“Heard you had some trouble,” said Talwar as he munched on the first of three.
“One comes to expect such things in my line of work,” said Puri, who restricted himself to just one samosa.
“Must be better ways of making a living. I understand you served in our armed forces, Puri. Then there was some trouble in Shimla, I’m told.”
Sahib had obviously been doing his homework, gathering what ammunition he could. It was what he excelled at—exploring people’s weaknesses and exploiting them to his advantage. Not for nothing was it whispered that he retained a cabinet post because of his stockpile of smut.
That Puri (thanks to Mummy) had discovered Sandeep Talwar’s greatest secret and could, with the dial of a number, send him into a tailspin provided the detective with a good deal of gratification, not to mention reassurance. But he hadn’t come to make threats. He wanted a trade. The two of them had a mutual enemy, after all.
“I was present at Mohib Alam’s satta party when his paan was poisoned—as you are very much aware,” began Puri.
There was subtext to this statement: Talwar had been the one who’d tipped off Full Moon, warned him that he might get a visit from a certain jasoos. In doing so, he’d almost gotten Puri killed. But that hardly mattered now.
“There and then I assumed Alam was done away with on Aga’s orders—one of those mafia vendettas over territory or some woman or whatnot. Normal thing. But then I came to know that Aga is out of commission, so to speak.”
Puri had Talwar’s full attention now, even if the man maintained an air of detachment.
“Means he was murdered by someone here in India, only. And I’ve the key to finding out who exactly,” added Puri.
Sahib absorbed the information at his leisure. “I take it you need some information,” he said eventually, before sinking his teeth into another samosa.
The detective explained about the Liechtenstein bank account held by a trust and how the name had been passed in secret to the Indian government.
“Seems you should be having it somewhere in your files,” said the detective.
The lights dimmed. The second half of the film was starting.
“I’ll get you what you want,” said Talwar. “But in return I’ll expect a name. That is, before anyone else.”
Dev Anand’s face appeared up on the screen—young, dashing, his dark quiff swept back. Puri was tempted to stay and watch but thought better of it.
• • •
Facecream brought two female colleagues, Lovejit and Mini, along to the Mirage, the hotel’s nightclub. With their curvaceous figures, short skirts and long manes of dark hair, they turned heads while making their way to the bar. Their target, Indian batsman Vikas Patil, was sitting over in one of the booths with a couple of his teammates and soon sent them a bottle of champagne. But then disaster struck: the Delhi Cowboys cheerleader troupe arrived. They were all blond and blue-eyed with bared midriffs and flirtatious smiles. And the Indian men, including the players, couldn’t keep their eyes off them.
“What’s with our guys and these gori girls?” complained Lovejit, incensed at all the blatant gawping and wolf-whistling.
“They’re complete bimbos,” said Mini with a sneer. “I overheard a couple of them talking in the ladies’ room and one of them said, all excited, ‘Did you realize, like, there’s actually a place called Kashmir? I just thought it was a kind of wool!’”
The three women burst out laughing. However, things were not going to plan. Vikas Patil had taken to the dance floor with one of the cheerleaders.
After a couple of songs, he took her back to his table, where they started kissing.
Facecream decided to go to Plan B. She called Tubelight and then waited until her mark stepped back onto the dance floor with the cheerleader. Mini and Lovejit joined them, flailing their arms around and pretending to be drunk. The latter bumped into Vikas Patil, almost knocking him over.
“Oh my God, so stoopid of me!” she screeched. “I’m so, so sorreeee! I just can’t believe it’s you! Amaaazing! I’m like your biggest faaan. You wanna dance? No? OK, but later maybe? OK, but can I get your autograph? OK, well nice meeting you, gorgeous!”
Facecream made her way out of the club with the cricketer’s room key-card in her possession. Having updated Tubelight and taken the lift to the seventh floor, she approached room 702. On cue, the hotel fire alarm went off. Within seconds, she had the door open.
It took her less than five minutes to install a pinhole camera and transmitter in the AC duct.
She called Flush to check if he was receiving a clear picture.
“Crystal,” he said.
Five minutes later, Facecream was sipping an eight-hundred-rupee mojito at the bar and the key-card was back in its rightful pocket.
• • •
Puri received the information he’d requested from Talwar shortly after midnight.
“Rawat Trust,” read the SMS.
The detective repeated “Rawat” over and over again, sure there was something familiar about the name. He searched through his notebook and found it mentioned in his jottings from his interview with Satish Bhatia, the Call Center King. His mother had been born there.
“By God!” exclaimed the detective. Without a moment’s hesitation, he called his mother.
• • •
To elicit Rinku’s help again, Puri had to sit up drinking Royal Challenge with him all night and exchange a lot of extremely bawdy sardar-ji jokes.
At six A.M., he drove to the Maharajah Hotel, where he found Flush eating his fifth plate of chicken nuggets.
“There’s a problem with Gordon, Boss,” he reported.
“The gecko?”
“He dropped through the AC outlet onto the floor in Khan’s room. He’s still making his way up the wall. See there.”
Flush pointed to the “Gordon Cam” window on his laptop screen. It showed a close-up of a wall with a ceiling beyond.
“He’s about halfway up.”
“Where’s Khan?”
“Just got out of the shower.”
“Turn that thing around.”
“He’ll be spotted, Boss.”
“Do it!”
Flush pushed the joystick to the left. The camera turned accordingly and the room came into view. Khan was sitting on the edge of his bed clipping his toenails.
“How about Vikas Patil?” asked Puri.
“Still sleeping. He had company.” Flush looked flushed. “It was, um, lively, Boss.”
Puri pulled up a chair and sat down.
“What’s that you’re eating?” he asked.
“Chicken nuggets.”
The detective reached over, took the last one and bit into it.
“Not at all bad,” he said.
• • •
Puri ordered two more portions for himself, as well as a pot of strong black coffee, and sat back and watched.
It was a long couple of hours. Vikas Patil didn’t rise until nine thirty (the cheerleader having left in the middle of the night). He took a shower, ate a plate of pasta for breakfast, called an unidentified girl and talked dirty with her for a while, and then sat in his towel watching an American sitcom. Khan meanwhile said his prayers, called his mother in Pakistan and stood for a long while looking out the window.
Both men appeared to be biding their time; occasionally they both checked their watches. At ten thirty, Khan’s hotel phone rang. He answered it, listened for a few seconds and, without saying a word, replaced the receiver. Then he reached for the copy of The Times of India lying on the coffee table and opened the classifieds section. His back was now turned to the camera.
“Jaldi! Move the bloody thing across the wall!” ordered Puri.
The gecko started to crawl forward. By the time it had reached a position overlooking Khan’s shoulder, the cricketer had found what he was looking for in the paper and, using his copy of the Koran, decoded the message. The detective could only watch him jot down some
figures on a piece of paper, stuff it into his trouser pocket and leave the room.
Vikas Patil received no such call before changing into his match colors and heading down to the lobby to join the rest of the team.
Puri called Brigadier Mattu. “Sir, one emergency is there,” he explained. “By chance you’ve a copy of today’s Times lying with you?”
Twenty-seven
Almost two hours later, Puri reached the top of the long flight of stairs leading to the Kotla stadium VVIP stand. He was out of breath, beads of sweat trickling down his face. The usher at the door eyed him with concern. “Do you need to sit down?” he asked.
“I’m very much fine,” replied the detective. He took a big gulp of air before adding, “Just my lunch actually—golgappa.”
The usher nodded sympathetically. It was common knowledge that once you started eating golgappas it was very hard to stop.
“Take a minute, sir. No hurry.”
The detective checked his watch. “Match begins in five minutes, is it?”
The usher’s answer was drowned out by the noise of a group of other invitees coming up the stairs behind them. They flashed their invitations before entering the box.
“Match begins at twelve thirty, sir,” replied the usher. “Cowboys won the toss. They’ll be batting first.”
Puri could feel the rhythm of his breathing slowing down. His complexion was cooling as well. But the tension roiled unabated in his gut. Everything was now riding on Brigadier Mattu. If he couldn’t establish which of the messages in the Times classifieds had been intended for Kamran Khan, then everything, all the efforts of the past forty-eight hours, would be for nothing.
Worse, there might not be another opportunity to catch red-handed the mastermind who was running the gambling syndicate.
Puri waited another couple of minutes, checking his mobile phone repeatedly to make sure he was getting a signal. He debated whether or not to call his father-in-law to find out if he had made any progress and decided against it. Brigadier Mattu needed to concentrate. Every minute, every second, counted.
A roar rose from inside Kotla stadium—the crowd welcomed the batsmen to the field.
“Match is about to begin, sir,” said the usher.
It was now or never. Puri took out his invitation card, the complimentary one Satish Bhatia the Call Center King had sent to him after their meeting, and gave it to the usher. But as the doors swung open, a voice called out from down the stairs.
“Chubby, you wait, na!”
Puri turned around to find his mother making her way toward him. “What are you doing here? I told you to wait in the car,” he said.
“But I saw her, na. She and her husband. They’re very much present!”
“Doesn’t matter. We agreed. Now go home. I’ll call you later.”
“No, Chubby, you listen,” she insisted, reaching the top of the stairs. “Visiting Hardeep Singh’s house unaccompanied—it was my mistake, no doubt about it. Your getting so angry was totally one hundred percent justified, also. But I’ve every and all rights to be here. Without my assistance her identity would not be known. It is only proper we two do conclusion of the case together.”
Puri shook his head. There was too much at stake to risk having his mother come inside with him: the resolution of three murders and, with any luck, the breaking up of the syndicate.
“The invitation is for one and one only,” he said.
“Actually, sir, the invitation is for two,” interrupted the usher. “See here . . . it says ‘For yourself and one guest.’”
“See,” said Mummy with a smile, offering her son her arm. “Now come.”
Puri didn’t have time to argue with her. But he wasn’t about to agree to her demand without driving home his advantage once and for all.
“Mummy-ji, I want your word that after today you will not get involved in any further investigation.”
She responded with a wounded expression. “How you can say that, Chubby? I did solution of the case, after all.”
“That’s not the point, Mummy-ji.”
“You don’t think I proceeded in a right and proper way?”
“You’ve done well—better than well, in fact.” His voice sounded sterner than he intended and he tried to soften his tone. “But I’ve told you before, no? At your age and all, you should not be running around. It is not a mummy’s role, actually.”
Mummy folded her arms. “Fine, na,” she said in an indignant tone. “If that is your wish, Chubby. You’ve my word and such.”
Another roar came from the stadium. The first ball of the match had been bowled. Puri took his mother by the arm.
“Just one question is there, Chubby,” she said before they entered the box. “If and when, that is after today, any small matter should arise . . . there’s nothing stopping me bringing it to your attention, na?”
He eyed her warily.
“What type of small matter, exactly?
“Someone facing difficulty or requiring assistance, for example.”
“Wanting professional assistance, in other words.”
“Correct.”
“Then I’ll do whatever is in my power to help, Mummy-ji. It’s my duty, after all. Now come. We’ve a mystery to conclude.”
• • •
Inside the VVIP stand, they found themselves in distinguished company once again. Many of the great and the good who’d been at the Durbar dinner were present, most of them gathered around the bar. Puri spotted Sandeep Talwar and his wife, Harnam, chatting to that foul-mouthed woman Neetika Sahini. Industrialist Ram Dogra was in attendance, as was his wife, Megha—both in conversation with Mrs. Anita Bhangu, the pooch lover.
The detective found Satish Bhatia, the Call Center King, relaxing in one of the armchairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass pane that overlooked the field.
“Hearties apologies for the interruption, sir,” said Puri as he greeted him. “Just I wanted to extend my greetings—and thank you, actually. For the invitation, that is. Most kind of you.”
“The least I could do,” said Bhatia as he stood up to shake the detective’s hand. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“This is my mummy-ji,” continued Puri. “She’s a number one fan of cricket, actually.”
Bhatia greeted her with a polite namaste. “Pleased you could be here, auntie-ji,” he said.
“Your own mother is present, also, na?” asked Mummy.
“She was.” Bhatia looked around the stand but couldn’t find her. “Must have gone to the ladies’ room.”
There were two empty armchairs next to him.
“Don’t mind if we join you?” asked Puri.
“Well, actually, I’m waiting—”
“So kind of you,” said the detective as he sat down and took in the view. He could make out troupes of cheerleaders performing along the boundary. Ripples passed through the swathes of fans like wind through a wheat field.
Somewhere down there was Rinku, waiting.
“This is the life, no?” added Puri as Mummy took the empty armchair to his left.
“It has its perks, Mr. Puri,” said Bhatia, who had one eye on the match and the other on his BlackBerry. “But sometimes I miss being in the stands surrounded by all the fans. You feel closer to the game down there, a part of it. Up here . . . Well, you quickly lose touch.”
Puri watched one of the opening batsmen smack a delivery for six and the stadium’s giant screen light up: “BAZOOKA!” The euphoria sounded muffled through the glass. Bhatia was right: it wasn’t the same up here in this ivory tower.
“Looks like Kamran Khan’s next,” he commented as the Pakistani prepared to make his approach from the south end of the field.
Puri checked his mobile phone. Still nothing from his father-in-law.
“Any progress, Mr. Puri?” asked Bhatia.
“With my investigation, sir?”
“What else?”
“Undoubtedly, sir. The pieces of the puzzle are
coming together, actually. Just one or two remaining to be put in place.”
“You sound confident.”
“Always.”
Khan delivered his first ball, a perfect delivery that forced the batsman onto his back foot.
“Well bowled!” called out Bhatia with a clap of his hands that was somewhat hampered by his BlackBerry. “He’s in good form. Amazing that he’s back in the game so quickly after what happened.”
“I believe he’s returned out of fear for his life,” said Puri. “Someone is threatening him. Making him believe he’ll meet the same fate as his father if he doesn’t play.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Bhatia.
“I was in Pakistan few days back and met with him.”
“You were in Pakistan, Mr. Puri? Didn’t you call it enemy territory? I’m amazed.”
“Sir, I do not mind admitting that I was full of apprehension. So long I’ve lived with hatred for that nation, actually. Reality on the ground, though, was quite different. I found the people most accommodating and hospitable. No animosity was there. One distinguished gentleman provided me with a most important breakthrough in the case, also.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”
“Yes, sir. Whole thing—going there, crossing the border—was a life-changing experience, we can say. Made me realize something, actually. We people carry around baggage we don’t even realize we’re carrying.”
“That’s very profound, Mr. Puri,” murmured Bhatia, eyes still fixed on his BlackBerry screen.
Mummy had turned in her chair and was surveying the company, searching for Kiran Singh. Puri placed one hand on her arm and gave it a pat as if to say, “All in good time.”
Finally, his phone rang.
“Don’t mind, haa?” he said to Bhatia, answering it as he stood up.
The detective began to pace up and down in front of the window. “Haa . . . haa . . . haa,” he said, blocking his host’s view.
Bhatia, visibly irritated, signaled for him to move out of the way.
“So sorry, sir, foolish of me,” Puri apologized, one hand over the receiver. He shifted to one side. “Haa . . . haa . . . haa,” he repeated, adding in a loud voice, “very good, very good! Send me SMS with the details, sir . . . Good of you. I would be coming round later. We’ll celebrate. Something stronger than your usual tomato soup.”
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