Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Back in his Ambassador, Puri called Professor Pandey’s sister, offered his condolences and stressed how important it was that they meet. Although in mourning and busy making preparations for the funeral, she invited the detective to her residence at six PM.

Next, he phoned Ved Karat and asked to see him immediately – “a matter of some great urgency, actually.”

The speechwriter was at home, working on the prime minister’s Independence Day address, but said to come straight over.

Puri immediately set out for New Rajendra Nagar. En route, he rang Inspector Singh.

“Haan ji, haan ji. So what progress is there?”

“Everything’s going to plan, sir,” Singh reported. “In two hours we will announce that Professor Pandey’s driver has survived the shooting and is expected to make a full recovery. I’ve arranged for a private room at St. Stephens. It’s on a busy corridor where people come and go all the time.”

“Tip-top. My man will be there in one hour,” said Puri, referring to Tubelight. “My guess is the murderer will do the needful after dark. Therefore I will reach St. Stephens at seven-thirty. You will be present also, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Are you sure the murderer will come?”

“Has to, Inspector. He cannot and will not take the chance Dr. Jha could identify him. It is not a question of whether the plan will work, only a question of who it will work against.”

“What if he sends someone else – a hired killer?”

“Let us cross that bridge should it rise up.”

“Speaking of which, sir, I am reliably informed that Ma-haraj Swami was in Delhi last night,” said Singh.

“He touched down at Safdarjung Airport at 12:07 yesterday. Then this morning he reverted to Haridwar. That was in the wee hours,” said Puri.

“You’re having him followed?”

“Unfortunately, that is not possible. He travels WIP with security escort. I came to know by checking the airport log only.”

“You think he’s our man, sir?”

“Inspector, allow me to assure you, by hook or crook His Holiness Maharaj Swami will face arrest,” said Puri. “Please have your handcuffs on standby.”

Ved Karat worked in longhand on legal pads; the floor surrounding his desk was strewn with screwed-up pieces of yellow paper.

“I could not sleep last night after hearing about Professor Pandey’s murder,” he said as Puri took the basket chair in his office. The story had made the morning news. “What is the world coming to? The TV said he was shot in his own house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Terrible!” exclaimed Karat. “What has happened to our Dilli? There was a time when my front door was open twenty-four/seven. People dropped in whenever they liked. No need for security persons. But now? Only recently some of my neighbors were murdered. Husband and wife and one fourteen-year-old boy. Perhaps you read about it in the papers? These terrible crimes occur every day. In this instance, some Bawarias broke in and clubbed them to death. And for what? Some jewelry and a couple of lakhs they kept under the mattress. Animals! Worse than!”

A servant brought cups of tea and pinnis.

“I have rarely met such a warm, kindly and giving person,” continued Karat, referring to the late professor. “Did you know that when I had my heart attack last year, he visited my bedside each and every day? And he always came with a joke to cheer me up. Such a jolly fellow. A few of us are organizing a memorial on Rajpath this evening. We plan to light some candles, tell some jokes and have a thoroughly good laugh. It’s what he would have wanted. I understand even as he lay dying he was chuckling to himself.”

“Yes, sir, I was the one to witness his last moments, actually.”

“You, Mr. Puri? What were you doing there?”

“I’ve been investigating Dr. Jha’s death.”

“The two are connected in some way?”

“Undoubtedly! That is the reason I am here, actually. I wanted to ask you about this Shivraj Sharma. Seems to me you know him, is it?”

“Naturally; we were neighbors for many years, his family and mine.”

“You faced any problems with him?”

“Personally, no, but…” Ved Karat lowered his voice, as if someone might overhear them. “He’s not the most tolerant of gentlemen. He often complained about the types moving into the colony. He took particular exception to a Muslim family living here. Tried to start a campaign to get them out. When it didn’t work he sold up and left. Now I understand he lives in one of those new colonies where minorities aren’t openly banned, but if your surname happens to be Khan, you get the brush-off.”

“You were surprised to see him that morning. Is that not so?”

“Very surprised. He’s not the type to join a laughing club.”

“He’s not one for doing laughter,” suggested Puri.

“Exactly. Takes life too seriously.”

“You’re one hundred percent certain it was his intention to join, is it?”

Ved Karat thought for a moment. “Well, now you come to mention it, Mr. Puri…”

As Puri suspected from having watched the DIRE footage, Ved Karat had spotted Mr. Sharma two minutes after Dr. Jha had reached the Laughing Club.

The speechwriter had first stared and squinted; then his expression had turned to one of recognition.

“Finally you waved to him, isn’t it?” asked Puri.

“Yes, I believe I did,” replied Karat. “You’ve certainly done a thorough job at re-creating the scene.”

“What all he was doing? Walking toward you?”

“Yes, but slowly. In fact, now that I think about it, he had stopped next to one of the trees and was watching us.”

“Then you walked toward him and what?”

“I greeted him, naturally, and then asked him to join us.”

“He agreed?”

Again Ved Karat had to think hard and then concluded: “Seems to me he was reluctant. I believe he said something about having to get back home. But I insisted.”

“Why?”

“I thought that of all people he could do with some laughter.”

“He was enjoying?” asked Puri, remembering Sharma’s pained expression during the exercises.

“Not at all. He looked uncomfortable throughout.”

The detective nodded. “He said anything to you after?”

“Nothing,” said Karat. “He was as shocked as all of us.”

There was a pause.

“Now I have a question,” said Karat. “Why all the suspicion?”

“Most probably it is nothing,” replied Puri. “Just I am trying to clarify everybody’s movements. In my profession, no stone should go unturned. Sharma being an archaeologist, that is one thing we share in common.”

Puri was hungry – it was almost two. Finding it hard to think clearly on an empty stomach and knowing that Rumpi had packed his tiffin with kale channe, one of his favorites, he returned to the office.

Door Stop, the tea boy, heated the food and brought it to him at his desk. He ate on his own in silence with a napkin tucked into the top of his safari suit jacket.

Only after he was finished and had washed his hands, cleared his nasal passages and sat back at his desk drinking a cup of chai did he give the day’s developments any further consideration.

What had Sharma been doing on Rajpath at six in the morning, apparently spying on the Laughing Club members? he wondered.

Puri reached for the file he had started on the Jha murder case and took out the photocopies of the death threats Ms. Ruchi had provided him.

Had Sharma sent them to Dr. Jha? Had he been planning to kill him?

For the archaeologist to be the murderer, he would have to have known that the Guru Buster had faked his own death and then traced him to Professor Pandey’s house.