The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (12 page)

Last night, Puri had called one of his sources in Mumbai, a female crime reporter on a local newspaper. In her Mumbaiya pidgin jumbled with Indian English slang, she'd told him that Sengar had died from eating poisoned biryani.

'Fawda Bhaiyya was game bajaana suumdi style,' she'd said.

Puri interpreted this to mean that Fawda, the bookie, who hailed originally from north India, was bumped off, but in a subtle fashion.

'Someone made it look like a suicide?' he tried to clarify in Hindi.

'Ji, Uncle,' she replied. 'He was dedu foot so couldn't reach the punkah. Plus, he was totally fultoo and doing balle balle with his biscuit.'

Translation: 'He was a short man so he couldn't have reached the ceiling fan with the rope with which he is alleged to have hanged himself. Also, he was extremely drunk and there's every reason to believe that he was "making happiness" with his mistress before he was killed.'

It confirmed everything Scott had said.

'The biscuit was questioned?' asked Puri.

'She told some blo bachhan [bullshit] story. That mama [police officer] is a khaali pili [one who scratches his balls]. His boss is even worse - dedh dimaage [one with half-brains]. The investigation was a chuna [cover-up].'

Vedika had no idea who had been behind the killing - 'Haila! [God knows], Uncle' - but agreed that it hadn't been the underworld. As for Fawda, she described him as a Johnniewalker (heavy drinker).

There was no doubt in Vedika's mind that he had been one of Aga's chief Mumbai bookies.

'Keeda [insect],' she added.

Breakfast that morning consisted of a bowl of pomegranate seeds - sheer torture given the sight of the crisp aloo parantha being prepared on the stove by Rumpi for herself. Puri sat at one end of the kitchen table as Monica the maidservant chopped fresh methi leaves in preparation for lunch, and Sweetu the houseboy perched on a bamboo stool in the corner, polishing the detective's black orthopaedic shoes.

Malika, the other maidservant, had called to say that she wouldn't be coming to work today. Her youngest son, one of four, was sick with a high temperature, headaches, aching limbs. It sounded like chikungunya.

'Her husband's back at home,' Rumpi told Puri.

Subtext: Malika's layabout, good-for-nothing husband had lost yet another job and was sitting around drinking Double Dog whisky while watching saucy item numbers on Bollywood video channels.

'Malika's asked for salary advance,' added Rumpi.

Subtext: she didn't have enough to pay the doctor.

Puri sighed and reached for his wallet. 'I tell you if she was not like a daughter to me . . .' he said as he fished out 200 rupees and laid the notes on the table. He considered this a gift; his staff's health care costs were his responsibility given that the government failed to provide for them. 'That bloody bastard requires a good thrashing, I tell you,' he grumbled, referring to Malika's husband.

Rumpi placed a cup of sweet milky chai on the table in front of him and sat down with her parantha. Then began the daily round-up of family news and domestic issues.

Their grandson Rohit's hair-shaving Mundan ceremony was to be held the following Monday, Rumpi reminded him. And Radhika, their youngest daughter, had called yesterday from Pune, where she was studying, to discuss travel plans for Holi.

'She'll be reverting home?'

'Of course, Chubby. What are you thinking? Jaiya and Lalita are coming also.'

'Wonderful! All our girls at home together. Holi's when exactly?'

The festival fell on the last full moon in the month of Phalguna in the Hindu calendar and so it was on a different date in late February or early March every year.

'I told you twice already,' scolded Rumpi. 'It's in ten days.'

'Apologies, my dear, my mind is getting overload.'

By a quarter to seven, Puri was on the expressway heading back into south Delhi. It wasn't long before he received his first phone call of the day from Satya Pal Bhalla demanding an update on the moustache case.

'I've been trying to reach you!' he said without so much as a good-morning.

The detective had no intention of telling him that he had taken on the murder investigation. Thinking fast, he opted for the one excuse no Indian could ever argue with. 'One family wedding was there,' he said. 'My chacha's granddaughter.'

Puri had lost count of the number of times this particular niece had been married over the years.

'Listen!' insisted Bhalla. 'Gopal Ragi declared himself owner of the longest moustache in India - on national television! Didn't have the common courtesy to wait even twenty-four hours out of respect for my loss! I saw him smiling. Celebrating, Puri-ji! Saala kutta! What are you doing about it?'

Puri assured him that he was well on top of the case, gave his usual 'no stone will go unturned' assurance and hung up.

'Son of an ox!' he cursed, wishing he hadn't taken on the moustache case. The Khan murder deserved his full attention and this bloody Bhalla was going to be calling every hour on the hour.

Oh how he hated impatient, pushy clients! They had no appreciation for the special talents required for detective work. Worst were the ones who read that bloody Agatha Christie. They imagined that because some old memsahib in an Angrezi village with a population of a dozen - mostly Christian priests and old duffers and the like - could solve a murder over a cup of Earl Grey, the same could be done in India. India with its 1,600-plus languages; myriad ancient religions; castes, sub-castes and tribes; five-and-a-half-thousand-year-old culture - not to mention a billion-plus population and cities expanding before your very eyes.

But there was no turning back. Vish Puri, Most Private Investigator, winner of one international and six national awards, and the only Indian PI ever to be featured on the cover of India Today magazine, had given his word.

In fact he was on his way now to start his enquiries.

It was shortly after seven when he reached H Block, Laxmi Bai Nagar, and found the nightwatchman who'd tackled the intruder into Bhalla's apartment.

'Illiterate Bihari village type' was how Puri summed him up in his mind. He was thin and swaddled in a dirty shawl but stood up straight and looked the detective in the eye.

'Namashkar,' said Puri, greeting him.

'Namashkar, sahib!'

'What's your name?' the detective asked in Hindi.

'Dalchand.'

'I want to ask you some questions. About the attempted robbery the other night.'

'I did nothing wrong, sahib! I was only doing my duty!'

Realising that the police had probably given him a hard time, Puri tried to put him at ease. 'I'm working for Bhalla sahib to catch the thief,' he explained.

Dalchand's smile revealed a crooked row of paan-stained teeth. 'I'll help in any way I can to catch that son of a bitch,' he said beaming.

Puri took out a pack of Gold Flakes that he had anticipated might come in handy. He offered one to the guard, who readily accepted the cigarette and lit up.

'I was on my rounds when I saw a figure climbing up the balcony,' he began, the smoke spilling from his mouth indistinguishable from his breath in the chilled morning air. 'I rang the police but they never came. So I went up the stairs and started banging on the front door. After a couple of minutes the maid answered. I ran inside and the man fled. He went to the balcony again and started to climb down.'

'What did you do?'

'Went after him of course, sahib!' Dalchand said this with pride. 'When I reached the ground I ran very fast. I'm good at running! I cut him off before he reached the gate and tackled him.'

Puri asked about the thief's size.

'He was big, much bigger than me, over six feet tall! He was strong, also. I managed to get my teeth into his ankle. He cried out and let go of his bag - the one in which he was carrying some of Bhalla sahib's moustache. I grabbed it and ran.'

'He pursued you?'

'I got up that tree over there - I am good at getting up trees! He shouted at me, told me to give him back his bag. Promised to make me rich.'

How much had he been offered?

'Twenty thousand, sahib!'

The detective whistled.

'A fortune, I know! But I refused. I spat at him. I told him he deserved to hang. He cursed me and swore vengeance. Called me a son of a whore, son of a pig, sister f--'

'What happened next?' interrupted Puri.

'Another watchman came running with a flashlight and he ran away.'

'You chased after him?'

'Of course, sahib! We didn't give up. But he had a scooty.'

'You saw the number plate?'

Dalchand averted his eyes, embarrassed. 'Sorry, sahib, I'm not good with letters and numbers. There was some writing - a goose and two snakes curled around themselves.'

Puri took out his notebook and wrote '2 8 8'. 'Like this?' he asked.

'Exactly, sahib! Those three came at the end.'

'What make was the scooty?'

'Hero Honda. Red colour.'

'What language did he speak?'

'When he cursed it was in Punjabi.'

'You speak Punjabi?'

'Since coming to Delhi I've become very familiar with Punjabi insults. I hear them often.'

'You said you bit him. Did you draw blood?'

'Yes, sahib!' Again this was said with pride. 'The man was limping as he ran.'

Puri made a note of this. Dalchand looked pleased with himself.

'Anything else you can tell me about him?'

'Did I tell you he was very strong, sahib? He had the strength of five men and yet I managed him.'

'Aren't you worried he'll come back?'

'Let him come, sahib!'

The local police station was nearby. In a cold, sparsely furnished office, Puri found Inspector Surinder Thakur huddled behind his desk, a small glass of chai cupped in his hand.

'You're wasting your time, sir,' he said after Puri had explained the purpose of his visit. 'I'll be making two arrests later this morning.'

'Accha?'

'There's only one man who stands to gain from putting Bhalla sahib out of the picture. And I have all the evidence I need to charge him and his accomplice.'

'Gopal Ragi?'

'He's been after Bhalla sahib's crown for years. Recently he accused him of cheating and threatened him and his moustache.'

'That is by no means enough to prove his involvement,' pointed out the detective.

Thakur was smugness personified. 'I've come to know that Ragi has a Punjabi driver, one Sunil Singh, a charge-sheeter,' he said. 'He matches the description of the thief given by the nightwatchman - six foot tall, very strong.'

Puri still looked unconvinced.

'And this individual walks with a limp,' said Thakur, cracking a wry smile.

'Is it?' said Puri, eyebrows raised.

'Like I told you, sir, case is in the bag. All that is required now is a confession.'

'Still one question is there, Inspector,' said Puri. 'Assuming Ragi instructed his driver to do the needful, why he didn't cut the moustache to ribbons? Vandalise it, so to speak. Why he tried to carefully remove the moustache?'

'I believe he wanted a trophy, sir. These people are obsessed with moustaches. I've come to know that Ragi and Bhalla and one hundred or so others belong to a kind of moustache club. These people actually get together and talk about their moustaches! Can you imagine?'

Puri managed a strained smile. 'It is a way of being sociable, no? Such like-minded people have a good deal to talk about.'

'They're all like-minded, that's for sure, sir!' exclaimed Thakur.

'Yes . . . well, seems I have taken plenty of your time,' stuttered the detective. 'Best of luck to you, Inspector.'

He left the station hoping Thakur was right. Puri had very little to go on, after all. In a city of 16 million he was after a tall, limping Punjabi who drove a scooty with a number plate that ended in a goose and two snakes.

NINE