The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (2 page)

Handbrake, his driver, acknowledged these instructions with a 'Yes, Boss' and promptly pulled over to ask for directions.

'Aaall daay milk staall kahan hai?' he asked an autorickshaw driver.

'What is this case you're working on, Chubby?' asked Rumpi as they waited.

She rarely enquired about Puri's work (and he in turn usually only told her about an investigation once it was over). However, on this occasion, she felt she had the right to know. It was a big day for her family, after all.

'You remember Satya Pal Bhalla?' he replied.

'That tabla player?'

'No, other one - moustache fellow.'

'Oh God, don't tell me,' she moaned.

Puri gave a knowing nod. 'Absolutely, my dear. A total weirdo, we can say. But he called this morning, only, in quite a panic. Seems he got looted.'

This was an oversimplification. But the detective had no intention of providing Rumpi with the details. The whole thing would sound ridiculous and she would insist on driving directly to their destination, the Kotla cricket stadium, where her nephew, Rohan, was due to play in one of the opening matches of the new, multibillion-dollar cricket tournament, the ICT.

To the detective, however, the case was as tantalising as a jalebi to a fly. He'd had to handle a lot of run-of-the-mill work in the past month or so - a slew of bog-standard matrimonial investigations, a mundane credit card fraud, several death verifications for insurance companies.

Worst of all, he'd found himself helping that bloody Queenie Mehta of Golf Links prove that her upstairs tenant was eating non-vegetarian food when the lease strictly forbade the consumption of meat on the premises. It didn't help matters that from the start Puri had sympathised with the 'offender'; nor that the investigation itself had been especially unchallenging. True, the tenant in question had been careful not to place any incriminating evidence in his garbage, disposing of the bones from his illicit meals outside his home. But after one of Most Private Investigators' operatives had followed him to the butcher's and covertly videoed him buying a kilo of mutton, the case had been brought to a speedy conclusion.

Was it any wonder that the attempt to cut off Satya Pal Bhalla's moustache, the longest in the world, had every cell in his detective brain tingling with anticipation?

Who would have done such a thing? A rival for his title? Someone with a grudge? Anything was possible in Delhi these days, Puri reminded himself. With the city's population growing exponentially, corruption endemic, and the elite amassing fabulous wealth as well as adopting Western tastes and lifestyles, Indian crime was taking on ever-new facets.

Just look at the story on the front page of today's paper. Six months ago, if the report was to be believed, an Indian hacker had accessed America's Pentagon computer system and downloaded dozens of top-secret files related to security in South Asia.

A commentator in the same paper likened these times to the myth of Neelkanth, when the demons churned the ocean in search of Amrita, the nectar of immortality. What they created instead was poison, which had to be consumed by the god Shiva.

From this legend came the Hindi saying: 'Amrut pane se pehle Vish pinna padta hai.' Roughly translated it means, 'You can't have the sweet without the sour.'

Three wrong turns, a couple of U-turns and two more stops-to-ask-directions later, Handbrake pulled up outside the address. Puri's prospective client, Bhalla, lived in a three-storey government-housing complex for babus and their families. There were dozens of such blocks in south Delhi, most of them built in the 1950s and '60s. Architecturally uninspiring, painted in the same government-issue off-pink, and only distinguishable from one another by the letters and numbers stencilled on their facades, they had become some of the most desirable addresses in the capital. H Block was set amongst neem trees and small communal gardens known as 'parks', where children played in the sunshine that was now breaking through the fog.

Puri made his way up the bare concrete staircase to the second floor. The sound of hissing pressure cookers came from inside one of the other apartments. A smell of roasting cumin and fried mustard oil filled the air.

Outside the door to 4/B, he found several pairs of shoes lying in a jumble. He unlaced his and placed them to one side. The bell brought an elderly servant woman bearing a pair of rubber chappals.

The detective was standing on the landing trying to get his stockinged toes between the toe rings when Raju Pillai stepped out of the apartment.

'Thank the God you've come, Mr Puri,' he said. 'I'm at my wits' end!'

As was fitting for the Director General and Honorary Secretary of the Moustache Organisation of Punjab (MOP), Pillai sported a thick, black walrus with bushy muttonchops. He pulled the door shut behind him.

'Satya-ji's in such a state, I tell you,' he said, keeping his voice down and giving a quick glance backwards as if someone might overhear. 'Thought I'd come over to see what I could do for him.'

'Very good of you,' intoned Puri.

'I thought it better we have a private conference before you get the facts from the horse's mouth.'

'Must have been quite a shock, losing half his moustache and all,' said the detective, who was still struggling with the chappals.

'Can you imagine, Mr Puri? Thirty years plus he's been nurturing and grooming it. Cared for every last whisker. That level of dedication and commitment is seen only rarely these days. And then phoof! Half of it vanished into thin air! From right under his nose, no less. I tell you, Mr Puri, India has lost one of its greatest treasures. The Taj Mahal of moustaches! Something of which all Indians could feel proud.'

'On phone, Satya-ji said it was removed in the wee hours,' said Puri. 'He was sleeping or what?'

'Seems so, Mr Puri. Must have been drugged somehow.'

'He said also one security guard got hold of the thief but he escaped.'

'Exactly. The guard spotted a gentleman climbing up the side of the balcony in dead of night. Thus he alerted the police, but they failed to arrive. So he took it upon himself to investigate. Quite a fearless fellow, it seems. He caught the intruder in the act and gave chase. Seems a struggle took place. Thus the removed portion of the moustache was recovered.'

Puri finally managed to get the chappals on, more or less, his heels protruding over the backs.

'He is present - this security guard?' he asked.

'The police inspector, one Surinder Thakur, got hold of him for questioning.'

'He was able to make positive ID - the security guard, that is?'

'Not that I'm aware.'

The detective took out his notebook and wrote down Thakur's name before asking: 'The removed section of the moustache is where exactly?'

'Thakur has taken it for evidence. Against all our protestations, I should say.'

'He offered any theory to what all happened?'

'Frankly speaking, Mr Puri, I don't believe he's taking the case seriously. Seemed to find the whole thing amusing for some reason!'

'Our Dilli police are not performing their duties in a professional manner,' said the detective with a solemn shake of the head. 'You've any theory yourself as to the identity of the guilty person? Could be a rival moustache grower, no?'

'Not a member of MOP, that is for sure!' said Pillai, bristling. 'Our members are all respectable gentlemen. From well-to-do families, I should add. You yourself are a member, Mr Puri.'

'Yes, but surely--' ventured the detective.

'Each and every member is aware of the supreme effort and sacrifice required to grow an award-winning moustache,' continued Pillai. 'Never have I seen one hint of jealousy aimed at Satya-ji. Everyone is proud of his accomplishment. You recall the reception after he returned from US last year? One and all gave him a hero's welcome.'

Puri gave a knowing nod, loath to admit that he hadn't attended the special dinner that had been held to honour Satya Pal Bhalla. The truth was he attended few MOP functions if he could help it. He'd become a member to do his bit for promoting the growth of moustaches amongst Indian youths (it was, after all, sad and shocking to see how many young Punjabi men were not 'sporting' these days), and to indulge in a bit of socialising and networking with like-minded individuals. But over the years the organisation had been hijacked by a competitive group of individuals. All they talked about was, well, moustaches. And Rumpi, for once, refused to attend any more of their functions.

'I can't listen to the debate about wax versus gel ever again,' she'd protested after the 2007 annual dinner, her last.

Satya Pal Bhalla was the worst offender. A Grade II bureaucrat employed in the Central Secretariat Stenographers' Service, he was one of a breed of Indians who were desperate to stand out from a crowd 1.2 billion strong and therefore dedicated their lives to extreme pursuits. The ultimate prize for such types was an entry in the best-selling Limca Book of Records.

Growing his thirteen-foot-long leviathan had brought Bhalla fame and kudos. Indeed, no one stepping into his living room could fail to be impressed by the collection of photographs on the walls, of Bhalla posing with the great and the good.

While Pillai went to fetch the victim from his bedroom, Puri circled the room admiring the photos. Mother Teresa; ace batsman Sachin Tendulkar; the father of India's nuclear bomb, Dr Abdul Kalam; Bollywood legend Amitabh Bachchan . . . Bhalla had met them all.

His moustache had also brought him promotional work. By the window hung some framed print advertisements in which he had appeared. One for SHIFT clothes detergent depicted him standing with his moustache stretched out in both directions. Brightly coloured shirts and underwear hung from it. A DEEP CLEAN YOU'LL WANT TO SHOW OFF, read the slogan.

But now it seemed Bhalla's career was over and the man himself looked bereft. His moustache's left tendril had been completely shorn off, leaving the right section still curled around his cheek like a Danish pastry.

'Heartfelt condolences, sir,' said Puri as he entered the room. 'What you must be feeling I cannot imagine.'

'Is no one safe in their own house?' asked Bhalla, as if the detective was somehow responsible for the break-in. 'Look at me! Look at what is left! I'm a freak!' He tugged at the bare section of his upper lip, his eyes burning with anger. 'I want him caught, Puri! Do you hear? I want him to pay! We all know who did this and I want you to get him! Whatever it takes!'

The detective raised a calming hand. 'Who is it you believe was the culprit exactly, sir?' he asked.

'Ragi of course!' Bhalla's anger flared. 'He's been after my number one status for years! Finally he's found a way to get me out of the way!'

It was true that Gopal Ragi was now, by default, the Moustache Raja of India. It was also true that he and Bhalla hated one another.

'Recently that bastard accused me of wearing hair extensions!' he continued. 'I told him, "Go to hell!" And he threatened me! You know what he said? That if he was me, he would watch his back! And his moustache, also! His exact words!'

'There were witnesses, sir - to his threat?'

'So many!'

'You can provide names, is it?'

'Everyone knows he threatened me, Puri! Ask anyone.'

Pillai now spoke up, reiterating in an equitable manner that he could not bring himself to believe that a fellow MOP member could be responsible for such a horrific act. But he was shouted down.

'What does he know?' bawled Bhalla with a smirk. 'Nothing! I'm telling you. It was that bastard for sure.'

'The truth will come out in the wash,' said Puri. 'But first I must know what all happened here.'

'All I can tell you is this,' said Bhalla in an irritated monotone. 'After eating my khana last night, I felt ill and went to bed early. This morning I woke later than usual. Must have been nine. The maid was waiting by my bed. She was the one who broke the news and informed me the police were waiting. I went directly into the bathroom and looked in the mirror and . . . and well, you have seen this . . . this massacre. What that bloody bastard has done to me!'

'You said you felt ill, is it? What is it you ate exactly?'

'Channa bhatura.'

'You like it mirchi is it, sir?'

'Hotter the better.'

'Who else shares the house?'

'Myself and the maid.'

'No family?'

Bhalla raised his hands and dropped them on to the arms of his chair, clearly frustrated at the line of questioning. 'What has that got to do with anything?' he demanded. Puri's placid, enquiring gaze elicited an answer.