The text message came through a minute later. Puri forwarded it to Rinku and resumed his seat. The tension in his gut began to ease.
“Seems I’ve got hold of another piece of the puzzle,” said Puri, perfectly sanguine.
“Oh?”
“Yes, the identity of the killer is now known to me, in fact.”
“Someone at the dinner that evening?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But why kill the old man?”
“Seems he did not.”
Bhatia sent Puri a puzzled look. “I’m confused. Didn’t you just say you know who killed Faheem Khan?”
“Actually, I was referring to the gentleman who ordered the death of the two bookies.”
“Bookies?”
“Yes, sir. See, they were involved in match fixing and all. Faheem Khan, also. The night he met his fate eating butter chicken, he had one meeting with a bald gentleman, name of Mohib Alam. It took place—the meeting, that is—on the lawn of the Durbar, directly outside the banquet hall. By chance I was witness to it. Another gentleman was, also. That gentleman put two and two together, so to speak, and thus realized Khan and Alam were engaged in match fixing.”
“And this individual poisoned Khan?”
“No, sir. Seems that murderous act was carried out by another individual.”
Bhatia’s smile was coldly skeptical. “Two murderers, Mr. Puri?”
“Delhi bookie Mohib Alam was poisoned by a hit man posing as a paan wallah. He used aconite—a cunning ploy of the gentleman who hired his services. It was his idea to make it look as if Alam’s murder and that of Faheem Khan were connected.”
“But they weren’t?”
“Mummy-ji believes the motive for Faheem Khan’s death was another one, totally unconnected to cricket, in fact.”
Bhatia’s mouth twitched into a smile. “With all due respect, Mr. Puri, is your mummy-ji really in a position to know?”
“That we will know for sure within the hour.”
The ball was knocked deep into the stands again and everyone in the VVIP seats began to applaud.
“I’m still confused,” said Bhatia. Puri noticed his left foot tapping on the floor. “You said there were three murders.”
“Correct. Another bookie was murdered in Mumbai, also. He was killed on orders of the same gentleman present on the terrace.” Puri paused for a beat. “That individual in question is a most cunning and capable person—a topper,” he continued. “In the past six months, only, he’s taken over the running of the entire illegal gambling syndicate in India.”
“You’ve strayed into the realm of Bollywood,” said Bhatia, smiling indulgently. “Everyone knows Aga controls the gambling business.”
“Used to, sir. Past tense. Seems our American friends grabbed hold of him. As of now he’s rotting in some cell. The topper I mentioned came to know this. He’s a computer genius, actually. Thus he was able to access the Pentagon system, where he read certain top-secret files.”
“Pentagon? Hacking? It all sounds pretty far-fetched to me.”
Down on the field, Khan was preparing to bowl his fourth over. Puri had timed his revelations perfectly.
“Allow me to prove it to you, sir. The second ball of this over will be a wide.”
“You couldn’t possibly know that,” said Bhatia with a dismissive, peremptory snort. But his eyes remained fixed on the field nonetheless. He watched Khan make his approach, as graceful as ever—watched as the delivery bounced a good two feet wide of the crease.
“You see, sir, I’ve a topper working for me, also. One hour back, only, he discovered the message in the Times classified pages.”
Bhatia didn’t flinch. His gaze remained fixed on the field.
Puri continued. “Most ingenious, sir—the whole operation, in fact,” he said. “A call center is the perfect cover for running a gambling operation. Rows of operators sitting at desks in front of computers and wearing headsets and all. Those on the top floor of your building are not selling life insurance or booking airline tickets, but taking bets directly from punters across India. Fact that you are offering more favorable odds means that most of Aga’s bookies started passing on their risk to you. But one thing you would not tolerate was match fixing. Certainly not by others. Thus you hired a hit man. That left the field open, so to speak. You knew which players were involved. You cracked their encryption code, also. And thus earlier today you sent them coded messages—which I had the good fortune to intercept.”
“These are dangerous allegations you’re making, Mr. Puri,” said Bhatia, his tone distinctly menacing.
“I believe you are the one who should be more concerned.”
“You’re threatening me, Mr. Puri?”
“Not threatening, sir—promising. That is, unless you can pay your debts.”
“Debts?”
“Allow me to explain. See, I happen to know a certain individual who is most fond of betting on cricket. When he came to know I’d come by certain match-fixing information, he was naturally interested to know more. Unfortunately this individual is fond of Indian Made Foreign Liquor, also, and last night, only, he got to drinking a good deal. Thus his tongue started wagging and he passed on what was naturally confidential information to his buddies—and seems they in turn shared it around also. Right across India, in fact.”
Puri paused for a moment. “You remember Khan’s last wide ball—one I predicted earlier? That one proved my information is one hundred percent correct. Therefore, my friend and many of his associates, also, will be placing large amounts on the next delivery, a full toss going for a sixer, I believe.”
Bhatia gave a sharp glance at the field, where Khan was about to make his approach. He pressed redial on his phone and held it to his ear. His foot was tapping at double the pace now. His glasses had slipped down his nose and he pushed the rims back up against the bridge, his Rolex jangling loose on his thin wrist. The ball went for a full toss. Vikas Patil knocked it clear over the boundary for six. Bhatia let his arms fall down onto the arms of his chair. A tinny-sounding voice came out of the BlackBerry. “Hello, hello? Sir, are you there?” It went unanswered. Bhatia’s finger pressed the disconnect button. He turned in his seat to face the detective and said, “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Mr. Puri.”
“That is something of a stale line, no? And furthermore, it is one hundred and fifty percent inaccurate. Even the existence of your Liechtenstein account is known to me. The name, Rawat Trust, gave you away, actually. You told me yourself Rawat is your mother’s native place.” Puri sounded triumphant as he added, “No, sir, I regret to inform you it is over for you. I’ve taken the bails off your wickets, so to speak. Umpire’s decision is most definitely ‘out.’”
The Call Center King leaned toward him. “Believe me, Mr. Puri, I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I do,” he said.
“Sir, I believe you have tried once before and failed. Better you look to your affairs, only.”
Bhatia stood up abruptly and stormed off through the throng of VVIPs, making for the exit without his mother.
“You’re letting him get away, na,” said Mummy.
“Not to worry,” Puri answered, signaling the waiter to bring him a drink. “With his identity out in the open, he’s in hot water. The hottest, actually. I would not want to be in his chappals for one minute.”
“He’ll make a full confession, na?”
“Most probably to the Americans, Mummy-ji. They want him for hacking their computers, after all. Here in India his life is not worth two paisa. Police, netas, corporators—entire Nexus will be after him also. Sandeep Talwer will want his head on a platter. Bhatia had his bag man, Mohib Alam, killed, after all. All India is into gambling these days and no one likes a match fixer.”
The waiter returned with a large whisky and a fizzing nimboo paani.
• • •
Mummy now had a clear view of Kiran Singh.
She found it hard to believe tha
t this was the same woman who’d been imprisoned in that foul hole by Faheem Khan sixty-odd years ago. Aging was the best disguise of all and it had done its work effectively. All traces of her rural origins had been expunged. She had become a woman of refinement with a distinguished bearing. Watching her, Mummy could believe that her reputation as a caring individual who gave generously of her time and wealth to the less fortunate had been well earned. Certainly no one would ever have guessed the tragedy she’d endured—witnessing the execution of her mother and sisters at the hands of her own father; escaping death by what must have been a matter of millimeters; being abducted and violated by that animal.
It would have destroyed most women. But she was strong. Strong enough to smuggle herself into India. To build a new life for herself. To take revenge when the opportunity finally, unexpectedly presented itself all these decades later.
Mummy guessed that it had probably been in Delhi that she’d met her adopted mother, Harjot Ghatwal. Bereft of her husband and children, the widow had mistaken Kiran Singh for her own daughter. Or perhaps the two women had adopted each other, come to a mutual understanding. Either way, Kiran Singh had become Megha Ghatwal, later marrying businessman Ram Dogra.
But no one could ever fully escape their past.
“It’s always there, na, like a ghost doing haunting,” said Mummy as she and Puri sat discussing how to proceed. “Myself, I’ve tried to forget—memories of those terrible times and such. But it is hard. Just they’re popping up from time to time. Sometimes in my dreams. Other times while going to buy milk.”
Mummy’s throat had gone dry. She wetted it with a sip of her drink before continuing. “Every time I can see clearly his face,” she said, referring to her brother, Anil. “Just a boy he was, na. Never hurt a fly. So scared and terrified. Begging those boys to let him go. I can see their faces also. So much hatred is there. Then he is gone, dragged away. Just I hear his screaming—and . . . it’s over.”
Puri closed his eyes. “Mummy-ji, I’m sorry. What all you went through I cannot imagine in a thousand years,” he said.
“I was not alone, Chubby. Everyone did suffering, na. Hindu and Muslim. Our people were killing so many of their people, also. Children, babies, old women—no one was spared. Responsibility is on our heads, also.”
“How can you say that, Mummy-ji? They murdered your brother,” said Puri, almost pleading with her.
“Those who did that thing were human beings, na. We should ask ourselves why human beings behave in such a way. Otherwise nothing can change.”
Puri frowned. “You’ve forgiven Anil’s killers, is it?” he asked.
“Not at all. I want justice, same as Kiran Singh. But doesn’t mean I have hatred of all Pakistani or Muslim people.”
The match was still being played. Indifferent to the outcome of the game, she watched the batsmen running up and down.
“Mummy-ji, one question is there,” asked Puri.
“Would I do revenge?”
He nodded.
“Answer is no, Chubby. Definitely. But for Kiran Singh it is different, na.”
“Why exactly?”
“To this very day, the names of Anil’s murderers, they remain totally unknown to my good self. But she . . . she got abused by this man personally in the worst way. That is something different. Just imagine coming face-to-face with this man after so many of years.”
“They met at the drinks the night before the match,” added Puri. “Faheem Khan came directly from the airport—his first time in India.”
“Then only she decided to do the needful. Next morning, na, she got hold some aconite.”
“Motive is there but rest is guesswork,” said Puri.
“Come now, Chubby. You know she did it, this thing.”
“A detective does not go by feelings, Mummy-ji. He goes by facts.”
“Fine. Then let us get them once and for all.”
Mummy stood and crossed the room with swift efficiency, reaching the table where Megha Dogra was now sitting on her own, her husband having gone up to the bar.
“Sorry for the interruption, na, but I would need a word,” said Mummy.
“Do we know one another?” replied Megha Dogra with a gentle, quizzical smile.
“We met long time back, na. It’s been some sixty years, in fact.” Mummy switched to Punjabi. “My name is Koomi Pabla,” she said. “I was the one who rescued you. From that hole behind his house.”
A look of astonishment swept over Megha Dogra’s face, swiftly followed by tender recognition. In an instant, however, this too gave way to perplexity. “I . . . I . . . don’t know what . . . what to say,” she stuttered. “I think you must have me confused with someone else.”
“No mistake,” said Mummy. “Now that I’m standing here, I’m sure. You were the one he called Saroya.”
Puri, who’d been caught off guard again by his mother’s maneuver and had struggled to get up out of his armchair, reached the table. Megha Dogra’s eyes moved between the two of them, making the connection. A shadow seemed to pass over her face.
“My son,” explained Mummy, the clarification redundant. “We’ve been working together.”
“A most effective team we’ve made, I must say,” added Puri as he pulled up a chair. “Indeed, Mummy-ji has been able to offer unique insight into the case. Having been part of events sixty years ago or more, she suspected the motive for Faheem Khan’s murder might have to do with his past, not his present. Thus she searched for the woman he abducted in 1947. That trail has led to you, madam.”
“I see,” said Megha Dogra in a diminished tone. “And you want to see justice done, I take it.”
“That is my duty, madam.”
“And what if I told you that justice has already been done, Mr. Puri?” She was looking the detective in the eye, not a hint of remorse or compunction in her voice. “It may seem cruel now, an old man poisoned in such a way,” she continued. “But to his victims—and there were many—he was anything but helpless. His punishment was well deserved, let me assure you.”
Mummy and Puri exchanged a long, knowing look. They had their answer. And in that instant, without a word passing between them, they both came to the realization that proving Megha Dogra’s guilt would be impossible. There were no witnesses to her poisoning the butter chicken. No clues left at the scene of the crime. Even the link between the culprit and the victim couldn’t be corroborated. It would be her word against theirs.
Still convention dictated—at least in Puri’s book—that he should be the one to have the last word.
“Allow me to inform you, madam,” he began, sounding like a seasoned judge summing up in court, “it is my belief that no one, under any circumstance, has the right to put the law into their own hands. Also, I would wish to state for the record that if the means and all were at my disposal, I would not hesitate for one minute or second, even, to pass the evidence to the proper authorities—in this case the Delhi police.”
Megha Dogra seemed to sense that she should allow him to continue with his homily uninterrupted. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her chin held in perfect alignment with her straight shoulders, a portrait of calm composure.
“Furthermore,” continued the detective, “I should like to add that it is my belief that ultimately we must all account for our actions to a high power. Therefore, madam, I leave it for the God to pass judgment at some later date. It is Vish Puri’s intention to take the matter no further.”
Megha Dogra acknowledged his words with a gracious nod.
They left her sitting at the table surrounded by celebrating Delhi fans who’d just seen their side add four more runs to the scoreboard.
Puri and Mummy walked solemnly toward the exit. They passed Ram Dogra along the way. “I wanted to ask if you’d made any progress with the case,” he said.
“Unfortunately, sir, it is very much looking as if we have run into a dead end—too many stale clues and all.”
Puri had come to
the conclusion that Ram Dogra was ignorant of his wife’s actions and no doubt about her past as well.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You must feel very frustrated,” said the Prince of Polyester.
“Failure is not something I welcome or take lightly, sir. However, in my case at least, it is a rare occurrence.” He paused. “That said, sir, all is not lost.”
“Why’s that?”
“No doubt our Delhi chief of police is hard at work, so we can all rest easy.”
Ram Dogra’s laughter was still ringing in their ears as Mummy and Puri left the stands.
They were about halfway down the stairs when the doors behind them swung open with a bang.
“Koomi, just one minute, please,” pleaded a voice.
Megha Dogra hurried down toward them, her eyes moist with tears. She put her arms around Mummy and gave her a warm, lingering hug.
“I never got a chance to thank you,” she whispered. “Bless you.”
And then she turned and headed back upstairs to her husband—to her life.
Twenty-eight
Puri hadn’t slept in his bed for the past two nights and desperately wanted to return home to Rumpi. But there was no escaping work and he spent the next few hours tying up loose ends—most notably identifying Satish Bhatia’s hit man, whom Inspector Singh had tracked down of his own volition.
It wasn’t until nearly six that Bhatia himself was arrested at Delhi Airport, where he’d been trying to board a flight to America, at which point Puri called his client to give him the good news.
“Well done you, Puri! Very well done indeed!” he said.
“Most kind of you, sir,” answered the detective, swelling with pride.
Now seemed like a good time to bring up the cost of the Mercedes-Benz that had been written off and the ten lakhs Puri had lost to Full Moon.
“I can never quite get my head around all your lakhs and crores, Puri. How much is that in real money?” asked Scott in response.
The detective gave him an approximate figure in U.S. dollars.
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