Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Missing Servant

"No salt, Chubby, it's bad for your heart," said Rumpi without turning around from the cooker.

Puri smiled to himself. Was he really that predictable?

"My dear," he said, trying to sound charming rather than patronizing but not proving entirely successful, "a little salt never did anyone any harm. It is hardly poison, after all. Besides, you've already cut down on the amount you're using, and we don't even have butter on our rotis any more."

"Dr. Mohan has ruled out butter and said you have to cut down on salt. This is your life we're talking about. You want to leave me a widow so I have to shave my head and live in a cell in Varanasi and chant mantras all day long?"

"Now, my dear, I think you're being a little overdramatic. You know full well that well-to-do middle-class widows don't have to sing mantras for a living. Besides, are we going to allow Doctor-ji to ruin every last little pleasure? Should we go through life living in fear?"

Rumpi ignored him and carried on preparing the rotis.

"All I require is a one small pinch to have with my chili," he continued. "Is that really going to kill me?"

Rumpi sighed irritably and relented.

"You're impossible, Chubby," she said, spooning out a little salt from one of the sections of her dabba and putting it on the side of his plate.

"Yes, I know," he replied playfully. "But more important, now I am also happy!"

He bit off the end of the chili, dipped it in the salt and took another bite.

For most people this would have been equivalent to touching molten lead with the tip of their tongue. The Naga Morich chili is one of the hottest in the world, two to three times as potent as the strongest jalapeno. But Puri had built up an immunity to them, so he needed hotter and hotter chilies to eat. The only way to ensure a ready supply was to propagate them himself. He had turned into a capsicum junkie and occasional dealer.

"So how is my Radhika?" asked the detective, who ate with his hands, as did the rest of the family when at home. This was a convention he prided himself on; Indians were supposed to eat that way. Somehow a meal never seemed as satisfying with cutlery. Feeling the food between your fingers was an altogether more intimate experience.

"Very fine," answered Rumpi, who made sure her husband had everything he needed before taking her place next to him and serving herself a little kadi chawal. "She found a good deal on one of those low-cost airlines so as to come home for Diwali. It's OK with you, or should she take the train?"

More family news followed during the meal. Their second grandchild, four-month-old Rohit, the son of their eldest daughter, Lalita, had recovered from his cold. Jagdish Uncle, one of Puri's father's four surviving brothers, had returned home from the hospital after having his gall bladder removed. And Rumpi's parents were returning from their vacation "cottage" in Manali.

Next, she brought Puri up to date on local Gurgaon news. There had been a six-hour power cut that morning (it had been blamed on fog). An angry mob of residents had stormed the offices of the electricity company, dragged the director out and given him "a good thrashing." Eventually, the police had intervened using lathis and roughed up a lot of people, including many women.

Finally, Rumpi broached the delicate subject of a vacation; she wanted to go to Goa.

"Dr. Mohan said you need a break. You never stop working these days, Chubby," she said.

"I'm quite all right, my dear. Fit as a fiddle, in fact."

"You're not all right at all. All this stress is taking its toll. You're looking very tired these days."

"Really, you're worrying over nothing. Now what about dessert? There's something nice?"

"Apple," she replied curtly.

After Puri had finished eating, he washed the residue of kadi chawal from his hands in the sink, ladled out a glass of cool water from the clay pot that sat nearby and gulped it down.

Afterward in the sitting room, he turned on his recording of Yanni Live at the Acropolis , relaxed into his favorite armchair and dialed Mummy's number.

She answered on the sixth ring, but there was a lot of static on the line.

"Mummy-ji, where are you?" he asked her.

"Chubby? So much interference in there, na? You're in an auto or what?"

"I'm very much at home," he said.

"You've not yet reached home! So late it is? You've had your khana outside, is it?"

"I'm at home, Mummy!" he bawled. "Where are you?"

The static suddenly grew worse.

"Chubby, your mobile device is giving poor quality of connection. Listen, na, I'm at Minni Auntie's house. I'll be back late. Just I need rest. Some tiredness is there."

She let out a loud yawn.

"This line is very bad, Mummy-ji! I'll call you back!"

"Hello, Chubby? My phone is getting low on battery and no charger is here. Take rest. I'll be back later, na-"

The line went dead.

Puri regarded the screen suspiciously.

"Who is Minni Auntie?" he shouted to Rumpi, who was still in the kitchen.

"Who?"

"Minni Auntie. Mummy said she's at her house."

"Might be one of her friends. She has so many, I can't keep track."

Rumpi came to the door of the sitting room, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

"Who are you calling now?" she asked Puri.

"Mummy's driver."

He held the phone to his ear. It rang and rang, but there was no response and he hung up.

"She's out there looking into the shooting-I know it," he said wearily.

Rumpi made a face. "Oh, Chubby, I'm sure she's just trying to help," she said.

"It's not her place. She's a schoolteacher, not a detective. She should leave it to the professionals. I'm making my own inquiries about the shooting and will get to the bottom of it."

"If you ask me, I think Mummy's a natural detective," said Rumpi. "If you weren't being so stubborn and proud, you might give her a chance. I'm sure she could be very helpful to you. It doesn't sound like you've got any clues of your own."

Puri bristled at this last remark.

"My dear, if you want your child to learn his six times table, you go to Mummy," he said brusquely. "If you want a mystery solved, you come to Vish Puri."

As her son had rightfully surmised, Mummy was not at Minni Auntie's (although such a lady did exist; she was one of the better bridge players among the nice group of women who played in Vasant Kunj); she was on a stakeout.

Her little Maruti Zen was parked across the street from the Sector 31 Gurgaon police station, five minutes from Puri's home.

With her was her driver, Majnu, and Kishan, the servant boy, whom she'd persuaded to come with her. She'd also brought along a thermos of tea, a Tupperware container packed with homemade vegetarian samosas and of course her handbag, which, among other things, contained her battery-operated face fan.

This had come in extremely useful when her son had called earlier. By holding it up to her phone, she had created what sounded like interference on the line, which helped her avoid having to give away her location. This was an old trick she'd learned from her husband, who had occasionally used his electric razor to the same effect.

During forty-nine years of marriage, she'd picked up a number of other useful skills for a detective and a good deal of knowledge as well.

Take red boots, for example.

Mummy knew that they were part of a senior police officer's dress uniform and were supposed to be worn only during parades. Occasionally cops were known to wear them for their day-to-day work when their other boots went for repairs.

If the shooter was indeed an officer-who else would wear such footwear?-then the most logical place to start looking for him was the local "cop shop."

Of all the stations in Gurgaon, the one in Sector 31 had one of the worst reputations. Stories abounded about police-wallahs arresting residents of the bastis and forcing them to cook and clean for them; of beatings, rapes-even murders.