'I couldn't get anything more out of her after that. For the rest of the day, she looked grief stricken. At teatime, she dropped a cup. Mrs. Kasliwal shouted at her and called her stupid. Jaya went to her room and in the evening she refused to eat.
'After I had finished my duties, I took her some food and sat with her and combed her hair. Then she asked me if we were friends. I told her, 'Yes, we are good friends.' She took both my hands in hers and asked me if I could keep a secret. She said it was a very big secret and that if I told anyone, we would both be in danger. I assured her that I would help her in any way I could. Then, Jaya told me in a whisper that she knew who had killed Mary. She said she'd seen the murderer disposing of the body.'
'Go on,' said Puri, shifting in his chair in anticipation.
'On the night Mary disappeared, Jaya was fast asleep. But at around eleven o'clock, she was woken by a commotion in Mary's room. She opened her door a crack and saw Munnalal, the driver, carrying away Mary's body in his arms. Jaya caught a glimpse of Mary's face. She says it was ghostly pale. Her eyes were wide open, but frozen.
'Munnalal carried her to Sahib's Tata Sumo, laid her on a big piece of plastic in the back, shut the door quietly and then quickly drove away with his headlights off.'
'What did Jaya do next?' asked Puri, sipping his drink.
'She crept out of her room. On the ground, she says she noticed some drops of blood leading to the spot where the Sumo had been parked. She found the door to Mary's room half open and looked inside. The thin cotton mattress was soaked with blood. On the ground next to it lay one of the kitchen knives from the house, also covered in blood.'
'By God,' said Puri.
'Jaya ran back to her room and bolted the door behind her. She sat there for hours in the darkness, crying, terrified. Eventually, she fell asleep. In the morning, the trail of blood on the ground had vanished.'
'Did she look inside Mary's room again?'
'Yes. She says the door was wide open. All Mary's belongings, apart from the posters on the wall, had gone.'
'The mattress?'
'That too. The floor had also been washed.'
Puri thought for a moment, gently rubbing his moustache with an index finger.
'Munnalal must have come back and gotten rid of everything,' suggested Tubelight.
'Might be,' said Puri. 'Let's put ourselves in his chappals. In the dead of night, he returns to clean up his misdeed. He's got to get rid of her paraphernalia and all. So what next? Could be, he takes it all away. Gets rid of it elsewhere. Or he tosses it over the back wall.'
'That's the likeliest possibility,' Facecream ventured.
Puri shot her a look.
'You found something?' he said eagerly.
She grinned and pulled up the leg of her baggy cotton trousers. Taped to her ankle was something wrapped in a plastic bag. She placed it on the table and opened it. Inside was a four-inch kitchen knife. The blade was rusted.
Tubelight let out a low whistle.
'I found it in the undergrowth,' she said.
'Absolutely mind-blowing!' exclaimed Puri with a big, fatherly smile.
'I've got other good news,' said Tubelight.
'Munnalal?'
'My boys found him today. He's living in the Hatroi district of Jaipur.'
'First class!' said the detective. 'Tell them to watch him round the clock and I'll pay him a visit tomorrow.'
'Any more instructions for me?' asked Facecream.
'Spend time with Kamat,' instructed Puri. 'Find out if Mrs. Kasliwal was correct and he was doing hanky- panky with the female.'
Mummy, like so many Indians, had a gift for remembering numbers. She didn't need a telephone directory; the Rolodex in her mind sufficed.
The late Om Chander Puri had often made use of her ability.
'What's R. K. Uncle's number?' he would call from his den in the back of their house in Punjabi Bagh as she made his dinner rotis in the kitchen. Seeing the digits floating in the air before her eyes she'd reply automatically, '4-6-4-2-8-6-7.'
Mummy had no difficulty remembering the numbers of 'portable devices' either, despite their being longer.
Jyoti Auntie, a senior at the RTO (Regional Transport Office), was on 011 1600 2340.
It was this lady, with whom Mummy had partnered at bridge on many a Saturday afternoon in East of Kailash, who she called now to ask about tracing Fat Throat's BMW numberplate.
'Just I need one address for purposes of insurance claim,' she told Jyoti Auntie when she called her the morning after Majnu had lost him in Gurgaon.
'Oh dear, what happened?' asked Jyoti Auntie.
'The owner was doing reckless driving, bashed up my car and absconded the scene,' she lied. 'Majnu gave chase but being a prime duffer, he got caught in a traffic snarl.'
Jyoti Auntie sympathized. 'Same thing happened to me not long back,' she said. 'A scooter scratched my Indica and took off. Luckily I work at RTO, so after locating the driver's address, Vinod paid the gentleman a visit and got him to reimburse me for damages done.'
'Very good,' said Mummy.
'You have a note of the numberplate?' asked Jyoti Auntie.
'No need, just it's up in my head. D-L-8-S-Y-3-4-2-5. One black color BMW. It is Germany-made, na?'
Her friend tried to look up the numberplate in the system, but the computers were 'blinking,' so Mummy had to call back after an hour.
'The vehicle belongs to one Mr. Surinder Jagga, three number, A, Block Two, Chandigarh Apartments, Phase Four, Home Town, Sector 18, Gurgaon,' divulged Jyoti Auntie.
Mummy wrote down the details (she did not have a head for remembering addresses) and thanked her.
'You're playing bridge on Saturday, is it?' asked Jyoti Auntie.
'Certainly, if not totally,' said Mummy. 'Just my son, Chubby, is facing some difficulty and requires assistance.'
'Nothing serious, I hope.'
'Let us say it is nothing I cannot sort out,' said Mummy.
Less than two hours later, Mummy and Majnu pulled up outside Block Two, Chandigarh Apartments, Phase Four, Home Town, Sector 18, Gurgaon.
Fat Throat's black BMW was parked in front of the building.
'You wait here and don't do sleeping,' instructed Mummy. 'Just I'm going to check around. Should be I'll revert in ten minutes. But in case of emergency, call home and inform my son's good wife. You're having the number, na?'
'Yes, madam,' sighed Majnu, who was only half listening and privately lamenting the fact that he had missed his lunch.
Mummy let herself out of the car and made her way to the entrance to Block Two.
Chandigarh Apartments was not one of the high-end superluxury developments. It housed call center workers and IT grunts, most of whom hailed from small towns across the subcontinent and had flocked to Delhi to live the
