Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“Now it’s your turn,” he told his young volunteer. “Only your target will be this tin can, which I will balance on top of my head!”

“Are you crazy?”

“Trust me, I am a professional!”

“Go on! Shoot!” a voice in the audience shouted encouragingly.

The young woman, whom Puri suspected was a plant, eventually agreed to his request. She took aim and fired. And lo and behold, Manish the Magnificent caught the bullet between his teeth.

“Next I will grow a mango tree from this pit before your very eyes.”

The magician planted the pit in a pot and watered it. Soon a green shoot appeared. Within a few minutes this had grown into a miniature tree that bore fruit, which he picked and threw into the audience.

One of India’s oldest tricks followed: a young boy climbed into a basket and Manish the Magnificent drove swords through it. The blades appeared bloodied, but the boy emerged miraculously unscathed.

Last came a version of the Indian rope trick.

The magician began by sitting next to a basket and playing a pungi, used by snake charmers. The end of a rope stood erect like a cobra and began to rise up into the air. When it had reached a height often feet, the boy climbed up the rope and, apparently out of nowhere, picked some coconuts.

After the show, Puri found Manish the Magnificent in his well-appointed office, puffing on a fat cigar. By now, he had shed his whiskers and turban.

“Mr. Vish Puri, sir,” he said, shaking the detective limply by the hand and then motioning him into the chair in front of his desk. “It’s been a very long time. But not long enough.”

Ten years had passed since Jaideep had robbed Khanna Jewelers in Karol Bagh in broad daylight.

Posing as a customer, he had swapped fifty lakhs’ worth of diamonds for glass replicas without any of the store attendants noticing. The detective, working on behalf of the owners, had caught him as he tried to sell the stones. Subsequently, Jaideep had been sentenced to six years in Tihar jail. Puri, unaware at the time that the thief was a trained magician, had never figured out how he had pulled off the robbery. Now that he had witnessed Jaideep’s conjuring skills, however, the mystery was finally solved.

“I’m not going to beat around bushes,” said Puri. “I want to know your location yesterday morning between six and six thirty exactly.”

The magician smiled through the haze of cigar smoke that separated them. “Ah, so that’s what you’re doing here. You’re investigating the murder on Rajpath. And you think I’m the guilty one.”

“Answer the question,” directed Puri.

“I’m flattered. But, you see, I couldn’t have done it.”

“Why exactly?”

“Because I am a reformed individual, Mr. Vish Puri, sir. I have been successfully reintegrated into society.”

“Don’t do jugglery of words,” scolded the detective. “Once a crook, always crooked. Now tell me where you were.”

Jaideep drew on his cigar and blew a big cloud in his visitor’s direction.

“Like any sensible person, I was in bed, of course. Naturally I was not alone. I think her name was Candy. She tasted sweet, that is for sure.”

“Anyone else can confirm?”

“Naturally my servants will be only too happy to do so. My driver, also. I can provide you with Candy’s number as well if you like. She provides a very reasonably priced home service if you’re interested.”

Puri did not rise to the bait.

“There can be no doubt this murder was done by a master illusionist,” he said. “There are only a handful of you fellows around. So if you’re not the one, must be you’ve a good idea who he is, no?”

“You expect me to give you names? Why should I?”

“Because I am something of a magician myself. You don’t believe me, is it? Very well. Allow me to show you one trick I learned long time back.”

The detective took his mobile phone from his pocket.

“This is my portable device. Nothing out of the ordinary. But see here this button? When I press it – hey presto! – one number appears. Know to whom it belongs? Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh, Delhi Police. Now there is nothing up my sleeve. Nothing hidden. See? But should I have need of pressing this green button, in seconds, only, Inspector Singh would answer day or night. Now… Inspector Singh is a very motivated young officer. I am quite sure he would be most interested in knowing where so much of money came for buying such a fancy club as this and what activities you are up to, also. That is aside from pulling so many rabbits from hats.”

Jaideep met Puri’s hard, uncompromising stare. He laid his cigar down on the lip of an ashtray and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Sitting in your bar for past forty minutes, only, I saw three crimes committed. Number one, your hostess was supplying drugs to customers – cocaine, looks like. Number two, the barman was watering down the whisky. Third, you’re having so many rats in your kitchen.”

“How could you know that?”

“Rats are always there, Jaideep.”

The magician scowled. “OK, Mr. Vish Puri, sir, you can put away your mobile. You’re right. What was done yesterday on Rajpath – the levitation, I mean – it’s never been achieved before, not out in the open. It’s a first. And before you ask, I have no idea how it was done. I’ve watched that video a dozen times and I can’t figure it out. Someone worked very hard to perfect that illusion. It’s a masterpiece.”

“Who did it?” The detective was still brandishing his phone.

Manish the Magnificent hesitated.

“Who?” demanded Puri.

“There are only three individuals capable of pulling off something like this,” said the magician. “The first is currently in intensive care, so you can rule him out. The second is a certain Bengali and he’s on tour in Europe.”

Puri made a note of their names all the same.

“And third?” he asked.

The magician paused, licking his lips, which had become dry.

“These days he’s known to people as none other than the great, all-seeing, all-powerful… Maharaj Swami.”

“You said ‘ these days ’.”

The magician looked suddenly coy. “That’s not the name he’s always gone by.”

“You knew him before, is it?”

“Oh, yes, I knew him. But what I’m about to tell you didn’t come from me. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“And you’ll leave after this and not come back?”

“Is that the way to treat a guest?”

Manish the Magnificent retrieved his cigar from the ashtray and blew on the tip until it glowed orange again.

“Very few people know what I’m about to tell you,” he said. “But the great Godman grew up in Shadipur in a family of magicians. His parents were Hindu, but they died when he was four and he was adopted into a Muslim family. His real name is Aman. We were neighbors and both grew up assisting the older jadoo wallahs on the streets and learning magic tricks. When we were old enough, we became partners and started working for ourselves.”

“Allow me to guess,” said the detective. “You got into criminal activity and eventually there was a falling-out.”

The magician eyed him warily. “Something like that. It was about twelve years ago. He suddenly disappeared one day along with a great deal of my money.”

“And?”

“Naturally I tried to locate him, but he was nowhere to be found.”

Some cigar ash fell into Manish the Magnificent’s lap and he brushed it away.

“Life went on,” he continued. “I went to prison – as you well know. Then a few years ago I was watching TV and Maharaj Swami comes on. I didn’t recognize him at first. Not with all that getup. He’d made himself look a lot older. He was also changed physically – he’s mastered yogic prana-yamic breathing. But the moment he started conjuring objects out of thin air, I knew it was Aman. I’d recognize his technique anywhere.”