The Case of the Missing Servant

Three

The rubber soles of Puri's new shoes squeaked on the marble floors of the Gymkhana Club reception. The noise caused Sunil, the incharge, to look up from behind the front desk. He was holding a phone to his ear and murmuring mechanic ally into it, "Ji, madam, o-kay madam, no problem madam." He gave the detective a weary nod, placing the palm of one hand over the receiver.

"Sir. One gentleman is awaiting your kind attention," he said in a hushed voice.

It was not unusual for a prospective client to ask to meet Puri at the club. The prominent members of society who came to him often guarded their privacy and preferred not to be seen coming and going from the detective's offices.

"Mr. Ajay Kasliwal is it?" asked Puri.

"Yes, sir. Thirty minutes back only he reached."

The detective acknowledged this information with a nod and turned to look at the notice board. The club secretary, Col. P. V. S. Gill (Ret.), had posted a new announcement. It was typed on the club's letterhead and, in no fewer than five places, blemished with whitener.

This made instant sense to Puri (as he believed it should to anyone coming to the club wearing bush shirts or indeed safaris) and his eyes turned to the next notice, a reminder from the undersecretary that ayahs were not permitted on the tennis courts. The chief librarian had also posted a note appealing for funds to replace the club's copy of the collected works of Rabindranath Tagore, which had "most unfortunately and due to unforeseen and regrettable circumstance" been "totally destroyed" by rats.

Next, the detective cast a quick eye over the dinner menu. It was Monday, which meant mulligatawny soup or Russian salad for starters; a choice of egg curry, cabbage bake with French fries or shepherd's pie for mains; and the usual tutti-frutti ice-cream or mango trifle for dessert.

The thought of shepherd's pie followed by tutti-frutti ice cream stirred the detective's appetite and he regretted not having come over to the club for lunch. As per Dr. Mohan's instructions, Rumpi was packing his tiffin with only weak daal, rice and chopped salad these days.

Finally, Puri turned to the list of new applicants for club membership. He read each name in turn. Most he recognized: the sons and daughters of existing members. The others he jotted down in his notebook.

As a favor to Col. P. V. S. Gill (Ret.), Puri ran background checks on anyone applying for membership who was not already known in the right Delhi circles. Usually this meant making a couple of discreet phone calls, a service Puri gladly provided the Gym for free. Standards had to be kept up, after all. Recently, a number of Johnny-come-lately types had made applications. Just last month, a liquor crorepati, a multimillionaire, had asked to join. Puri had been right to flag him. Only yesterday, the man had been featured in the social pages of the Hindustan Times for buying the country's first Ferrari.

The detective slipped his notebook back into the inner pocket of his safari suit and made his way out of reception.

Usually he reached the bar by cutting through the ballroom. This route avoided the main office, which was the domain of Mrs. Col. P. V. S. Gill (Ret.). A bossy, impossible woman who ran the club while her husband played cards in the Rummy Room, she regarded Puri as an upstart. He was, after all, the son of a lowly policeman from west Delhi who had only gained entry to the hallowed establishment through Rumpi, whose father, a retired colonel, had made him a member.

Unfortunately, the ballroom was being decorated-a dozen paint-splattered decorators working on bamboo scaffolds bound with rope, were applying lashings of the only color used on every exterior and interior wall of the Gym: brilliant white-and so Puri was left with no choice but to take the corridor that led past Mrs. Gill's door.

He proceeded slowly, painfully aware of his new squeaking shoes, specially made for him to account for the shortness of his left leg. He passed the Bridge Room and the ladies' cloakroom and a row of prints of English country scenes depicting tall, upright gentlemen in top hats and tails.

As he passed Mrs. Gill's office, he went on tiptoe, but the door immediately swung open as if she had been lying in wait.

"What is all this squeaking, Mr. Puri?" she screeched, her flabby midriff bulging from the folds of her garish sari. "Making quite a racket."

"My new shoes, I'm afraid, madam," he said.

Mrs. Gill looked down at the offending footwear disapprovingly.

"Mr. Puri, there are strict rules governing footwear," she said. "Rule number twenty-nine, paragraph D, is most specific! Hard shoes are to be worn at all times."

"They are orthopedic shoes, madam," he explained.

"What nonsense!" Mrs. Gill said. "Hard shoes only!"

She pulled back into her office, closing the door behind her.

Puri continued down the corridor, resolved not to wear his new shoes in the club again. Such Punjabi women were not to be tangled with; in his experience they could be more fearsome adversaries than Mumbai's crime bosses.

"Imagine spending sixty years with such a woman," he mumbled to himself. "One can only imagine what the colonel did in his past life to deserve such a fate."

The detective pushed open the door to the bar and stepped into the relative quiet he so cherished. This was the only truly civilized spot left in Delhi, a place where a gentleman could enjoy a quiet peg or two among distinguished company-even if some of his fellow members barely acknowledged him.

Judge Suri was sitting in the far corner in his favorite chair, smoking his pipe and reading the Indian Journal of International Law . Puri recognized Shonal Ganguly, professor of history at Delhi University, sitting with his wife. Next to the fireplace slouched L. K. George, the former industrialist who had given away his family fortune to the League for the Protection of Cows and their Progeny and now lived in a crumbling Lutyens bungalow on Racecourse Road. Propping up the bar stood Major-General Duleep Singh along with his eldest son, a surgeon and resident of Maryland visiting from the USA.

Apart from the waiters, the only other person in the room was a distinguished-looking gentleman sitting on his own at one of the little round tables near the French windows with an empty glass in front of him. Puri guessed this must be his guest because his brow was deeply furrowed with worry, a feature prospective clients often shared.

"Sir, your good name, please?" asked the detective, approaching the stranger.

"Ajay Kasliwal," he answered, standing up and offering his hand.

Despite the bar's cool temperature, his palm was moist. "Vish Puri, is it? Well, I'm certainly glad to meet you. Bunty Bannerjee put me on to you. Said you were to be found here most evenings. He sends his best wishes, by the way."

"Most kind of you," replied the detective. "How is the old devil? It's been such a very long time!"

"Very good, very good. No complaints. In and out of trouble," replied Kasliwal with a jovial chuckle.

"Everyone is well?"

"World class! Flourishing, in fact!"

"And Bunty's factory? Thriving, is it?"

"Thriving, absolutely thriving."

Puri gestured for Kasliwal to take his seat. He sank back into the armchair and his weight caused it to wheeze air like an old bellows.

"You'll join me?" asked the detective.

"Please," sighed Kasliwal.

The detective snapped his fingers and an elderly waiter who had been working at the club for some forty years approached the table. He was hard of hearing so the detective had to shout his order.

"Bring two Royal Challenge and soda! Two portion chili cheese toast!"

The waiter nodded, picked up Kasliwal's empty glass and methodically wiped the surface of the table. This provided Puri with an opportunity to study his guest up close.

Kasliwal, who was in his late forties, had an air of privilege about him. His manicured fingernails, contact lenses, and well-groomed salt-and-pepper hair, swept back from his forehead, indicated that he spent a good deal of time tending to his appearance. His gold watch, two thick gold rings and the gold pen glinting from his shirt pocket left others in no doubt of his wealth and status. There was an intellectual gravitas about the man too. In his thoughtful eyes, Puri perceived a certain striving.

"Accha," said Kasliwal, once the waiter had finally withdrawn. He leaned forward in his armchair. The furrows on his brow deepened. "Firstly, Puri-ji please understand one thing. I'm not a man to panic easily. Not at all."

He spoke English with a strong accent and "not at all" was rolled into one word as "naataataall."

"Believe me, I've faced many obstacles and challenges in my life. This I can say with utmost confidence. Also, I'm one man who prides himself on honesty. That much is well known. Ask anyone. They will tell you that Ajay Kasliwal is one hundred and fifty percent honest!"

He went on: "Puri-ji, I understand you are a man of integrity and discretion, also. That is why I've come. Frankly, I'm facing a serious situation. A crisis. It can be my ruin, actually. That's why I've air-dashed here to see you."

"You are a lawyer residing in Jaipur, is it?" interrupted Puri.

Kasliwal looked taken aback. "That's correct," he said. "But, how…Ah, Bunty told you, I suppose."

Puri enjoyed impressing prospective clients with his deductions, despite the simplicity of his observations.

"I've not spoken with Bunty, actually," he said, plainly. "But from your Law Society of India monogrammed tie and type of briefcase, I deducted you are a man of the Bar. As to your hometown, traces of red Rajasthani sand are on your shoes. Also, you mentioned air-dashing to Delhi. You arrived here thirty minutes back. So should be you came by the five o'clock flight from Jaipur."

"Amazing!" exclaimed Kasliwal, with a clap of his hands. "Bunty said you were a gifted fellow, but never would I have believed!"

The lawyer edged even closer, looking from side to side to make sure no one could overhear their conversation. The waiters were at a safe distance behind the bar. None of the other members appeared to be paying Puri and his guest any attention.

"Yesterday I was paid a visit by the cops," he said. "Someone has lodged an FIR against me."

Kasliwal handed Puri a copy of the "First Information Report." The detective read it carefully.

"You're ordered to produce one female named Mary within seven days, is it?" he noted once he'd finished, passing back the document. "Who is she exactly?"

Before Kasliwal could answer, the waiter returned with their drinks and snacks. Slowly, he placed them on the table one by one and then presented Puri with the bill. The club did not accept cash, so all purchases made at the bar or in the restaurant had to be signed for. This system produced piles of paperwork, which kept at least four clerks employed in the club's accounts department. Puri had to sign one bill for the drinks he'd ordered, another for the double Scotch Kasliwal had downed earlier, and another for the food. Naturally, the guest book required a signature as well.

It was several minutes before Kasliwal was able to answer Puri's last question.

"Mary was a maidservant in the house-did cleaning, laundry and all," he said.

"And where is she now?"

"I'm not having the foggiest! She left two, maybe three months back. Just disappeared one night. I wasn't home at the time. I had work to attend to."

Puri tucked into a slice of chili cheese toast as he listened.

"My wife says Mary stole some household items and ran away. But a rumor has circulated that, well…" Kasliwal took a swig of his whisky to fortify his nerves. "There's no truth in it. You know how people talk, Puri-ji."

"Most certainly I do. India is one giant rumor mill, actually. Tell me what all they're saying?"

There was a pause.

"That I got Mary pregnant and did away with her," admitted Kasliwal.

"By God," intoned the detective.

"This has been the complaint made against me and, as you know, in case of FIRs, the police are obliged to investigate."

There was a silence while Puri retrieved his notebook from his inside pocket and then pulled out one of the four pens he kept tucked into the breast pocket of his safari suit.

After jotting down a few details, he asked: "Any body has been discovered?

"No, thank heavens!" exclaimed Kasliwal. "The police searched my house and grounds and some media persons have been on the doorstep asking questions."

"Sounds like someone's trying to ruin your good name, is it?" asked the detective.

"That's it! You've hit the nail on the head, Puri-ji! That's exactly what they're trying to do!"

The lawyer went on to explain that in the past few years he had launched a number of public litigation cases in the Rajasthan High Court. This was something many honest lawyers and individuals were doing across India: working through the legal system to bring inept local and national authorities to account.

"I've had some success tackling the water mafia. I've managed to stop a lot of the illegal water drilling in the driest parts of the state," he explained. "But with so much corruption in the judiciary itself, it's been a tough innings. So earlier this year, I decided to take on the judges themselves. I've launched a public litigation case calling for them to declare their assets."

Puri sipped his whisky. Out of the corner of one eye he registered Major-General Duleep Singh and his eldest son leaving the bar.

"Must have made a few enemies along the way," he said.

"At first they tried to buy me, but I'm not a bowler to do ball tampering. I turned them down flat. To hell with them. So now they're gunning for me. They've seized on this missing servant to muddy my name."

"It seems there's no hard evidence against you, so surely you've got nothing to worry-" said the detective.

"Come on, Puri-ji, this is India!" interrupted Kasliwal. "They can tie me up in knots for years to come."

Puri nodded knowingly; he knew what a long, drawn-out court case did to a family. The similarities between the Indian legal system and the Court of Chancery as described in Dickens's Bleak House were startling.

"The circumstances are certainly unusual," he said, eventually. "What is it you want from me?"

"Puri-ji, I'm begging you, for God's sake, find this bloody Mary!"

"You have her full name?" he asked, biting into a piece of chili cheese toast.

Kasliwal shrugged. "She was there for two months. I believe she was a tribal."

"You have a photograph, personal possessions, copy of ID?"

"Nothing."

Puri's tone became measured. "She was a verified domestic, registered with the cops at least?"

Kasliwal shook his head.

"Sir, allow me to understand," said Puri. "It is your suggestion I locate one tribal-type girl called Mary with no second name, no idea where she is coming from, no idea where she is alighting?"

"That is correct."

"Sir, with respect, I think you must be some kind of joker."

"I can assure you that while I'm enjoying a good joke, I am no joker," objected Kasliwal. "Such an accomplished private investigator as yourself should have no difficulty in such a matter. It's a straightforward thing, after all."

Puri's eyes bulged with incredulity.

"It is certainly not straightforward locating one missing female in a population of one billion plus personages," he said. "It will take time and resources and all of my considerable skills. Looking in Yellow Pages will not suffice."

Puri explained that he worked on a day rate and would require two weeks in advance, plus expenses. The total amount caused Kasliwal to gag on his Scotch.

"So much? Surely you can do better than that, Puri-ji! We can reach some accommodation. Funds are a bit tight these days, you know."

"I don't work for farthings and I don't do negotiation," said the detective, munching on the last piece of chili cheese toast. "My fee is final."

Kasliwal thought for a moment and, with a grave sigh, drew a checkbook from the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Sir, rest assured I will find this female by hook or crook," said Puri. "If I fail, then I will return my fee minus expenses."

The detective drained his glass.

"There is one other thing," he added.

The lawyer, who was bent over the table writing a check, looked up.

"Cash, banker's draft or electronic transfer only," insisted Puri with a smile.