The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

“You got it back! But how?”

“Actually, sir, it never left this room.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Just I’ll explain. It was necessary for you to make the withdrawal in case they were keeping an eye on you. But the cash you gifted was not the money you withdrew from the bank.”

“I don’t get it. What was in the bag I gave to what’s-his-name? The fat guy in the silk shirt. Mr. Ten Percent.”

Puri smiled. “His real name is Rupinder Khullar. He’s a professional lizer.”

“A what?”

“Lizer,” repeated the detective. “Means a man who gets things fixed up. Delhi is full of such types. I tell you, throw a stone in any direction and most definitely you will hit one. Such individuals will arrange anything for the right fee. Get your son a job in a government ministry, lobby the right MLA to get emissions certificates passed on your factory. Mr. Rupinder Khullar is particularly well connected politically. You might say he’s got a finger in every samosa.” Here Puri uttered a light chuckle.

“So what did I give him?” asked Rathinasabapathy, who didn’t seem to find the metaphor humorous.

“Counterfeit money,” answered the detective.

“I gave him what?” cried the nuclear physicist, rising half out of his chair.

“Please, sir, remain calm. Rest assured everything is two hundred percent all right. Pukka! I borrowed it from an old batchmate in the Anti-Counterfeit Section. Naturally on condition every last note be returned. It is evidence from another case. These days so much of funny money is being sent across our borders by Pakistan, I tell you.”

“Is that legal?”

“Sir, in India the line between what is legal and what is not is often somewhat of a fuzz.”

Puri opened the Rathinasabapathy file and pulled out the photographs that Tubelight had taken of Mr. Ten Percent. They served to illustrate the narrative about the middleman’s movements after the meeting.

His first stop had been a hotel bar, where he had ‘taken a few pegs imported whisky’ with a local politician. Two hours later, Mr. Ten Percent visited an apartment in Sector Nine, DLF City, where he spent a couple of fun- filled hours with his mistress, a twenty-six-year-old VJ with a job he had fixed for her on a prominent music channel.

“The place is registered in his name. She is a PG, so to speak.”

“PG?”

“Means ‘paying guest’.”

Mr. Ten Percent then returned to Raja Garden, his home, wife, two children, three servants and a Pekinese.

“This morning first thing, he drove to Ultra Modern School,” continued Puri. “There, he handed over the two hundred thousand to Mr. S.C. Bhatnagar.”

Bhatnagar was the school principal. Last week he had offered Rathinasabapathy two places for his children in return for a hefty bribe.

“Their entire conversation was captured on hidden video cameras secreted inside Mr. Bhatnagar’s office,” continued Puri. “On tape, these two can be clearly seen and heard, also, discussing your case and Rupinder Khullar’s fee.”

“Let me guess. Ten percent?”

“Correct.”

“But how did you get the money back – the counterfeit money?”

“I called this principal fellow and made the situation perfectly clear – that we are having all evidence to take to authorities and he is in possession of so much funny money. Forthwith, I gave him instructions where to return it – that is, two lakhs total. He was most accommodating.” Puri paused. “Sir, I am pleased to say he has also kindly assured me your two darling children have confirmed places in Ultra Modern School.”

“You mean they’re in?” exclaimed Rathinasabapathy. He was half out of his chair again.

“They may start Monday, only.”

Relief swept over Puri’s client. “That’s fantastic news, Mr. Puri!” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you. I was so worried. I had tried so many schools and they all wanted kickbacks. The thought of the kids not getting into a good institution… well, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Rathinasabapathy sighed, relaxing his shoulders, and leaned back in his chair. But then a thought occurred to him and he frowned. “Hang on a minute… what about Mr. Ten Percent? He’s going to be pretty upset!” he said.

“That one will keep quiet. He would not wish to be on tonight’s news.”

“But won’t he come after me?”

Puri shook his head.

“Won’t he come after you?”

“Not to worry about me,” said the detective with a chuckle. “I have my connections, also. Besides, my identity remains top secret. Vish Puri is a voice on the phone, only.”

Rathinasabapathy’s forehead was still creased with anxiety.

“I don’t know, Mr. Puri,” he said at length, shifting in his chair. “I’m not sure how I feel about all this. It all seems… well, risky as hell.”

The detective held up both his hands and shook them, a gesture that communicated ‘Why worry?’

“Trust me, sir,” he said smugly. “I have taken care of everything.”

Rathinasabapathy stared at the floor for a while, weighing it all up in his mind, and then said, “Well, if you say so. But I still can’t believe how much people in this city go through to get their kids into schools.”

“I told you when we met few days back, no, schools in India are a huge racket. Any business is about supply and demand. In this case there is excess of demand and nowhere near the supply. Thus schools can charge a premium for admittance. I tell you parents in Delhi go to hell getting their children into good schools.

“What all my niece Chiki went through you wouldn’t believe,” continued the detective. “She made applications to six schools total. All demanded a registration fee of four hundred to seven hundred rupees. Naturally there were countless forms to complete. Each and every time, the boy had to sit a test and do the interview. And each and every time, his parents were interviewed, also.”

“The parents?” exclaimed Rathinasabapathy.

“Most certainly. They were interviewed separately in order to cross-reference their answers. What all were their aspirations? Their views on discipline? Chiki joked she and her husband had to cram for the test themselves. Made University look like ABC.”

“So what happened?”

“Thank the God, Ragev got a place at Sunny Dale. But only after his father made a donation toward the new school bus.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Sir, I tell you, that is nothing. I know one family – they run a dry-cleaning business. In return for admittance to Vallabhbhai Jhaverbhai School, they agreed to do the head teacher’s family’s laundry! Six years now they’ve been washing their shirts and undergarments.”

“Why don’t people send their kids to state schools?”

Puri clicked his tongue dismissively.

“Sir, my maid’s son goes to our local school. As it is, I had to intervene to get him in, such is the demand. Standards are quite frankly shocking. Teachers don’t turn up. Food is substandard. Her boy often complains of bugs in his daal. For females, there are not even toilet facilities. Nowadays standards are only getting worse. What with the liberalization of the economy, government is withdrawing from its responsibilities more day by day.”

Rathinasabapathy shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t something be done?” he asked. “What about this evidence you have against the principal of Ultra Modern School? We should go public with it!”

“Most certainly we can,” said Puri. “TV channels love such footage. But then your children won’t get admittance. And you will be back at square number one dealing with Mr. Ten Percent – or one of his many competitors.”

The nuclear physicist paused for thought and then said: “Yeah, well, I guess maybe we should let sleeping