Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“You had the same frustrations on the ‘Pickles’ Sansi case. And look how that turned out.”

Puri was referring to his capture eight months ago of the leader of the notorious Sansi clan, who had been wanted on murder and racketeering charges.

The official version was that Singh had single-handedly tracked him down. In fact, Flush had cloned the mobile phone signature of Pickles’s mistress, an exotic dancer known as Lovely. Using SMS text messages, the detective had then lured the elusive but unsuspecting don to a midnight dalliance at the Raj Palace. Pickles had arrived at the five-star hotel expecting to enjoy, in the words of one of the detective’s saucy missives, “the full thali, big boy!” Instead, he had found himself clapped in handcuffs.

Given the Sansi clan’s fearsome reputation, Puri had not wanted his name associated with the case and allowed the inspector to take all the glory. The coup had helped greatly to further Singh’s career.

“So tell me,” said the detective as he finished his meal and pushed away his plate. “That ‘ash’ found at the scene? You’re in receipt of the lab report?”

“It turned out to be ground charcoal,” answered Singh.

If this information surprised or excited Puri, he didn’t show it.

“And what about your laughing gas theory? Any progress?”

“Nitrous oxide – that’s its proper, scientific name,” answered Singh. “It’s easy to get hold of. Doctors, dentists, all kinds of food manufacturers use it. One other thing. I talked with a chemist friend of mine and he told me the term ‘laughing gas’ is misleading. It doesn’t make people burst out laughing automatically. But it does make them feel extremely happy. And under its influence people will sometimes get the giggles.”

“That could explain why Shivraj Sharma was the only one not to do laughter and feel like he could not move,” murmured Puri to himself.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” added Singh quickly. “People under the influence of nitrous oxide are generally susceptible to suggestion.”

“Very good work, Inspector!” declared Puri before making a note of this.

Singh was struck for a brief moment by a sense of accomplishment. But this quickly passed.

While Puri was breakfasting at the Gym, a couple of Tube-light’s boys were keeping vigil across the street from Professor Pandey’s house in West Shalimar Bagh.

Shashi and Zia were disguised as ditchdigger wallahs, a cover they often adopted because of its simplicity and the anonymity it provided. A couple of picks and shovels and some especially dirty clothes were all that were required for props. The persona was uncomplicated, too: looking downtrodden and bored, they stared in awe at fancy cars passing by and adopted heavy Bihari accents, using phrases like “Kaisan bha?” and “Jai Ram ji ki.”

The sight of such wretched, pitifully paid laborers toiling on construction sites was common across the city, and residents paid them little heed. Delhiites had also become inured to their streets and pavements being constantly dug up. There was not a neighborhood, sector or colony where new gas lines, telecommunications cables, water mains and sewage pipes were not being laid. Trenches with corresponding piles of dirt running alongside them were as common as they had once been on the Western Front, and there was no point complaining about it. As everyone knew, Delhi’s three municipal corporations were utterly corrupt, and the police were in the pay of contractors who worked without proper licenses and in violation of basic safety standards. Even the wealthiest of Delhi’s residents had learned to save their breath and ink.

Indeed, only one of Professor Pandey’s neighbors had raised an objection when, at six o’clock yesterday morning, Shashi and Zia had started digging up the pavement outside his house. Major Randhawa – according to the brass plaque on the gatepost, formerly of the Rajput Regiment, Indian Army – had come charging out into the street in a sleeveless vest and, without so much as a ‘good morning’ or ‘sorry to bother you’, started cursing Tubelight’s operatives as if they were a couple of street dogs. He’d also seen fit to make repeated, unflattering remarks about their mothers and sisters.

In response, Shashi and Zia had struck the right balance of crushed subservience and gormlessness, and muttered something about a water-pressure gauge and working for a local contractor.

This had prompted Major Randhawa to refer unfavorably to the contractor’s mother and daughters.

“After I get hold of him he’ll not father any more children!” he’d shouted.

Pretending to be illiterate, Shashi had shown the gentleman a mobile number written down on a grimy piece of paper and told him that it belonged to their employer.

Grabbing it from him, Major Randhawa had stormed back inside his house to call the contractor – and, presumably, threaten him with a swift and brutal castration.

Shashi and Zia had not heard another peep out of him after that and, within a couple of hours, dug themselves a nice, sizable hole.

They had spent the rest of yesterday tailing Pandey, who had left at ten o’clock in a car driven by his elderly chauffeur. He had reached Delhi University thirty minutes later, remained there all day, gone and done some shopping and returned home at six.

Another of Tubelight’s boys had taken the overnight shift, which had passed without incident. Then at six this morning, Shashi and Zia had returned, refreshed and filthy again, for another day on the job.

By now, it was almost eight.

There was still no sign of Major Randhawa. But that was hardly surprising given that Tubelight, the contractor, had threatened to cut off his water, electricity and phone lines if he didn’t simmer down.

As for Professor Pandey, he had been up for an hour and was engaged in his ablutions. The sounds of him clearing his throat and exhaling through his nostrils, which were amplified by the tiled walls of his small bathroom, could be heard clearly out in the street.

Shashi and Zia carried on shoveling some dirt, smoking bidis and discussing the physical assets of their favorite Bollywood actresses.

“Katrina Kaif is as thin as a grasshopper,” said Shashi as they kept a surreptitious eye on the house across the way. “No meat on the bones, brother. For me it is Vidya Balan. Have you seen those eyes? Wah!”

He broke into a rendition of ‘Tu Cheez Bath Hai Mast Mast’.

From the Gym, Puri drove to Basant Lane, where he rendezvoused with Tubelight at nine o’clock.

The operative had been busy finding out all he could about Professor Pandey and archaeologist Shivraj Sharma – “putting them under the scanner,” in the detective’s parlance. Servants, drivers, neighbors and street sweepers had been consulted and bribed for gossip and information.

He had the following to report:

“Sharma’s wife died two years back in a car accident. Son was also injured. In a wheelchair, lives at home. Sharma’s a strict Brahmin: servants aren’t allowed in the kitchen. He fired one last month for drinking from one of his glasses. A Brahmin cook prepares the meals. Sharma’s very religious. A long-standing VHP member.” VHP stood for Vishwa Hindu Parishad, a right-wing organization that sought to turn India into a solely Hindu nation.

“And Pandey?” asked Puri.

“Nothing unusual, Boss. Eccentric – obviously. Always jolly. Never married. Lived with his mummy until she died last year. One thing: his servants – cook, cleaner, driver – all left last week. No one knows why. His current driver is a replacement.”

They discussed plans for breaking into Professor Pandey’s house to have a look around, but decided they needed a clearer picture of his schedule first.