Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Ironically, however, the computer and electronics whiz fulfilled the first requirement of successful undercover work: to assume a persona that blended into the surroundings and didn’t attract undue attention. His unmistakably yokel Uttar Pradesh Hindi helped complete the picture of a socially awkward nerd who was quickly forgettable and of no threat to anyone.

When it came to handing over the small packet Facecream had requested, he did so without raising suspicions, simply slipping it under his plate when she cleared it.

Flush then made his way back to the hotel across the road from the ashram. He had taken a room overlooking the main entrance. And from there he was still endeavoring to hack into the Abode of Eternal Love’s network.

Facecream, meanwhile, went to check the contents of the packet in the privacy of a toilet cubicle: one small flashlight; a set of skeleton lever-lock keys and a small metal file; a silver pendant engraved with the om symbol, which had a USB data key concealed inside; and last but not least, a reliable watch. This was everything she needed to break into Maha-raj Swami’s private residence.

Until this morning, she had had serious reservations about doing so on her own. There were too many people around, and she had asked Puri to send Tubelight and a couple of his boys who specialized in breaking and entering to help.

But then chance had played into her hands.

At eight o’clock this morning, a helicopter had landed in the middle of the ashram, picked up Swami-ji and the man in the black sherwani whom Facecream had seen in the reception of the private residence and taken them to Delhi. Word had circulated amongst the devotees (none of whom seemed puzzled, let alone disillusioned, by the contradiction of their guru making use of a crude flying machine when he was supposed to be able to teleport from one side of the planet to the other) that his holiness would not return until tomorrow, and so Facecream had decided to try to get into his audience chamber tonight.

With offices closed in Delhi for the weekend and many officials away on holiday, it took the rest of the day and a good deal of cajolery to obtain the proof Puri needed.

By then it was seven in the evening and he had not eaten since brunch. Spotting a Nirulas on his way to West Delhi, he stopped for a couple of chicken frankies, which he ate with plenty of green chutney and a salty lassi. Then he called Tubelight.

“Meet me in Shalimar Bagh West in forty minutes,” he said.

“Means you’ve solved the case, Boss?”

“Thank God the answer came to me in the nick of time, otherwise there would have been so much of egg on my face,” answered the detective with uncharacteristic modesty. “For once, Vish Puri has been slow on the uptake. Must be this hot weather wreaking havoc with my brain and all. The solution has been staring me right in the face. Pandey and his accomplices have really pulled off the perfect murder, one can say.”

“I should bring my pistol?”

“No need. There won’t be any trouble. Of that much I am certain.”

Puri bought himself a piece of Black Forest gateau for the road and continued on his way. When he reached Pan-dey’s house, Tubelight, Shashi and Zia were waiting for him across the street.

They reported that the professor had spent the rest of the day in his front room, apparently tinkering with his inventions.

“His driver is there, also?” asked Puri.

“Yes, Boss,” reported Shashi.

“Tip-top,” said Puri, who was giddy with excitement, like a little boy about to spring a trap. “I’m looking forward to this. Quite a surprise those two are going to get.”

“Those two , Boss?” said Tubelight.

“He and his partner in crime.”

“The driver?”

“Undoubtedly!”

The operatives all regarded him quizzically, clearly itching to know the truth. But they knew better than to press him further.

“Want us to watch the back of the house in case they try to get down the alley?” asked Tubelight.

“No one is going to run away. Stay in position. I would not be more than fifteen, twenty minutes maximum.”

Puri approached the front gate and pressed the buzzer. A bar of ‘Jingle Bells’ played somewhere inside the house.

Thirty seconds passed with no result. The detective peered through the narrow gap between the solid metal gate and the gatepost. He could see a light on in the front room on the ground floor. The shadow of a figure moved across the curtains. The detective tried the bell again. Still nothing. He banged on the gate with his fist.

“Professor-ji! Open up, yaar! No need for games!”

The detective’s words were answered by a gunshot.

Puri spun around, disoriented. His left leg got caught on his right ankle and he toppled over onto his side.

“That came from inside, Boss!” shouted Tubelight, running across the street toward him. “Don’t think it was aimed at you.”

“By God, someone’s shooting!” cried the detective, appalled. “How that is possible?”

Sounds of a struggle came from inside the house. Something crashed to the ground. One of the ground-floor windows was smashed. Glass tinkled onto the concrete.

Tubelight helped Puri onto his feet as Shashi and Zia reached them.

Another shot was fired. A man’s voice cried out.

Zia shoved his shoulder against the front gate, but it was locked from the inside. Without a moment’s hesitation, he began to scale the gate.

“You two get around back!” the detective ordered the others.

“Right, Boss!”

Tubelight and Shashi took off down the street.

A third shot rang out. About ten seconds later came a fourth.

By now, Zia was on top of the gate with his right foot balanced precariously between its crown of spikes. He managed to jump down to the other side, landing on the hood of Pandey’s car.

A moment later, the gate swung open.

Zia and Puri skirted around the now dented car, keeping their heads down. They approached the front door. It was unlocked. In the corridor beyond lay a couple of pairs of shoes and a pile of old newspapers. There was a radio on somewhere inside the house playing All India Radio’s FM Gold station.

They could hear laughter as well.

Cautiously, Puri made his way down the corridor and entered the front room. Professor Pandey was lying on his back in a pool of blood near the window. He was chuckling to himself as if daydreaming about something funny he had seen or heard.

In horror, Puri rushed to his side and shouted back over his shoulder: “Fetch a doctor! Jaldi karo!”

The detective peeled back the wounded man’s blood-soaked shirt. He had been shot in the stomach.

“Professor, can you hear me?” He tilted back Pandey’s head to keep his air passages clear. “Who did this? You saw?”

The dying man chuckled again and began to cough. Blood spluttered from his mouth. He arched his back and grimaced with pain.

“Try to relax. Help is making its way here. Tell me, who did this?”

The professor smiled, as if a lovely thought had suddenly occurred to him, and then his body went slack and his eyes glazed over.

“By God, Professor-ji, what you went and got yourself into, huh?” mumbled Puri as he moved to search the rest of the house.

Tubelight and Shashi turned into the alleyway behind Professor Pandey’s house. They spotted a male figure fifty yards ahead hurrying toward them. He stopped in his tracks, turned and sprinted off in the opposite direction.

“Oi, rook!” shouted Tubelight.

Puri’s operatives gave chase, soon reaching the far end of the alleyway. Here they turned right and, with Shashi in the lead, pursued the figure down the residential street that led past Modern Public School.