The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“Anyone else can confirm?”

“Naturally my servants will be only too happy to do so. My driver, also. I can provide you with Candy’s number as well if you like. She provides a very reasonably priced home service if you’re interested.”

Puri did not rise to the bait.

“There can be no doubt this murder was done by a master illusionist,” he said. “There are only a handful of you fellows around. So if you’re not the one, must be you’ve a good idea who he is, no?”

“You expect me to give you names? Why should I?”

“Because I am something of a magician myself. You don’t believe me, is it? Very well. Allow me to show you one trick I learned long time back.”

The detective took his mobile phone from his pocket.

“This is my portable device. Nothing out of the ordinary. But see here this button? When I press it – hey presto! – one number appears. Know to whom it belongs? Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh, Delhi Police. Now there is nothing up my sleeve. Nothing hidden. See? But should I have need of pressing this green button, in seconds, only, Inspector Singh would answer day or night. Now… Inspector Singh is a very motivated young officer. I am quite sure he would be most interested in knowing where so much of money came for buying such a fancy club as this and what activities you are up to, also. That is aside from pulling so many rabbits from hats.”

Jaideep met Puri’s hard, uncompromising stare. He laid his cigar down on the lip of an ashtray and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Sitting in your bar for past forty minutes, only, I saw three crimes committed. Number one, your hostess was supplying drugs to customers – cocaine, looks like. Number two, the barman was watering down the whisky. Third, you’re having so many rats in your kitchen.”

“How could you know that?”

“Rats are always there, Jaideep.”

The magician scowled. “OK, Mr. Vish Puri, sir, you can put away your mobile. You’re right. What was done yesterday on Rajpath – the levitation, I mean – it’s never been achieved before, not out in the open. It’s a first. And before you ask, I have no idea how it was done. I’ve watched that video a dozen times and I can’t figure it out. Someone worked very hard to perfect that illusion. It’s a masterpiece.”

“Who did it?” The detective was still brandishing his phone.

Manish the Magnificent hesitated.

“Who?” demanded Puri.

“There are only three individuals capable of pulling off something like this,” said the magician. “The first is currently in intensive care, so you can rule him out. The second is a certain Bengali and he’s on tour in Europe.”

Puri made a note of their names all the same.

“And third?” he asked.

The magician paused, licking his lips, which had become dry.

“These days he’s known to people as none other than the great, all-seeing, all-powerful… Maharaj Swami.”

“You said ‘these days’.”

The magician looked suddenly coy. “That’s not the name he’s always gone by.”

“You knew him before, is it?”

“Oh, yes, I knew him. But what I’m about to tell you didn’t come from me. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“And you’ll leave after this and not come back?”

“Is that the way to treat a guest?”

Manish the Magnificent retrieved his cigar from the ashtray and blew on the tip until it glowed orange again.

“Very few people know what I’m about to tell you,” he said. “But the great Godman grew up in Shadipur in a family of magicians. His parents were Hindu, but they died when he was four and he was adopted into a Muslim family. His real name is Aman. We were neighbors and both grew up assisting the older jadoo wallahs on the streets and learning magic tricks. When we were old enough, we became partners and started working for ourselves.”

“Allow me to guess,” said the detective. “You got into criminal activity and eventually there was a falling- out.”

The magician eyed him warily. “Something like that. It was about twelve years ago. He suddenly disappeared one day along with a great deal of my money.”

“And?”

“Naturally I tried to locate him, but he was nowhere to be found.”

Some cigar ash fell into Manish the Magnificent’s lap and he brushed it away.

“Life went on,” he continued. “I went to prison – as you well know. Then a few years ago I was watching TV and Maharaj Swami comes on. I didn’t recognize him at first. Not with all that getup. He’d made himself look a lot older. He was also changed physically – he’s mastered yogic prana-yamic breathing. But the moment he started conjuring objects out of thin air, I knew it was Aman. I’d recognize his technique anywhere.”

Puri thought for a moment and then said: “One thing I am getting confusion over. Assuming it’s true your former partner betrayed you, why you’ve got tension about revealing his past?”

“Haven’t you heard, Mr. Vish Puri, sir? Maharaj Swami is now one of the most powerful men in India. The prime minister doesn’t go to the toilet unless he okays it. He could make life very uncomfortable for me.”

It was obvious to Puri that although the magician had made a pretense of not wanting to reveal what he knew about Maharaj Swami, he was only too happy to pass on what he knew.

“I take it you would not shed too many of tears in the event Swami-ji ended up behind bars,” he said.

Manish the Magnificent smiled. “Not many, no.”

“Then we have something in common – us two.”

“I suppose so,” the magician answered begrudgingly.

“Very good! So what else you can tell me about your friend Aman?”

“Only that he’s the most gifted magician I’ve ever come across. If anyone could have pulled off the illusion on Raj-path, it’s him.”

“What about his character?”

“He’s a perfectionist. I never knew him to give up on anything.”

“Any habits – drugs, alcohol?”

“Nothing.”

“Women?”

“He was always nervous around them.”

Puri made a note of this.

The magician remembered something else.

“Aman had this habit of collecting things – little mementos from places he’d been,” he said. “Railway ticket stubs, menus from restaurants, postcards. It was a kind of obsession with him. He used to keep a diary as well. He left it out once and I read some of it. He had written down everything that had happened to him – dates, names – along with notes and diagrams on the magic tricks he was developing.”

“He kept all these things where exactly?”

“In a silver metal trunk.”

Ten

National Highway 58, which ran for 334 miles northeast of Delhi, had been under construction for nearly a decade. The few sections that had been completed between Ghaziabad and the holy city of Haridwar offered three smooth lanes in both directions. Drivers reaching one of these stretches experienced instant elation, as if they had