The Case of the Love Commandos (23 page)

Was it this expertise that had brought Dr. Basu to his door—that is, assuming their meeting had gone ahead? Puri knew now that she’d been planning to leave ICMB. Had she also been planning on blowing the whistle on their practices? Was that what had got her killed? And Ram abducted?

“Mere speculation, Vish Puri, saar!” the detective admonished himself.

Still, he needed to tread carefully. Jindal might have sold Dr. Basu out. The idea of a criminal lawyer being duplicitous was hardly beyond the realm of imagination, or indeed experience.

“Casting nets into unfamiliar waters runs the risk of catching hungry piranhas,” he reminded himself.

Jindal’s office was no bigger than five meters across but the split air conditioner unit was working full blast. Puri, who’d waited just forty-five minutes before being shown inside, felt as if he’d stepped into a freezer. The lawyer himself looked like he’d been frozen solid behind his desk. His hands, which resembled claws, were resting on their backs, the fingers curled inward. Shocks of white ran along the tops of his moustache and eyebrows like dustings of snow. When he turned his head to appraise his visitor, his shoulders barely moved. The detective could have sworn he heard the man’s neck give a creak.

“Forgive me if I don’t stand up,” said Jindal, who looked to be Puri’s senior by some twenty years, which put him in his early seventies. “I suffer from acute arthritis.”

The detective felt like saying, “Hardly surprising given how bloody thanda it is in here.” But instead he thanked Jindal for making time to see him, placed his business card on the desk and, having pulled up a chair, wrapped his safari jacket tight around him.

“ ‘Most Private Investigators, confidentiality is our watchword,’ ” read the lawyer from Puri’s card in a stultified monotone.

Ordinarily before getting down to business, it was customary in Delhi to try to establish social or work-related links between the two parties. Typically Jindal, being the
host, might ask where his visitor had grown up and what school he’d attended. Puri might then make reference to his membership in the Gymkhana Club and, by and by, some link would be found that would help break the ice and possibly establish some measure of trust.

The lawyer, however, dispensed with the preliminaries and simply asked, “And you are here because of …?”

Puri suspected that he had little regard for private detectives, but the man’s demeanor was abstruse.

“I’m investigating the death of Dr. Anju Basu, sir,” he answered.

“On whose behalf?”

Puri skirted the question, adding, “Sir, I believe she was murdered.”

Jindal’s features displayed as much surprise as they appeared capable of, his left eyebrow arching upward a couple of millimeters before settling back down again. “I see,” he said. “And why are you telling me?”

Puri took out the copy of Jindal’s business card and pushed it across the desk. “I found this in her apartment,” he said. “Last Monday’s date is written on the back in fountain pen—one with a fine nib like the Montblanc lying there on your blotting pad. The writing is somewhat spidery in nature. Now that I see your arthritic hands it explains exactly and precisely why.”

A subtle change came over Jindal’s expression. The detective couldn’t tell whether it was derived from admiration or unease.

“It would appear you are swimming in dangerous waters, Mr. Puri—if, as you say, Dr. Basu was murdered,” said the lawyer.

“That is something to which I am well accustomed. Danger is my ally.”

“You neglected to name your client.”

“In this case I am simply a concerned citizen of India. My time is being given freely.”

“In my experience, nothing is ever given entirely freely, Mr. Puri. You will surely be looking to derive some gain from this affair.”

“Sir, no financial gain will come my way, let me assure you.”

Jindal brought the tips of his twisted fingers together. He looked like an ancient chess master contemplating his next move. “If it’s information you want, Mr. Puri, I’m likely to disappoint you,” he said.

“Dr. Basu was your client, sir?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“But you met with her, is it?”

Jindal’s answer was preceded by a nod of the head. “I did. On two occasions.”

Progress. “You mind telling me what all you discussed?” asked the detective.

“Again, I’m not at liberty to say.”

Puri felt like he was playing twenty questions. “She required help?” he asked.

“Advice.”

“Regarding the nature of her research?”

“Mr. Puri, I am not empowered to divulge the details of our conversation.”

The detective frowned. Something didn’t make sense here. If Dr. Basu was deceased, then there was no reason for Jindal to be so secretive. Unless …

“Sir, was Dr. Basu by chance accompanied by a young man by the name of Ram Sunder?”

Jindal looked the detective directly in the eye. “She was.”

Ram Sunder had sat here in this very office.
He
was Jindal’s client.

“You’ve heard from him since, sir?”

“I have not.”

“You were expecting to hear from him, is it?”

“I was.”

“When exactly?”

The lawyer considered the question for a moment. “Towards the end of last week,” he said.

Dr. Basu had been killed in the early hours of Thursday. Ram had been abducted on Saturday. In between, he hadn’t been in touch with Jindal. That suggested that the young Dalit didn’t trust his lawyer—suspected him of betraying their confidence.

Puri tried a different tack. “Some question is there you wish to put to me, sir?” he asked.

Jindal’s enigmatic eyes dwelled on Puri. “I do have one question to put to you,” he said. “You said you believe Dr. Basu was murdered. Do you have evidence to corroborate your assertion?”

“Circumstantial evidence, only,” admitted Puri before going on to explain why he believed the “accident” had been nothing of the sort.

“Her apartment was ransacked also,” he added.

“I take it you mean broken into and searched?”

“Correct.”

“Did you report this crime to the police?”

“The building manager did so.”

“This was when?”

“Yesterday morning, only.”

Jindal reached for an untouched glass of water that sat on a coaster on his desk. He wrapped one hand around it, brought it to his lips and took a sip.

“Another question has occurred to me, if you will allow me,” he said as he replaced the glass.

“Pleasure, sir.”

“Were you followed on your way here, Mr. Puri?”

“I took certain precautions, sir.”

“Very sensible. I believe it would be in both our interests to keep this conversation between ourselves. Are we in agreement?”

“Most certainly, sir.”

“Good.” Jindal looked at the clock on the wall. “And now I must wish you a good day, Mr. Puri. I have another appointment.”

The detective stood from his chair but lingered before Jindal’s desk. The lawyer didn’t strike him as the type to betray a client’s trust. He was scrupulous in his dealings and evidently concerned for his own safety.

Puri decided to take a chance.

“One more question is there,” he said. “You are doubtless aware Ram Sunder is missing?”

“Yes, I believe I read as much in today’s newspaper,” answered Jindal.

“Sir, it is imperative that I locate him without delay. Other parties are searching for him, also. It is no exaggeration to say that he is facing the gravest of dangers. His mother was murdered on Saturday, only. Therefore, should you be in possession of any means of contacting him, I respectfully request you to do so on my behalf.”

“If Mr. Sunder contacts me, I will relay your message. But as I indicated earlier, he hasn’t tried to reach me these past few days.”

This seemed as much cooperation as he could expect and Puri thanked him for his time and left.

He reached the top of the stairs, emerging into the warm outside air. He stopped, suddenly struck by an alarming thought: Could Hari be working for the lawyer? Had he inadvertently shown him his hand?

• • •

Facecream covered her head in a chunni that had survived Yadav’s wanton vandalism and took a wide circle through the fields until she reached the riverbank. A diminished brook meandered down the middle of wide, sandy beds dotted with rust-colored boulders. Downstream, amidst a rippling haze of heat, she could make out a few trucks superimposed against a bridge and what appeared to be an army of ants, some digging, others walking back and forth with pans of shale balanced on their heads.

A well-worn path led along the bank through the abundant tropical vegetation. With every other step Facecream disturbed some form of fauna. Butterflies with wings as richly patterned as Persian carpets fluttered into the air. A mongoose scurried through the undergrowth. Further on, a family of monkeys objected to her presence, screeching at her from up in a tree.

A breeze brought with it the same sour vinegary smell she’d detected on her first morning in the village. It got stronger as she drew nearer to a small brick building that had been constructed amidst a copse of trees, effectively camouflaging it from the air or indeed the nearest road.

Facecream crossed some well-worn tire tracks leading to the riverbank and then ducked down out of sight. She’d spotted a couple of men standing outside the building. They were both wearing white masks over the lower half of their faces, but she recognized one of them as Rakesh Yadav. He and the other man talked for a couple of minutes, their words too hard to make out. Then Yadav walked off in the direction of the village, while the other man put on a pair of plastic goggles and went inside.

Facecream stole forward to get a closer look. There were a few rusty barrels stacked against an outside wall. They had
leaked something corrosive onto the ground. She knew what the smell was now—acetic anhydride. That explained why Yadav and one of his goons had blemishes on their hands. Even from ten meters, Facecream could feel a burning at the back of her throat.

Keeping low, she stole past the building unseen and continued along the path. Half a mile farther on, she spied five or six women crouched by a pool of water in the middle of the riverbank. Recognizing two of them as Dalit mothers with children enrolled at the school, she strode across the sand toward them.

“Why did you not bring your children this morning?” demanded Facecream, her anger suddenly spilling out.

The women carried on with their washing, eyes downcast.

“Answer me,” she insisted.

“We were told the school is closed,” said one of the women, whose name was Poonam.

“You were threatened?”

She replied with a jiggle of her head and then went back to scrubbing a shirt.

Facecream stood over them in silence for a few seconds. The rhythmic sound of their washing echoed the grinding poverty in which they were trapped.

“You came to me for help,” said Facecream. “But I cannot help you unless you are willing to make some effort yourself.”

“It’s not safe for you to remain in the village,” said Poonam.

“I know. I’m leaving. But I can still help you if you are willing.”

She took a business card from her pocket and handed it to her.

“Here, take this. It’s an address in Lucknow. Go there and ask for Kukreja Madam. Tell her I sent you. She knows about your case. She will give you the help and advice you need.”

Poonam took the card and slipped it inside her sari blouse and continued with her washing.

Facecream lingered for just a few more seconds, then turned and followed her tracks back across the sand.

Puri needed a stiff drink. Fortunately, he was headed to the Gymkhana Club, the one place in Delhi where members were served throughout the day, indeed the one place in the hectic, burgeoning capital that offered a certain tranquillity and civility sorely lacking in today’s crass society, assuming you didn’t run into the harridan wife of Col. P. V. S. Gill (Retd.), of course.

Puri was soon standing in reception checking the typed notices pinned to the bulletin board. A new one had gone up since the detective had last checked. It appealed to male members not to clear their noses into the basins of the cloakroom while other members were present. Keeping this in mind, and praying that the rubber soles of his orthopedic shoes wouldn’t attract the attention of Mrs. Col. P. V. S. Gill (Retd.), who was no doubt lurking somewhere about the club just waiting for an opportunity to catch him on some alleged violation of club rules, he proceeded to the Terrace Bar.

He found Dr. Subhrojit Ghosh already seated at a table in one corner. His friend greeted him with the words, “Chubby, you look terrible. When was the last time you slept?”

“I did not enjoy one wink last night, actually,” admitted Puri as they embraced.

“Want to tell me about it?”

For a split second, the detective felt like pouring his heart out. The truth was that the Love Commandos case was teetering on the brink. Unless he could locate Ram ahead of Hari and whoever else was out there scouring Uttar Pradesh for him, there was little hope that he would ever get to the
bottom of the affair. But worse, he’d just been informed that he had been removed from the Jain Jewelry Heist case. His now-former client, Mr. Rajesh of First National Hindustan Insurance Corporation, had called the office to say that he’d hired another private detective to take over the investigation. Most Private Investigators was “history,” he’d said.

Still, Puri wasn’t one to “crib” when he was down.

“Good of you—later maybe,” he told his friend, and then called over the waiter.

“Make mine a small one—I’m in surgery later,” said Dr. Ghosh, as Puri ordered himself a “double-peg whiskey” and a plate of chilli-cheese toast.

“Shouldn’t you be at Vaishno Devi?” asked Dr. Ghosh, once the waiter had completed the usual requisite form filling and chit counting.

“So much of work is there,” said Puri.

“That sounds familiar. When was the last time you had an off?”

“Please, no lectures, Shubho-dada.”

“You’re right. What was I thinking? You’re a hopeless case. Now, tell me about Mummy. I hear she locked some intruder in the cupboard?”