Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

There were hoots of laughter from the five or six other members of Akbar the Great’s family who had by now gathered on the roof. Puri bristled; he did not like to be made a fool of.

“Are you going to tell me how it is done?” he demanded.

“I told you earlier, I got my powers at the cremation ground!”

The laughter reached a crescendo and then the magician pulled back the blanket.

Beneath lay two old hockey sticks, one on either side of him. A pair of shoes and socks identical to those Akbar the Great was wearing were attached to the ends.

“As the blanket was laid over me, you were distracted and didn’t notice when I made the switch. Then I raised the sticks under the blanket and, at the same time, elevated my head. My feet and backside remained on the floor the entire time.”

“By God! I would never have imagined it could be so simple,” exclaimed the detective in English, clapping enthusiastically. And then reverting to Hindi again he said: “But whoever killed Dr. Jha yesterday was not under a blanket. The video taken by the French tourist shows Kali floating free. How was that done?”

Akbar the Great shrugged. “That I cannot answer,” he said.

“Can you at least tell me who is capable of such a feat?”

Puri’s question was met with a stony silence. Akbar the Great said something to the boy, who in turn told Puri politely but firmly: “My great-grandfather is getting very tired and needs to rest.”

The audience had come to an end. But the detective managed to get in one last question.

“Tell me, Baba. Could a rationalist have pulled off this illusion?”

Akbar the Great shook his head. “Rationalists learn simple tricks that are done by traveling sadhus, like holding pots of boiling oil in their bare hands or piercing themselves with needles. The man you are looking for is no rationalist. He is an illusionist. Or perhaps someone who knows real magic.”

Puri and Tubelight made their way back through the slum.

The meeting had proven useful but also frustrating.

“Could be Akbar the Great is knowing the identity of the murderer,” said Puri. “Question is: Why protect him?”

“There’s probably some kind of magician’s code, Boss,” suggested Tubelight in Hindi. “If they’re anything like my family, they’re sworn never to reveal the identity of another member of the clan. Maybe the murderer’s a blood relative. In which case they’ll never give him up.”

It was only after the auto rickshaw had pulled into the main road that Puri discovered a piece of paper in one of his trouser pockets.

It had a name and address written on it.

“Manish the Magnificent. Hey Presto! GK1 M Block Market.”

He showed it to Tubelight. “Someone slipped it into my pocket!” marveled Puri.

“Want to go to GK, Boss?”

Puri checked his watch. It was nearly eight. “Jaldi challo!” he said.

Manish the Magnificent’s picture appeared on a board on the pavement outside the entrance to Hey Presto! – “magic, comedy, music and more.” He was wearing a maharajah’s garb: bejeweled turban, silken robes and fake whiskers. Puri recognized him instantly nonetheless. His real name was Jaideep Prabhu.

“So you’ve been reincarnated after so many years, is it, Jaideep?” said the detective to himself. “Takes a master of disguise to see through one, huh.”

The hostess at the door led him into a restaurant-cum-bar bedecked with mirrors, rotating disco balls and velvet-upholstered booths. It was packed with good-looking young people. Laughter and cigarette smoke filled the air.

Puri sat down at a small table near the stage, where a jazz pianist and saxophonist were playing Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’.

“By God! Eight hundred for whisky!” he exclaimed out loud when he read over the drinks menu. “That’s for the entire bottle, is it?”

The young waiter, who had a ponytail and an overly familiar bearing, eyed the man in the safari suit, Sandown cap and aviator sunglasses with undisguised bemusement.

“Hey, man, what time are you on tonight?” he asked.

“Pardon?” replied Puri sharply.

“You’re one of the stand-ups, right?”

The detective, who rarely lost his temper, could barely restrain himself. “Listen, Charlie, I am a private investigator and I am here to see your boss,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Give him this.” He handed the insolent young man his card.

“‘Vish Puri, managing director, chief officer and winner of six national awards, confidentiality is our watchword’,” read the waiter out loud. “That’s hilarious! I can’t wait to see your act.”

The detective banged his fist down hard on the table. “I am not an act!” he exploded. “Now go tell Jaideep Prabhu that Vish Puri is here!”

The other customers were all staring.

“OK, dude,” said the waiter, holding up his hands defensively. “I thought you were… so you’re for real. Wow! I’ll give the boss your card. Relax, OK? Now what can I get you?”

“Bring one peg whisky and soda. No ice. And don’t call me ‘man’ or ‘dude’! You should call elders ‘ji’ or ‘sir’!”

“Fine, sir . But just so you know… my name’s not Charlie.”

The waiter headed off to the bar to fetch his drink.

Puri sat back in his chair, fuming. Some of the other customers were still eyeing him. They looked amused. Why exactly, the detective could not fathom. Self-consciously, he checked his cap to make sure it was sitting squarely on his head.

How he hated these new ‘trendy’ haunts! Like the malls, they were indicative of a crass materialism and hedonism undermining the family values that underpinned Indian society.

Take those females at the next table, for example, Puri thought. Baring their legs in public, drinking alcohol, using gutter language: totally disgraceful. Or those two nancy boys over there, the ones in silk shirts and big sideburns. By God, they’re holding hands actually! What the bloody hell kind of place you’re running here, Jaideep? he wondered.

Puri felt a letter to the editor of the Times of India coming on. Perhaps he would juxtapose his views with those of the late Dr. Jha. The rationalist had not been a fan of this crass, Americanized culture, either. To him education and knowledge had been all-important.

But they had held opposing views on the role of religion. Dr. Jha had often referred to dogma as the ‘root of all evil’. The detective, on the other hand, regarded a belief in the divine as essential. Without it, in his view, society would disintegrate.

“The boss says to tell you he’ll be backstage after the show, sir,” said the waiter when he returned with Puri’s drink.

The jazz musicians finished their set, the lights were dimmed and then a mist began to creep across the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a voice offstage. “Tonight you will be astounded and spellbound, taken to new heights of expectation and reality! Prepare your mind to travel to new frontiers, beyond time and space! Prepare to be dazzled by the greatest magician in all of India!”

A flash and a puff of smoke and Manish the Magnificent appeared onstage. His sudden appearance engendered a round of applause and he bowed regally.

“For my first death-defying trick I will need a volunteer from the audience,” he announced.

One of the leggy women at the nearby table was chosen and made her way up to the stage, sniggering and exchanging looks with her friends. The magician produced a pistol.

“I would like you to examine this and tell the audience if it is real.”

She did so and agreed that it certainly looked real, and then Manish the Magnificent made a show of loading the weapon with bullets. To prove these were ‘live ones’, he asked that a paper target on a stand be placed at the back of the stage. Once it was in position, he fired three times. The target, drilled with three round holes, was then shown to the audience.