who was in the next room.
A few minutes later the officer in question entered.
'It will be our pleasure to help you in any way. Some cold drink? Some tea?' he asked.
For the sake of diplomacy, Puri sat with the police-wallah for ten minutes, dropping a few names into the conversation and leaving him in no doubt that he was someone with contacts at the pinnacle of power in Delhi. The detective also complimented the officer on the tidy appearance of the station.
'Our Indian police are most cooperative,' he said, in a deliberately loud voice with a grin.
Such flattery always went down well. 'Thank you, thank you, so kind of you, sir.' The officer beamed.
A stern-looking woman constable escorted Puri to the cells.
They were at the back of the station, three in total, each twelve-feet square with a squat toilet positioned behind a low concrete wall that offered little privacy. There were no windows and no ventilation of any kind. The stench of sweat, piss and acrid bidi smoke hung heavily in the air. The bars and the doors were antiquated and the clunky locks required six-inch keys, which jingled from the constable's belt like reindeer bells.
The first cell contained seven prisoners. They were racing captured cockroaches across the floor on a course delineated by empty cigarette boxes. Crouching over the contenders, the prisoners' voices alternated between cheers of encouragement, howls of disappointment and whoops of victory.
At the back of the second cell, a half-naked sadhu with dreadlocks sat in apparent comfort on the hard concrete floor, while two old men with long white beards passed the time over a game of cards. Another man with a cadaverous appearance leaned up against the bars, staring through them with a blank, melancholy expression.
Ajay Kasliwal had the last cell to himself. It was devoid of furniture and proper lighting. He was sitting in the semidarkness against the back wall with his face buried in his hands.
When he looked up, Puri was shocked to see how exhausted he appeared. Deep creases had developed along his forehead. Bags the color of storm clouds had gathered beneath his eyes.
'Thank God!' he exclaimed. Standing up, he rushed to the front of the cell and clasped the detective's hands. 'Thank you for coming, Puri-ji! I'm going out of my mind!'
For a moment, it seemed as if the lawyer would break down in tears, but he managed to regain his composure.
'I tell you, I never laid a finger on that poor girl,' he said, his grip still tight. 'You do believe me, don't you, Puri-ji? These charges are bogus. I'm a gentle giant, actually. Ask anyone and they'll tell you the same. Ajay Kasliwal could not and would not hurt a fly. I'm a Jain, for heaven's sake! We people don't like to kill anything, not even insects.'
The lady constable, who had been standing behind Puri, interrupted. 'Ten minutes only,' she said coldly and withdrew farther down the corridor.
'Of course I believe you, sir,' said the detective. 'One way or other, we'll get you out of this pickle. You have Vish Puri's word on that.'
He let go of Kasliwal's hands and reached into his trouser pockets, taking out a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes.
'These are for you,' he said, passing them through the bars.
Kasliwal thanked him, tore into one of the packets and, with trembling hands and fumbling fingers, put a cigarette to his lips. Puri lit a match and Kasliwal pushed the end of the cigarette into the flame. The detective surveyed his client's features in the flickering light, searching for clues to his mental state. He was concerned to see that he had developed a tic above his left eye. Such a spasm could be the first indicator of more serious problems to come. The detective had seen other men-confident, successful men like Kasliwal-reduced to blubbering wrecks after being put behind bars.
Ashok Sharma, the 'Bra Raja,' who had hired Puri to investigate the bizarre set of events that had led to the death of his brother (the Case of the Laughing Peacock), had suffered a nervous breakdown after spending just one night in Delhi's notorious Tihar jail.
Of course, Kasliwal's cell was positively five-star compared to Tihar. But tomorrow morning, he had a date in front of a magistrate at the District and Sessions Court, where he would be charge sheeted. And if bail was denied-and in the case of a 'heinous crime' it often was-he would be remanded into judicial custody and sent to the Central Jail. There, Kasliwal would be forced to share a dormitory with twenty convicted men. If he wished to remain un molested, he would have to pay them protection money.
'The first thing I must know, sir, is who is representing you?' asked Puri.
'My wife was here two hours back and says K. P. Malhotra has agreed to take the case. I haven't talked to him yet; my mobile ran out. He's meant to come this afternoon.'
'He's someone you trust?'
'Absolutely. We've known each other for twenty-odd years. He's a good attacker and adept at defending his wicket, also.'
'Badiya-that's good to hear,' said Puri. 'But, sir, if I'm to continue, there can be no other private detective. It will make things too hot in the kitchen.'
Kasliwal stole a furtive glance at him; Puri guessed that the lawyer's wife had already sown the seeds of doubt about the detective's abilities.
'You're not satisfied with my work, is it?' he prompted.
'Well, Puri-ji, frankly speaking, so far I've not seen much evidence of progress,' admitted Kasliwal. 'Now I'm behind bars charged with rape and murder. Can you blame me for shopping elsewhere? My life and reputation are at stake.'
'Sir, I assure you everything and anything is being done. But my methods are my business. It is for the client to place his trust in my hands. Not once I have failed in a case and I'm not about to start now. Equally, Rome wasn't built in the afternoon. These things can't be rushed.'
Kasliwal pursed his lips as he weighed his options over the last of the cigarette.
'I'll make sure you're the only one on the case, Puri-ji,' he said eventually.
'Good,' said the detective. 'Now let us waste no more time. Tell me exactly and precisely what occurred when you were brought in. Inspector Shekhawat read you the riot act, is it?'
'He says he's got witnesses who saw me dump the body.'
'Police-wallahs can always find witnesses,' said Puri. 'A good lawyer will deal with them in court. What else?'
'He says a former servant is ready to testify that I raped her.'
'Who is she?'
'How should I know, Puri-ji? I kept quiet during the interview, refused to say a word, so naturally I didn't ask who this woman is.'
'Did Shekhawat mention any hard evidence?'
'No, but I'm sure he must be searching for something to spring tomorrow.'
Kasliwal took a last drag on his cigarette, let the stub fall on the floor and ground it under his heel.
'Tell me one thing, Puri-ji. In your opinion, the girl they found on the side of the road…she is Mary?'
'Seems that's what your Inspector Shekhawat is intimating.'
Kasliwal's chin sank to his chest. 'So, someone murdered her after all,' he sighed. 'But who?'
'You have some idea?' asked the detective.
'No, Puri-ji, none.'
'What about Kamat? Your wife told me he's a drunkard and was having relations with the female. It's true?'
'I've no idea.'
'Tell me about your movements the night that body was discovered. August twenty-second. Can you recall?'
'I was in court come the afternoon. In the evening, I freshened up at home and…' Kasliwal flushed with embarrassment. Puri could guess what he had been up to.
'You had 'takeout,' is it?'
The lawyer nodded. 'My usual order.'
Howls of excitement came from the first cell. Evidently another cockroach race was reaching a thrilling
