Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Missing Servant

"Sir. One gentleman is awaiting your kind attention," he said in a hushed voice.

It was not unusual for a prospective client to ask to meet Puri at the club. The prominent members of society who came to him often guarded their privacy and preferred not to be seen coming and going from the detective's offices.

"Mr. Ajay Kasliwal is it?" asked Puri.

"Yes, sir. Thirty minutes back only he reached."

The detective acknowledged this information with a nod and turned to look at the notice board. The club secretary, Col. P. V. S. Gill (Ret.), had posted a new announcement. It was typed on the club's letterhead and, in no fewer than five places, blemished with whitener.

This made instant sense to Puri (as he believed it should to anyone coming to the club wearing bush shirts or indeed safaris) and his eyes turned to the next notice, a reminder from the undersecretary that ayahs were not permitted on the tennis courts. The chief librarian had also posted a note appealing for funds to replace the club's copy of the collected works of Rabindranath Tagore, which had "most unfortunately and due to unforeseen and regrettable circumstance" been "totally destroyed" by rats.

Next, the detective cast a quick eye over the dinner menu. It was Monday, which meant mulligatawny soup or Russian salad for starters; a choice of egg curry, cabbage bake with French fries or shepherd's pie for mains; and the usual tutti-frutti ice-cream or mango trifle for dessert.

The thought of shepherd's pie followed by tutti-frutti ice cream stirred the detective's appetite and he regretted not having come over to the club for lunch. As per Dr. Mohan's instructions, Rumpi was packing his tiffin with only weak daal, rice and chopped salad these days.

Finally, Puri turned to the list of new applicants for club membership. He read each name in turn. Most he recognized: the sons and daughters of existing members. The others he jotted down in his notebook.

As a favor to Col. P. V. S. Gill (Ret.), Puri ran background checks on anyone applying for membership who was not already known in the right Delhi circles. Usually this meant making a couple of discreet phone calls, a service Puri gladly provided the Gym for free. Standards had to be kept up, after all. Recently, a number of Johnny-come-lately types had made applications. Just last month, a liquor crorepati, a multimillionaire, had asked to join. Puri had been right to flag him. Only yesterday, the man had been featured in the social pages of the Hindustan Times for buying the country's first Ferrari.

The detective slipped his notebook back into the inner pocket of his safari suit and made his way out of reception.

Usually he reached the bar by cutting through the ballroom. This route avoided the main office, which was the domain of Mrs. Col. P. V. S. Gill (Ret.). A bossy, impossible woman who ran the club while her husband played cards in the Rummy Room, she regarded Puri as an upstart. He was, after all, the son of a lowly policeman from west Delhi who had only gained entry to the hallowed establishment through Rumpi, whose father, a retired colonel, had made him a member.

Unfortunately, the ballroom was being decorated-a dozen paint-splattered decorators working on bamboo scaffolds bound with rope, were applying lashings of the only color used on every exterior and interior wall of the Gym: brilliant white-and so Puri was left with no choice but to take the corridor that led past Mrs. Gill's door.

He proceeded slowly, painfully aware of his new squeaking shoes, specially made for him to account for the shortness of his left leg. He passed the Bridge Room and the ladies' cloakroom and a row of prints of English country scenes depicting tall, upright gentlemen in top hats and tails.

As he passed Mrs. Gill's office, he went on tiptoe, but the door immediately swung open as if she had been lying in wait.

"What is all this squeaking, Mr. Puri?" she screeched, her flabby midriff bulging from the folds of her garish sari. "Making quite a racket."

"My new shoes, I'm afraid, madam," he said.

Mrs. Gill looked down at the offending footwear disapprovingly.

"Mr. Puri, there are strict rules governing footwear," she said. "Rule number twenty-nine, paragraph D, is most specific! Hard shoes are to be worn at all times."

"They are orthopedic shoes, madam," he explained.

"What nonsense!" Mrs. Gill said. "Hard shoes only!"

She pulled back into her office, closing the door behind her.

Puri continued down the corridor, resolved not to wear his new shoes in the club again. Such Punjabi women were not to be tangled with; in his experience they could be more fearsome adversaries than Mumbai's crime bosses.

"Imagine spending sixty years with such a woman," he mumbled to himself. "One can only imagine what the colonel did in his past life to deserve such a fate."

The detective pushed open the door to the bar and stepped into the relative quiet he so cherished. This was the only truly civilized spot left in Delhi, a place where a gentleman could enjoy a quiet peg or two among distinguished company-even if some of his fellow members barely acknowledged him.

Judge Suri was sitting in the far corner in his favorite chair, smoking his pipe and reading the Indian Journal of International Law . Puri recognized Shonal Ganguly, professor of history at Delhi University, sitting with his wife. Next to the fireplace slouched L. K. George, the former industrialist who had given away his family fortune to the League for the Protection of Cows and their Progeny and now lived in a crumbling Lutyens bungalow on Racecourse Road. Propping up the bar stood Major-General Duleep Singh along with his eldest son, a surgeon and resident of Maryland visiting from the USA.

Apart from the waiters, the only other person in the room was a distinguished-looking gentleman sitting on his own at one of the little round tables near the French windows with an empty glass in front of him. Puri guessed this must be his guest because his brow was deeply furrowed with worry, a feature prospective clients often shared.

"Sir, your good name, please?" asked the detective, approaching the stranger.

"Ajay Kasliwal," he answered, standing up and offering his hand.

Despite the bar's cool temperature, his palm was moist. "Vish Puri, is it? Well, I'm certainly glad to meet you. Bunty Bannerjee put me on to you. Said you were to be found here most evenings. He sends his best wishes, by the way."

"Most kind of you," replied the detective. "How is the old devil? It's been such a very long time!"

"Very good, very good. No complaints. In and out of trouble," replied Kasliwal with a jovial chuckle.

"Everyone is well?"

"World class! Flourishing, in fact!"

"And Bunty's factory? Thriving, is it?"

"Thriving, absolutely thriving."

Puri gestured for Kasliwal to take his seat. He sank back into the armchair and his weight caused it to wheeze air like an old bellows.

"You'll join me?" asked the detective.

"Please," sighed Kasliwal.

The detective snapped his fingers and an elderly waiter who had been working at the club for some forty years approached the table. He was hard of hearing so the detective had to shout his order.

"Bring two Royal Challenge and soda! Two portion chili cheese toast!"

The waiter nodded, picked up Kasliwal's empty glass and methodically wiped the surface of the table. This provided Puri with an opportunity to study his guest up close.