Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“Could be the murderer left his business card, but we’ll never know,” commented the detective drily.

Singh did not respond to this gibe. He knew all too well that the response time of the Delhi police force was abysmal. There was no point trying to defend it.

“You know where the members of this Laughing Club were standing?” asked Puri.

Singh took out his notebook and read out the names one by one, indicating where each man had been at the time of the murder. Puri plotted their positions on a page in his own notebook. He marked the spot where Dr. Jha had stood with an X; in the middle of the circle he drew a question mark.

“These other fellows: they were all present when you arrived?”

“No, sir, they’d been taken to the station to give statements. But I interviewed each of them personally. I’ll have the transcripts brought to your office. One of them, Shiv-raj Sharma, an archaeologist, says he didn’t see what happened because he dropped his glasses. But the others are all convinced they witnessed a paranormal event – although of course their descriptions vary. Mr. Ved Karat, a political speechwriter, described the goddess as being twenty feet high. Mr. Gupta, a High Court advocate, says her eyes ‘burned like coals’.”

“Witness accounts always differ, Inspector,” said Puri. “Eyes all work the same, but the mind… that is something altogether different, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” intoned Singh, who had learned to put up with Puri’s little lectures.

“I would be needing to do interrogation of all these gentlemen myself, also,” said the detective.

The inspector had already anticipated this and written their names and addresses down on a piece of paper. Without a word, he handed it to Puri.

“You know me better than I know myself, isn’t it?” He smiled before beginning a more thorough examination of the scene.

Singh stood nearby watching the detective’s actions closely as if he was trying to decipher some hidden method.

“Inspector, your boys’ boot prints are everywhere,” scolded Puri after a minute or so. “A three-legged dog was present, also. But there is nothing else here apart from one bloodstain.” He paused. “Anything is missing?”

His question anticipated key evidence having been removed from the scene by petty criminals. In the past, Puri had known pickpockets posing as doctors to rob corpses of wallets, wedding rings, even shoes. It was not unknown for constables to do the same.

“Sir, regretfully, the murder weapon itself is nowhere to be found,” answered Singh.

“Could be anyone stole it.”

“It’s possible, sir, but…” The inspector looked suddenly unsure of himself.

“Tell me,” prompted Puri.

“It’s ridiculous, I know, but Professor Pandey says he saw the sword disintegrate before his very eyes while still in the victim’s chest.”

“Disintegrate?”

“Into ash, sir.”

“You found any of this ash?”

“I found some gray dust next to the spot where Dr. Jha fell. I’ve sent it to the lab. The results won’t be back for a few days.”

Puri referred to his notebook again.

“This fellow Pandey was closest to the body. Could be why he saw the blade disintegrate and others didn’t.”

“But, sir, you told me you didn’t believe anything paranormal occurred!” objected Singh.

“Correct, Inspector. But it may be the blade did in fact disintegrate. A good detective keeps an open mind.”

By now, Puri was stooped over the bloodstain, the only indication of where Dr. Jha had fallen.

“Seems there was a good deal of blood,” he said. “How long the body lay here?”

“Five minutes at the most. Professor Pandey drove the victim to AIIMS, where he was declared ‘arrived dead’.”

Puri inquired about the wound.

“I saw it myself, sir, an inch to the left of the heart. The medical officer says he died quickly.”

“You released the body?”

“Yes, sir. The cremation will be later today.” Puri nodded. There was nothing unusual about this; funerals in India were usually held within hours of death.

“Do one thing, Inspector,” said the detective. “Go and stand behind the tree.”

Singh did as he was asked while Puri went and stood in each of the spots where the Laughing Club members had been.

“It is as I suspected,” he announced. “Anyone hiding behind the tree would have gone unseen. The trunk is too wide.”

“But surely they would have seen the murderer approaching,” said Singh as he reappeared.

“Not if they came directly from the south. From there the tree is providing more than adequate cover.”

“They?” asked Singh.

“There were at least two persons, no? One to do the actual deed, another to release the fog and make those flashes so as to distract the witnesses.”

“That makes sense, sir,” said Singh, sounding encouraged. “I suppose the second man hiding behind the tree could also have released some laughing gas – that would explain why the members all started laughing uncontrollably.”

“That is one possibility, Inspector. Why not check into how readily laughter gas is available? Who all is having access to it? No doubt there are small canisters available that are readily portable.” The two went quiet for a moment, both deep in thought. Then Singh asked: “Sir, do you have any theories about how the murderer levitated?”

“As of now, I am certain of one thing only,” replied Puri.

“And that is?”

“This is one of the most extraordinary crimes I have encountered during my long and distinguished career. Those behind it are master criminals. No doubt about it at all.” He paused. “But tell me, Inspector. These holes you mentioned earlier. They’re where exactly?”

Singh led the detective to the east side of the tree and pointed out four small holes bored into the bark at a height of about ten feet.

“Looks like they held some type of bracket,” suggested Puri on tiptoe.

“For holding up a winch perhaps?”

“A small one, possibly. But only time will tell.”

They made their way back across the lawn to the jeep.

“So you’re willing to take on the case, sir?” asked Singh, sounding hopeful.

“More than willing. But usual rules apply. I will update you on any and all major developments. Meantime I work alone.”

“But if there’s an arrest to be made…”

“Not to worry, Inspector, that is your department. When the time comes, I will be calling you, only.”

Singh was frowning again.

“Sir, one thing still worries me: Maharaj Swami. Some of the richest men in India bow down to touch his feet. Even the prime minister visited his ashram not long back. You should be careful.”

Puri smiled. “No need to worry about me, Inspector. Danger is my ally after all.”

Having called the Jha household and been given the time and place of the funeral, the detective traveled north along Ring Road, past the sheer, red sandstone walls of the Old City, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan’s once magnificent capital. He passed the milky white audience hall, which once housed the Peacock Throne, and the octagonal tower of the Shahi Burj, the king of the world’s library.

Ten minutes later, the Ambassador pulled up at the entrance to Delhi’s principal cremation ground on the west bank of the Yamuna River.

To Puri, no other place served as such a powerful reminder of man’s mortality, the fact that for all of us there is but a single breath between this life and the next. Facing that reality was no bad thing. But the place held sad memories for him all the same. The first time he had come here had been as a five-year-old for the funeral of his great-grandmother; more recently, he had brought his beloved papa to be cremated.