The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

The hostess at the door led him into a restaurant-cum-bar bedecked with mirrors, rotating disco balls and velvet-upholstered booths. It was packed with good-looking young people. Laughter and cigarette smoke filled the air.

Puri sat down at a small table near the stage, where a jazz pianist and saxophonist were playing Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’.

“By God! Eight hundred for whisky!” he exclaimed out loud when he read over the drinks menu. “That’s for the entire bottle, is it?”

The young waiter, who had a ponytail and an overly familiar bearing, eyed the man in the safari suit, Sandown cap and aviator sunglasses with undisguised bemusement.

“Hey, man, what time are you on tonight?” he asked.

“Pardon?” replied Puri sharply.

“You’re one of the stand-ups, right?”

The detective, who rarely lost his temper, could barely restrain himself. “Listen, Charlie, I am a private investigator and I am here to see your boss,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Give him this.” He handed the insolent young man his card.

“‘Vish Puri, managing director, chief officer and winner of six national awards, confidentiality is our watchword’,” read the waiter out loud. “That’s hilarious! I can’t wait to see your act.”

The detective banged his fist down hard on the table. “I am not an act!” he exploded. “Now go tell Jaideep Prabhu that Vish Puri is here!”

The other customers were all staring.

“OK, dude,” said the waiter, holding up his hands defensively. “I thought you were… so you’re for real. Wow! I’ll give the boss your card. Relax, OK? Now what can I get you?”

“Bring one peg whisky and soda. No ice. And don’t call me ‘man’ or ‘dude’! You should call elders ‘ji’ or ‘sir’!”

“Fine, sir. But just so you know… my name’s not Charlie.”

The waiter headed off to the bar to fetch his drink.

Puri sat back in his chair, fuming. Some of the other customers were still eyeing him. They looked amused. Why exactly, the detective could not fathom. Self-consciously, he checked his cap to make sure it was sitting squarely on his head.

How he hated these new ‘trendy’ haunts! Like the malls, they were indicative of a crass materialism and hedonism undermining the family values that underpinned Indian society.

Take those females at the next table, for example, Puri thought. Baring their legs in public, drinking alcohol, using gutter language: totally disgraceful. Or those two nancy boys over there, the ones in silk shirts and big sideburns. By God, they’re holding hands actually! What the bloody hell kind of place you’re running here, Jaideep? he wondered.

Puri felt a letter to the editor of the Times of India coming on. Perhaps he would juxtapose his views with those of the late Dr. Jha. The rationalist had not been a fan of this crass, Americanized culture, either. To him education and knowledge had been all-important.

But they had held opposing views on the role of religion. Dr. Jha had often referred to dogma as the ‘root of all evil’. The detective, on the other hand, regarded a belief in the divine as essential. Without it, in his view, society would disintegrate.

“The boss says to tell you he’ll be backstage after the show, sir,” said the waiter when he returned with Puri’s drink.

The jazz musicians finished their set, the lights were dimmed and then a mist began to creep across the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a voice offstage. “Tonight you will be astounded and spellbound, taken to new heights of expectation and reality! Prepare your mind to travel to new frontiers, beyond time and space! Prepare to be dazzled by the greatest magician in all of India!”

A flash and a puff of smoke and Manish the Magnificent appeared onstage. His sudden appearance engendered a round of applause and he bowed regally.

“For my first death-defying trick I will need a volunteer from the audience,” he announced.

One of the leggy women at the nearby table was chosen and made her way up to the stage, sniggering and exchanging looks with her friends. The magician produced a pistol.

“I would like you to examine this and tell the audience if it is real.”

She did so and agreed that it certainly looked real, and then Manish the Magnificent made a show of loading the weapon with bullets. To prove these were ‘live ones’, he asked that a paper target on a stand be placed at the back of the stage. Once it was in position, he fired three times. The target, drilled with three round holes, was then shown to the audience.

“Now it’s your turn,” he told his young volunteer. “Only your target will be this tin can, which I will balance on top of my head!”

“Are you crazy?”

“Trust me, I am a professional!”

“Go on! Shoot!” a voice in the audience shouted encouragingly.

The young woman, whom Puri suspected was a plant, eventually agreed to his request. She took aim and fired. And lo and behold, Manish the Magnificent caught the bullet between his teeth.

“Next I will grow a mango tree from this pit before your very eyes.”

The magician planted the pit in a pot and watered it. Soon a green shoot appeared. Within a few minutes this had grown into a miniature tree that bore fruit, which he picked and threw into the audience.

One of India’s oldest tricks followed: a young boy climbed into a basket and Manish the Magnificent drove swords through it. The blades appeared bloodied, but the boy emerged miraculously unscathed.

Last came a version of the Indian rope trick.

The magician began by sitting next to a basket and playing a pungi, used by snake charmers. The end of a rope stood erect like a cobra and began to rise up into the air. When it had reached a height often feet, the boy climbed up the rope and, apparently out of nowhere, picked some coconuts.

*   *   *

After the show, Puri found Manish the Magnificent in his well-appointed office, puffing on a fat cigar. By now, he had shed his whiskers and turban.

“Mr. Vish Puri, sir,” he said, shaking the detective limply by the hand and then motioning him into the chair in front of his desk. “It’s been a very long time. But not long enough.”

Ten years had passed since Jaideep had robbed Khanna Jewelers in Karol Bagh in broad daylight.

Posing as a customer, he had swapped fifty lakhs’ worth of diamonds for glass replicas without any of the store attendants noticing. The detective, working on behalf of the owners, had caught him as he tried to sell the stones. Subsequently, Jaideep had been sentenced to six years in Tihar jail. Puri, unaware at the time that the thief was a trained magician, had never figured out how he had pulled off the robbery. Now that he had witnessed Jaideep’s conjuring skills, however, the mystery was finally solved.

“I’m not going to beat around bushes,” said Puri. “I want to know your location yesterday morning between six and six thirty exactly.”

The magician smiled through the haze of cigar smoke that separated them. “Ah, so that’s what you’re doing here. You’re investigating the murder on Rajpath. And you think I’m the guilty one.”

“Answer the question,” directed Puri.

“I’m flattered. But, you see, I couldn’t have done it.”

“Why exactly?”

“Because I am a reformed individual, Mr. Vish Puri, sir. I have been successfully reintegrated into society.”

“Don’t do jugglery of words,” scolded the detective. “Once a crook, always crooked. Now tell me where you were.”

Jaideep drew on his cigar and blew a big cloud in his visitor’s direction.

“Like any sensible person, I was in bed, of course. Naturally I was not alone. I think her name was Candy. She tasted sweet, that is for sure.”