“Terrible!” exclaimed Karat. “What has happened to our Dilli? There was a time when my front door was open twenty-four/seven. People dropped in whenever they liked. No need for security persons. But now? Only recently some of my neighbors were murdered. Husband and wife and one fourteen-year-old boy. Perhaps you read about it in the papers? These terrible crimes occur every day. In this instance, some Bawarias broke in and clubbed them to death. And for what? Some jewelry and a couple of lakhs they kept under the mattress. Animals! Worse than!”
A servant brought cups of tea and pinnis.
“I have rarely met such a warm, kindly and giving person,” continued Karat, referring to the late professor. “Did you know that when I had my heart attack last year, he visited my bedside each and every day? And he always came with a joke to cheer me up. Such a jolly fellow. A few of us are organizing a memorial on Rajpath this evening. We plan to light some candles, tell some jokes and have a thoroughly good laugh. It’s what he would have wanted. I understand even as he lay dying he was chuckling to himself.”
“Yes, sir, I was the one to witness his last moments, actually.”
“You, Mr. Puri? What were you doing there?”
“I’ve been investigating Dr. Jha’s death.”
“The two are connected in some way?”
“Undoubtedly! That is the reason I am here, actually. I wanted to ask you about this Shivraj Sharma. Seems to me you know him, is it?”
“Naturally; we were neighbors for many years, his family and mine.”
“You faced any problems with him?”
“Personally, no, but…” Ved Karat lowered his voice, as if someone might overhear them. “He’s not the most tolerant of gentlemen. He often complained about the types moving into the colony. He took particular exception to a Muslim family living here. Tried to start a campaign to get them out. When it didn’t work he sold up and left. Now I understand he lives in one of those new colonies where minorities aren’t openly banned, but if your surname happens to be Khan, you get the brush-off.”
“You were surprised to see him that morning. Is that not so?”
“Very surprised. He’s not the type to join a laughing club.”
“He’s not one for doing laughter,” suggested Puri.
“Exactly. Takes life too seriously.”
“You’re one hundred percent certain it was his intention to join, is it?”
Ved Karat thought for a moment. “Well, now you come to mention it, Mr. Puri…”
As Puri suspected from having watched the DIRE footage, Ved Karat had spotted Mr. Sharma two minutes after Dr. Jha had reached the Laughing Club.
The speechwriter had first stared and squinted; then his expression had turned to one of recognition.
“Finally you waved to him, isn’t it?” asked Puri.
“Yes, I believe I did,” replied Karat. “You’ve certainly done a thorough job at re-creating the scene.”
“What all he was doing? Walking toward you?”
“Yes, but slowly. In fact, now that I think about it, he had stopped next to one of the trees and was watching us.”
“Then you walked toward him and what?”
“I greeted him, naturally, and then asked him to join us.”
“He agreed?”
Again Ved Karat had to think hard and then concluded: “Seems to me he was reluctant. I believe he said something about having to get back home. But I insisted.”
“Why?”
“I thought that of all people he could do with some laughter.”
“He was enjoying?” asked Puri, remembering Sharma’s pained expression during the exercises.
“Not at all. He looked uncomfortable throughout.”
The detective nodded. “He said anything to you after?”
“Nothing,” said Karat. “He was as shocked as all of us.”
There was a pause.
“Now I have a question,” said Karat. “Why all the suspicion?”
“Most probably it is nothing,” replied Puri. “Just I am trying to clarify everybody’s movements. In my profession, no stone should go unturned. Sharma being an archaeologist, that is one thing we share in common.”
Puri was hungry – it was almost two. Finding it hard to think clearly on an empty stomach and knowing that Rumpi had packed his tiffin with kale channe, one of his favorites, he returned to the office.
Door Stop, the tea boy, heated the food and brought it to him at his desk. He ate on his own in silence with a napkin tucked into the top of his safari suit jacket.
Only after he was finished and had washed his hands, cleared his nasal passages and sat back at his desk drinking a cup of chai did he give the day’s developments any further consideration.
What had Sharma been doing on Rajpath at six in the morning, apparently spying on the Laughing Club members? he wondered.
Puri reached for the file he had started on the Jha murder case and took out the photocopies of the death threats Ms. Ruchi had provided him.
Had Sharma sent them to Dr. Jha? Had he been planning to kill him?
For the archaeologist to be the murderer, he would have to have known that the Guru Buster had faked his own death and then traced him to Professor Pandey’s house.
Puri found it hard to picture the bespectacled, oh-so-respectable Brahmin scaling the wall and shooting down men in cold blood.
On the other hand, when it came to fanatics and psychopaths, there was no telling.
Puri reached for his mobile; called Tubelight, who was just reaching the hospital; and asked him to assign Shashi and Zia to tail Sharma.
“Tell them to get hold his garbage, also. Let’s see what all he is into,” instructed the detective.
Puri’s sister had phoned twice this morning, but he had ignored her calls. He was dreading having to hear more about Bagga-ji’s latest mess. But when she called him again at three o’clock, he felt compelled to answer.
“Chubby, thank God!”
Preeti was at home in Ludhiana. She sounded panicked.
“You’ve got to help me. He’s planning to put up the house against a loan of one crore with some lowborn moneylender!”
“What is that bugger up to exactly?”
“He won’t tell me, Chubby. He’s so blinded by the profit he says is to be made. But a crore! And the high interest to pay! It can be our ruin.”
Puri sighed. There was nothing for it; he could not stand by and watch his sister lose everything.
“What is his current location exactly?”
“He’s up in Delhi.”
“I’ll talk to him,” the detective promised.
“Sir-ji! Kaha-hain?”
“Haa! Mr. Sherluck! Kidd-an?”
“Very fine, sir-ji! I want to see you. Something urgent.”
“Fine, fine, fine, fine.”
“Sir-ji, where are you? Hello? Hello?”
“Haa!” Bagga Uncle was somewhere noisy – a background din of laughter and raised voices.
“Sir-ji?”
