Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Missing Servant

Shashi watched the Bajaj Avenger disappear from sight, knowing that his cousin's Vespa was no match for it, and went to find his partner.

They met outside the gate.

"He got away!" said Shashi in a loud voice.

"Keep your voice down, you fool!"

"Don't call me a fool!"

"OK, half-wit! What happened?"

"He took off. What about Bastard Number One?"

"He's dead."

"What? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" snapped Zia. "He's lying behind that abandoned house with a knife sticking out of his throat."

Shashi's eyes widened.

"What happened?"

"Well, it wasn't suicide!"

Shashi held his hands over his face and kicked at the ground. A pall of dust rose around him.

"That's just our luck!" He cursed. "Bloody fat bastard goes and gets himself terminated while we're on duty. Boss and Tubelight are going to kill us!"

"I know! It's all your fault. You should have rubbed the mud off the numberplate and written it down when you had a chance," said Zia.

"What do you mean I should have? What about you?"

"It was your turn to do the thinking."

Shashi paced back and forth a couple of times. Then a thought occurred to him.

"What about his mobile phone? Did you get it?"

"It wasn't there."

"Sure?"

"I checked all his pockets!"

"Wallet?"

"Gone as well?"

There was a pause.

"What do we do now? Call the cops?"

"No, you idiot, we get out of here before someone sees us."

"Right…I mean Roger that," said Shashi.

"Bloody fools!" was Puri's reaction to news of Munnalal's murder and the events leading up to it.

It was Tubelight who broke it to him at two in the morning.

"Do the cops know?" asked the detective as he tried to shake off the deep, restful sleep he had been enjoying.

"Doubtful. The body is probably lying unnoticed, it being nighttime, Boss. Should I make an anonymous call? Tip off the cops?"

"Not yet. They'll trample the scene. I'll try to get there as fast as I can."

Puri hung up the phone and switched on the light in the panel behind his bed. Rumpi stirred.

"What is it, Chubby?" she asked sleepily.

"Trouble," he answered. "Where's the driver?"

"I put him in with Sweetu."

"Wake him and then pack my things, will you? I've got to return to Jaipur immediately. The case has taken a turn for the worse. Someone has been murdered."

"Who?" she asked.

"The man who held all the answers."

Puri changed and went into his study. Opening the safe, he took out his .32 IOF and slipped it into his trouser pocket.

By the time he went downstairs, his wife was standing by the front door with his packed overnight case, a few cold rotis wrapped in tinfoil and a flask of hastily made "dip tea."

The detective smiled and gently took her cheek in his right hand. "Meri achhi biwi, my good wife," he said.

She could feel the cold metal of Puri's pistol against her thigh as she gave him a fond hug.

"Take care," she said.

The detective chuckled. "Don't worry about me, my dear. When it comes to danger, I've got a sixth sense."

"Danger doesn't worry me," answered Rumpi. "But those deadly pakoras and chicken frankies you like so much do."

Puri managed to get a couple of hours' sleep and reached the Jaipur city limits at dawn. An apologetic and sleepy Tubelight was waiting for him at Ajmeri Gate. They headed straight to the murder scene. But the police had beaten them to it. Three Jeeps and the coroner's wagon, which looked like an armored milk van, were parked outside the gate of the derelict house. Five impassive constables stood nearby, chatting among themselves.

Puri told Handbrake to stop the car across the road, from where he watched and waited. A few minutes later, a procession emerged from the garden. It was led by a couple of orderlies carrying a stretcher with a blanket draped over Munnalal's body. Two more constables with rifles slung over their shoulders followed. Bringing up the rear was Shekhawat, smoking a cigarette.

"Good morning, Inspector," said Puri as he got out of the Ambassador.

"What are you doing here, sir?" he asked, surprised to see the detective.

"Just I was on my way to see my client for an early morning conference," he answered cheerily.

"At this time?" The inspector looked at his watch. "It's not even six."

"What to say? I like an early start."

Puri gave a nod in the direction of the stretcher, which was being slid into the back of the coroner's wagon.

"Who have you got there?" he asked.

"Male, mid-forties, found with this knife sticking out of his throat."

Shekhawat held up the bloody murder weapon, which he'd put in a plastic bag.

"By God," said Puri, feigning surprise. "Any identification?"

"Nothing. So far he's a naamaalum, unknown. He was carrying this."

Shekhawat held up Munnalal's revolver, also now in a plastic bag.

"May I see the body?" asked Puri.

"Why all the interest, sir?"

"The murder occurred behind my client's house. Might be I know the victim, isn't it."

Shekhawat led the detective over to the coroner's wagon and told the orderlies to pull back the blanket.

Munnalal's face was frozen in an expression of sheer horror. The wound was on the left of the neck and the blood had soaked his shirt.

His lips and chin were also stained with paan juice.

"Do you recognize him, sir?" asked Shekhawat.

The detective made a face that suggested ignorance.

"Unfortunately not, Inspector."

The orderlies replaced the blanket back over Munnalal's face. Puri and Shekhawat turned and walked away.

"Any theories?" asked the detective.

"We got an anonymous tip-off in the middle of the night. Someone called and said he saw two men hurrying out of the garden and driving away on a Vespa. He gave us the numberplate. My guess is these two murdered him for his wallet and phone."

"So a robbery then," suggested the detective.

"Seems that way," answered Shekhawat.

Puri was looking down at the dust on the street where a number of vehicles had left tracks, privately cursing the police for being such bunglers. If only he had reached the scene before them.

"Well, Inspector, I can see that you have everything well in hand," he said. "I'll wish you a good day."

The detective got back into his car.

"Go straight to Raj Kasliwal Bhavan," he told Handbrake tonelessly.

As the Ambassador pulled away, Puri watched the reflection of the inspector in the rearview mirror. Shekhawat in turn watched the back of Puri's vehicle. The curious expression on his face made the detective uneasy.

It was only a question of time before he found out that Munnalal once drove for Kasliwal and his murder was bound to reflect badly on his case. Puri could see tomorrow's newspaper headlines already:

"Can your boys' vehicle be traced back to them?" asked Puri, with some urgency.

"No way, Boss, but why?"

"Shekhawat has the numberplate."

"How, Boss?" exclaimed Tubelight.

"Most probably the killer himself gave it to him. Your boys have been most careless. Tell them to go back to Delhi right away. I would want to talk to them once this thing is over."

The Ambassador turned right at the end of the road, then right again and pulled into Raj Kasliwal Bhavan.

After coming to a stop, Puri sat for a moment in a gloomy silence.

"What's wrong, Boss?" asked Tubelight.

"I've come to a theory about what all has been going on. If I'm right, it would not end well for anyone."

Tubelight knew not to ask Puri about his theories. There was no point. The detective always kept his cards close to his chest until he was sure he had solved the case. This secrecy was derived partly from prudence and partly from his controlling nature.