Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Missing Servant

Puri rubbed his stomach and grimaced.

"Personally I'm now answering for the kachoris I ate at lunch," he added with a smile.

Shekhawat remained stony faced and aloof. His pride was too badly wounded. And he was not about to admit his mistakes-not here and now, and certainly not in his official report.

"Well, I'll be going," he said. "There's the killer Babua to track down and I've got a good idea where to find him."

"Oh, there's no need, Inspector," said Puri airily. "Didn't I tell you, I've got him locked in the trunk of my Ambassador?"

For once, Shekhawat was visibly dumbstruck.

"There?" he asked, pointing to the car, his eyebrows knitted together.

"That's right, Inspector. One advantage with Ambassadors is they have large secure trunks."

"But…?"

"I picked him up this afternoon after tracing his mobile phone. Let me show you."

They walked over to the car and Handbrake opened the back. Inside lay a burly man, bound and gagged, his eyes defiant and angry.

"Allow me to present one Om Prakash, alias Babua," said Puri triumphantly. "A right bloody goonda if ever there was one."

At the end of every big case, Puri dictated all the details of his investigation to his personal secretary Elizabeth Rani, who could do speed typing.

He did so for two reasons.

Firstly, it was not uncommon for trials to drag on for years, sometimes decades. So it was imperative to keep a detailed record of events, which the detective could refer to when he was called upon to give evidence.

And secondly, Puri was planning to leave all his files to the National Archive because he was certain future generations of detectives would want to study his methods and achievements.

The detective also liked to entertain the idea that someday a writer would come along who would want to pen his biography. He had thought of the perfect title: CONFIDENTIALITY IS MY WATCHWORD. And what a spectacular Bollywood film it would make. Puri's favorite actor, Anupam Kher, would play the lead, and Rekha would be perfect for the part of Rumpi. Her screen persona would be that of a good, homely woman who also happened to be a talented and alluring exotic dancer.

"Sir, one thing I don't understand," said Elizabeth Rani after Puri had finished relating the twists and turns in the Case of the Missing Servant. "Who was the dead girl found on the Ajmer Road?"

Puri's secretary always asked such elementary questions. But he didn't mind spelling it out for her. Not everyone could have a mind as sharp as his, he reasoned.

"She's just one of dozens upon dozens of personages who go missing across India every year," he explained. "No doubt we'll never know her name. So many girls are leaving the villages and traveling to cities these days. And so many are never returning. Just they're turning up dead on railway tracks, in canals, and getting raped and dumped from vehicles. With their near and dear so far away, no one is there to identify the bodies. I tell you, frankly speaking Madam Rani, it is an epidemic of growing proportions."

Elizabeth Rani moved her head from side to side mournfully.

"Such a sad state of affairs, sir," she said. "Thank the God there are gentlemen such as yourself to protect us."

"Most kind of you, Madam Rani!" Puri beamed.

The two of them were sitting in the detective's office: he behind his desk; she in front of it with a laptop computer. Elizabeth Rani saved the document in which she had typed his dictation and closed the screen.

"Sir, one other thing," she said as she stood from her chair to leave.

"Yes, Madam Rani," said Puri, who had been expecting more questions.

"You said Mary got pregnant, sir. But what happened to the baby?"

"Sadly, she lost it on the train to Ranchi."

"That poor girl," commiserated Elizabeth Rani. "How she has suffered. Is there any hope for her and Bobby?"

"Sadly, there is no Bollywood ending. Mary refused to see him. Most likely, it is for the best. Too much hurt is there, actually. The poor girl has suffered greatly. This morning we brought her to Delhi, Rumpi and I. We've made arrangements for her to start work with Vikas Chauhan's family. Ajay Kasliwal has also promised to pay for her dowry so she might one day go the marriage way. He's being most generous and appreciative, I must say."

"And Bobby, sir?"

The detective rubbed the end of his moustache between his fingers in a contemplative fashion before answering.

"Seems like he and his mother will never speak again, Madam Rani," said Puri sadly. "He's sworn he'll not so much as be in the same room with the woman."

His secretary sucked in her breath and said, "Hai, hai."

"Mrs. Kasliwal's actions were certainly deplorable. Which one of us could forgive her in our hearts? But Bobby's actions, although innocent, were hardly decent. Such a well brought up and educated young man should have known better, actually. There is a right and proper place for physical relations and it is between husband and wife only. When young people go straying outside those boundaries, there can only be hurt and misfortune."

"Quite right, sir," said Elizabeth Rani.

Puri tucked a pen he'd been using into the outside pocket of his safari suit next to two others.

"India is modernizing, Madam Rani, but we must keep our family values, isn't it? Without them, where would we be?"

"I hate to think, sir," she said.

"Well, Madam Rani, that will do for now. Place the file in the 'conclusively solved' cabinet. Another successful outcome for Most Private Investigators, no?"

"Right away, sir."

Elizabeth Rani returned to her desk, closing the door to his office behind her.

Puri leaned back in his chair and looked up at the portraits of Chanakya and his father on the wall, both of them wreathed in garlands of fresh marigolds. Putting the palms of his hands and fingers together, he respectfully acknowledged them both with a namaste.

With Diwali, the festival of lights, the biggest holiday in the Hindu calendar, due to begin the next day, Puri gave his staff the afternoon off and asked Handbrake to drive him to the airport to pick up his youngest daughter, Radhika.

He could hardly contain his excitement as he waited outside the arrivals hall. It had been three months since he'd seen his chowti baby, the longest they'd ever been separated. He'd missed her sorely.

As the other passengers emerged from the building, pushing trolleys piled high with baggage, and taxi-wallahs vied for their custom, the detective stood up on his toes, trying to peer over the heads of the crowd gathered around the exit.

When he finally spotted Radhika, her young, eager face searching for his among the banks of strangers, he felt a lump form in his throat and cried out his nickname for her: "Bulbul! Bulbul!"

"Hi, Papa!"

Grinning from ear to ear, she skipped forward, flung her arms around him and gave him a kiss and a big hug.

"By God, let me look at you," he said, holding her by the shoulders and giving her a fond, appraising look. "So thin you've become, huh! They're not feeding you at that college or what? Come! Mama's making all your favorites and she can't wait to see you. Mummy-ji's at home, also. Both your sisters are arriving tomorrow."

He took hold of her trolley and they headed into the car park to find Handbrake and the Ambassador.

"So, all OK?" he asked.

And from that moment until they reached the house, Radhika regaled him with everything that had happened to her in the past few months.

"Papa, you know we've been learning…"

"Papa, you'll never guess what my roommate Shikha said…"

"Papa, something amazing happened…"

"Papa, did you know that…"

Puri sat basking in her youthful enthusiasm and innocence, succumbing to her infectious laughter. Occasionally, he reacted to her anecdotes by saying things like, "Is it?" and "Don't tell me!" and "Wonderful!" But for the most part, he just sat and listened.