The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  There was not a dry eye in the house. ‘You are a genius, sir, a total genius.’

  Ajay was pleased but remained calm. ‘Arey leave it, Kharbanda, just leave it. Don’t you bullshit me now.’

  SP Kharbanda had already thought of a eulogy that could be fitted neatly to a paragraph. ‘On my dead body, sir. I mean it. All these Mumbai crime branch hotshot ban-chos—and I include myself in their bastard group,’ sir. I mean, here comes a young, dashing, really intelligent officer from Delhi—and within a matter of a day, he has single-handedly solved not one, not two, not three, but what looks like ten murders. Sir, I am certain they would have to create a new post for you. Even the topmost ones don’t do justice to your brain power.’

  ‘Arey Kharbanda, leave it, bhai. You na. But thanks. Man, I can’t wait to solve these other unsolved bastards. Bring them on.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir. The first one…’

  Ajay twirled a tuft. ‘Wait a minute, Kharbanda. I think we should go about it differently. Why don’t you put the unsolved folks under the same headings as you did for Agatha? Easier that way, no.’

  ‘Great idea, sir…Sharma?’

  ‘Yes, sir, here is the list.’

  Ajay cut in. ‘No, Sharma, you keep hold of the list. Just tell me how many people fall under the following headings. Ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ajay fell back on the chair, and because of the German ball bearings-driven tilt- tension-controller system, kept falling back until in panic he paddled the air with his arms. He reclaimed his dignity and cleared his throat. ‘Good. Train.’

  ‘Yes, sir, just a minute, sir. Train…train…trai…’

  ‘If you must, do the counting in your bloody head.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, sir. Tr…one. Only one, sir.’

  ‘Good. Gun. Shot, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Shot…shot…that’s two…there’s three…five, six…six. Sir, six.’

  ‘Six? That’s a lot, isn’t it. Almost one-third. Okay, good. Next: poison.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  While DSP Sharma was spotting the number of times the word ‘poison’ appeared in the table, Ajay winked at SP Kharbanda. ‘Kharbanda, this is good, na.’

  ‘Brilliant, sir, brilliant. We are learning from you all the time.’

  DSP Sharma cried out suddenly. ‘One, sir. One.’

  ‘Good. Train, shot, poison—anything else? Yes, how about serial?’

  ‘Sir, serial?’

  ‘Yes yes, serial. Bhai, one after another but all connected. Kharbanda, you tell him.’

  SP Kharbanda clicked a dental consonant. ‘Arey Sharma, like that Shah Rukh Khan in Baazigar.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. Sir, nothing that stands out as such. Except these three brothers…’

  ‘Okay, put them under serial; we’ll find out shortly. How many headings thus far, Sharma?’

  ‘Sir—train, plane, gun, poison, serial.’

  ‘Good. How many unsolved left?’

  ‘Sir, six.’

  Ajay shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Hmm…we have covered outdoors. How about indoors? Anything that stands out among this six? Where were they killed, for example? Home, hotel, something like that.’

  ‘Yes, sir, one minute. Two killed at a political rally…’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Sir, one in a hotel—our own Taj Mahal hotel, sir. Found strangled with electric cable. About this one everyone knows, sir. Ramrao Apte.’

  Ajay opened his eyes. ‘Who?’

  ‘Apte. That message and bottle thing, sir—last year. It was connected to And Then There Were None.’

  ‘Of course. Apte.’

  ‘Ji, sir. This was the gift I was telling you about.’

  ‘Look, don’t distract me, Sharma, I am in the zone right now.’

  DSP Sharma placed a file on the table. With his fingers he goaded it towards Ajay. ‘The gift, sir. Here, this file.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This is the whole Apte file, sir.’

  Ajay pushed the file away. ‘Why are you giving it to me? And you call such things gifts? And anyway, if I remember correctly wasn’t the bastard’s secretary convicted for the murder?’

  ‘He was, sir, he was. But the reality is different, I think, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  DSP Sharma pushed the file forward again. ‘It is not official; it is not to be mentioned ever, sir. It is my humble gift to you, sir. It will help you.’

  Ajay was beginning to enjoy file tennis. He pushed the file back in DSP Sharma’s court. ‘Look, Sharma, I…’

  ‘I was one of the officers sent to investigate that message and bottle theory, sir—after it came out in the media.’

  Ajay sat up. ‘You went to Cornwall?’

  ‘No, sir, to Mughalsarai.’

  Ajay tried to suppress a laugh. ‘Mughalsarai?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Let me tell you the complete story, sir. I was sent under SP Chaubey.’

  Ajay looked at the ceiling fan for one moment. ‘No, don’t know him.’

  ‘He was transferred to Jharkhand last December, sir.’

  Ajay was fast losing his patience. ‘Please, Sharma, look…’

  But DSP Sharma had won the toss and elected to bat. ‘Myself and Chaubey went and met a fellow called Bansilal. Bansilal had written a letter to the crime branch saying that he knew who the killer was. This Bansilal gave us a name, sir, of a boy who worked at his book stall at the station. Bansilal said that this boy had read every Agatha novel there ever was written. Each and every. Bansilal was sure that the killer had to be this boy.’

  ‘But then the secretary? I…I don’t quite get it. Why was all this never made public?’

  ‘We couldn’t, sir. Chaubey sir himself had caught the secretary and was awarded a medal for it, sir.’

  Ajay reached for a paperweight and gave it a mighty swirl. ‘Wah. The thing just goes on and on, haan.’

  ‘I…I couldn’t go against Chaubey sir’s orders, sir. He made sure we kept this Mughalsarai thing under wraps.’

  ‘Ya ya ya. I, I, always. I couldn’t this, I couldn’t that. Kyon, Kharbanda. You are very quiet. Sure you didn’t have anything to do with all this?’

  SP Kharbanda shook his head vigorously. ‘W-what are you saying, sir? No no, of course not. I barely knew Chaubey.’

  Ajay turned to Sharma. ‘Anyway. What can I say…thank you for this...this gift, Sharma. I am honoured.’

  ‘My duty, sir. Form one honest officer to another.’

  ‘Speechless.’

  DSP Sharma gestured with his eyes. ‘Open it, sir. There’s that message from the bottle in there. Read it, sir. It is thrilling. You feel as if you are sitting right next to the killer as he is writing it.’

  Ajay put a stop to the monkey business. ‘Sharma, not now. Later. Look, we have derailed completely here…just go back to what…Yes, any other, besides the political rally and the hotel?’

  DSP Sharma was deflated but dare not show it. ‘J-ji, sir…One is at home—but this is more like a domestic than anything else, sir.’

  ‘Dammit, no one asked you for your opinion—just yet anyway.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Yes, sir. And finally, sir—this is interesting—bastard killed in a library.’

  ‘Library.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, put it down under “library”, then. I think that’s enough for the moment. Let’s start with what we have got and we’ll move to those rally and home and hotel ones later.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Kharbanda?’

  SP Kharbanda tilted his head. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Arey, I mean ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sharma?’

  ‘Yes, sir, waiting for the gun.’

  ‘Good. Let’s begin with this library fellow. Sharma—give me the lowdown on this guy. Then, Kharbanda, I’ll ask you what you have in the Agatha table, alright? Go, Sharma.’

  ‘Yes, si
r. The name is Yashwantrao Palnitkar. Two-time mayor of Mumbai.’

  ‘Yes yes, I think I know the guy. Was murdered in the Bombay Gymkhana.’

  ‘Yes, sir. November tenth, ’99. Body found in the library of Gymkhana club, sir. Death by strangulation—the verdict of the coroner.’

  Ajay drummed the table with a pencil. ‘Saala, bastard. One would be hard-pressed to find a more corrupt dog, no Kharbanda?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sold off 30 acres of mill land at one go. Thousands lost their jobs overnight. You saw that food court, sir, when we were on our way to the morgue? A cloth mill had stood there for seventy years…’

  ‘Yes, well…’

  DSP Sharma covered his cough with his fist, or tried to. ‘Er, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Sharma?’

  ‘Sir, it says the case was solved within a fortnight.’

  Ajay looked at SP Kharbanda naughty-eyed. ‘Kyon bhai, Kharbanda?’

  DSP Sharma continued excitedly. ‘Sir, it goes on. It seems the murderer was an ex-police officer, someone called Khare. Khare confessed to the killing—said 5 of those 30 acres belonged to him. Unfortunately, it says here, sir, Khare was shot dead while trying to escape from the Arthur Road Prison, sir.’

  ‘Arey Kharbanda, you are exceptionally quiet.’

  SP Kharbanda scratched his upper arm nervously. ‘Er…no, sir, I was only…’

  ‘Bas, bas. Now, what have you got in Agatha?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There are four under the library heading, sir: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, The Body in the Library, The Murder at the Vicarage and Lord Edgware Dies. I have also included murders that happened in a study.’

  Ajay asked, in all seriousness, ‘Now, why have you done that?’

  ‘Study is like a library only, no?’

  ‘Accha achha, go on. Obviously The Body in the Library.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The Body in the Library: “Colonel and Mrs Bantry are shocked to find the dead body of a young platinum blonde on the floor of their library, strangled to her death. Nobody in the village of St Mary…”’

  ‘Arey Sharma, just ring the bell and ask for some chai.’

  ‘Sure, sir.’

  ‘Haan, Sharma, sorry. carry on.’

  ‘Yes, sir. “...the village of St Mary Mead seems to know who she is, but everyone has a theory about the crime. But Miss Jane Marple, St Mary Mead’s resident sleuth, always seems to be one step ahead of them”…the end, sir.’

  ‘Yes, this seems to be the one. Library, strangled. Except I don’t think Palnitkar was a platinum blonde.’

  SP Kharbanda couldn’t resist. ‘He was a platinum ban-cho, alright, sir.’

  ‘Hah, that he was. Well, put Palnitkar’s file aside Sharma—case number one solved. I mean “truly solved”.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ajay did a 360-degree turn and ended up 720 adrift. ‘Go on. Shall we take the train next?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Arey, train, Sharma. Train.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Train. Man named Rajwardhan Singh Khedwal. MP from Bijnaur, sir. Found dead, stabbed on 10 June 2001 in his first-class AC coach…’

  ‘Bastards always travel first-class AC, don’t they? And those who vote for them? Unreserved compartments for them lot…carry on, Sharma.’

  ‘Yes, sir. This Rajwardhan—body was found by the TTE. The coupé was bolted from the inside and the police had to get in by breaking the window. File says he was a huge Thakur vote bank. Also, a friend of Bhaiyaa Raja.’

  ‘You mean the Bhaiyaa Raja?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Er…case solved within a week. File says he fell out with Bhaiyaa Raja. Criminal case against Bhaiyaa Raja himself is pending in Allahabad High Court, sir.’

  Ajay threw his head back. ‘You see, Kharbanda? Skeletons tumbling out with breakneck speed. But why was Mumbai police involved—their jurisdiction doesn’t run on till bloody Bijnaur, does it?’

  ‘Er, no, sir. The train was Mumbai-bound. Body was discovered at Mumbai Central.’

  ‘Ah. Anyway, over to you, Kharbanda.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Four cases under the “train” heading: 4.50 from Paddington, Murder on the Orient Express, The Mystery of the Blue Train and The Girl in the Train and Other Stories, sir.’

  ‘Alright, start.’

  SP Kharbanda put his glasses back on. ‘Yes sir, 4:50 from Paddington: “Elspeth McGi-l…McGilli…sorry sir, what is this McGillicu-ddy…’

  ‘Uf bhai, it’s not important. Change it to Rampyari if it makes you comfortable, goddamn…’

  ‘Er, yes, sir. “Rampyari is generally not given to hallucinations. Until she boards the Paddington train for St Mary Mead and becomes a witness to a murder. She claims she saw a man killing someone in a train running parallel to hers—a crime no else apart from Rampyari believes ever really happened. Except for her friend Miss Jane Marple…”’

  ‘Hmm…no, not this. Go on, next.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Murder on the Orient Express.’

  ‘Oh yes, I have heard of this one, but unfortunately haven’t read it.’

  SP Kharbanda spoke the words before he had a chance to open his mouth. ‘Where is the time, sir.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘S-sorry, sir. Yes, Murder on the Orient Express: “While en route from Syria to Paris, the Orient Express is stopped dead in its tracks by a snowdrift. Passengers awake to discover that a wealthy American has been brutally stabbed…”’

  ‘Aha. We are getting somewhere now.’

  ‘Yes, sir, “…brutally stabbed to death in his private compartment. Incredibly, that compartment is locked from the inside…”’

  Ajay smacked the Sunmica. ‘Bingo.’

  ‘Yes, sir, “…With no escape into the wintry landscape the killer must still be on board! Fortunately, Hercule Poirot is also on board.”’

  ‘So how the ban-cho did the killer get out after cleaning up Rajwardhan, with the windows intact and the coupe bolted from the inside? Well, what did the Mumbai police have to say about this...Sharma?’

  DSP Sharma dug deep. ‘Let me see, sir…Er, sorry sir, no mention of this puzzle.’

  ‘I knew it—bastards. Arey, these are the small keedas that make an officer out of a donkey. And you guys? I shudder to think if this saala Poirot was working for Mumbai police. All his grey cells would have turned ash white on day one. Anyway, hop on to the next one, Sharma…’

  ‘Which one, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know…try plane.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Oh, this man everyone knows. Manochar Kangda.’

  ‘The beedi king?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Died on the plane—Indian Airlines flight IC134, Bhopal to Mumbai, 2 December 2000. The autopsy report says multiple organ failure, massive overdose of an anti-cancer drug. Killer turned out to be his personal physician, a man called Ramnath Powar, who was with him on the flight.’

  ‘Good. Kharbanda?’

  ‘Yes sir. Two cases: Death in the Clouds and Passenger To Frankfurt.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Sir. Death in the Clouds: “A French woman dies mid-air on a plane crossing the English Channel. A poison dart indicates murder. That she was notably ugly provides a clue, albeit a cryptic one. Fortunately for justice, the famed Belgian detective Hercule Poirot happens to be aboard. In fact, evidence points to him as the perpetrator.”’

  Ajay tapped his chin. ‘Something not quite gelling…’

  Kharbanda, though, was confidence personified. ‘Why, sir, I would think it is watertight. This Manochar—you haven’t seen his photographs, have you, sir? The ugliest gandu in town…’

  ‘Oh, stop being an ass, Kharbanda. Our guy doesn’t choose his victims based on their looks. I mean he has left out our present CM, hasn’t he?’

  Kharbanda tittered, then said, poker-faced, ‘Maybe he isn’t done yet, sir.’

  ‘No. Something else. Just read a few under poison.’

  ‘Er, sir, there are too many.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘The Crooked House, Appointm
ent with Death, A Pocket Full of Rye, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Three Act Tragedy, Sparkiling Cyanide, The House of Lurking Death, The Pale Horse, Five Little Pigs, Sad Cypress, The Mirror Cracked from Side to Side and Curtain, sir.’

  ‘Damn. Well, read a few…’

  ‘Yes, sir. Crooked House: “In a sprawling, half-timbered mansion in the affluent suburb of Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides lies dead from barbiturate poisoning. An accident? Not likely. In fact, suspicion has already fallen on his luscious widow, a cunning beauty fifty years his junior…”’

  Ajay was fast losing patience. ‘Bas bas. And Kharbanda, it is crook-ed and not crooked, like cooked with an “r”. And lush-us not lusk-eye-us. Dammit, man.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Print is too small.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Kharbanda looked away and as he did, caught a glimpse of Sharma and found him sniggering.

  Ajay played around with a quill-shaped golden pen, part of a government-issue gang of four. ‘In any case, this deals with barbiturate. Next.’

  ‘Sir. Appointment with Death: “‘You do see, don’t you, that she’s got to be killed?’ Ominous words for Hercule Poirot to overhear on his first night of vacation in the Holy Land. They come true, among the towering red cliffs and the ancient ruins of Petra when a tourist is murdered in full view of her fellow sightseers. A tiny puncture mark on her wrist is the only sign of the fatal poison that killed her—digitoxin. And not surprising. The ‘horror of a woman’ was loathed…”’

  ‘No, not this one either. Digitoxin, it says. Let’s try another one.’

  ‘Yes, sir. A Pocket Full of Rye: “The innocuous cup of morning tea left Mr Rex Fortescue dead. Early investigations revealed the culprit to be a deadly poison called taxine—an alkaloid found in the seeds of yew tree berries. Everyone agreed that the shocking thing about his murder was that the contemptible tycoon wasn’t knocked off sooner. But when two less-deserving souls fall victim to the killer, Miss Jane Marple is engaged to solve the mystery. The only link appears to be buried in a not-so-innocent verse. So what’s the rhyme and reason behind the playful hint? The answer draws the shrewd sleuth into the heart of a family secret—and an increasingly menacing game that’s anything but child’s play.”’

  ‘I think this could be the one. Arey Sharma, you said Manochar died of a massive overdose of some anti-cancer drug. Does it say which one?’