it, Mr. Puri!” he announced with impish, crinkled eyes. “You got me! Take me away!”

  The detective’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Sorry to disappoint, sir, but I’ve not the power, actually. You would have to make a full confession to the police.”

  “You can’t make a citizen’s arrest?”

  “In India there is no such thing, sir.”

  “Then I guess I’m off the hook. Phew!”

  “Not quite, sir. Few questions are there.”

  “Do you mind telling me who you’re working for?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  “Wow, how mysterious! You’re a dark horse, Mr. Puri. But it kind of makes it hard to know who I’m talking to here. How do I know this conversation is going to stay confidential?”

  “Sir, confidentiality is my watchword. Furthermore I’m a member of the World Federation of Detectives and winner of the Super Sleuth Award. I am more than certain you searched my name on your wifee prior to my arrival, also.”

  “Wifee” was how Puri referred to the Web.

  “Well, a man in my position has to be careful,” said Bhatia. “So what is it you want to know? Did I see anything suspicious? Like the guy who spiked Khan’s butter chicken? I’m afraid not.”

  Puri decided to use the scatter approach—random questions, see if he could catch him off guard. “You’ve ever been to Pakistan, sir?” he asked.

  “Pakistan?” Bhatia frowned. “No, Mr. Puri, I can’t say I have.”

  “You’ve contact with any Pakistanis?”

  “Contact?” He let the word hang and made a face. “I’ve some Pakistani friends, if that’s what you mean. In the U.S., mostly. I guess that makes me a traitor, right?”

  “I would not say that, sir.”

  “No, but it doesn’t sit comfortably with you, does it, Mr. Puri? Pakistan’s the enemy, right?”

  “Isn’t it, sir?”

  “Not from where I’m sitting. Know what I see when I look at Pakistan? Potential. We have a lot of what they need and vice versa. It’s time for some détente, Mr. Puri, time to bury the hatchet. I tell you, the best remedy to all this hostility is trade. We should open up our borders, engage with our neighbor, help the Pakistani middle class grow. All this saber rattling gets us nowhere. We need to put all the suspicion aside.”

  “With all respect, sir, I think you are forgetting Pakistan is a fundamentalist state, founded on religion only. Its military and intelligence community is suffering from total paranoia with regard to India. The generals will never make peace. Nowadays they’re having nuclear weapons pointing at us even now as we speak.”

  “We have a few pointing at them, too, Mr. Puri.”

  “As a deterrent, only.”

  Bhatia smiled indulgently. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree. But you know, they’re not as bad as you might think. Pakistanis, I mean. They’re really no different than us—same language, same corruption, same love of cricket.”

  “You said ‘guy,’ sir.”

  Bhatia gave a quizzical look. “Sorry, Mr. Puri?”

  The detective read from his notebook. “‘Like the guy who spiked Khan’s butter chicken.’ Your words a few minutes ago.”

  “Just a figure of speech. A guy can be a girl, if you know what I mean. The word’s not gender specific. You really shouldn’t read anything into it. Guess I’ve spent too long in America.”

  “I take it cricket and not baseball is to your taste, is it?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Ever gamble on a game?”

  “Not in this country; it’s illegal. Something that should be changed, in my view.”

  “Why is that exactly?”

  “For one thing, the government’s losing a hell of a lot of revenue. Thousands of crores a year. And the whole business breeds corruption.”

  Puri made another entry in his notebook and Bhatia looked playfully over his desk to try to see what he was writing. “What is that, my biography?”

  The detective ignored the question. “You grew up in Delhi, is it?” he asked.

  “Born and bred. I moved to the States when I was twenty-four, but all my schooling was here.”

  “And your parents—Dilli also?”

  “Dad’s family hails from Amritsar. Mom came from what you’d call enemy territory. A village called Rawat in Pakistan.”

  The detective wrote down the name while asking, “She came over in 1947, is it?”

  “That’s right. But she’s never really spoken of it.”

  “Sir, my own mother lost her brother, actually, but not once in all my entire life has she talked about his death.”

  One of Bhatia’s phones rang.

  “Excuse me a minute, will you?” he said as he picked up the receiver. He listened for a second before placing one hand over the mouthpiece and saying, “Mr. Puri, if there’s nothing else I need to take this.”

  “One thing is there, actually. I would be needing to speak with your mother.”

  “Well, if you wanna hang on, she’ll be here soon. I’m taking her to lunch.”

  The detective, having indicated his willingness to wait, sat back listening to Bhatia talk more jargon for what seemed like an interminable period.

  When Jasmeet Bhatia arrived, Puri recognized her immediately from the Durbar dinner. Despite her age—midseventies at a guess—she was wearing the same Chanel sunglasses with rhinestone-studded frames. A considerable amount of gold glistene
d from her fingers as well, and the manner in which she carried her bag in the crook of her arm with her hand held out as if she was presenting it to someone to be kissed made it hard to miss.

  Beneath all the glam, however, stood a typical auntie type—at least that’s how Puri would describe her later in his notes. Around five feet four inches tall with an unbalanced gait (she lurched from side to side like a boat caught in a storm, thanks to her worn-out hips), Jasmeet Bhatia had clearly come to wealth late in life. Her withered hands and pockmarked complexion betrayed a lifetime of work. Indeed there was an inherent toughness about her. Puri could picture her fighting to be first at the village well.

  “Aaah, so you’re the one,” she said in Hindi when Puri introduced himself. “Satish said you’d be coming around.” The voice went with the face: forthright, strong.

  “I was waiting to speak with you, actually, madam,” said Puri.

  Her son was still speaking on the phone. Something about a ram.

  “What is it you want to know?” asked Jasmeet Bhatia. She hadn’t taken off her sunglasses. Puri found it disconcerting not being able to see her eyes.

  “During the dinner were you seated the entire time?” he asked in Hindi.

  “Of course not,” came back the answer. “I got up three or four times.”

  “While Faheem Khan was away from the table?”

  “I’ve no idea.” She gave a shrug. “Look, I got up to talk to my friends—Harnam Talwar, Anita Bhangu. What’s the big deal?” She gestured to her son to hurry up.

  “Had you had any prior meetings with Faheem Khan?”

  “I met him the night before.”

  “You didn’t know him or have any dealings with him in Pakistan?”

  “I’ve not set foot in Pakistan since 1947!”

  “You didn’t know him when you were young?”

  “Nothing like that,” Jasmeet Bhatia said with a wave of her hand.

  Her son hung up the phone and shot the detective a playful smile. “A handful, isn’t she?” he said. “But I’m pretty sure she didn’t do it.”

  Bhatia made it plain that the interview was at an end by walking round his desk and offering the detective his hand. “Hey, listen, it’s been fun,” he said. “I’m going to have some complimentary tickets for the next ICT match sent over to you. I’d like for you to be my guest in the box.”

  Puri thanked him and left the office.

  “Pretty sure she didn’t do it,” he repeated to himself as he waited for the elevator. Had Bhatia been serious? Or was that American humor?

  • • •

  The inevitable call from the Chief’s office came twenty minutes later as Puri was making his way back into South Delhi.

  “He wants to see you in his office—no delay,” said his assistant.

  “I’ve been suddenly taken ill, actually. High temperature is there. I’ll pay sir a visit day after. My sincerest apologies and greetings.”

  The cat was out of the bag.

  As for the dog, Dr. Pathak’s laboratory called at midday to say that the animal had indeed been poisoned with aconite. The technician was sure it had been ingested.

  • • •

  After eating a couple of kathi rolls at Khan Chacha’s followed by a dessert of diet pills, the detective turned stalker. He’d learned that Mrs. Anita Bhangu, who’d sat on the right of Faheem Khan, always went for a walk in Lodhi Gardens after lunch, and so he loitered in the Lodhi Road car park until she arrived in her modest Maruti hatchback.

  Carrying a bulging plastic bag, she set off along the edge of the lake and the battlements surrounding Sikander Lodhi’s tomb. For a lady in her midseventies, she walked at a sprightly pace, calling out occasionally to the malis busy tending the flower beds, all of whom recognized her.

  A couple of mutts, both wearing warm winter jackets, came bounding toward her, tails wagging, and she greeted them by name—“Indu! Kush!” Their yaps and whimpers attracted the attention of more hounds and soon she was surrounded by a pack, all jumping up excitedly.

  “Yes, yes, coming, my lovelies,” said Mrs. Bhangu. “Hungry today, no?”

  She stopped under a peepul tree and, from the bag, took out four bowls. Placing them on the ground, she filled each to the brim with dry dog food. The animals immediately tucked in.

  “Quite a feast,” commented Puri as he stopped on the path nearby. “No wonder they’re looking so healthy actually!”

  “Pritika here got into a bad fight the other day. I had to bring the vet and he gave her injections. Seems to be recovering, thank God.”

  Imported food, vets, winter coats—these dogs were better cared for than a lot of Delhi’s servants, Puri reflected.

  “You feed them every day, is it?” he asked.

  “We take turns—myself and my husband. He comes early morning for his daily walk.”

  “He’s a dog lover, also?”

  “Loves all animals. He’s patron of many animal-welfare societies, in fact. A society should be judged on the way it looks after its animals—that’s what he always says.”

  “I could not agree more, madam,” said Puri, who in truth was all for rounding up Delhi’s street dogs and putting them down on the grounds that one of them had once taken a chunk out of his right calf muscle. “Such a shame about that dog at Kotla the other day!” he added.

  “Oh, I couldn’t watch! I was actually there, you know, in the stadium, attending the match. Imagine trying to shoot a poor defenseless animal! What were they thinking?”

  The detective wished Mrs. Bhangu a good day and walked on, mentally crossing her and her husband off his list of prime suspects.

  He was down to eight suspects.

  • • •

  Puri soon had a brief, particularly unpleasant exchange over the phone with one of them: Neetika Sahini, the woman who described herself as a “public relations” consultant but was in fact a lobbyist representing the interests of India’s major corporate houses. She had sat five places away from Faheem Khan at the table.

  “Is this some kind of stoopid joke or what?” she asked when Puri introduced himself. “Mintoo, is that you?”

  “Madam, allow me to assure you when it comes to such grave matters, Vish Puri is always serious,” said the detective.

  “Gaaaad! Who is this? Santa Claus? I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “Five minutes total is required, only.”

  “Bloody bullshit, yaar! I went through this yesterday with the police. I don’t know anything.”

  “I’ve come to know you sat next to the deceased at a cricket match in Dubai last year.”

  This was fresh information supplied by Tubelight.

  “So what, yaar! I was a guest at a lunch and I got stuck next to that lecherous creep. His eyes were practically glued to my cleavage! Got what he deserved if you ask me. Now read my lips, OK: I didn’t kill that decrepit old Paki. I was talking to J. K. Shrivastav the whole time. He’s confirmed that to the police.”

  “During the meal you saw anyone put anything in Khan’s food?”

  “Are you stoopid or what? Think I’m going to tell you that?”

  The line went dead.

  No wonder she’s thrice divorced, Puri thought.

  • • •

  Less than ten minutes later, Nariman Rathore, one of the most powerful lawyers in India, called.

  “With regard to the tragic events at the Delhi Durbar Hotel this past Sunday evening, my client, Ms. Neetika Sahini, has made a full statement to the police and has nothing further to add,” he said. “Any effort on your part to contact her again will be regarded as an infringement of her privacy.”

  • • •

  Acting through an intermediary Puri had worked for in the past, the detective was able to arrange an appointment for five o’clock with multimillionaire Ram Dogra and his wife.

  The Prince of Polyester, whose original fortune was made supplying dirt-cheap garments to the Indian masses, made no secret of the opulence to which he
and his family had become accustomed. The entrance to his property, an enormous plot in the quiet, leafy and prohibitively exclusive area between Prithviraj Road and Lodhi Gardens, was not understated. Spotlights highlighted the brass plaques on the gateposts, the name “Dogra” spelled out in an elaborate, calligraphic script, like a Fifth Avenue brand name. The grand front gates were made of dark Burmese teak. An illuminated fountain played on the strip of lawn along the front of the wall.

  The contemporary bungalow and tropical gardens beyond could easily have been mistaken for a five-star boutique hotel and spa. This was borne out by the sitting room to which Puri was led by a liveried servant. A perfect square of raw-silk-upholstered couches occupied the center ground. Side tables held Venetian vases overflowing with an array of waxy, exotic lilies.

  Ram Dogra’s choice of double-breasted jacket, silk cravat and Italian loafers seemed no less affected to Puri. The eighty-year-old came from humble Ludhiana stock, after all, his gnarled, pitted features suggestive of a lifetime of battle.

  “Mr. Puri, your reputation precedes you,” he said, his voice deep, commanding, yet cordial. “Swati speaks highly of you. Called you a man of great integrity.” Swati Saxena was the former client who’d arranged the interview.

  “A great honor to meet you, sir,” responded the detective, markedly deferential in the presence of such a powerful individual. “I’m most grateful to you for taking the time to see me, actually.”

  Another man entered the sitting room. He was dressed in the badge of the male Indian assistant-cum-secretary: white open-collar shirt with breast pocket accommodating a row of pens. Without a word, he sat down on a chair next to the closed door, notebook and pen at the ready.

  “Madam would be joining us, sir?” asked the detective.

  “She’s got a headache,” said Dogra as he sat on one of the couches and motioned for Puri to do the same. “She should be along in a few minutes. We can start without her. Before we do, Mr. Puri, I want you to know that I had a call this afternoon from the Delhi chief of police.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “He urged me not to speak with you. Called you a ‘meddler.’”

  “We two do not always see eye to eye exactly,” responded the detective, wondering where Dogra was going with this.