Tarquin Hall: The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Still, it had been a while since he had dealt with a truly challenging, sensational case. The Case of the Blue Turban League had been a good six months ago.

As for nuclear scientist Rathinasabapathy’s crisis, well, that was standard fare, albeit satisfying and decently remunerated work. Puri was looking forward to his client’s visit at twelve o’clock, when he would dazzle him with his results. In preparation, he spent ten minutes putting all the photographic evidence in order.

It was then that he noticed something outside his window – a loaf of white bread dangling like bait on a string.

It dropped out of sight. But soon a carton of cornflakes appeared. A minute later, a carton of Mango Frooti.

Zahir, who was blind and owned the tiny general store next to Bahri Sons, was restocking from the storage space he rented upstairs.

Puri was not altogether happy about this practice. Only recently he had been in the middle of a meeting with a distressed client whose husband had been murdered when pots of instant masala noodles had started knocking against his window. But beyond cutting the string with a pair of scissors, there was little to be done.

Besides, Puri was particularly partial to some of the products stocked by kindly Zahir – like those nice coconut biscuits, for example. And sometimes, when they appeared in his window, he hauled them in and settled his bill later.

It was almost uncanny the way packets of coconut biscuits often appeared around the same time every afternoon.

Soon after eleven o’clock, Elizabeth Rani entered Puri’s office, her voice trembling as she placed a copy of the Delhi Midday Standard in front of him.

“I thought you would want to see this, sir. It’s terrible news, I’m afraid. Such a kindly old gentleman he was. Really, I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

FLOATING GODDESS STABS TO DEATH LAUGHING GURU BUSTER. COPS CLUELESS.

“By God!” exclaimed the detective, sitting up straight in his executive leather chair. He studied the coverage of Dr. Suresh Jha’s murder intently, letting out several sighs and, on three occasions, a pained “Hai!”

The newspaper quoted the members of the Laughing Club, who described how, after killing Dr. Suresh Jha, the ‘apparition’ had ‘vanished in a big flash’.

“She was at least twenty feet high, a terrifying sight, like something from a nightmare,” said eyewitness Professor R.K. Pandey. “I thought we would all be killed.”

Senior advocate N.K. Gupta added: “There is no doubt in my mind it was the goddess Kali. Today we have witnessed a supernatural occurrence. No one should be in any doubt.”

The article continued: “Many Delhiites have started flocking to temples across the city to seek protection, while hundreds of Kali worshippers have converged on Rajpath to celebrate the goddess’s appearance, which they believe is a divine event.”

SKEPTICS SKEPTICAL read the headline of another article on page two, which quoted a Mumbai-based rationalist as saying that he was certain Dr. Jha had been murdered not by the goddess – “How could she have done it when she does not exist?” – but by someone masquerading as her.

“The rationalist was unable to explain, however, how a murderer could have carried out the crime in broad daylight in front of so many witnesses,” the article continued. “He noted that last month, during a live altercation between Dr. Jha and Maharaj Swami, the Godman had promised a miracle to prove his powers. When asked for comment this morning, one of Swami-ji’s aides said off the record that His Holiness was certainly capable of summoning Kali. But so far the Godman himself has been mute on this point.”

Puri pushed the paper aside with a look of anger and disgust.

“Madam Rani, you remember this deceased fellow?”

“Of course, sir, he’s – ”

“Dr. Suresh Jha, the Guru Buster,” said the detective, finishing her sentence for her. “I did one investigation for him a few years back. You remember?”

She did indeed and indicated as much with a nod. But Elizabeth Rani had worked for Puri long enough to know that he was going to recount the details of the Case of the Astrologer Who Predicted His Own Death regardless.

“It started when one astrologer by name of Baba Bhola Ram predicted the time and date of his very own death,” he began. “Twenty-four-hour news channels, forever chasing eyeballs, got hold the story and turned it into a national spectacle.”

Elizabeth Rani remembered watching the live coverage on the Action News! station.

“Vedika, is there any indication yet of how he’s supposed to die?” the anchor had asked a young lady reporter standing outside the astrologer’s front door before the appointed hour.

“There’s been a good deal of speculation on that point,” the reporter had answered without the slightest hint of irony. “One local tarot card reader is claiming she’s foreseen that something will fall out of the sky and hit him on the head. Baba Bhola Ram himself says he knows only when he’ll die, not how. Will his prediction come true? Certainly he has a lot riding on the outcome, not least his reputation. Back to you in the studio.”

“Millions tuned in to find out whether this fellow Baba Bhola Ram would live or die,” continued Puri. “Minutes after the predicted hour, only, the astrologer’s wife came out and, in floods of tears, announced that her husband ‘by grace of God almighty went to great abode in sky’.”

Dr. Suresh Jha visited Most Private Investigators Ltd. the following morning. His charity-cum-foundation, DIRE, labored to ‘explain the unexplained’ and the rationalist wanted to hire Puri to disprove the so-called miracle performed by Baba Bhola Ram.

“The wool is being pulled over our eyes,” he’d told the detective at the time. “If people carry on believing in this kind of thing, they will remain blind.”

“Through deductive reasoning and the most thorough examination of evidence at hand, I came to know Dr. Jha’s suspicions were quite correct,” recounted Puri. “The astrologer had indeed been murdered. The evildoers were Baba Bhola Ram’s most trusted and dedicated disciples themselves. Fearful of their guru’s reputation getting ruined, they took it upon themselves to make certain his prediction came true. Knowing of his weak heart, they put some ground castor beans into their master’s chai and thus he expired.”

Puri lapsed into a contemplative silence. By now, he was leaning forward with his elbows planted on his desk.

“Naturally I saw to it justice was done,” he added. “But one thing about the case has always been there – one thing that frankly and honestly to this very day troubles me.”

“What is it, sir?” asked Elizabeth Rani, although she could anticipate what he was going to say.

“Would Baba Bhola Ram have died at that hour had he not predicted his own death?”

“I believe that is something we will never know in this lifetime, sir,” said Puri’s secretary.

“Undoubtedly, Madam Rani!” said the detective, shaking off his mournfulness. “As usual you are quite correct. Only the God can know, isn’t it?”

Puri’s mobile phone rang and he looked at the name on the screen: JAGAT. He answered it.

“Inspector! Kidd-an?”

The call lasted no more than two minutes. It ended with the detective saying: “I will be reaching in one hour.”

He glanced at the clock on his desk, a gift from the Federation of Automobile Dealers Associations (India).

“Mr. Sam Rathinasabapathy would be here any moment,” he told Elizabeth Rani. “Thirty minutes maximum is required. After, my presence is requested on Rajpath. Not for the first time, Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh would be needing my expert guidance.”