Tarquin Hall: The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Here Puri added an aside: “Inspector, yesterday only I discovered them myself using my trusty Swiss Army knife.”

“But what led him to Professor Pandey, Boss?” asked Tubelight, who was listening in on the conversation.

“Naturally he guessed Professor Pandey, being one inventor and electrical engineer, had invented the means by which levitation could be achieved. What is more, Manish the Magnificent understood such levitation technology was worth many crores. Must be he planned to sell it to fellow magicians the world over. A Godman like Maharaj Swami would have paid him handsomely for it, also.”

“So he planned to steal the boots?” asked Singh.

“Correct. He went to the house to demand them from Pandey. Only his plan did not go to plan at all.”

“And what became of these… these magic boots?” asked the inspector.

“Unfortunately for Manish the Magnificent, Vish Puri and others were on the scene, so he was forced to flee, failing in his duty to find them. Now they are very much safely out of reach.”

Singh shook his head in wonder. “You’ve done a first-rate job, sir. It’s amazing how you figured it all out.”

“Most kind of you, Inspector,” said Puri, beaming.

“But there’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

“What exactly, Inspector?”

“You said your boys chased him into Shalimar Bagh Gardens, but he disappeared. How did he do it?”

“It is said there is a secret passage built by Shah Jahan that connects those gardens to the Red Fort,” said Puri.

“But who is to know? Manish the Magnificent is not about to share his secret, that is for sure.”

Singh went to fetch his prisoner.

But as he reached down to lift him up by the arm, the inspector suddenly found himself handcuffed to the chair.

Manish the Magnificent slipped past him and, catching Tubelight unawares, knocked him down and rushed for the door. There he found Puri blocking his way with pistol drawn.

“Not another move or I will shoot,” said the detective. “And believe me, these bullets are not the variety you can catch between your teeth.”

Puri made a quick stop at his office to put his pistol in the safe and then asked Handbrake to drive him home.

They had just pulled out of Khan Market when a cream-colored Ambassador with a Government of India license plate and a cluster of antennas on the roof pulled them over.

A smartly dressed peon alighted, approached the detective’s car and knocked on his window.

“Sir, your presence is requested at Nineteen Akbar Road,” he said politely.

That was the health minister’s residence.

“Just I was on my way home, actually,” said the detective. “It is nearly midnight, no? Thank sir for the invitation and I would be pleased to pay him a visit tomorrow morning.”

“That would not be at all convenient, sir,” said the peon. “You are required on an urgent matter, sir.”

Another man got out of the Ambassador. Tall, angular, with sharply parted hair, he was wearing a gray safari suit.

In one hand, he held a military-issue walkie-talkie with an antenna almost the length of a fishing rod. It crackled with static and conversation.

There was nothing for it but to comply.

“You think sir will offer me a peg or three?” Puri asked the peon, knowing full well that the minister was an avowed teetotaler.

“Sir, that I cannot say,” answered the lackey, smiling awkwardly. “He is not in the habit. But maybe I could arrange something.”

“Most kind of you. Then challo. Lead the way.”

They passed through the silent streets of New Delhi – the same streets that only a few days ago the ingenious Dr. Jha had brought to a standstill with his antics.

Border Security Force soldiers stood on guard behind sandbagged positions at the entrance to 19 Akbar Road. One of them checked the undercarriage of Puri’s Ambassador with a mirror attached to a long pole, while another searched the trunk. Puri was then asked to step out of the car to be frisked.

His license plate was entered into the logbook and then the property’s gates swung open. Beyond lay a wide expanse of lawn as smooth and green as Lord’s cricket ground. At the far end stood a classic Lutyens bungalow with a whitewashed façade and columns lit up by spotlights.

The driveway, which was edged with flowerpots bursting with plump marigold blossoms, led to a parking area to the right of the building.

Handbrake stopped the car, got out and opened the door for the detective. The peon then led the way to the front entrance, where an ancient St. Bernard lay snoring on the stone floor of the veranda, a wet patch beneath his quivering jowls.

The main doors parted and Puri was ushered into the reception, where a liveried servant stood to attention. He showed the detective to one of the armchairs and asked what he could fetch him.

“Two pegs, ice, soda,” said the detective.

The servant nodded and went out through a nearby door.

The peon, meanwhile, took a seat on the other side of the room and checked his watch. Then he folded his hands and placed them in his lap.

When the servant returned a couple of minutes later, it was with a glass of chilled water. He placed it on a coaster on the coffee table in front of Puri and, without a word, withdrew.

Under normal circumstances, the detective would have expected a long wait. But given the hour he knew sir would be anxious to get off to his mistress’s bed. Thirty minutes would probably be about right; any less would be a sign of weakness.

In the event, it was thirty-five.

Another peon, who could have been the first one’s twin, emerged from the adjacent room and signaled to the detective to enter.

Puri found Vikram Bhatt, India’s health minister, dressed in his customary collarless waistcoat and immaculately pressed white kurta pyjama sitting behind an expansive antique desk lit by a lead-crystal lamp. He was not alone. On one of the settees in front of the fireplace sat none other than His Holiness Maharaj Swami. Behind him stood Vivek Swaroop, his left eye blackened and his nose swathed in bandages.

The two men glared at the detective, sizing him up, while the minister continued studying his papers.

“You’re Puri?” he asked, looking up after the requisite thirty seconds.

“Vish Puri, Most Private Investigators, at your service, sir,” answered the detective cheerily. He produced a business card and laid it on the desk, adding, “Confidentiality is our watchword.”

The minister could not have looked less interested; indifferently, he indicated one of the chairs in front of him.

“You’re sure your name isn’t Lakshmi Garodia?”

“Garodia? No, sir, quite sure.”

“Strange. Because a man who looks just like you going by that name visited Haridwar recently. He said he was from Singapore. I have a photograph of him here. Would you like to see it?”

The minister slid the picture to the front of the desk.

It was a still captured from CCTV footage of Puri in disguise standing in the reception of the Abode of Eternal Love.

“Sir, evidently this gentleman has a healthy appetite, as I do,” said the detective, putting the photo back on the desk. “Otherwise I fail to see any similarity.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Puri,” said the minister. “We have very strict laws in India against fraud, you know. The police look on it very seriously. I would hate to come to know that you were engaged in such illicit activity.”

The minister took off his glasses, breathed on one of the lenses and began to clean it with a cloth.

“But let us leave that aside – at least for the time being,” he continued. “What is important is that this man Garodia arrived in Haridwar with a beautiful daughter. A very unusual and, shall we say, bhaskar young woman. One night during her time at the Abode of Eternal Love, it seems she broke into a restricted area and attempted to steal property belonging to His Holiness Maharaj Swami.”