Murder in Bollywood (4 page)

‘Good evening. This is All India Radio bringing you a breaking news bulletin. Unexpected showers and heavy snowfall have led to a major landslide, two miles north of Sunset Hill. The incident occurred along the Shimla–Delhi National Highway 22 at around 8.30 tonight. Even as rescue work continues, sources claim there are no casualties. Meanwhile, the National Highway 22 between Shimla and Dharamshala has been shut down until further notice.'

The date was 14 January. The time, 11.45 p.m. Chandrakant ‘Chandu' Mule, private investigator and proprietor of Mumbai's Eagle Detective Agency, turned off the radio looking visibly annoyed, then stepped on the accelerator of his banged-up old jeep and continued to speed along the seldom-travelled forest path aptly known as Kaala Raasta, his only way out of Shimla with the main highway being closed. He drove like a man being pursued by the hounds of hell, seemingly disinterested in the ever-rising speedometer and unperturbed by the snow and water that surrounded him. The discovery that he had made in Padiabeda, an obscure village in Haryana, a few days before had startled him, but the secret he unearthed in Shimla had absolutely terrified him, which was no mean feat, considering he was a former policeman with more than twenty-five years on the job, making him impervious to most evils that men indulge in. And yet, there he was that night, driving along that forest road without another car in sight, turning his gaze from time to time towards the rear-view mirror to see if he was being followed, then heaving a sigh of relief as he realized he was very much alone on that strange, cold night. Then suddenly, he was forced to bring his car to a screeching halt, very nearly losing control along that wet and slushy road, because of a fallen tree, lying smack in the middle of his path a short distance away. For the next few seconds, Chandu sat motionless in his seat, trying to regain his composure from what could have been a fatal accident, then chided himself for noticing the fallen tree when it was almost too late. He looked around cautiously, reaching for his gun lying in the glove compartment, then zipped his windcheater right till the top, putting its hood over his head, after which he slipped his gun into its pocket, straightened his gloves, and stepped out of the car to try and move the obstacle out of his way, since there was no turning back. As Chandu pushed with both hands against the swollen piece of wood with all his might, a shadowy figure crept up from behind and called out to him in a deathly whisper. ‘Don't bother with that tree, Mr Mule. I had to pay half a dozen men from the nearby village to put it there in the first place, in anticipation of your arrival.'

Chandu spun around sharply, staring the figure in the eye. His hand moved slowly towards the gun, even as his mind tried to think of words to keep the person standing before him unsuspecting and occupied.

‘I didn't think you'd follow me here from Mumbai. But I'm even more surprised that you got ahead of me and managed to set up this ambush. How did you know I'd be coming this way?' he asked, betraying a hint of admiration in his voice.

‘It was easy. After the landslide along Highway 22, this was the only way out of Shimla, and I knew you'd be in a tearing rush to get back to Mumbai so that you can hand over to your client everything you've discovered, and expose me. But I must say, Mr Mule, I never expected you to piece together the past and find your way to Shimla and Padiabeda this quickly. But then again, you PIs are like rats—if you come across one little crumb, you somehow find your way to the whole bakery,' the figure smiled and said.

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Chandu pulled out his weapon, and without a moment's hesitation pointed it at the figure, and pulled the trigger, five, maybe six times, but to his horror, the gun was empty.

‘A word of advice, detective. The next time you step into a country liquor bar for a quick drink before you hit the highway, never leave your gun in the glove compartment, because it doesn't take much for someone to break in and steal your bullets,' the figure whispered, pulling out a gun and pointing it at Chandu's head.

‘A gun!' exclaimed Chandu, almost amused. ‘It seems that you've come prepared.'

‘We both came prepared with similar weapons of choice, detective. The only difference is that the one I hold carries six little pieces of lead.' The figure laughed like a woman more treacherous than the sea.

‘Listen to me. Nikhil and Mallika are dead, and their secret's dead with them. You don't have to kill any more, Manjeet,' Chandu reasoned in an attempt to survive.

‘Manjeet!' the figure repeated almost nostalgically. ‘Now that is a name I haven't been called in a very long time. Which isn't surprising, since in Bollywood, people are known to go by other names. How I wish, detective, that you had stayed out of my business.' With these words, Manjeet cocked the hammer of the gun and pulled the trigger. Bang! Bang! Bang!. The shots rang out and when the smoke had settled, Chandrakant ‘Chandu' Mule lay dead, his body riddled with bullets from toe to head, covered in a violent shade of red.

Inspector Hoshiyar Khan arrived a bit early at the SCS headquarters on the morning of 15 January. None of the other officers had reported for duty at that time and even his bête noire, the passport renewal office, hadn't opened its gates by then. But lying on his desk, as if waiting for his arrival, was an exquisite blue envelope with his name written across it with a fountain pen, that too in Farsi, in a handwriting whose beauty and style was reminiscent of calligraphy. At first glance itself, Hoshiyar knew exactly where that envelope came from; therefore, he understood that it was futile asking the constables at the front gate if they got a look at the person who delivered it, for rest assured, the sender of that letter had taught his minions well, making it child's play for them to move in and out and go anywhere they pleased, much like the wind, unheard and unseen. Hoshiyar sat behind his desk and held the letter in his hand. Once again, there was no point in dusting it for fingerprints. The only ones he'd find would be his own. He then ran it past his nose and smiled contentedly, as the envelope was delicately scented with fine Arabic
oudh
. Hoshiyar then tore open the envelope to find a neatly folded sheet of writing paper inside, its colour a lighter shade of blue, with a quality and texture most refined. On unfolding that paper, he discovered that it contained a few lines from Khalil Gibran's
Tears and Laughter
, written once again in calligraphic style, in Farsi no less, which was a language that Hoshiyar not only read and understood, but also enjoyed and appreciated.

‘I was here from the moment of the beginning and here I am still. And I shall remain here until the end of the world, for there is no ending for my grief-stricken being.' Hoshiyar read out aloud, then glanced at the name of the sender and writer of that note, who had signed off with a flourish at the bottom of that paper. Ali Baba, it read. Ali Baba, the king of thieves, who, unlike his namesake in the story, ruled over a gang of forty master thieves. It was around five years ago that Hoshiyar Khan's and Ali Baba's paths had crossed, quite by accident, when the former had inadvertently unearthed the latter's thieving ring while conducting a top-secret surveillance operation on Mehta and Sons, one of Mumbai's most famous jewellery stores, which had fallen prey to a daring armed robbery in broad daylight. On tapping the phones of that establishment, along with the cellphones of the powerful Mehta family who owned that place, apart from a host of other such showrooms all over the country, Hoshiyar stumbled upon a clan of highly organized thieves, whose existence was unknown to the authorities until that point. A three-month-long investigation revealed that that particular group was Iranian by nationality and all its members related by blood. It also came to light that they had robbed other leading jewellery stores across the country as well, and in each and every case, their modus operandi was similar and all-too ingenious. They would first choose a high-profile target located in an area with multiple exit points, and subject it to a thorough scrutiny, familiarizing themselves with its ins and outs and nooks and crannies, until they knew that place and everything about it like the back of their hand. Along with this, simultaneously, they would launch their next step, which was to observe minutely, for months on end if necessary, each and every member of the family which owned that jewellery store and was actively involved in its running, including the taking of important business decisions. This exercise was undertaken with the sole purpose of identifying its most opportunistic male member, who would become the gang's ‘mark' after which a beautiful female gang member, who was given the alias Morjineh, was assigned to befriend him and get him under her spell. Once this was accomplished, a group of five to six men would ‘hit' the jewellery store with blinding speed and military precision, making off with its most expensive sets and pieces in a matter of minutes, that too in broad daylight, with each man disappearing through a different exit point. A few weeks later when the dust had settled, the gang's ‘point man' would contact the ‘mark' and offer to sell him back all the jewellery they had stolen at half the market price. This is where Morjineh would come in and influence the ‘mark' into going for the deal, telling him that he was in a win-win situation, since he could easily separate the gems from the gold, then melt down the latter and fashion it into different designs, while the former could be recut and repolished or simply reused as it is without anyone coming to know that they were the stolen jewels, which would guarantee a full compensation from the insurance company for the theft of his property. She would conclude by saying that not only was this a great opportunity for him to make a whole lot of money at the cost of very little, his respect and importance in the eyes of his family would increase tenfold when he'd present this scheme to them; and since the ‘mark' by then was head over heels in love with Morjineh, he would blindly do her bidding and convince his entire family to go along with this scheme, who would oblige readily, recognizing the deal for what it seemed, a sound business opportunity. Once the deal was seen through, Morjineh would vanish, selling for cash all the expensive gifts given to her by the ‘mark' as proof of his undying love, which, among other things, would invariably include diamond jewellery and even an upscale apartment, which she got the ‘mark' to buy as a love nest for the two of them. Only after her disappearance would the poor man realize that the jewellery store wasn't the only target, for he was a part of the score as well. But alas, he and his family could hardly take this matter to the police, because any further khaki involvement would expose their own complicity, while the gang, after pulling off this heist, would go underground for a while, then reappear in some other city and start all over again. It was Hoshiyar who discovered that the secret behind this gang's elusiveness was their total abhorrence of technology. In other words, they never communicated via cellphone or email, as they believed that anything that could get tapped or traced could get them caught; therefore, all their communication was done through handwritten notes, carefully coded and in Farsi, which were hand delivered from place to place via a network of highly trusted carriers. But the most important fact which Hoshiyar uncovered was that this gang also put itself up as thieves for hire, who, for a price, would steal anything for anyone, no matter how difficult the task, and the people who knew about such things would solemnly testify that they were the very best at their craft. Since they were averse to technology, leaving behind no phone number or email ID by which they could be reached, the only way to contact them was by placing an ad in the local newspaper, requesting their services. But it had to be one particular newspaper and the ad had to be worded in a specific way to get their attention. For this, one had to go down to Dongri in South Central Mumbai, to the office of
Shiraznama
, the city's only Farsi-language daily, quite popular among Mumbai's expatriate Irani Muslim community, and place an ad in its pages, stating that there was someone interested in selling a 1965 edition of the
Arabian Nights
and all interested parties should contact the seller through this newspaper. Then about two weeks later, a query would appear in the
Shiraznama
in response to the ad, in which a potential buyer would inquire if that edition contained the story of Ali Baba and the forty thieves. If the seller answered to the query in the affirmative the following week, he would have the gang's undivided attention, who, after a few more exchanges through that very newspaper, would set up a meeting with their prospective client and take matters forward. Hoshiyar had managed to zero in on one such interested party, Taneja, a big-time antiques dealer from Delhi, with a reputation for selling stolen antiques to wealthy private collectors living abroad. According to intelligence agencies, he had his eyes set on a Rembrandt, which was on display at the heavily guarded National Art Gallery in Mumbai for a limited period of time. Taneja wanted the painting stolen while it was in the gallery and within reach; he then set out to hire the services of Ali Baba's gang, who the police suspected had pulled off a number of such heists for him in the past in different parts of the country, making Taneja one of their regular clients and someone who they trusted to a certain degree. Armed with this information, Inspector Hoshiyar Khan and his team from the crime branch swung into action, chalking out a foolproof plan to nab both Taneja and the gang, and put them away for a long time. But the key to this plan's success lay in catching both parties red-handed, for which it was decided that the crime branch would keep a close watch on Taneja, and allow him to make contact with the gang and put his proposal before them. Once the job was accepted and money changed hands, Hoshiyar Khan, along with his men, would move in swiftly and arrest them. Everything was going according to plan. Taneja had placed the ad in
Shiraznama
about the 1965 edition of
Arabian Nights
, and a couple of weeks later had also received the appropriate query, to which he had replied fittingly. Unknown to him, the crime branch boys were up to speed with all his movements; so it appeared that nothing could go wrong. But then somehow, Commissioner T.L. Ghankar got wind of the crime branch's secret operation and became enraged for not being included or consulted, which bruised his ego considerably, prompting him to react in his usual ham-handed way. In other words, before anyone could figure out what was going on, Ghankar, along with his squad, had raided the hotel where Taneja was staying, and arrested him just the day before he was to meet in person with the gang, causing the crime branch's meticulously planned operation to fall apart completely. The aftermath of this debacle saw the Iranians disappearing without a trace, while Ghankar had to let Taneja go for lack of evidence, causing the Mumbai Police to end up with egg on their face, courtesy the press which tore into the men in khaki for their high-handedness and vulgar abuse of power. But before Taneja was released, he did squeal one name to the police, that of the leader of the gang, who, like a whisper, was sometimes heard, but never seen. Ali Baba was that name. Ali Baba, the king of thieves. Taneja, however, did not live long enough to enjoy his freedom. Two days after his release, his body was left outside the police headquarters' main gate a little before dawn, packed neatly in a large wooden crate, infested with the carcasses of a hundred dead rats, as if to say he was one among them for revealing a forbidden name. And on Taneja's battered corpse lay a solitary storybook, the one called
Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
. A week after this incident, Hoshiyar Khan received a blue envelope, delicately scented with Arabian oudh, and inside it was a sheet of writing paper, light blue in colour, containing words from Khalil Gibran's
Sand and Foam
, which read, ‘remembrance is a form of meeting', below which was signed, Ali Baba, a clear indication that the game between the master thief and the man who exposed his existence had well and truly begun. Ever since that day, a handwritten note from Ali Baba would mysteriously appear at Hoshiyar's desk, always in Farsi and always quoting Gibran, in a manner which indicated that the crossing of their paths was an inevitability which neither could escape. Hoshiyar studied the latest letter for a few moments, then smiled quietly to himself and put it away in the drawer of his desk. As he glanced at his watch, he realized that the time was exactly nine o'clock and the SCS headquarters was beginning to fill up steadily. A few minutes later, eleven of the twelve officers were in attendance, with the exception of Inspector Pindi Das. However, it is important to note that Inspector Pindi Das, who was an amateur theatre actor by hobby and the unit's master of disguise, did try to enter the headquarters along with everyone else, disguised as a coughing old man, complete with a blanket, a stoop and a limp, but the moment he set foot on the premises, everyone from the officers in the building to the passport renewal guys arriving for work, even Chotu the tea delivery boy, greeted him with the words, ‘Good morning, Pindi Das saheb', which demoralized him completely, prompting him to turn away in a huff and head for the nearby paan shop for a smoke.