Tarquin Hall Read online

  Outside the door to 4/B, he found several pairs of shoes lying in a jumble. He unlaced his and placed them to one side. The bell brought an elderly servant woman bearing a pair of rubber chappals.

  The detective was standing on the landing trying to get his stockinged toes between the toe rings when Raju Pillai stepped out of the apartment.

  “Thank the God you’ve come, Mr. Puri,” he said. “I’m at my wit’s end!”

  As was fitting for the director general and honorary secretary of the Moustache Organization of Punjab (MOP), Pillai sported a thick black walrus with bushy muttonchops. He pulled the door shut behind him.

  “Satya-ji’s in such a state, I tell you,” he said, keeping his voice down and giving a quick glance backward as if someone might overhear. “Thought I’d come over to see what I could do for him.”

  “Very good of you,” intoned Puri.

  “I thought it better we have a private conference before you get the facts from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Must have been quite a shock, losing half his moustache and all,” said the detective, who was still struggling with the chappals.

  “Can you imagine, Mr. Puri? Thirty years plus he’s been nurturing and grooming it. Cared for every last whisker. That level of dedication and commitment is seen only rarely these days. And then phoof! Half of it vanished into thin air! From right under his nose, no less. I tell you, Mr. Puri, India has lost one of its greatest treasures. The Taj Mahal of moustaches! Something of which all Indians could feel proud.”

  “On phone, Satya-ji said it was removed in the wee hours,” said Puri. “He was sleeping or what?”

  “Seems so, Mr. Puri. Must have been drugged somehow.”

  “He said also one security guard got hold of the thief but he escaped.”

  “Exactly. The guard spotted a gentleman climbing up the side of the balcony in dead of night. Thus he alerted the police, but they failed to arrive. So he took it upon himself to investigate. Quite a fearless fellow, it seems. He caught the intruder in the act and gave chase. Seems a struggle took place. Thus the removed portion of the moustache was recovered.”

  Puri finally managed to get the chappals on, more or less, his heels protruding over the backs.

  “He is present—this security guard?” he asked.

  “The police inspector, one Surinder Thakur, got hold of him for questioning.”

  “He was able to make positive ID—the security guard, that is?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  The detective took out his notebook and wrote down Thakur’s name before asking, “The removed section of the moustache is where, exactly?”

  “Thakur has taken it for evidence. Against all our protestations, I should say.”

  “He offered any theory to what all happened?”

  “Frankly speaking, Mr. Puri, I don’t believe he’s taking the case seriously. Seemed to find the whole thing amusing for some reason!”

  “Our Dilli police are not performing their duties in a professional manner,” said the detective with a solemn shake of the head. “You’ve any theory yourself as to the identity of the guilty person? Could be a rival moustache grower, no?”

  “Not a member of MOP, that is for sure!” said Pillai, bristling. “Our members are all respectable gentlemen. From well-to-do families, I should add. You yourself are a member, Mr. Puri.”

  “Yes, but surely . . .” ventured the detective.

  “Each and every member is aware of the supreme effort and sacrifice required to grow an award-winning moustache,” continued Pillai. “Never have I seen one hint of jealousy aimed at Satya-ji. Everyone is proud of his accomplishment. You recall the reception after he returned from U.S. last year? One and all gave him a hero’s welcome.”

  Puri nodded knowingly, loath to admit that he hadn’t attended the special dinner that had been held to honor Satya Pal Bhalla. The truth was he attended few MOP functions if he could help it. He’d become a member to do his bit for promoting the growth of moustaches amongst Indian youths (it was, after all, sad and shocking to see how many young Punjabi men were not “sporting” these days) and to indulge in a bit of socializing and networking with like-minded individuals. But over the years the organization had been hijacked by a competitive group of individuals. All they talked about was, well, moustaches. And Rumpi, for one, refused to attend any more of their functions.

  “I can’t listen to the debate about wax versus gel ever again,” Rumpi had protested after the 2007 annual dinner, her last.

  Satya Pal Bhalla was the worst offender. A Grade II bureaucrat employed in the Central Secretariat Stenographers’ Service, he was one of a breed of Indians who were desperate to stand out from the crowd 1.2 billion strong and therefore dedicated their lives to extreme pursuits. The ultimate prize for such types was an entry in the bestselling Limca Book of Records.

  Growing his thirteen-foot-long leviathan had brought Bhalla fame and kudos. Indeed, no one stepping into his living room could fail to be impressed by the collection of photographs on the walls, of Ballah posing with the great and the good.

  While Pillai went to fetch the victim from his bedroom, Puri circled the room admiring the photos. Mother Teresa; ace batsman Sachin Tendulkar; the father of India’s nuclear bomb, Dr. Abdul Kalam; Bollywood legend Amitabh Bachchan . . . Bhalla had met them all.

  His moustache had also brought him promotional work. By the window hung some framed print advertisements in which he had appeared. One for Shift clothes detergent depicted him standing with his moustache stretched out in both directions. Brightly colored shirts and underwear hung from it. “A deep clean you’ll want to show off,” read the slogan.

  But now it seemed Bhalla’s career was over and the man himself looked bereft. His moustache’s left tendril had been completely shorn off, leaving the right section still curled around his cheek like a Danish pastry.

  “Heartfelt condolences, sir,” said Puri as he entered the room. “What you must be feeling I cannot imagine.”

  “Is no one safe in their own house?” asked Bhalla, as if the detective was somehow responsible for the break-in. “Look at me! Look at what is left! I’m a freak!” He tugged at the bare section of his upper lip, his eyes burning with anger. “I want him caught, Puri! Do you hear? I want him to pay! We all know who did this and I want you to get him! Whatever it takes!”

  The detective raised a calming hand. “Who is it you believe was the culprit exactly, sir?” he asked.

  “Ragi, of course!” Bhalla’s anger flared. “He’s been after my number one status for years! Finally he’s found a way to get me out of the way!”

  It was true that Gopal Ragi was now, by default, the Moustache Raja of India. It was also true that he and Bhalla hated each other.

  “Recently that bastard accused me of wearing hair extensions!” he continued. “I told him, ‘Go to hell!’ And he threatened me! You know what he said? That if he was me, he would watch his back! And his moustache, also! His exact words!”

  “There were witnesses, sir—to his threat?”

  “So many!”

  “You can provide names, is it?”

  “Everyone knows he threatened me, Puri! Ask anyone.”

  Pillai now spoke up, reiterating in an equitable manner that he could not bring himself to believe that a fellow MOP member could be responsible for such a horrific act. But he was shouted down.

  “What does he know?” bawled Bhalla with a smirk. “Nothing! I’m telling you. It was that bastard for sure.”

  “The truth will come out in the wash,” said Puri. “But first I must know what all happened here.”

  “All I can tell you is this,” said Bhalla in an irritated monotone. “After eating my khana last night, I felt ill and went to bed early. This morning I woke later than usual. Must have been nine. The maid was waiting by my bed. She was the one who broke the news and informed me the police were waiting. I went directly into the bathroom and looked in the mirror and . . . and
, well, you have seen this . . . this massacre. What that bloody bastard has done to me!”

  “You said you felt ill, is it? What is it you ate exactly?”

  “Channa batura.”

  “You like it mirchi, is it, sir?”

  “Hotter the better.”

  “Who else shares the house?”

  “Myself and the maid.”

  “No family?”

  Bhalla raised his hands and dropped them onto the arms of his chair, clearly frustrated at the line of questioning. “What has that got to do with anything?” he demanded.

  Puri’s placid, inquiring gaze elicited an answer. “My wife’s no more. A boy comes during the day to clean and do shopping and so forth. He’s a new one. Use-less.”

  “He’s present, also?”

  “Didn’t come today. Inspector Thakur’s visiting his home. It’s far—two hours at least.”

  “He comes every day back and forth, is it?”

  “Look, I don’t give two damns about his travel arrangements. What I care about is Ragi’s whereabouts last night.”

  “I understand your frustration, sir,” responded Puri. “Nonetheless facts are required. So tell me: this channa batura . . . the maid prepared it, is it?”

  “Yes” was the laconic reply.

  “Any is left over?”

  “It got finished off.”

  “What time you ate exactly?”

  “Eight thirty.”

  “You always eat at this hour, sir?”

  “Always.”

  “She ate also—the maid, that is?”

  “Must be.”

  Next, the detective examined what was left of the moustache, scrutinizing the shorn section of the upper lip. The hairs were cropped close to the skin. It was a meticulous job.

  “Expertly done, one can say. Any implements were left behind—scissors and so forth?”

  “Nothing was found.”

  A honk of the Ambassador’s horn reminded him that Rumpi was waiting. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. He would have to make his search of the crime scene a quick one and return later if necessary.

  He made his way to the bedroom, the chappals cutting into the middle portion of the bottom of his feet so that he was forced to tiptoe. On the bedsheet, the detective found a few shavings, indicating that the work had indeed been carried out while Bhalla lay asleep. There was also some shaving-foam residue on the side table, as well as a water mark in the shape of a razor.

  But why not cut off both parts with scissors and be done? Puri wondered. Surely the spiteful thing to do would have been to cut both ends off and leave them lying on the floor—a matter of a couple of minutes’ work.

  “Why so thorough a job?” he said out loud.

  Pillai, who was lingering in the doorway asked “What was that you said?”

  But the detective ignored the question. “Tell me one thing,” he said. “The security guard saw this moustache thief climb inside over the balcony, is it?”

  “Came banging on the door, from what I understand,” answered Pillai.

  “Thus our visitor got panicked and ran away. He went over the balcony again?”

  “I believe so. That was when the security guard fellow gave chase.”

  Puri headed into the kitchen. The maid, an elderly servant woman, was standing at the counter making paneer. She looked scared, but the detective read nothing into this. Servants were often shoddily treated and always fell under suspicion as soon as anything went wrong in a household. Was it any wonder they feared authority?

  He began by asking her if it was true she’d eaten any of the same food.

  “Yes, sahib,” she answered timidly in Hindi.

  “You felt drowsy?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “How much did you eat?”

  “A small portion.”

  “Where did you sleep last night?”

  “The same place I always do. Here on the kitchen floor.”

  “On a bedroll?”

  “A sheet of newspaper.”

  Puri managed to disguise his disgust at the manner in which this woman was forced to live.

  “Did anyone else enter the kitchen in the past twenty-four hours?” he asked.

  “One man came yesterday. To check the gas canister registration.” She added hurriedly, “He showed me his identification. He was from the MCD.”

  “He was alone in the kitchen?”

  “The phone rang after he came. I went to answer it. So I—”

  “Who was calling?” interrupted Puri.

  “A sales wallah. From the phone company.”

  “The channa was sitting on the stove?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “Would you recognize this gas canister wallah?”

  She looked down at the floor. “My eyesight is not good, sahib.”

  Puri asked her whether she’d been woken in the middle of the night by the security guard banging on the door, and she confirmed that this was indeed what had happened. He thanked her and made his way to the apartment’s back door. It led onto a small balcony. There were scuff marks on the top of the wall and down the side of the building.

  He returned to the living room. The Ambassador’s horn sounded again.

  “Vish Puri will take the case,” announced the detective with a bow that was intended to convey humility. “Seems we are dealing with a cunning individual. He entered the premises yesterday afternoon only. Then and there, he added some knockout drug to your channa. So much chili was present that you did not notice the taste.”

  His fee, Puri went on to explain, would be four thousand rupees per day, plus expenses.

  “So much?” exclaimed Bhalla, wide-eyed.

  “One week I’ll require in advance. Cash, banker’s draft or electronic transfer only.”

  “Show me results first, Puri, then only I’ll make payment,” insisted Bhalla.

  The detective gave a truculent shake of his head. “Rest assured, sir, Vish Puri never fails. In my long and distinguished career, no mystery till date has gone unresolved or unsolved.”

  “Two thousand per day, three days maximum,” suggested Bhalla.

  “Price is final, no negotiation.”

  Puri tiptoed toward the door. As he reached for the handle, Bhalla relented. “Just get me Gopal Ragi!” he said.

  “First-class,” replied the detective. “I would be sending my man later to pick up payment.”

  He returned to the Ambassador to find Rumpi fuming.

  “You’ve been twenty minutes, Chubby!”

  “Hearties apologies, my dear,” answered Puri. “The case is more complicated than I imagined. A most hairy set of circumstances, we can say.”

  Two

  The roar of fifty thousand fans greeted the Puris as they found their seats in the VIP section reserved for the “near or dear” of ICT players. Delhi Cowboys captain Gopal Shastri had just hit a six, smacking the ball deep into the west stand, and the home crowd had gone wild. Throughout the hallowed Feroz Shah Kotla stadium, built on the site of the capital of the fourteenth-century Delhi sultanate, air horns blasted over the sharp beat of dhol drums, and the team’s Hindi-English anthem was bellowed out: “Khel Front Foot Pe!”

  Even Rumpi’s father, Brigadier Mattu, who’d dressed in a tie and blazer for the occasion (he was also wearing a brown monkey cap that framed the center of his face and lent him the look of a gentleman bank robber), was up on his feet waving the team’s colors.

  “Seems we’re off to a first-rate start, sir,” said the detective as he sat down in the seat next to his father-in-law.

  “Three fours off the first over alone, Puri!” replied Mattu. “Good to see our boys on the offensive.”

  The Brigadier—slight and gray-haired with an inquisitive face—slowly retook his seat. Then with a sharp pencil and meticulous hand, he updated his scorecard. It was resting on a thick sudoku volume; a bookmark indicated that he’d completed at least half of the brainteasers. Most probab
ly did them over his cornflakes, the detective thought to himself. Mattu had a registered IQ of 137 and was a former code breaker, after all. He spoke seven languages fluently, including Mandarin and Tani, which he’d learned while stationed near the Chinese border in the contested Indian state of Arunachal Pradesh. He was a topper at bridge, the Gymkhana Club champion no less. And he was a walking encyclopedia of cricket.

  “Our team’s weakness is with the bowling,” he told Puri. “We’re unlikely to see much swing in the ball today. Let’s just hope Maharoof’s in good form. He’s certainly got a supportive crowd behind him.”

  The stadium was indeed heaving—every seat was occupied, some by more than one fan. Children sat bunched atop walls and concrete overhangs, legs dangling through railings. All the aisles and steps were jammed with eager faces.

  When the Cowboys’ captain hit another six, the whole place erupted in cheers and Bollywood songs—a feverish carnival of flags and banners and impromptu dancing. “STUNNER!” flashed across the stadium’s giant screens, quickly followed by advertisements for mobile phone networks, fast food chains and popular skin-whitening creams—all this to the bone-shaking decibel level of Queen: “WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!”

  “Very good, young man!” called out Rumpi’s mother, who was sitting to the right of the Brigadier, patting her hands together in delight. “Very good!”

  Down on the boundary, they could see India’s latest cultural import from the West, American cheerleaders in little pleated skirts and tight halter tops, performing acrobatics with their sparkly pom-poms and favoring the crowd with flashes of their cleavage and knickers.

  “Give us a D . . . E . . . L . . . H . . . I! Go, Cowboys!”

  The reaction from the almost exclusively male—and by the looks of it totally tully—fans down in the bleachers was no less frenzied than it had been for Shastri’s stunning shot. Like lewd punters at a strip club, they ogled the goris’ ample proportions and howled and wolf-whistled.

  Thank the God Rumpi’s mother, who was hard of hearing, couldn’t make out the Punjabi obscenities being shouted, Puri thought.

  “Do you know, beta, I used to be able to do that?” the detective overheard her telling Rumpi as the girls performed a series of cartwheels. “I was junior gymnastics champion. But I didn’t wear uniforms like those. Must be very practical, I suppose.”