“You’re Puri?” he asked, looking up after the requisite thirty seconds.
“Vish Puri, Most Private Investigators, at your service, sir,” answered the detective cheerily. He produced a business card and laid it on the desk, adding, “Confidentiality is our watchword.”
The minister could not have looked less interested; indifferently, he indicated one of the chairs in front of him.
“You’re sure your name isn’t Lakshmi Garodia?”
“Garodia? No, sir, quite sure.”
“Strange. Because a man who looks just like you going by that name visited Haridwar recently. He said he was from Singapore. I have a photograph of him here. Would you like to see it?”
The minister slid the picture to the front of the desk.
It was a still captured from CCTV footage of Puri in disguise standing in the reception of the Abode of Eternal Love.
“Sir, evidently this gentleman has a healthy appetite, as I do,” said the detective, putting the photo back on the desk. “Otherwise I fail to see any similarity.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Puri,” said the minister. “We have very strict laws in India against fraud, you know. The police look on it very seriously. I would hate to come to know that you were engaged in such illicit activity.”
The minister took off his glasses, breathed on one of the lenses and began to clean it with a cloth.
“But let us leave that aside – at least for the time being,” he continued. “What is important is that this man Garodia arrived in Haridwar with a beautiful daughter. A very unusual and, shall we say,
“I am sorry to hear that, sir,” said Puri. “Naturally the police were called.”
“Actually, I believe Swami-ji wished to deal with the matter internally. Our Indian police can sometimes be heavy-handed with such matters and he wanted to give the woman a chance to reform.”
“Most considerate of him.”
Puri could sense that the preamble was coming to an end.
“Unfortunately this young woman absconded before Swami-ji was able to help her,” continued the minister. “He brought the matter to my attention and I did a little checking of my own. And then I thought, well, why not hire Vish Puri, the famous detective, to find her.”
“Most kind of you, sir,” said Puri. “Truly I am honored.”
The minister checked his glasses and began to polish the other lens.
“All we require is an address where we can find this young woman. That and an assurance that anything she might tell you will remain confidential. Assuming you are willing to take on the case, I can assure you that you will be well compensated.”
Puri was thoughtfully silent.
“And if I say no, sir?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Puri?” replied the minister with a quizzical smile. “That’s not a word I hear very often.”
“No doubt. But I take it you still understand its meaning, sir.”
“I can honestly say that I do not. You see, Mr. Puri, on the very rare occasion someone says no to me, they find out very quickly that what they really mean is yes.”
The detective nodded. “It might take me some time to find the girl in question,” he said.
The minister looked over at Vivek Swaroop, who gave a slow, uncompromising shake of his head.
“My friend here is very anxious to see this young lady again.”
“It is late, sir. She will take time to locate.”
Bhatt thought for a moment. “You have until noon tomorrow,” he said. With that he returned to his papers. The interview was over.
Puri made his way out of the room, wished the peons a good evening and walked calmly to his Ambassador.
“Get me back to the office – double fast,” he instructed Handbrake.
Twenty-Six
The next morning, Elizabeth Rani reached Most Private Investigators at nine, put her tiffin in the fridge, turned on the air-conditioning in reception and then arranged herself behind her desk.
She was in the process of removing the plastic cover from her computer when Door Stop arrived bearing the stainless steel milk pail he was charged with filling at the nearby Mother Dairy stand every morning.
“Namaste, madam,” he said before heading into the kitchen to make the first batch of tea.
Mrs. Chadha came next, greeting Puri’s secretary with the usual pleasantries before making her way into the Communications Room, where her job was to answer phone lines using various fronts and assumed names – and where she managed to get a lot of knitting done at the same time.
“Mrs. Chadha, before I forget, I’ve got a note here for you,” Elizabeth Rani called after her. “You should be getting a ring on line one sometime this morning for Madam Go Go – it’s in connection with the ongoing Kapoor matrimonial case.”
The office sweeper (who did her work at the end of the day for fear of brushing away the good fortune precipitated by the goddess Lakshmi) soon appeared at the top of the narrow stairs that led from the street into reception. She had never had cause to complain about Elizabeth Rani, but society as a whole treated her with the same disdain as the interminable dirt it was her lot to sweep, making her as timid as a mole.
A light tap on the door frame indicated her presence and then she advanced gingerly toward the desk to collect her weekly wage of 200 rupees.
Soon after the sweeper had retreated back down the stairs, the lights, computer and air conditioner all simultaneously switched off, signaling another power cut. Elizabeth Rani had to tell Door Stop to activate the backup UPS battery.
While she waited, it was strangely quiet in reception – so quiet in fact that she noticed a noise coming from the next room. It sounded a lot like her pressure cooker when it was coming to a boil: first a rattling as the steam built up inside and then the volcanic release accompanied by a high whistle.
She went and put her ear to the door. The noise came again. It was her employer snoring.
“Sir, are you in there?” she said, having returned to her desk and speaking quietly over the intercom.
The response was groggy. “What time you’ve got, Madam Rani?”
“Nearly half past nine, sir.”
“By God! Why no one woke me!” he exclaimed.
“Sir, I – ”
The automatic security latch on his door opened. Elizabeth Rani took this as a signal that she was wanted and hurried inside.
The office was a shambles. Every surface was cluttered with takeaway boxes, soft drink cans and Styrofoam cups. An ashtray on the windowsill was overflowing with cigarette butts. Evidently, the detective had had a number of visitors during the night.
Puri was looking equally disheveled. His mien betrayed both exhaustion and anxiety.
“This thing is not turning on,” he grumbled as he pressed the TV remote control.
“There’s load shedding, sir. I told the boy to put on the UPS.”
“Well, tell him to get a move on. Should be the story will air at ten.”
“Story, sir?”
“Ask him why my chai is taking so long also.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And after, send him for some aloo parathas.”
The lights suddenly went on, as did the TV.
An anchor on one of the news channels was talking about cricket. Puri flicked to one of its rivals, which was
