Patang (4 page)

‘The other night, I opened the room. I was feeling nostalgic and couldn’t sleep. I was missing her and her tiny feet, and the way she used to call out to me – Baba!…she used to say…Baba this…Baba that…Baba come see a butterfly…Baba look at my new frock…Baba…’ Mule seemed lost in his thoughts. Over his glasses, his eyes seemed old, tired and hurt. A melancholic pause filled the air in the room and made it uncomfortably heavy. DCP Singh wanted to shift in his chair, but decided against it.

‘So there I was, sitting on her bed, looking at her doll, and I saw something. Do you know what I saw, Uday?’

From long experience, DCP Singh knew that the best response to such questions from such people under such circumstances was revered silence.

‘A mouse!’

Mule was now standing right behind the DCP. ‘Breathing down one’s neck’ had never been more true.

‘A fat one, that too!’ Mule held his palms apart to indicate the size of the mouse. ‘Ugly, dark, hairy.’ A disgusted grimace crept on to Mule’s face. ‘I was worried. I mean, this was the bed where I had tucked in my little princess four or five times. Do you understand what I’m saying, Uday? Four or five times. In her
entire
childhood. Four or five
precious
times. It’s the nature of this job, you know? You do it well, true to your heart, and you have no idea what it takes away from you.’

The aged commissioner paused to catch his breath. He came around, sat in his chair and leaned all the way back.

‘But I’ve never had any regrets…none whatsoever. But that night, when I saw the mouse, I was worried. It disappeared below the bed, and I looked for it. I tried to find it for almost half an hour, but I couldn’t. Finally, I gave up and went back to my room. But I couldn’t sleep a wink.’

DCP Singh swallowed hard as he saw a strange expression of rage and anguish fill the older man’s face as he continued to speak.

‘Throughout the night, I kept feeling uncomfortable, thinking that the filthy animal was walking on my little darling’s linen, gnawing away on her favourite pillow, tearing her doll apart, soiling her bed.’

Mule’s face had turned red, and he had to pause to regain his composure.

‘The next morning, I told my wife, and she said I was overreacting, and that it was
just a little mouse
. Do you think I was overreacting, Uday?’

‘Not in the least bit, sir.’ The DCP’s response was prompt and without any hesitation, and it had its intended effect. Mule leaned back in his chair once again.

‘So, the next morning, I went into the room again, and turned the room upside down. I pulled out all the furniture, the linen and the mattress, but I just couldn’t find the mouse. The servants put everything back just the way it was. But that night, I saw the wretched animal again. Only this time, I was waiting for it. I tried to pounce on it, but I couldn’t catch it. Instead, I…I overturned the lamp by the bed, and it…well…it broke.’

A hint of embarrassment appeared on Mule’s face and DCP Singh immediately broke eye contact with his superior.

‘For two more nights, I tried the same thing. I waited, in the half-lit room, behind the closed door, ready to pounce on the dirty vermin as soon as it came into my angel’s room. And, on both nights, I did more harm to her room than good. I just couldn’t catch the mouse.’

Mule was now looking directly at Uday Singh. The DCP wasn’t sure whether the story was over or not, but he had caught on to what the wise old man was hinting at. Also, judging by the long piercing look that his boss was giving him, he realized that it was now time for him to speak.

‘Sir…it’s not that we…umm…haven’t made any…umm…p-p-progress…’ the DCP stammered.

‘Indeed?’

‘Y-yes, sir. Preliminary arrests have been made. People have also been brought in for interrogation…there are a few leads as well…and I think…’

‘You think he won’t kill again?’ Mule asked calmly.

DCP Singh wiped the sweat off his forehead. ‘I…well… we’re…’

Mule looked closely at the middle-aged man seated in front of him. He rose from his chair once more and walked slowly to a nearby table.

‘There’s one thing I learnt pretty quickly on this job, Uday,’ he said in a soft, comforting voice, as he poured water from a jug into a glass. ‘It is absolutely all right to fail, and also perfectly all right to deny that in front of the media…
but
– ’ Mule walked up to the DCP and offered the water to him ‘ – but, you should never lie to yourself.’

DCP Singh took the glass of water and looked at his superior like a studious college kid looks at his professor, admiring all the wisdom they have painstakingly and meticulously acquired over the years. With a sense of gratitude and genuine reverence, he said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘The situation you are in right now is not very good, Uday, neither for you, nor for the force. It is, if you’ll excuse my saying so, a
desperate
situation. The man found torn to pieces on top of the McArthur building was Father Patton, principal of one of the most prestigious schools in the city. A well-loved man, a Catholic missionary, a teacher of chemistry. The press is having a field day with this.’

‘Sir, I had
specifically
told the press…’

‘Tut-tut-tut…’ Mule shut his eyes and raised his forefinger. ‘The time for excuses and explanations has come and gone, my friend. The school is having a candlelight march in his memory tomorrow. The alumni are blogging and tweeting from all around the world, saying over and over again that it’s going to be a closed casket burial, because parts of his body are missing, just
to show us in a poor light. And let’s not forget Mr Saran, whose face looked like a three-scoop ice-cream cone when he was discovered on top of that tower. You and I perhaps know about his illegal construction deals, but the common man doesn’t, does he? To him, the news of his brutal murder is spicier than Chowpatty
bhel
. The killer is mocking us, Uday. The letter found in the pocket of the Father’s gown laughs at us. It ridicules the Mumbai Police force. It says that he will kill again in 72 hours.’

‘Sir, I won’t let that happen. I have put all my effort into this…’ DCP Singh began.

‘While I admire your grit,’ Mule interrupted the DCP politely but sternly, ‘and while I will not interfere with your line of investigation, I must, in my capacity, recommend a parallel course of action. Of course, it is up to you whether you pay any heed to my recommendation or not.’

The soft smile at the corner of his superior’s lips told DCP Singh that despite what he was being told, he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I suggest you bring in an expert,’ said Mule.

‘An expert?’ Uday Singh hesitated.

‘Chandrakant Rathod. Officially, Rathod does not work for the Mumbai Police. At least, he is not on our rolls. Nor does he work for the CBI, or RAW or any other intelligence agency. He is not a mercenary, or a spy. But he has a special knack for sniffing out killers, particularly serial killers. Rathod started out as a crime reporter several years ago. I used to be a senior inspector in Mahim then. A serial killer was on the loose and he was choosing little schoolgirls as his victims. This guy was a magician by profession. He would earn his livelihood by showing magic tricks at birthday parties. But he had a vile mind. His bag
of tricks always worked on unsuspecting little girls. He would lure them, then kidnap them. Then he would rape them and cave their heads in with an axe. Same MO, six murders. All the kids came from high-profile families – ambassadors, mining tycoons, film dynasties, the likes. You can imagine what we went through. I don’t have any shame in telling you, Uday, I was pissing in my pants. And then I met Rathod, who was investigating the story. I was instantly attracted to his intellect, something we just don’t see in today’s journalists, who are more judgmental than analytical. Rathod and I exchanged information. For some reason, I felt I could trust him. I told him what I knew and he told me what he knew. I supported him in whatever way I could. But, frankly, he didn’t need my support. He solved the case almost single-handedly, and we caught the serial killer.’

DCP Singh was listening with rapt attention. Mule went on, ‘But Rathod’s biggest achievement, of course, was when he caught the Professor 12 years ago.’

‘The Professor?’ DCP Singh knit his brows. ‘You don’t mean the notorious serial killer? South Mumbai, 2003?’

‘That’s exactly who I mean.’

The DCP couldn’t hide his astonishment. ‘You mean to say he was caught by…’

‘Chandrakant Rathod, yes.’

‘But…’

‘The media said I caught him, that’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I always thought…’

‘Well, we can’t tell the media that the Mumbai Police merely provided support to a private investigator in solving one of the most famous crimes in the annals of its history, can we? No, Uday, that would make for very bad press. It was Rathod who
caught the Professor. It is one of the most closely guarded secrets of the force, and I expect you to keep it that way. I’m letting you on to it now, because times are desperate once again.’

‘Phew!’ said the DCP, who was clearly having a hard time getting over the unexpected news. ‘I’ve heard a lot about this Professor…that man was dangerous, I’m told.’

‘Not just dangerous,’ Mule raised a finger and corrected his subordinate, ‘he was also a man of supreme intelligence. The Professor was not really a professor or teacher. In fact, he had no profession at all. He was called the Professor for, as you might have heard, his sharp intellect. He used to murder his victims and leave little limericks – sort of riddles, really – which when solved, would carry a clue as to how, when and who he would kill next. When the entire force was baffled, it was Rathod who solved each of his riddles. For a whole year, the Professor and Rathod had sparred in a duel of intellects, but the Professor was always one step ahead of him. But, in the end, Rathod caught him. When he was finally arrested and was being shoved into a police van, I was there, and I looked at Rathod’s face. He looked like a man possessed, trembling from the sheer excitement of his victory. It’s…it’s difficult for you and me to understand, Uday. This man has devoted his entire life to solving crimes. Of course, we do compensate him monetarily off the books, but he doesn’t do it for the money. I’m told he doesn’t even bother to check his accounts. He does it simply to exercise his brain. For the last 16 years, Chandrakant Rathod has been helping us solve crimes, although none have been as baffling as the serial killings by the Professor…
until now
.’

DCP Singh was looking straight at Mule.

‘I want you to call him. Wagle will know how to contact him. You and I will brief him together. But remember two
things – one, he is quite sensitive and can be a little difficult to work with, so you need to handle him carefully. And second, the media shouldn’t get a whiff of the fact that he is helping us.’

DCP Singh noticed that his boss had picked up the book on chess once again, subtly indicating that the conversation was over. He rose from his chair and clicked his heels together. Then he turned and began walking towards the door.

There, DCP Singh slowed down and turned around to face the commissioner again.

‘Sir?’ he called out, a curious frown lining his forehead.

Mule looked up from his book and peered at Uday Singh over his glasses.

‘Were you finally able to catch the mouse?’

Mule said, ‘Oh yes, clean kill…on the fourth night.’

The frown on DCP Singh’s forehead cleared. He smiled and was about to leave when Mule said, ‘But you see, Uday, it wasn’t me who caught it.’

The DCP stared at Mule in surprise. ‘Not you? Then…?’

Mule smiled and said, ‘I brought in a cat.’

6

In the eastern part of Mumbai, a small lane occupied a most unremarkable place in the city, with shabby two- and three-storey houses looming on both sides. The lane was damp and dark, even at high noon, and not because it had been raining incessantly. Even when the sun was out and at the highest point in the sky, the lane remained untouched by light or warmth, thanks to the builders of two particular adjacent houses, who had decided to flout all municipal rules and join their terraces.

The grey building on the right, which had only one small
door as an exit into the lane, was quite old and dilapidated. It had three floors and several pigeon-hole rooms, all of which had been let out. The people who lived in these rooms didn’t have very high incomes and could barely save anything by the end of the month. The conditions of the rooms, the corridors – in fact, the entire facade – bore witness to the financial status of the residents.

Just outside the tiny exit door, a blind beggar sat against the wall on a torn rag right next to a colourful sign on the wall that said, ‘Vote for Mohandas Shinde’. The beggar was extremely frail and old, and easily in his late eighties. There were deep and repulsive criss-cross marks on both his eyes, evidence to the brutality of the careful and systematic manner in which he must have been maimed several decades ago. One couldn’t guess his age if one were to listen to the flute he was playing, though. How could those fluffy lungs carry such beautiful tunes? Despite the light rain that had just begun, he was playing ‘Shyam Teri Bansi’ from
Geet Gaata Chal
. The tune was haunting, and the beggar was taking his time to dwell on the trailing notes. But there was no one there to appreciate the magic of his
murkis
. The cracked aluminium bowl in front of him was nearly empty. A brown mongrel, with sores all over her body, cuddled by his side, the unlikely musician’s solitary audience.

A middle-aged man in his early forties opened the tiny door and stepped into the lane with an air of leaving for work. He was dark complexioned, of medium height and sported a heavy, carefully trimmed moustache. His white shirt had been starched to perfection and expertly ironed, along with his dark-brown trousers. He held a large beige briefcase in his left hand and an unusually large jet-black umbrella in his right. Pulling the door to a close behind him, he started walking south. At the end of
the lane, just before he turned right, the man clicked open his umbrella. Immediately, the beggar stopped playing the song and started playing the theme from Subhash Ghai’s
Hero
, and in response, a pair of feet clad in sports shoes began to walk towards the end of the lane where the man had turned.