The Case of the Love Commandos (11 page)

Puri sighed into the phone. The universe was still conspiring against him. The prayers and offerings hadn’t done the trick.

“What all he was doing there?” he asked.

“He spent more than half an hour inside Ram’s house,” she replied. “I saw him talking with the village chowkidar and the father. I have the number plate of his hire car. Do you want to take it down?”

Facecream waited for a response but none was immediately forthcoming. Boss was taking this worse than she’d feared. Hari Kumar, head of Spycatcher Investigative Services, which had swanky offices in Namaste Towers, was his chief competitor. He also happened to be the one man in the world with the capacity to really get under Vish Puri’s skin. She was in a unique position to understand the rivalry between the two men given that she’d worked for both. And the hard truth was that when it came to detective work, Kumar was Puri’s equal. A former spy, he’d cracked a number of high-profile cases during his career. The Harpreet Triple Murder and the unmasking of the Coorg Conspiracy had propelled him into the national limelight. True,
India Today
magazine had never featured him on the front cover (an “accomplishment” of Puri’s that he never tired of bragging about), but then Kumar was better suited to the pages of glossy men’s magazines. The Indian edition of
GQ
, for example, had pictured him smoking one of his trademark Cuban cigars. “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier … Spycatcher” read the title, a reference to his role in the capture of the Chinese mole Mannan Kakkar.

Indeed, Puri’s rival was an altogether more polished-looking individual. He preferred Italian-style suits and drove a maroon sedan, and his favorite tipple was Sula Cabernet Sauvignon. Hari didn’t shun physical exercise and got in at least thirty minutes of brisk walking every day and often one or two rounds of golf. He was also a TV interviewer’s dream, with stories of shoot-outs and derring-do and well-honed anecdotes about famous personalities he’d known.

In part this explained why, given the choice between the two, Delhi’s “creamy layer” was often inclined to lean toward Spycatcher rather than Most Private Investigators Ltd.

Kumar also benefited in financial terms from the fact that he had few scruples. He’d work for anyone and was not averse to playing dirty. In Puri parlance, he was a “cheeter,” by which Puri meant someone not to be trusted.

“You’d like his car’s number plate, sir?” Facecream asked him again.

“No need,” said Puri. “I can guess where he’s putting up. There is only one five-star hotel in town.”

“I guess he’s probably been hired by Vishnu Mishra to clear his name and find his daughter,” said Facecream.

“God help us if he comes to know we two are involved in the case. Just he’ll make our life a living hell. Remember the cow-smuggling case? What a headache he gave us. Bloody cheeter.”

Puri headed back inside the restaurant to find that the dishes he’d ordered were on the table and that, to his horror, Vijay was already tucking into the hakka noodles and sweet-and-sour chicken.

The journalist’s magnanimous gesture for the detective to join him betrayed not the slightest hint of embarrassment at having started without his host. “Don’t mind, sir,” he said with a full mouth. “I went without my lunch.”

Facecream’s phone call had not put Puri in the best of moods and his temper boiled to the surface. “What the hell is this, yaar? I invite you and this is how you behave?” he thundered.

Vijay froze, his mouth half-open. Some noodles dangled from his lower lip. The guests at the other tables turned and stared.

“Sorry, sir,” he said with a hangdog expression. “Food was getting cold.”

Puri sat down opposite him. He took a moment to cool off.
Journalists, especially “local” ones, were a lowly, uncultured bunch who knew no better, he reminded himself. Vijay’s clothes looked like they’d been slept in. But at least he had a reputation for honesty. Most Indian hacks wouldn’t have known how to spell “impartiality,” let alone define the word. The majority were on the payrolls of politicians and bureaucrats.

“This is not a proper way to behave, actually,” Puri admonished him, his anger giving way to an avuncular tenor. “Now, tell me about Vishnu Mishra. Who would want to frame him?”

“You think he’s innocent, sir?” asked Vijay as he started to shovel food into his mouth again.

“I told you earlier, no, my words are not to be quoted,” Puri reminded him. “This conversation must remain totally one hundred percent confidential—top secret, in fact. Tell me what I want to know and all and I’ll give you one scoop when the case gets cracked.”

He eyed the rapidly disappearing food, concerned that he wouldn’t get his fair share, and started to pile as much onto his plate as it would hold.

“In answer to your question, yes, Vishnu Mishra is innocent of this murder, that much is certain,” Puri added.

Vijay cocked an eyebrow in his direction. The consensus in the media was that Mishra was guilty. “Sir, he’s definitely capable of such a thing,” he said.

“No doubt. But he’s not a dog to leave his business on his own doorstep.”

“Maybe he just wants everyone to believe it was not him so the case will be thrown out.”

Puri groaned. And not because he had an entire spring roll jammed into his mouth.

“Why you people are always believing in conspiracy theories?”
he scolded. By “you people” he meant the media in general. “A journalist should not be so ready to believe anything he is told. He should keep an open mind, remain objective ’til all facts are known.”

Vijay looked unfazed by the lecture and ate on. “You’ve got proofs, sir?” he asked.

“Believe me, there is no doubt. Someone is trying to frame Mishra. It is someone with political muscle. Now, tell me: Who is out to get him? One of his own people, is it?”

The journalist gave a shake of his head. “They’re loyal. Have to be. If they cross him, their family members suffer.”

“Who then?”

Vijay leaned forward. “Sir, I, too, have to be careful,” he said, his voice low.

“No one will come to know we have spoken,” said Puri.

“Fine, sir. Just I would require one beer, also.”

“Anything else? Maybe tickets for a cruise?” Puri’s voice was thick with sarcasm.

“No, sir, sorry, sir,” said Vijay. “But beer goes well with pork, no?”

The detective signaled to the waiter. “Bring
sir
one beer,” he said as he watched Vijay clear his plate and help himself to the remaining food.

“Now, you mind answering my question?” asked Puri.

Under his wilting stare, Vijay brought his fork to rest on the plate.

“Sir, the person with the strongest motive for getting Mishra framed is Dr. Bal Pandey.”

Puri knew of Dr. Pandey, a former physician and now the vocal leader of Uttar Pradesh’s Brahmins. At the last election, he’d made national headlines after railing against the Dalit chief minister Baba Dhobi, about whom he’d said, “Doing laundry is in the blood. Thus he has taken to laundering money.”

“Some years back there was a Thakur and Brahmin alliance, so Pandey and Mishra were partners,” continued Vijay. “But old caste rivalries got in the way. Pandey claimed Mishra tried to dominate and promoted his own people to the detriment of the Brahmins, so they split up. It is also rumored that Mishra seduced Pandey’s mistress. He found out and swore revenge.”

“What happened to the girl?”

The journalist gave a shrug. “Vanished.”

Puri jotted down some notes. When he looked up, the last spring roll was gone. His guest was also scoffing down the ornamental cabbage-and-carrot bedding.

“You are planning to eat the plate, also?” Puri felt like saying. But he stuck to his line of questioning. “Mishra has other enemies, no?” he asked.

“Plenty, sir. He’s been directly responsible for the death of dozens of Dalits over the years.”

“So?”

“Framing him in such a way is definitely Dr. Pandey’s style. A very cunning individual, very calculating.”

“But he could not act alone. Someone high up gave the order for Mishra’s arrest.”

“Sir, cops can be bought like anything. Also, the current chief of police is himself a Brahmin and from Dr. Pandey’s hometown.”

Puri’s editor friend had been right: Vijay certainly knew his stuff.

“Then tell me this: who does Dr. Pandey’s dirty work?” he asked.

“Killings and all?” asked Vijay with nonchalance. “No one has ever been linked to him. But he maintains his own bodyguards. Big fellows.”

Puri wondered if there were any members of this outfit
who were six foot one and left-handed. But he didn’t want to risk the question and give too much away.

“Dr. Pandey is having any rallies in the coming days?” he asked.

“There is one scheduled for tomorrow, sir. You’re thinking of attending?”

“Most definitely. I was thinking of visiting the circus also.”

“Circus, sir?”

“There’s one in Lucknow at present?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“A traveling fair, perhaps—with rides and all?”

“Why, sir? You’re looking for entertainment? I’d be happy to accompany you to a movie.”

“And eat all my popcorn,” Puri felt like saying, but instead replied, “Good of you. But it is getting late, actually. I should be heading to my bed.”

He gave a big yawn and called for the bill.

“You’ll keep me updated with the case?” asked Vijay as he finished his beer.

“Most definitely. But before you go, one more thing is there. I’ve come to know this evening, only, that Vishnu Mishra hired one private detective by the name of Hari Kumar. He is Delhi based, also. Most probably you will find him at the Grand.”

Vijay’s eyes lit up. “Right, sir, thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to chase it up,” he said.

“Tip-top, very good. Just remember my name should not appear in the story,” said Puri.

He waited until the journalist had gone, ordered another plate of noodles and one of spring rolls, and called Facecream. When he was satisfied she was safe, he put in a call to Rumpi, who’d returned by now to Jagdish Uncle’s haveli.

She’d sent his wallet by overnight courier and it was due to reach Lucknow the following afternoon, she told him, before asking whether he was going to be able to join them.

“Most unlikely, my dear. The case is a dark and murky one.”

Rumpi detected a distinctive lack of confidence in his voice. “Something wrong, Chubby?” she asked.

Puri hesitated before answering. “Seems Hari is working on the same case,” he said.

His words were met with an “Aah,” quickly followed by an “Oh, well,” and then, “Now, don’t let him affect your thinking, Chubby. You’re a better man than him by far.”

“Problem is Hari is always one to cut any and all corners. Short of murder and blackmail, there are no lines he is not prepared to cross.”

“That may be, but your morals have always stood you in good stead. Sounds like you need a good night’s sleep.”

“Some meter down is required, that is for sure.”

“Will you have a quick word with Mummy before you go? I think she’s still upset about this morning. She was only trying to help.”

“I’ve been meaning to call her, actually.”

Mummy came on the line. She still sounded testy.

“Something is the matter?” he asked.

“One apology and such is in order. Manners are totally lacking!” she said.

Puri was in no mood for a lecture; equally, the last thing he wanted to do was argue.

“Hearties apologies, Mummy-ji,” he said. “It was not my intention to sound ungrateful, actually.”

“Fine,” she said. “Now you have done forwarding of the picture?”

“Picture?”

“Of the pickpocket—one Pranap Dughal.”

“I’ll pass it on to the concerned persons for sure. I would welcome the opportunity to become acquainted with him.”

“This one’s a charge-sheeter for sure, Chubby,” she said. “He’s planning to do murder of his wife, na.”

Rumpi’s voice cut in. “Now, Mummy-ji, we have no proof of that,” she said.

“Just he’s going to do drugging and push her down the mountain,” Mummy managed to say before Rumpi took the phone back from her.

“What she’s saying?” he asked.

“Nothing to worry about, Chubby. It’s been a long day. I suggest we all get some rest. Sweet dreams.”

And the line went dead.

The next morning, a Monday, Facecream woke at six and lingered on her bedroll for a few minutes, watching a gecko up on the ceiling. Most people were terrified of these harmless little lizards and had all kinds of superstitious beliefs about how they were portents of bad luck. Many Indians believed that if one crawled over you at night, you would be dead within days. But she admired their agility and patience. Geckos were masterful hunters, hanging motionless from ceilings and walls for hours until insects wandered within reach of their darting tongues.

She watched her roommate catch a mosquito and whispered a thank-you for a deed well done. Then she got up and retrieved her khukuri from beneath her bedroll. As a schoolteacher, she could hardly go around wearing a four-inch steel blade, so she put the weapon at the bottom of her bag for safekeeping.

Outside, she found smoke rising from the kitchen, where the cook was crouched on her haunches stoking a new fire. The paranthas would take “a while,” she said without looking up from what she was doing, and so Facecream, who’d forgotten to buy toothpaste, decided to head into the village.

Atif, who was standing by the gate rolling up his prayer mat after the first obligatory namaz of the day, said that he, too, needed something from the shop, and they set off together. He made no mention of her foray of last night, seemingly content to mind his own business, and seeing that the sky was clear again, he lamented the monsoon’s no-show. Those without the means to irrigate their fields were growing ever more desperate for the rains. “May Allah in his wisdom grant their wish,” he intoned.

Facecream noticed a sour vinegary smell coming from the direction of the river to the east. It caught in the back of her throat. But it soon passed and her attention was drawn to the fields on either side of the lane. She could hear women whispering to one another amid the crops, the word “teacher” being passed down an invisible line. Looking closer, she spotted several pairs of eyes staring out at her from between heads of corn.