The Case of the Missing Servant

Eight

Ajay Kasliwal couldn't tell whether the girl in the coroner's photograph was Mary.

"So much of bruising is there," said the lawyer, grimacing at the image when Puri showed it to him in the evening.

Mrs. Kasliwal studied it for a few seconds and then said in a tone that might have been born of caution or confusion, "These people look so much alike."

"You can make out any distinguishing marks?" the detective pressed her.

"How should I know?" she answered brusquely.

Puri decided to show the photograph to the servants and asked that they be brought into the sitting room one by one.

Bablu, the cook, came first. A fat, greasy-faced Punjabi with bloated fingers, he gave the photocopy a cursory glance, said, yes, it could be Mary and then returned to his kitchen. Jaya, the shy girl who'd answered the front door for the detective in the morning, was next. She held the piece of paper with trembling hands, looked at the image, squealed and closed her eyes. Puri asked her if she recognized the girl, but she just stared back at him with wide, frightened eyes.

"Answer him," Mrs. Kasliwal instructed.

"Yes, madam…I…I…," Jaya said, her eyes darting between the Kasliwals and Puri.

"Don't be afraid," urged Puri gently. "Just tell me what you think."

"I don't…couldn't…say, sir," she said after further coaxing. "It…well, it could be…Mary, but then…"

Puri took back the picture and Jaya was dismissed.

Kamat, cook's assistant, was equally nervous and no clearer on whether the woman in the photograph was his former co-worker. But he seemed remarkably unmoved by the shocking nature of the image and, with a shrug, handed it back to the detective.

That left the mali.

Mrs. Kasliwal would not allow him to enter the house, so he had to be brought to the kitchen door, which opened into the back garden.

The gardener was evidently stoned and stood there with a silly grin and dopey eyes, swaying from side to side in time with a tune he was humming to himself.

Puri handed him the photograph and he stared at it for thirty seconds with his head moving back and forth like a rooster's.

"Do you recognize her?" he asked.

"Maybe, maybe not," replied the mali. "My eyesight is not what it used to be."

All this went to confirm why Puri rarely bothered asking servants-or most people, for that matter-direct questions. Getting at the truth, unearthing all the little secrets that people buried deep down, required a subtler approach.

Which was why, later that evening, the detective made a few phone calls to Delhi, putting into motion the next stage of his investigation.

The detective spent the night in one of the guest rooms in his client's house Raj Kasliwal Bhavan and, after breakfast, announced his intention to return to Delhi.

Ajay Kasliwal looked taken aback by this news. "But, Puri-ji, you just got here," he said.

"Don't have tension, sir," the detective assured him. "Vish Puri never fails."

Soon, he and Handbrake were on the highway to Delhi, traveling at a legal and responsible speed that was not of the driver's choosing and certainly not to his liking.

By now, Handbrake was burning with curiosity about the detective's latest case. The servants at the house had been talking about little else and the driver had been privy to their theories. Subzi-wallah had told him that the lawyer Sahib had many lady friends and he had got Mary pregnant and had sent her away with a payoff. The cook had whispered that the mali, whom he hated, had raped the maidservant, killed her and buried the body under the spinach. And the Muslim who sold carrot halva on the pavement had been adamant that the girl had fallen in love with a fellow Muslim, converted to Islam and, consequently, been abducted by her family and murdered.

Puri smiled when Handbrake related all this to him.

"Did they ask about me?"

"All of them, Boss."

"And what did you tell them?"

The driver looked suddenly unsure of himself. "I told them that…you are…that you are an…idiot, Boss."

Puri looked pleased. "You told everyone?"

"Yes, just like you asked me to. I said that you forget everything from one day to the next because you are a drunkard and you spend all your mornings sleeping."

"Excellent! Very good work!" said Puri.

Handbrake grinned, grateful for the compliment. But he was still confused by Puri's motive. It showed clearly in his expression.

"Vish Puri's third rule of detective work is to always make all suspects believe you are a fool," explained the detective. "That way they are caught unawares."

"What is the second rule, Boss?"

"Pay no attention to gossip."

"What is the first?"

"That I will tell you when you are ready."

With that, Puri lay back against the seat and went to sleep. He did not wake until they reached the halfway point and Handbrake pulled into the Doo Doo Rest Raunt and Rest Stop car park.

The detective went into the air-conditioned dining room, where he sat at a clean table and enjoyed a cup of chai served in a china cup by a waiter.

Handbrake, meanwhile, went to the open-air dhaba, where he sat among the flies and the truck and bus drivers, and the same tea was served in clay cups.

Puri had good reason for returning to Delhi: he had received a summons. Not the sort of summons issued by the courts (although he had been handed more than his fair share); this was from a potential client, a man whom the detective could not ignore or put off, a childhood hero no less.

Brigadier Bagga Kapoor, retired, was a decorated veteran of the 1965 Pakistan war. He had commanded a tank battalion during the legendary advance over the Ichhogil Canal, which marked the western border with India. In September of that year, he and his men destroyed eighteen enemy tanks, coming within range of Lahore International Airport. When his own tank was hit by enemy fire and two of his men were killed, Brigadier Kapoor pulled his unconscious gunner from the burning vehicle and carried him to safety. For this action, he was awarded the Ati Vishisht Seva Medal.

Puri had never had the pleasure of meeting the legendary Brigadier, although he'd heard him lecture at the Indian Military Academy in Dehradun in 1975. Naturally, he was thrilled at the opportunity to be of service to the great man. But when Brigadier Kapoor had telephoned Most Private Investigators the day before and spoken to Elizabeth Rani, he had not specified the nature of the case. He'd simply left instructions for Puri to meet him in Lodhi Gardens at four in the afternoon.

"I tried telling him that you are out-of-station, but he insisted," Elizabeth Rani told Puri on the phone while he was still in Jaipur. "He also asked that you must go alone."

The detective stopped off at home in time for lunch to discover that Mummy had been trying to find witnesses to the shooting in the neighborhood. According to Rumpi, she had spent all of yesterday and most of this morning knocking on doors.

"By God!" exclaimed Puri angrily. "I told her not to get involved! Why she always insists on doing such interference I ask you?"

"She's just trying to help," said Rumpi as she and Malika prepared rajma chawal for lunch. "Shouldn't you be out there doing the same-asking people what they saw?"

"My dear, I'm totally capable of running my investigations. Already I've got my own people doing the needful."

This was true: Tubelight and one of his boys had been making discreet inquiries in the neighborhood since yesterday; so far, though, they had come up with nothing.

"Mummy will only make a mess of things and put people on guard. It could be dangerous, also. Detective work is not child's play. Now, please, when Mummy returns from doing her chitchat, tell her I want a word tonight. She's to stop this nonsense."

After lunch Puri drove to his office, caught up with the latest developments in the other cases on his books, which included some run-of-the-mill matrimonial investigations, and then drove the short distance to Lodhi Gardens.

The car park at the Prithviraj Road entrance was full of Hindustan Ambassadors with official license plates and red emergency lights on their roofs-just some of the thousands of courtesy cars assigned to India's senior babus, judges and politicians for conducting the business of the state. These days that included taking wives and their lapdogs for their afternoon walks, or so the ruling bureaucratic elite had come to believe.

Puri crossed the Athpula Bridge and followed the path through the gardens. He passed lawns where families sat enjoying picnics, groups of young men played cricket with tennis balls and toy sellers hawked balloons and kazoos. Cheeky chipmunks darted between the boughs of trees, and long-tailed green parakeets with red beaks perched in branches overhead, shrieking noisily. The detective passed an old man practicing his yoga exercises, breathing alarmingly heavily through his nostrils; and a bench half hidden between the bushes where two young sweethearts sat stealing furtive kisses.

Brigadier Kapoor was already waiting for Puri on the steps of the Sheesh Gumbad mausoleum, checking his watch impatiently and looking none too pleased that the detective was three minutes late. The war hero was a year short of eighty and his big military moustache, sideburns and correspondingly bushy eyebrows had turned white. Nonetheless, he was still remarkably fit. In American sneakers, socks drawn up to his knees, khaki shorts and a woolly ski hat, he was dressed for exercise.

"Puri, I've heard good things about you," said Brigadier Kapoor, who had attended Dehradun and Sandhurst and spoke with an accent that reminded Puri of bygone days.

"It's a great honor, sir," replied the detective with a salute, then a handshake.

"I do brisk walking for forty-five minutes every day at four o'clock without fail," said Brigadier Kapoor, who carried a military baton with an ivory handle tucked between his chest and the upper part of his left arm. "We'll talk along the way."

Puri was hardly dressed for brisk walking; as usual, he was wearing a safari suit and Sandown cap. But without further ado, the older man set off along on the jogging circuit at three times the pace of the detective's usual gait.

"I need you for something, Puri," said Brigadier Kapoor, sounding as if he might ask him to parachute behind enemy lines. "I don't have to tell you it's for your eyes only."

"Understood, sir."

"It's my granddaughter, Tisca." They passed some copses of giant bamboo, which arched forty feet above them. "She's to be married in two months. There's a big wedding planned here in Delhi. I was introduced to the boy two days ago. Mahinder Gupta's his name. He won't do. He won't do at all!"

The detective groaned inwardly. He had hoped that Brigadier Kapoor was going to offer him more challenging work than another matrimonial. But he still managed to sound interested. "I understand, sir."

"I blame my son, Puri," continued Brigadier Kapoor as they approached the footbridge that led to Mohammed Shah's tomb. "He's never been a good judge of character. His wife's even worse. Hopeless woman."

By now, Puri had broken into a sweat and had to wipe his brow with his handkerchief.

"What sort of family the boy is from?" asked Puri.

"They do commerce; they're Guptas. Bania caste."

"So this boy's occupied in the family business, is it?"

"He's working at some place called BPO. You've heard of it?"

"BPO stands for Business Process Outsourcing. Such companies operate call centers and all."

"I see," said Brigadier Kapoor with a frown that suggested Puri's explanation did not make things any clearer to him.

"There's anything specific you have against this boy?" asked the detective.

"He's not a man, Puri. He hasn't served his country."

The detective was developing a stitch in his left side. The direction of their conversation was also making him feel uncomfortable. Matrimonial investigations had become his bread and butter (he often dealt with several a week), but usually his clients came to him seeking reassurance about a prospective bride or groom. Brigadier Kapoor, by contrast, had it in for the boy and wanted to scupper the wedding.

Unfortunately, turning the case away was out of the question. The detective could not say no to a man of such stature; to do so would damage his own reputation.

"What else can you tell me, sir?" panted Puri, growing ever shorter of breath.

"The boy has spent a good deal of time in Dubai. God knows what he could have got up to there. The place is a hotbed of Jihadists, Pak spies, dons-every kind of shady character."

"He's here in Delhi these days, sir?"

"I believe so. Plays a lot of golf. Shoots four under par-or so they say."

Much to Puri's relief, they got stuck behind three overweight society women in Chanel sunglasses, sun visors and unflattering leggings, and had to slow down.

Brigadier Kapoor soon lost patience and barked at the women to give way. With a collective tut, they moved to one side of the path and he marched past them, muttering to himself.

"Sir, tell me," said Puri, struggling to catch up again. "Your granddaughter's what age exactly?"

"Thirty-four or thereabouts." His tone betrayed not a hint of embarrassment, but she was ancient to be getting married.

"And the boy's age, sir?"

"Three years her junior."

"Sir, it's the first time Tisca's getting engaged?"

"That's not the point, Puri," said Brigadier Kapoor sharply. "I want to know about this Gupta boy."

The two men passed Sikander Lodhi's tomb and reached the car park, where Rumpi's rajma chawal was threatening to make another appearance.

"Sir, with your permission, I'll take my leaves," said Puri somewhat sheepishly.

Brigadier Kapoor looked unimpressed. "As you like, Puri," he said. "I'll have my file on Mahinder Gupta sent over to your office tomorrow morning. Report back to me within a week. Get me all the dirt on him. I'll take care of the rest."

"Yes, sir."

"And get yourself in shape, man," chided Brigadier Kapoor, wagging his baton. "At your age I used to run five miles every day before breakfast."

"Yes, sir."

Before the detective could mention his fee and explain his usual policy of a down payment for expenses, his new client marched off with his arms pumping like pistons, as if he was charging an enemy position.

Puri waited until he was out of sight and then sat down on a wall to catch his breath and wipe his brow.

"By God, thirty-four," he said to himself, shaking his head from side to side disapprovingly. "Well past her sell-by date. Off the shelf, in fact."

At home that evening, Mummy was waiting for Puri in the sitting room.

"Chubby, I've something most important to tell you. One big development is there," she said.

"Mummy-ji, if it's about the shooting, please save your breath," he said, as he went through the motion of bending down to touch her feet but only reaching the halfway point.

"Chubby, you must listen, na. It's most important. One servant boy-"

"Sorry, Mummy-ji, but I won't listen," interrupted the detective. "I told you before, you're not to do investigation. It's not a mummy's role, actually. You'll only make things more complicated. Now please, I respectfully request you not to go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"But, Chubby, I-"

"No, Mummy-ji, that is final, no discussion. Now, I'm going to wash and take rest."

Puri went upstairs, leaving Mummy on her own in the sitting room to think things over.

Chubby had inherited his father's pride and stubbornness, she reflected. Om Chander Puri, too, had always been adamant that she should stay out of his investigations. Only on a few occasions, when he'd been completely stumped by a case, had he deigned to discuss the details with her. Although, each time, she'd been able to help him unravel the clues, he'd never been able to bring himself to openly acknowledge her assistance. Similarly, when Mummy had had one of her dreams, Om Chander Puri had rarely taken heed of them.

As a wife, Mummy had always felt compelled to obey her husband. But as a mother, she did not feel constrained to ignore her natural instincts-especially now that her son was in grave danger.

Graver than he knew.

That morning, Mummy had met a young servant boy called Kishan, who worked in house number 23, a few doors down. When she'd asked him if he'd seen anything suspicious on the day of the shooting, he'd looked panicked and blurted out, "I was nowhere near the back of the house!"

"What happened at the back of the house?"

"Nothing!"

"How do you know if you weren't there?"

Eventually, after being plied with a couple of Big Feast ice creams having been assured of Mummy's trustworthiness, Kishan admitted that he had been behind the Puris' home at the time of the shooting.

"What were you doing there?" Mummy had asked.

"Um, well, Auntie I…" he'd replied, looking embarrassed.

"Let us say you went to the market to buy milk and took the long way back," Mummy had suggested helpfully.

"Yes, exactly. I'd forgotten."

"What did you see?"

"I was behind a wall waiting for…um, well…"

"You had to do toilet?"

"Yes, that's right and, well, I heard the shots. They sounded like firecrackers. Then two minutes later, I saw a man hurrying out of that building site."

Kishan had caught only a fleeting glimpse of the man's face. But there had been something distinct about him.

"He was wearing red boots."

Upon hearing this, Mummy had instructed Kishan not to mention what he'd seen to another soul. It was the kind of information that could get someone killed.

Chubby of all people would understand the significance of the red boots if only he would listen to her. But for now she would have to carry on with the investigation on her own.

"I'll show him mummies are not good for nothing," she told herself.