Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Aman and Swaroop had teamed up, and a year later, Ma-haraj Swami had emerged from his long years of isolation high up in the Himalayas to establish the Abode of Eternal Love in Haridwar.

The room was well stocked with the everyday accoutrements he needed to be a successful miracle worker – ‘sacred’ stone eggs that he claimed to produce from his stomach; fake thumb tips into which he concealed pellets of condensed vibhuti; camphor tablets that burned harmlessly on the skin or the tongue.

In one of the metal trunks, Facecream also came across a collection of notebooks in which Aman kept meticulous notes on how his illusions were performed. There were a couple of pages illustrating how he levitated in the darshan hall (as she’d suspected, he sat on a Perspex stand; this in turn was mounted on the platform of the hydraulic lift). And she discovered diagrams pertaining to new miracles he was in the process of developing. The most ambitious involved producing hundreds of fish from a single specimen. He was also working on walking on water.

Facecream could find no reference to the Kali illusion, but there was a file on Dr. Suresh Jha. Much of the information it contained had been gathered over the past few years by a private detective in Delhi, one of Puri’s rivals. Bank details, names and addresses of family members, a short biography of his secretary, Ms. Ruchi, even pictures of the Laughing Club taken on a telephoto lens. There were transcripts of telephone conversations, which indicated that DIRE’s phones had been tapped, and a special dossier on whom the Guru Buster had talked to during his investigation into the death of Manika Gill. A letter to Vivek Swa-roop marked confidential and dated a month earlier warned that Jha had gathered ‘a great deal of information’ on the case and was planning to ‘petition the Supreme Court to order a murder investigation’.

Facecream returned the file to the shelf and noticed some video equipment at the back of the room – a recorder and a monitor. These, she soon discovered, were linked to a hidden camera inside Swami-ji’s audience chamber. A cabinet also contained a collection of mini DV tapes.

‘Manika’ was written on one tape dated two days before she died. Damayanti’s tapes took up an entire shelf.

There wasn’t time to watch any of them: it was nearly four-thirty. She had stayed longer than she had planned. So Facecream grabbed Manika’s tape and one of Damayanti’s and headed for the door.

The moment she opened the fireproof – and apparently soundproof – door, she knew she was in trouble.

Maharaj Swami’s audience chamber throbbed with a thudding noise.

The helicopter had returned.

The light came on in the entrance hall.

Voices.

Tucking the tapes into the elastic of her underwear, she made for the secret door, retrieved her chappal and hurried down into the underground passage.

She had gone only about thirty feet when the overhead lights in the passage were switched on.

Footsteps.

She broke into a run.

Reaching the darshan hall exit, Facecream scrambled up the stairs and pushed up the trapdoor.

Standing onstage with a revolver trained on her was Vivek Swaroop, the man in the black sherwani.

“Please don’t kill me! I was just trying to see Swami-ji again. I swear!”

Facecream had put on a look of exaggerated terror.

“He said that when I was, like, ready, I should come to him and then I heard his voice calling to me in my dream… I know I shouldn’t be here, but I couldn’t stay away.”

Vivek Swaroop, still holding his revolver on her, said in a camp Indian accent: “I suppose in this dream of yours Swami-ji told you where to find this trapdoor and how to get into his chambers, did he?”

“That’s right!” she replied, sounding relieved. “He told me exactly where to come! That’s how I knew! You see, I – ”

“Enough!” he snapped angrily. “You can drop all the spiritual bullshit. I’m immune. I want to know what you were doing down in the tunnels and up in the private residence.”

“But I just told you!” said Facecream, all innocence. “Swami-ji promised to cleanse my chakras.”

“If that’s the case, then what are you doing with this?” He stepped forward and snatched the om pendant from around her neck. “I’ve got the exact same one. They sell them at the airport.”

Gripping one end between his teeth, he pulled it apart to reveal the USB data key inside.

“Somehow I doubt Swami-ji gave you this.”

Swaroop dropped both sections of the pendant on the stage and crushed them beneath the heel of his shoe. Then, with his revolver pressed against Facecream’s temple, he frisked her and found the tapes.

“I’ve warned him before about these falling into the wrong hands,” he said, stomping on them as well. “But he doesn’t listen. That’s the trouble with Godmen. They come to believe they’re infallible, like they actually have supernatural powers.”

He cocked the pistol.

“Now, madam,” he continued. “I’m going to ask you one last time: What’s your game?”

Facecream’s eyes narrowed and she regarded him with contempt.

“I’m an officer with the CBI,” she said.

“Oh, please!” Swaroop’s voice was half-mocking. “The CBI wouldn’t dare set foot in here. Besides, their agents don’t play James Bond. They come knocking on the door with warrants.”

“I work for a special section,” she said. “It’s covert, just been set up. We’re investigating corrupt Godmen. You wouldn’t have heard of us.”

Swaroop regarded Facecream askance.

“My colleagues know exactly where I am,” she added in a calm, even voice. “They’re outside. And if you don’t want kidnapping added to the charges of rape, money laundering and murder you’re facing, then you’d better let me go now.”

A slow grin suffused his features. “You’re really very good, do you know that? For a moment you actually had me going – ”

“I’m telling you the truth.” Facecream looked him straight in the eye. “Our office address is first floor, block number four, CGO complex, Lodhi Road, Delhi, area code 110003. My boss is R.K. Narendra. If you shoot me I guarantee you’ll hang for it later.”

Swaroop turned his head to the right, keeping one eye on her.

“What do you think?” he asked over his shoulder.

Maharaj Swami stepped out of the shadow at the back of the stage. His eyes were cold, his face expressionless.

“Take her to the river,” was all he said before descending down through the trapdoor.

Swaroop smiled. “You heard the Godman. Let’s go.” He motioned with the pistol toward the front of the stage. “Keep your hands up where I can see them.”

Soon they were outside, where it was still dark. In slow procession, they walked to the back of the grounds and passed through the gate that led to the path along the river.

“Shooting me isn’t going to solve anything,” said Facecream.

“Shooting wasn’t what I had in mind – although don’t get me wrong, I’ll shoot you if I have to,” said Swaroop. “With a bullet there’s always so much explaining to do. Whereas someone slipping off a cliff in the dark – well, that happens from time to time, doesn’t it? Especially around here. Very narrow and treacherous, the pathway up ahead. Someone really should put up a sign warning people.”

“Is this what happened to Manika Gill?” asked Facecream. “She met with one of your accidents? ”

“Manika Gill, Manika Gill,” said Swaroop, mulling over the name. “Oh, her! Don’t tell me that’s what you’re investigating.” He sounded disappointed.