Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

The ladies returned to their tea and gossip as they waited for lunch to be served.

About ten minutes later, Lily Arora’s poodle started barking in one of the back rooms. There came a crash from the kitchen. Raised voices could be heard. Rumpi thought it was likely a servant dispute of some sort. But then two men burst into the living room wearing women’s stockings over their faces.

“This is a robbery!” the taller of the two shouted in Hindi, stating the obvious. He was brandishing a country-made weapon. It looked like a poor imitation of an English highwayman’s pistol. “Everyone stay sitting and do what you’re told and no one will get hurt!”

A few of the women shrieked. Lily Arora stood up and shouted: “How dare you invade my home like this! Who do you think you are? Do you know who my husband is?”

“Shut up, woman!” interrupted the gunman, pointing his weapon at her. “Sit down!”

Lily Arora glared at him contemptuously with her hands on her hips. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!”

“Sit down or I’ll shoot!” The gunman cocked his pistol.

The click caused some of the women to scream again and bury their faces in their hands.

“Please sit down,” insisted a frightened-sounding Mrs. Nanda, tugging on Lily Arora’s churidar. “It’s not worth it. Do as he says.”

With an icy glare of contempt, the hostess resumed her place on the sofa.

“That’s better,” said the gunman, standing with his back to the fireplace, the most commanding position in the room, while his accomplice guarded the door. By now, most of the ladies were holding their hands up in the air although they had not been told to do so. “I want the kitty fund. Where is it? Hand it over.”

“It’s here, I have it,” blurted out Mrs. Deepak, who was shaking. “Take it. Just don’t hurt us!”

The gunman grabbed the money and sized it up. The other women exchanged confused looks but kept quiet.

“There’s only fifty or sixty here. Where’s the rest?” he demanded.

A calm, quiet voice spoke up. It was Puri’s mother. “No need to shout, na,” she said. “It’s here with me.”

The gunman crossed the room.

“Where?” he demanded.

“In my purse, only.” By ‘purse’ she meant handbag. He picked it up and started rummaging through the contents. Although of average size, it contained a considerable amount of stuff: her wallet, a mobile phone, a makeup kit, a bulging address book, a little plastic bag of prasad, a miniature copy of the Gita and a small canister of Mace. The gunman dropped half the items on the floor in his search for the cash.

“There’s nothing here!” he exclaimed eventually.

“You’re sure? Strange, na? Let me see.”

As Mummy took her handbag back from him, she scratched his left hand with the fingernail of her right index finger. The gunman yelped.

“Hey, what are you doing, Auntie?” he hollered, nursing his hand.

“So clumsy of me, na,” she said, smiling apologetically. “You’ll be needing one bandage. Mrs. Arora must be having one.”

“Forget that! Just give me the money or I’ll shoot!” He raised his clunky weapon again. This time he pointed it directly at Mummy’s forehead.

“It’s over here! It’s over here!” interrupted Lily Arora urgently. “I’ve got it. Leave her alone!”

The hostess picked the plastic bag up off the floor and threw it to him.

“OK, let’s get out of here,” said the accomplice by the door. He was evidently young; his voice sounded like it was breaking.

“Shut up! Salah! Go start the engine!”

The teenager hesitated and then backed out of the living room.

The gunman started toward the door himself, his weapon still trained on the group.

“I want all of you to get down on your knees and face the ground. Do it now!”

One by one, with varying degrees of success, the ladies did as he instructed.

“Now stay where you are for five minutes and don’t call the cops! Remember, I know where you live!”

The gunman glanced around the room at the array of bottoms sticking up in the air. Then he was gone.

The ladies breathed a collective sigh of relief. All of them stayed put apart from Mummy.

“Call the police and don’t touch my things,” she whispered to Rumpi.

“Mummy-ji, where are you going?” asked Puri’s wife, sitting up on her knees. “It’s dangerous!”

Ignoring her, the elderly lady put her head around the sitting room door in time to see the gunman escaping out the back of the house.

She headed outside to the front gate, where all the ladies’ drivers were sitting on the pavement playing teen patti.

“Some goondas have done armed robbery of our kitty party!” she announced. “Where’s my driver, Majnu?”

“Toilet, madam,” answered one of the men.

“Typical! But we’ve got to give chase, na? One of you must drive. Come. Don’t do dillydally.”

The drivers all put down their cards and stood respectfully, but none of them jumped into action. They needed permission from their respective madams before they could leave their posts, one of them explained.

Mummy went back inside and fetched Lily Arora. But her Sumo was penned in behind four other vehicles.

By the time they had been moved, the thieves had got clean away.

The police reached the house in record time and in record numbers, thanks to Mrs. Devi, whose husband was a childhood friend of the chief.

Two servants were soon discovered in the pantry, bound and gagged. Once untied, they were summarily taken away on suspicion of being accomplices to the crime.

Lily Arora’s poodle was also found lying on the kitchen floor unconscious and was immediately rushed to the vet’s.

A young assistant subinspector then took the ladies’ statements in the living room. He was dismissive of Mummy, so she sought out his senior.

Inspector I.P. Kumar was standing by the front gate along with three gormless constables, giving the hapless drivers a grilling.

“Madam, you gave your statement?” he asked her wearily when she insisted on talking to him.

“What is point? So stupid he is, na? Got rajma for brains seems like. Now, something is there you must know. So listen carefully, na? I’ve some vital evidence to show.”

Mummy held up her right hand; she had wrapped it in a plastic freezer bag.

“You’re hurt, madam?” asked Inspector Kumar.

“Not at all,” she replied. “Just I scratched the gunman most deliberately.”

“Why exactly?”

“For purpose of DNA collection, naturally,” she said impatiently. “That is what I have been telling. Fragments of that goonda’s skin and all got under my nail. Just his fingerprints are on my compact, Gita and hand phone, also.”

Mummy held up another freezer bag, which contained the other evidence she had collected.

“Madam,” Inspector Kumar said with a weary sigh, “this is not Miami, US of A. For everyday robberies we’re not doing DNA testing. That is for big crimes only. Like when non-state actors blow up hotels and all. Also, your fingernail does not constitute evidence. Could be you scratched yourself or petted the dog. How are we to know?”

Mummy bristled. “I will have you know my late dear husband was himself a police inspector and I was headmistress of Modern School – ”

“Then better you stick to teaching and leave police work to professionals, madam,” interrupted Inspector Kumar before turning away and continuing with his interrogation of the drivers.

Mummy felt Rumpi’s hand on her arm.

“Come, Mummy-ji, we should be getting home,” she said.

“But police are being negligent in their duties,” she complained, still brandishing the evidence she had collected.