Tarquin Hall: The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“You’re going to investigate Dr. Jha’s murder, sir?” asked his secretary, sounding hopeful.

“Nothing is confirmed, Madam Rani. But I can hardly be expected to stand by and watch this crime go unpunished, no? Myself and Dr. Jha were not in agreement on all matters, that much is certain, but he was a most upstanding fellow all round.”

Elizabeth returned to her desk, fully confident that her employer would be taking on the case, even though it would mean working without pay.

The idea that Vish Puri could resist getting involved in such a tantalizing murder was preposterous. There was as much chance of him going without his lunch.

Sam Rathinasabapathy was fifteen minutes late. A traffic ja-wan had issued him a challan on Panchsheel Marg.

“The cop said I failed to signal when I turned right! Can you believe that? I mean, Mr. Puri, have you ever seen anyone in this country use their signals – ever? Personally, I think he was after a bribe. He kept mentioning the word ‘lifafa’. That means ‘envelope’, right?”

“Correct, sir,” said Puri patiently, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

“I can’t believe how corrupt this place is. Everyone’s got their hand out the whole time. I can’t even get a cooking gas canister without paying baksheesh. No wonder the country’s such a mess!”

“Sir, no need to do tension,” said Puri, motioning Rathinasabapathy into one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. “Allow me to give you some advice. Most definitely you will thank me for it later.”

“Sure, Mr. Puri,” said the nuclear physicist with a sigh as he took a seat.

“An educated, well-to-do gentleman such as yourself should not go round hither and thither without a good driver. Frankly speaking, sir, it does not look right. Just you should sit in the backseat, only. That way you won’t be facing this type of harassment. Police wallahs will know you’re someone of importance and not a part of the riffraff.” Puri rolled his Rs with gusto.

“But I’m used to driving myself,” protested Rathinasaba-pathy.

“Believe me, sir, I understand. You value your independence. But allow me to find a suitable driver. He should be of good character and naturally not a drunkard. Those from hill states are best. Such types have to learn to control their vehicles on all those tight bends. Otherwise they’d go right off the edge.”

“Yes, well, I suppose that would be an advantage,” said Rathinasabapathy.

“Very good! Later, I’ll get my man to revert with some candidates. You need pay five, six thousand per month max-i-mum.”

“OK, Mr. Puri, whatever you say. Now are you going to tell me what happened last night at the Food Village place? Where’s my money?”

Puri reached down behind his desk and picked up a sports bag, setting it down on his desk.

“It’s in here, sir. Two lakhs exactly.”

“You got it back! But how?”

“Actually, sir, it never left this room.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Just I’ll explain. It was necessary for you to make the withdrawal in case they were keeping an eye on you. But the cash you gifted was not the money you withdrew from the bank.”

“I don’t get it. What was in the bag I gave to what’s-his-name? The fat guy in the silk shirt. Mr. Ten Percent.”

Puri smiled. “His real name is Rupinder Khullar. He’s a professional lizer.”

“A what?”

“Lizer,” repeated the detective. “Means a man who gets things fixed up. Delhi is full of such types. I tell you, throw a stone in any direction and most definitely you will hit one. Such individuals will arrange anything for the right fee. Get your son a job in a government ministry, lobby the right MLA to get emissions certificates passed on your factory. Mr. Rupinder Khullar is particularly well connected politically. You might say he’s got a finger in every samosa.” Here Puri uttered a light chuckle.

“So what did I give him?” asked Rathinasabapathy, who didn’t seem to find the metaphor humorous.

“Counterfeit money,” answered the detective.

“I gave him what? ” cried the nuclear physicist, rising half out of his chair.

“Please, sir, remain calm. Rest assured everything is two hundred percent all right. Pukka! I borrowed it from an old batchmate in the Anti-Counterfeit Section. Naturally on condition every last note be returned. It is evidence from another case. These days so much of funny money is being sent across our borders by Pakistan, I tell you.”

“Is that legal?”

“Sir, in India the line between what is legal and what is not is often somewhat of a fuzz.”

Puri opened the Rathinasabapathy file and pulled out the photographs that Tubelight had taken of Mr. Ten Percent. They served to illustrate the narrative about the middleman’s movements after the meeting.

His first stop had been a hotel bar, where he had ‘taken a few pegs imported whisky’ with a local politician. Two hours later, Mr. Ten Percent visited an apartment in Sector Nine, DLF City, where he spent a couple of fun-filled hours with his mistress, a twenty-six-year-old VJ with a job he had fixed for her on a prominent music channel.

“The place is registered in his name. She is a PG, so to speak.”

“PG?”

“Means ‘paying guest’.”

Mr. Ten Percent then returned to Raja Garden, his home, wife, two children, three servants and a Pekinese.

“This morning first thing, he drove to Ultra Modern School,” continued Puri. “There, he handed over the two hundred thousand to Mr. S.C. Bhatnagar.”

Bhatnagar was the school principal. Last week he had offered Rathinasabapathy two places for his children in return for a hefty bribe.

“Their entire conversation was captured on hidden video cameras secreted inside Mr. Bhatnagar’s office,” continued Puri. “On tape, these two can be clearly seen and heard, also, discussing your case and Rupinder Khullar’s fee.”

“Let me guess. Ten percent?”

“Correct.”

“But how did you get the money back – the counterfeit money?”

“I called this principal fellow and made the situation perfectly clear – that we are having all evidence to take to authorities and he is in possession of so much funny money. Forthwith, I gave him instructions where to return it – that is, two lakhs total. He was most accommodating.” Puri paused. “Sir, I am pleased to say he has also kindly assured me your two darling children have confirmed places in Ultra Modern School.”

“You mean they’re in?” exclaimed Rathinasabapathy. He was half out of his chair again.

“They may start Monday, only.”

Relief swept over Puri’s client. “That’s fantastic news, Mr. Puri!” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you. I was so worried. I had tried so many schools and they all wanted kickbacks. The thought of the kids not getting into a good institution… well, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Rathinasabapathy sighed, relaxing his shoulders, and leaned back in his chair. But then a thought occurred to him and he frowned. “Hang on a minute… what about Mr. Ten Percent? He’s going to be pretty upset!” he said.

“That one will keep quiet. He would not wish to be on tonight’s news.”

“But won’t he come after me?”

Puri shook his head.

“Won’t he come after you?”

“Not to worry about me,” said the detective with a chuckle. “I have my connections, also. Besides, my identity remains top secret. Vish Puri is a voice on the phone, only.”

Rathinasabapathy’s forehead was still creased with anxiety.

“I don’t know, Mr. Puri,” he said at length, shifting in his chair. “I’m not sure how I feel about all this. It all seems… well, risky as hell.”