Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Missing Servant

Meanwhile Mrs. Duggal hobbled over to the kitchen (where a few of the older Gupta aunties were discussing the attributes of the front-loading washing machine, which, they all agreed, was worth the money) and attached the magnetic fly under the lip of the extractor fan.

She then made her way to Mahinder Gupta's bedroom. Having attached the wasp to the bottom of the metal bed frame, she stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

In one corner stood the Jacuzzi bathtub and in another the toilet.

Mrs. Duggal washed her hands in the sink and, as she did so, noticed a metal medicine cabinet on the wall.

It was locked.

Curious, she took out a hair grip and metal nail file and, in a few seconds, popped the cabinet open.

On the shelves inside, she found an unmarked bottle filled with pale yellow liquid and two syringes. She took the bottle and put it into her glasses case in her handbag.

Just then she heard Mrs. Gupta's voice in the bedroom. "Come this way, it's through here."

The handle on the door turned and there was a knock.

"One moment," called out Mrs. Duggal.

She locked the medicine cabinet, sat down on the toilet and quickly stood up again. Sure enough, it flushed automatically.

Mrs. Duggal opened the door to find Mrs. Gupta and three other women who had come to inspect the bathroom waiting on the other side.

"You're quite right, the toilet really is a wonder," she gushed. "So much easier on the hips."

At about 10:30 that evening, just as Puri reached home after dropping off Mrs. Duggal, the front door of Munnalal's house in Jaipur suddenly swung open with a thud.

A beggar with a horribly deformed hand who was crouching against a wall ten feet away watched as Munnalal stepped outside. In one hand he was carrying his mobile phone, his thumb working the keypad. From his pocket protruded the wooden butt of a revolver.

Munnalal's wife appeared in the open doorway with an anguished, searching expression.

"Your food is ready!" she screeched to his back as he set off down the lane. "Where are you going? It's late!"

"None of your business, whore!" he bawled over his shoulder. "Go back inside or I'll give you a thrashing!"

The beggar, seeing Munnalal striding toward him, made the mistake of holding out his deformed hand, which looked like a melted candle, and pleaded for alms-"Sahib, roti khana hai."

In return he received a hail of abuse.

"Bhaanchhod!" Munnalal called him as a passing shot, kicking his begging bowl and the few pitiful coins that it contained into the open drain.

The unfortunate man howled, scrambling on all fours after the receptacle, which had landed upside down in fetid slime.

"Hai!" he moaned after retrieving it and retaking his position against the wall where he had been sitting all evening.

A couple of passing locals, who had seen how cruelly Munnalal had behaved, took pity on the beggar and dropped a few rupees at his feet.

"May Shani Maharaj bless you!" he cried after them, picking up the coins and touching them to his forehead and lips.

The beggar watched his benefactors continue on their way, passing Munnalal's front door, which, by now, had been slammed shut. Then he stood up, collected his pitiful possessions and, when he was sure no one was watching, twisted off his deformed hand. He shoved it under his soiled lungi and set off down the lane.

"Bastard Number One's on the move, heading in your direction," said Tubelight's man Zia into the transmitter concealed in the top of his cleft walking stick.

"Roger that," came back a voice in the clunky plastic receiver in his ear.

The voice belonged to Shashi, his partner, who had watched too many American cop shows and insisted on using the lingo.

"Who is this Roger?" hissed Zia into his communicator.

"Your papa, yaar," quipped Shashi.

"Shut up, OK!"

"Ten-four," replied his colleague.

Munnalal hurried down the lane, stopping briefly at the cigarette stand, where he bought a sweet paan. Greedily he stuffed it into his mouth and tossed a grubby note onto the vendor's counter.

Soon, he reached the busy main road, where he stepped beyond the broken, piss-stained pavement at the edge of traffic. Amid a haze of dust and diesel fumes, with horn-blaring Bedford trucks hurtling past, Munnalal went about trying to hail an autorickshaw.

Zia decided to watch him from the entrance to the lane, staying in the shadows and telling Shashi, who was parked nearby, to keep his engine running.

Much to their shared-and in Munnalal's case, obvious-frustration, all the autos that drove past were occupied. Some carried as many as eight people with six on the backseats and another couple clinging to the sides like windsurfers.

Five minutes passed. A blue Bajaj Avenger motorcycle driven by a man wearing a helmet with a tinted visor pulled up on the other side of the road.

At first, Zia paid the driver cursory attention. But after Munnalal succeeded in hailing an auto and drove away in the direction of the old city, the Avenger made a quick U-turn and set off after him.

Zia and Shashi were not far behind on an old Vespa.

"Someone else is following Bastard Number One," said Zia.

"Roger that. Did you get a pozit-iv eye dee?"

"Huh?"

"Po-zit-iv eye dee! Means did you recognize him?"

"How could I recognize him, you fool? He's got a helmet on and his numberplate is covered in mud."

"Ten-four. Do you think he's a perp?"

"Speak Hindi, will you!"

"A perp means a goonda type."

"I don't know!"

"Think we should get between them?"

"No, but don't fall behind."

"Copy that."

Munnalal's auto buzzed and spluttered its way down M.I. Road, past Minerva cinema. Occasionally, he spat great gobs of paan juice out the side of the vehicle, painting the road's surface with intermittent red streaks.

Ten minutes later, the auto turned down the lane that ran behind Raj Kasliwal Bhavan. Finally it came to halt outside the deserted bungalow with the overgrown garden.

Munnalal got out and paid the driver, who promptly drove off in search of another fare. He looked up and down the street to make sure no one was following him and then slipped through the leaning iron gate. A second later he was lost amid the long grass and shadows.

The motorcyclist, having dismounted and watched Munnalal's movements from behind the corner, took off his helmet and, leaving it on his bike, continued his pursuit on foot.

Zia and Shashi, who had pulled up a safe distance behind him, rounded the corner in time to see the motorcyclist pass through the gate and enter the garden.

"No way I'm going in there," whispered Shashi as they crossed the lane. "I heard an owl!"

"They're harmless, yaar. All they do is sit in trees and go hoo hoo."

"OK, hero, you go in there and I'll wait here and cover you."

"What is this 'cover me' business? Bloody half-wit. Think you're Dirty Hari?"

"It's Dirty Harry ," corrected Shashi.

"Whatever, yaar. You stay here. Relax. Maybe take a nap."

Cautiously, Zia headed into the garden. Shashi watched him go and, finding himself alone, had a change of heart.

"I thought I'd better watch your back," he whispered when he caught up with his partner.

Together, the two of them crept forward through the long grass and weeds. The owl started hooting again, causing Shashi to grip Zia's arm. And then suddenly a figure ran straight into them, knocked them both to the ground and sprinted off in the direction of the lane. Zia and Shashi were dazed and it took them a few seconds to pick themselves off the ground.

"Go after him! I'll check ahead!" ordered Zia.

"Ten-four!"

Shashi gave chase, but he was too slow. As he reached the lane, the motorcycle kicked into start and, with a roar of the engine, made a 180-degree turn and sped away.