And before Dr. Ghosh could say another word, the detective was out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, Puri reached the south end of Rajpath to find the road still barricaded by the police. A constable on duty informed him that it would not reopen until tomorrow; in the meantime, he was welcome to proceed on foot.
Frustrated but with no other option, the detective set off on his own, umbrella held aloft, retracing the steps Dr. Jha had taken five days earlier.
By now it was almost noon and the heat of the sun bore down on him like a blowtorch. He moved as fast as his left leg would allow him, the insides of his shoes squelching with sweat, until he reached the shade of the jamun tree where the Kali illusion had been staged. The police cordon around the crime scene had by now been removed, as had the incense sticks and offerings left on the ground by worshippers. On either side of the tree trunk lay a flea-bitten pye-dog and a laborer, both of whom were sleeping soundly despite the heat and the flies.
It took Puri a minute or so to recover from the walk and to wipe the salty perspiration from his eyes. And then he began to scour the murder scene.
He slowly circled around the area three times. Then he started to walk backward away from it to get a different perspective.
When he had gone about twenty feet, he noticed something odd. The grass in the vicinity where Kali had levitated was a shade darker, as if it had received more rainfall or perhaps been watered. It was a subtle difference, one that could easily be overlooked.
He hurried back to the spot, cast aside his umbrella and, with some difficulty given his girth, got down on one knee. Taking out his key chain, which had a Swiss Army penknife attached, he pushed the largest blade down into the grass. At a depth of two inches, it came into contact with something solid. He twisted the blade. It felt like metal.
“Heartiest congratulations, Mr. Vish Puri, sir!” he exclaimed out loud with a chuckle, pronouncing heartiest ‘hartees’.
He probed with his knife in six other spots, each time with the same result, before getting back to his feet. For a minute or so, he stood looking down at the ground, contemplating whether to go and fetch a helper with a shovel and dig up the grass, but decided this would have to wait.
He still needed proof that it had been Professor Pandey who had hidden the pieces of metal under the grass.
Given that it was a Sunday, this was going to take some time.
Seventeen
Facecream was serving lunch. For an hour, she and her fellow devotees worked their way back and forth along the rows of visitors seated on the floor of the tent, ensuring that each person received their fill.
Amongst them sat a wiry young man with thick glasses, pockmarked cheeks and sharply parted hair that glistened with Brylcreem. His moustache was but a wisp, the hairs thin and fluffy like a caterpillar’s legs, and his clothes served to enhance his physical immaturity, being devoid of any flair. He wore a gray Western shirt untucked over a pair of straight gray trousers. The breast pocket was stuffed with pens and marked with biro stains. From his belt hung a clump of keys and a multitool.
Facecream could not help but smile at the sight of him. It was rare to see Flush out in the field. Sitting there shoulder to shoulder with ordinary people, he looked uncharacteristically unsure of himself. His natural habitat was a darkened room where day and night were not easily discernible, surrounded by monitors, soldering irons, circuit boards and empty pizza boxes. On his days off, he read graphic novels and admired the cover girls of the Indian edition of
Ironically, however, the computer and electronics whiz fulfilled the first requirement of successful undercover work: to assume a persona that blended into the surroundings and didn’t attract undue attention. His unmistakably yokel Uttar Pradesh Hindi helped complete the picture of a socially awkward nerd who was quickly forgettable and of no threat to anyone.
When it came to handing over the small packet Facecream had requested, he did so without raising suspicions, simply slipping it under his plate when she cleared it.
Flush then made his way back to the hotel across the road from the ashram. He had taken a room overlooking the main entrance. And from there he was still endeavoring to hack into the Abode of Eternal Love’s network.
Facecream, meanwhile, went to check the contents of the packet in the privacy of a toilet cubicle: one small flashlight; a set of skeleton lever-lock keys and a small metal file; a silver pendant engraved with the om symbol, which had a USB data key concealed inside; and last but not least, a reliable watch. This was everything she needed to break into Maha-raj Swami’s private residence.
Until this morning, she had had serious reservations about doing so on her own. There were too many people around, and she had asked Puri to send Tubelight and a couple of his boys who specialized in breaking and entering to help.
But then chance had played into her hands.
At eight o’clock this morning, a helicopter had landed in the middle of the ashram, picked up Swami-ji and the man in the black sherwani whom Facecream had seen in the reception of the private residence and taken them to Delhi. Word had circulated amongst the devotees (none of whom seemed puzzled, let alone disillusioned, by the contradiction of their guru making use of a crude flying machine when he was supposed to be able to teleport from one side of the planet to the other) that his holiness would not return until tomorrow, and so Facecream had decided to try to get into his audience chamber tonight.
With offices closed in Delhi for the weekend and many officials away on holiday, it took the rest of the day and a good deal of cajolery to obtain the proof Puri needed.
By then it was seven in the evening and he had not eaten since brunch. Spotting a Nirulas on his way to West Delhi, he stopped for a couple of chicken frankies, which he ate with plenty of green chutney and a salty lassi. Then he called Tubelight.
“Meet me in Shalimar Bagh West in forty minutes,” he said.
“Means you’ve solved the case, Boss?”
“Thank God the answer came to me in the nick of time, otherwise there would have been so much of egg on my face,” answered the detective with uncharacteristic modesty. “For once, Vish Puri has been slow on the uptake. Must be this hot weather wreaking havoc with my brain and all. The solution has been staring me right in the face. Pandey and his accomplices have really pulled off the perfect murder, one can say.”
“I should bring my pistol?”
“No need. There won’t be any trouble. Of that much I am certain.”
Puri bought himself a piece of Black Forest gateau for the road and continued on his way. When he reached Pan-dey’s house, Tubelight, Shashi and Zia were waiting for him across the street.
They reported that the professor had spent the rest of the day in his front room, apparently tinkering with his inventions.
“His driver is there, also?” asked Puri.
“Yes, Boss,” reported Shashi.
“Tip-top,” said Puri, who was giddy with excitement, like a little boy about to spring a trap. “I’m looking forward to this. Quite a surprise those two are going to get.”
“Those
“He and his partner in crime.”
“The driver?”
“Undoubtedly!”
The operatives all regarded him quizzically, clearly itching to know the truth. But they knew better than to press him further.
