Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Missing Servant

"Om bhur bhawa swaha tat savitur varay neeyam…"

Once the plane was in the air, he began sweating profusely and built up a considerable amount of gas in his stomach. This he vented periodically-to the intense displeasure of the Australian lady tourist sitting on his right: "Jesus! Do you mind?"

When Puri tried to calm his nerves with the remains of a quarter-bottle of Royal Challenge he'd brought on board, the air hostess informed him that it was illegal to consume alcohol on domestic flights and he had to put it away.

During the landing, Puri held his breath and closed his eyes.

The moment the aircraft left the runway, he unclipped his seat belt and staggered to his feet. Once again, he found the air hostess by his side, this time ordering him to sit down until the plane had come to a complete halt and the overhead seat-belt light was switched off.

Puri complied. But the moment he saw the gangway through the window, he was again up out of his seat and, suitcase in hand, pushing his way to the exit.

"We look forward to seeing you again soon," said the air hostess cheerily as he left the plane ahead of all the other passengers.

"Not if I can help it," mumbled the detective.

Puri had hired a brand-new S Class Mercedes to pick him up at the airport. The driver, who wore a white uniform buttoned up to his neck and a yacht captain's cap embellished with gold-leaf emblems, was standing outside the arrivals gate holding up a whiteboard with the alias the detective had adopted for the evening written upon it: "Monty Ahluwalia."

Mr. Somnath Chatterjee was also waiting for him in the car park.

Mr. Chatterjee, of indeterminable age, had a severe hunch born of a lifetime bent over a sewing machine. His clothes were always too large for him-the sleeves of his shirts came down to his knuckles; his trouser legs were always rolled up around his skinny ankles, giving the impression that he had somehow shrunk inside them.

But anyone who had known him long enough, like Puri, could testify to the fact that Mr. Chatterjee had always been extremely skinny. His inattention to the proportions of his own apparel was in no way a reflection upon his skills as a tailor. Indeed, he ran Delhi's most successful costume house.

Mr. Chatterjee was, in fact, the scion of a noble line of Bengali tailors who had once fitted the Nawabs of West Bengal. Under the rule of the British East India Company, the family had set up shop in Calcutta and adapted to its European tastes, providing uniforms for the (not-so) Honorable Company's troops, and supplying the British theaters with costumes. It was a source of much interest to Puri that Mr. Chatterjee's great-grandfather had even provided disguises for Colonel Montgomery of the Survey of India-the real-life inspiration for Colonel Creighton in Kim, Rudyard Kipling's tale of intrigue and espionage during the Great Game with Russia.

Chatterjee & Sons had moved to Delhi in 1931, following in the footsteps of their British patrons. For the past twenty years, Mr. Chatterjee had been providing Puri with his disguises.

Normally, he went for his fittings at Mr. Chatterjee's premises, which were hidden down a long alleyway off Chandni Chowk in Shahjahanabad, or Old Delhi, as it was now called.

The premises were filled to the rafters with hundreds of costumes and paraphernalia. Hindu deities were stored on the ground floor; Hanuman monkey suits, strap-on Durga arms and Ganapati elephant trunks hung in rows. Uniforms from numerous epochs were to be found one flight up: the military regalia of Macedonian foot soldiers, Maratha warriors, Tamil Tigers, Vedic Kshatriyas and Grenadier Guards. The third floor was home to traditional garb of hundreds of different Indian communities: from Assamese to Zoroastrian. There was a special room set aside for headgear of all sorts, including the woven bamboo ceremonial hats worn by Naga tribesmen, the white mande thunis of the Coorg and British pith helmets. And the fourth floor was the place to go to find all the props, including mendicant and beggar accoutrement: swallowable swords, snake charmers' baskets (complete with windup mechanical cobras), and attachable deformed limbs.

Crucially for Puri, Mr. Chatterjee also provided a variety of Indian noses, wigs-his Indira Gandhi one was especially realistic-beards and moustaches. These he kept in the cool of the basement, where dozens of wooden boxes were itemized: "Sikh Whisker," Rajasthani Handlebar," "Bengali Babu."

What Mr. Chatterjee didn't have in stock he could have made. Twenty-seven tailors worked in a room on the top floor, sitting cross-legged in front of their sewing machines surrounded by swathes of silk, cotton and chiffon.

On a few occasions in the past, when Puri had come to Mr. Chatterjee and requested something out of the ordinary at short notice, these men had worked late into the night to accommodate him-like the time he had needed an Iraqi dishdasha to attend a polo match.

Tonight, however, Puri required nothing as exotic. He had asked Mr. Chatterjee to supply him with a standard Sikh disguise.

Puri clambered into the back of the tailor's worn-out van, where assistants with stage glue and a makeup kit gave him a quick makeover. Ten minutes later, he emerged wearing a large red turban, fake moustache and beard, a pair of slip-on black shoes and unflattering brown glasses with thick lenses. Puri slipped on several gold rings and put a ceremonial kirpan around his neck.

Mr. Chatterjee inspected him from head to toe, craning his neck upward like a tortoise peeping out of his shell, and made an approving gesture with his head.

"Most realistic, sir!" said the old man in Hindi, his voice wheezy and high-pitched. "No one will ever recognize you! You would have made a great actor!"

Puri puffed his chest with pride.

"Thank you, Mr. Chatterjee," he replied. "Actually, as a young man, I did a good deal of amateur theater. In the ninth grade I won the Actor of the Year award for my portrayal of Hamlet. Often, I considered joining the stage. But duty called."

"What is the case this time?" whispered Mr. Chatterjee, who always got a thrill from aiding the detective. "Has someone been murdered?" he asked conspiratorially, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Are you after that bank robber-the one in the paper who stole fifty crore?"

The detective did not have the heart to tell him that he was involved in a straightforward matrimonial investigation.

"I'm afraid it's top secret," Puri whispered in English.

"Aaah, taap secret! Taap secret!" repeated the old man, giving a delighted giggle as he accompanied the detective to his car.

"I trust my secret is safe with you, Chatterjee-sahib?" asked Puri, laying a fond hand on one of the old man's hunched shoulders.

"I would rather die than tell them anything, sir!" he cried with watering eyes. "Let them pull out my fingernails! Let them blind me! Let them cut off my-"

Puri gave him a reassuring pat.

"I'm sure it won't come to that," he interrupted. "Now, you'd better go. It's best if we're not seen together. I'll come to your office in a few days once the case is resolved and settle my account."

"Yes, thank you sir, be careful sir," said Mr. Chatterjee, returning to his van.

Puri watched him climb inside and pull away, certain that, on his way back to Chandni Chowk, the old tailor would check in his rearview mirror to make sure he wasn't being followed and, no doubt, call him later in the evening to assure him that the coast had been clear.

Puri made a quick stop en route to Mahinder Gupta's apartment to pick up Mrs. Duggal, his escort for the evening.

She was waiting for him in the reception of a five-star hotel. When she saw the Mercedes pull up, she came out to meet it. A moment later she was arranging herself on the comfortable leather seat next to the detective and admiring the swish interior.