Tarquin Hall

by The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken

  Full Moon himself spent a good deal of time in an adjacent room and Puri decided to try to get inside and plant a listening device. First he needed a diversion. So while Facecream kept their host occupied at the bar, he went to the toilet to call Flush and ask him to arrange a brief power cut.

  Five minutes later, the lights and TV screen went off. Amidst all the cries, jeers and confusion, Puri slipped unnoticed into Full Moon’s room. Turning on the flashlight built into his Indian-manufactured mobile phone, he found himself in a study, furnished in keeping with the rest of the house—a desk with silver-plated legs, a chair that looked like a throne with red velvet covering. The books on the shelves were mostly about big-game hunting and cricket.

  The detective had brought along a few of Flush’s ingeniously designed listening devices (these looked like ordinary car keys and were therefore easy to smuggle through the tightest security) and attached one to the bottom of the bookie’s desk. Then he checked the drawers. The top one was locked, but the mechanism was simple and Puri opened it with ease.

  Inside, on top of some pornographic magazines, he discovered a piece of paper with four rows of numbers written on it, three numbers to a row.

  This he folded and slipped into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he sent an SMS to Flush. A moment before the electricity came back on, Puri returned to the hall.

  • • •

  The match ended an hour later, a win for Mumbai. Puri had lost a grand total of 300,000 rupees, a little more than $6,000. Facecream had also succeeded in keeping Full Moon distracted without having to compromise herself.

  A few of the guests wandered upstairs, accompanied by the prostitutes; others carried on eating and drinking and took to the impromptu dance floor. A young man whom Puri recognized as the son of one of the country’s richest industrialists sat down with a couple of friends and started to snort lines of cocaine.

  By then, Puri had planted three bugs in various parts of the house; a signal from Facecream indicated that she had successfully placed her two as well.

  Before leaving Puri could not resist having a paan. He went over to the spot where the paan wallah was sitting behind a table and ordered a sweet one.

  The man took a fresh lime leaf from his stock and began to open little stainless steel canisters full of ingredients. He scooped out a dollop of slaked lime paste and spread it on the leaf. Then came the areca nut, followed by dollops of fruit preserves and spices.

  Full Moon came and stood next to the detective and ordered one for himself.

  “You lost a lot of moola today,” he commented. “Anyone would have thought you were throwing it away deliberately.”

  “Just enjoying,” said Puri with a grin. “Next match I’ll make back my losses for sure—you can bet on it, actually.”

  The paan wallah wrapped the betel leaf and its contents into a snug but sticky little package and handed it to the detective. Puri inserted the paan into his mouth; his right cheek bulged outward as the juices began to fill his mouth.

  “Thanks for the party,” he said, sounding like an Indian version of Marlon Brando in The Godfather. “I had better get a move on. We would be driving directly back to Ludhiana this evening, only.”

  “Don’t you mean Khan Market?”

  Puri looked down to find a pistol pointed at his belly. Over at the bar, Full Moon’s number two had Facecream and Rinku covered as well. The other guests appeared oblivious to what was going on.

  “What the hell is this, yaar?” the detective bawled, trying to bluff it out. “You’ve got my deposit. Accounts are to be settled before midnight as agreed.”

  The paan wallah, who couldn’t see the pistol from where he was standing, handed Full Moon his order. The bookie took it with his free hand and motioned Puri toward his study.

  “Jao!” he ordered.

  The detective crossed the hall and opened the door. He could feel the muzzle of the pistol prodding into his back as the bookie turned on the lights.

  “Sit down,” he said, closing the door with his foot.

  Puri did as he was told. Full Moon kept the pistol on him and placed the paan on his desk.

  “Now give me what you stole from me . . . Slowly.”

  The detective reached inside his jacket and took out the piece of paper with the code written on it. Full Moon snatched it away.

  “Know what they used to do to thieves in my village when I was a kid?” he asked. “Cover them in ghee and hang them upside down over an anthill. By the end they’d be begging for death.”

  Then, without warning, Full Moon took a step forward and slapped Puri hard across the face, sending the paan flying out of his mouth. The detective felt stunned. For a moment he thought he might cry. But he managed to steel himself.

  “How did you know?” he asked, nursing his cheek.

  “I got a call from an old friend this morning. Said there was a certain lowlife jasoos by the name of Vish Puri sniffing around, that he might come knocking. Didn’t take much to figure out which buffoon he was talking about.”

  Full Moon was sitting on the edge of his desk, looking pleased with himself. “What puzzles me is what Rinku bhai is doing helping you,” he continued. “We’ve had plenty of dealings together, he and I. Why this sudden betrayal?”

  “We’re childhood friends,” answered Puri. “When I demanded his help, he couldn’t refuse me.”

  “Very touching. Childhood friends. Makes it all the more appropriate. You two grew up together. Now you’ll die together.” He let his words hang in the air for a moment before adding, “Maybe they’ll have a joint cremation, save on the wood.”

  Full Moon’s number two entered the room. Facecream and Rinku were locked in the swimming pool pump house, he reported. He had also added up the total for the day’s winnings: half a crore, around $110,000.

  “Keep our remaining guests occupied,” said the bookie. “I’ll bring him out the back in a few minutes. We’ll take the three of them to Provence Estate. They’re pouring concrete in the morning.”

  The number two left the room and Full Moon made a phone call. His only words were: “Amount is twenty-four lakhs.” And then he hung up and popped the paan into his mouth.

  “That is Aga’s cut, is it?” asked Puri.

  “Shut up, yaar. I’ll be asking the questions,” said Full Moon. “Now tell me who you’re working for.”

  The detective didn’t answer.

  “Tell me, otherwise my associates will make a proper mess of your friend Miss Nina. All she’ll be good for is begging at traffic lights.”

  Puri held out a bit longer before appearing to give in. “I was hired by Kamran Khan—to find out who killed his father,” he said.

  Full Moon looked at him askance. “Kamran Khan?” he repeated, sounding unconvinced. “How did he hire you?”

  “Though an intermediary—an Angrez.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s with Scotland Yard. They know all about you.”

  “What do they know?”

  “That you and Faheem Khan had dealings—doing match fixing and all. Most probably you were falling out over winnings. That’s why you killed him.”

  “Brilliant work, Mister Sherlock, except I didn’t do it. Faheem and I were partners. We were making a lot of money together.”

  Puri regarded the bookie with puzzlement. “But if you weren’t the one . . .,” he mused, his brow corrugated. A revelation suddenly came to him. “Of course—it was Aga! He found out you and Khan were match fixing without his say-so.” There was an edge of triumph to Puri’s voice as he added, “No wonder you’ve got so much of security here today. He’s put out a contract on you, isn’t it?”

  Full Moon cocked his pistol. “Stand up,” he said. “We’re going to a building site. You, Rinku and Miss Nina are going to help strengthen the foundations.”

  By now the hall was empty, although the music was still playing. The lyrics to the latest Bollywood number blared out: “I know you want it but you’re nev
er gonna get it . . . I’m too sexy for you.” As they passed the bar, Full Moon told Puri to stop and helped himself to a bottle of water.

  “Keep moving,” he said, glugging down the contents. His voice sounded croaky. “Through that door over there.”

  Puri heard him clear his throat. He did it a couple more times before breaking into a cough. The water bottle fell to the floor.

  “Stop!” he ordered.

  The detective turned around slowly, hands in the air. Full Moon was massaging his throat. An expression of almost ludicrous panic twisted his features.

  “You’ve been poisoned,” said Puri. “Aconite, most probably in the paan. Let me help you.”

  Full Moon raised his pistol, and with the words “Bastard, I’ll kill you!” pulled the trigger.

  The bullet missed, hitting a stuffed bear standing in the corner, which keeled over. The detective moved to his right as fast as his body would allow, taking cover behind a column. Another bullet whistled past, then another.

  Click, click, click. Either the pistol had jammed or he was out of bullets. Puri risked a peek around the column. He saw Full Moon stumble toward the bar and grab another bottle of water. He poured the contents down his throat. Tottering backward, he knocked over a candelabrum. A candle touched on a curtain and set it alight. The pistol clattered to the floor as Full Moon wrapped his arms around one of the columns, trying to keep upright. After a few seconds, he slid down it, his shoes squeaking on the polished marble.

  Puri reached the dying man’s side and managed to turn him over. Frothy red saliva oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  “The code you and Faheem Khan were using. What’s the cipher?” asked the detective. Behind him the curtains were alight, the flames licking at the wooden balcony above.

  Full Moon gestured for him to come closer. Puri did so. And with his last breath, the bookie tried to spit in his face.

  “Once a charmer, always charming,” said Puri as he searched the dead bookie’s pockets and took his mobile phone. He then hurried back to the study to retrieve the piece of paper with the code on it.

  He emerged, successful, to find the fire burning out of control. The alarm had gone off. Gamblers and prostitutes were running half-dressed from the building. There was no time to search for his ten-lakh deposit.

  Puri made his way out through the back of the building in search of the others. He ran into them halfway across the garden. Facecream had their former captor in a half nelson.

  “Full Moon’s dead, poisoned by the paan wallah,” Puri told them.

  “What about the money? There’s got to be fifty, sixty lakhs in there,” said Rinku.

  An explosion came from inside the mansion. Glass and flame burst from the ground-floor windows. Rinku stared, incredulous.

  “It’s only money, yaar,” said Puri.

  “Only money! Chubby, you need your head examined!”

  “No examination is necessary, I can assure you. Now, come. Let us get after that hit man. No delay.”

  Fourteen

  Inspector Surinder Thakur of the Laxmi Bai Nagar police station called while Puri and his team were in the middle of a high-speed chase after the paan wallah hit man.

  The detective answered his phone, thinking it might be someone important.

  “Vish Puri, sir. Hello? Your portable’s been in power-off mode these past hours.”

  The detective had to raise his voice over the cacophony of car horns and screeching tires: “What all I can do for you, inspector?”

  The paan wallah hit man, who was obviously familiar with the roads (and pavements) of this part of Delhi, had a distinct advantage: he was on a motorbike, a Royal Enfield Bullet. But in Handbrake he had a formidable opponent. Puri’s driver had been trained in the reckless art of Indian driving by the best of the best: Randy Singh of International B-Hinde Taxi and Limousine Services, who, as legend had it, once played chicken with a Bentley and won.

  Puri usually kept his driver on a tight rein—“Do lane driving!” he would admonish him from the backseat. The moment Handbrake was let loose, however, he could be relied upon to willingly and adeptly slalom through traffic at high speed, pull into oncoming lanes regardless of what was approaching in the opposite direction and, when necessary, tackle roundabouts anticlockwise.

  While in pursuit of the paan wallah hit man, he showed no qualms about pulling through a petrol station forecourt, sending the pump attendants scattering. Nor did he hesitate when they reached Saket and he had to reverse down the Sri Aurobindo Marg ramp against the flow of the morning rush hour.

  “You heard the news?” asked Inspector Thakur. Puri noted a distinct lack of confidence in his voice; evidently the moustache investigation was not going his way.

  “What all happened?” asked the detective as he watched the paan wallah hit man speed up a mound of sand, jump over a drinking-water wallah’s cart and land squarely on the other side.

  “Cow!” shouted Rinku as a large bullock stepped into the middle of the road.

  Handbrake swerved, narrowly missing the animal, but knocked off one of the Merc’s side mirrors.

  “Doesn’t matter!” the detective bawled. “Go fast!”

  “Better I call you later, sir?” asked Inspector Thakur.

  “No, no, tell me,” replied the detective before shouting, “There, there! Take next turn!”

  Handbrake took a sharp left and Puri, Rinku and Facecream were thrown to one side of the car. A moment later, the vehicle hit a speed bump and they were all tossed upward. This caused the detective to let out a baritone belch.

  “You were saying, inspector? Some development in the case?”

  “Gopal Ragi was abducted today in broad daylight. From outside his home directly. And, sir, his moustache was taken—shaved clean off,” reported Inspector Thakur.

  Puri digested this information as he watched the paan wallah hit man pass through a pedestrian gate and enter the Safdarjung Development Area.

  Handbrake promptly threw the car into reverse. An SUV coming in the other direction gouged the Merc’s right side.

  “His fault, sir!” cried the driver.

  “There’s an access road up ahead,” Rinku contributed.

  It crossed the detective’s mind that the Gopal Ragi abduction might be a revenge shearing and that his client might have been behind it. This concern was quickly alleviated.

  “A man was spotted at the scene who matches the description of the intruder at Shri Bhalla’s residence on Saturday last,” explained Thakur.

  “Ragi’s moustache—it was clean shaven, is it?” asked Puri, having to repeat the question three times before he could make himself understood.

  “Not a single hair left behind,” came back the answer.

  The assassin was speeding down the back streets of the colony, apparently lost. Finally, he turned into a dead end.

  “We’ve got him,” declared Puri.

  “Got who?” asked Thakur, confused.

  “Apologies, inspector! One minute hold.”

  The car was doing a good sixty miles an hour now, flying past the villas and parked cars. It would be only a minute or two before they caught up with their quarry. But then they ran into a perfect storm of servants and wallahs—a dog walker with five pugs, each on its own leash and straining in different directions; a kabari wallah peddling a rickety wooden cart piled high with old newspapers; and a baraat band on its way to a wedding.

  Handbrake successfully negotiated this human and canine obstacle course with a minimum loss of speed. But a toy seller riding a bicycle while simultaneously blowing a kazoo and balancing a fifteen-foot-long bamboo pole festooned with inflatable ducks on his handlebars was one obstacle too many.

  Puri’s driver had to bank hard to avoid hitting him and found himself on a collision course with some schoolchildren. Slamming on the brakes and swerving to the right, he plowed into a parked, and thankfully unoccupied, Tata Nano, the cheapest car in the world and, as the impact conclusively prov
ed, little more than a tin can on wheels.

  “His fault, sir!” said the driver, his words muffled by the air bag now pinning him back against his seat.

  Rinku started laughing—“What a ride, yaar!”—as Puri exited the car.

  The paan wallah was coming back down the road. He smiled at the detective as he raced past and gave him a military salute.

  “Hello, hello? sir, you’re still on line?”

  Puri lifted his handset to his ear as he watched the motorbike race out of sight.

  “Yes, inspector.”

  “What was that noise? Sounded like an accident.”

  “A minor one, only,” he said as he surveyed the damage.

  The front of the Mercedes-Benz was crumpled, there was a long tear down its right side and the side mirror was gone—tens of thousands of rupees’ worth of damage, and none of it likely to be covered by the insurance. Puri just hoped that Scott had meant it when he’d talked about having deep pockets.

  “Naturally you’ve located the owner of the next-longest moustache?” asked Puri.

  “He’s ninety-two years. Lives far off in some cave on the Nepal border,” said Thakur with despair.

  • • •

  After Puri had swapped insurance details with the owner of the wrecked Nano, reported the accident to the police and waited for the crowd of onlookers to disperse, he opened the boot of the Mercedes.

  Inside lay Full Moon’s number two. He’d been sick all over himself.

  “Your boss made a hawala transfer. To who exactly?” demanded Puri.

  A hawala transfer could be made between money brokers without the cash actually moving. This unofficial network handled the transfer of billions of dollars across South Asia and beyond every year.

  “Saar-ji, please!” he begged. “Let me out of here. I can’t breathe.”

  “First tell me the hawala broker’s name.”

  “Bhai never told me. My duties are organizing the parties, getting girls, buss!”

  Puri slammed down the boot, listened to his captive’s entreaties for a minute or two and then popped the latch again.