Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“And the cremation?”

“Dr. Jha was atheist, so no one batted any eyelids when he was cremated using CNG. Seems a real human skeleton taken from Delhi University biology department played substitute for the body. Naturally it was wrapped in a shroud from head to toe so the face was not showing.”

“I can’t believe they got away with it,” said Singh, incredulous.

“Why not, Inspector? Just it was a question of taking advantage of our corrupt and incompetent system.”

“Still, sir, you would have thought – ”

“Don’t blame yourself, Inspector. Even Vish Puri had the wool pulled over, no?”

Singh seemed to take a certain comfort from this. “What about Pandey? Was he involved?” he asked.

“He and Dr. Jha were former colleagues. Twenty years plus they knew one another. Definitely they were in this thing together. But Professor-ji has some connection with Maharaj Swami, also. Seems he visited his ashram one month back only. Could be he was playing a double role.”

“So what was Jha’s game? Was it life insurance fraud? Was he trading in his wife for a new model?”

“Not at all, Inspector. Dr. Jha was misguided in some ways. Seems he had become obsessive, also. But he never broke a single law during his entire life.”

“Sir,” said Singh, drawing himself up tall, “half of Delhi was closed down thanks to him. He conspired with a medical officer to issue a fake death certificate. Who knows what other laws he broke.”

The inspector started to pace up and down. And then a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Of course! He was trying to frame Maharaj Swami!” he exclaimed. “The Godman had promised a miracle, so Jha gave us all one!”

“Same thought came to me, also. But no, Inspector, I believe Dr. Jha’s motives were otherwise. He was getting old, no? And increasingly frustrated with how everything is going in India. Bitter, we might say. For years he’s been fighting Godmen. For what? Their popularity increases day by day. These middle-class types are hardly shunning religion. True, they love new cars and five-star holidays and all. But they are flocking to tele-yogis like Swami-ji in droves. Dr. Jha’s campaign had failed, quite frankly. So before facing retirement, he decided to take drastic action. He decided to stage his own death in the most dramatic way possible. His hope was to fool all and sundry into believing a miracle had really happened. That goddess Kali came down to earth and killed him.”

Singh was calmer now; he was listening to Puri’s explanation patiently.

“That much he achieved – in aces, actually,” continued the detective. “Right across India, length and breadth, people have been discussing little else these past days.”

“Where did his wife fit into all this?”

“Must be she was in on the plan from day one. Quite a performance she put on at the funeral.”

“So what was Dr. Jha’s plan? To jump out of a cake and surprise everyone?”

“Doubtful any cake would have been involved, Inspector,” answered Puri drily. “Most probably he’d have got on TV and explained how all it was done. Thus everyday people would have seen how they are ready to believe any and all nonsense.”

“But then someone stopped him,” cut in Singh. “Someone who knew he was alive.”

“Could be, Inspector. But we cannot discount the possibility the target was Professor Pandey and Dr. Jha happened to get killed also.”

A voice called from downstairs: “Inspector-ji? Star TV has reached!”

“Shit,” said Singh under his breath. “What am I meant to tell them?”

“If you will take one minute, Inspector, I have got one plan hiding up my sleeve.”

The plan went like this:

“Inform Star TV and all Professor Pandey was murdered. Tell them his driver was shot, also.”

“His driver?”

“Dr. Jha had been posing as Professor Pandey’s driver these past days. That is, after shaving his beard and putting black dye in his hair. Even I failed to recognize him when I paid Professor-ji a visit. Must be they had a good laugh at my expense.”

Puri got back to the point.

“Tell them Professor Pandey’s driver was wounded. Mention he was rushed to St. Stephens and his chances are fifty-fifty. Then tomorrow the hospital should announce he is very much stable – expected to make a full recovery but not conscious. Just he should be placed in a private room. No guard. Remember he is a driver, only, an everyday person.”

“But… who is he ?” asked Singh.

“One of my boys will play the part of Dr. Jha and we two will be present, also.”

“You’re expecting the killer to come?”

Puri nodded.

“But surely he’ll know that we know the driver is really Dr. Jha and suspect a trap.”

“That is a risk he will take, no, assuming Dr. Jha saw his killer.”

Singh smiled. “That’s ingenious, sir,” he said.

“Let us hope, Inspector,” replied Puri briskly.

His thoughts turned to Facecream. She had called him earlier in the day to say that Maharaj Swami had left the ashram, apparently for Delhi, and that she was planning to break into his private residence.

Perhaps she would be able to establish what the connection was between the Godman and Professor Pandey. It was the only piece of the puzzle that still didn’t fit.

Facecream lay on her bedroll staring up at the ceiling fan – it was a good two hours after the lights had been switched off in the dormitory. The mantra in praise of Shiva, which she and her fellow devotees had spent most of the evening repeating over and over again, was playing back in her head.

“Om namah Shivaya. Om namah Shivaya. Om namah Shivaya…”

According to Maharaj Swami’s philosophy, repetition of such mantras would help awaken her spiritual life force, her Kundalini, as well as stimulate her chakras.

So far, though, all she had got out of the exercise was a splitting headache.

She tried to focus her mind on other things: her adopted eight-year-old son, Momo, who was being looked after by her ayah; her flat in Delhi, where the three of them lived together; the hungry street cats that perched on her wall and meowed and yowled until she fed them.

She sang herself one of her favorite Hindi songs, “Paani Paani Re.” But nothing worked. The mantra kept cutting back into her thought processes like a traffic update on FM radio. “Om namah Shivaya.”

Aaaagh! No wonder so many of the devotees wore eerie, passive-aggressive grins, she thought.

At three in the morning, Facecream crawled out from under her mosquito net and, chappals in hand, tiptoed silently from the dormitory.

The corridor beyond was dark and empty. Facecream made her way to the stairs and crept down to the ground floor. Upon reaching the bottom and hearing footsteps approaching, she ducked under the stairwell. One of Maha-raj Swami’s senior devotees shuffled past, clicking his bead necklace between his fingers, and exited through the front door of the residence hall.

Puri’s operative stepped out from her hiding place and made for the emergency side door, which was propped open and, like all such doors in India, never alarmed.

It was cooler outside. A light breeze played in the topmost branches of the Himalayan maple next to the building. Crouched beneath it, Facecream took several deep breaths to calm her nerves and surveyed the surrounding terrain.

The wide lawn in front of the tree ended at the edge of the driveway, which was lined with lollipop streetlights and statues of Hindu saints. To her left lay the car park and, far beyond, the main gate, where nighttime chowkidars were sitting around playing cards. Above the din of chirping crickets could be heard snippets of conversation and laughter.