Elizabeth Rani, a stolid widow whose husband had been killed in a traffic accident in 1987, leaving her with three children to provide for, did not have a head for mysteries, intrigue or conspiracies, and often found herself lost in all the ins and outs of his many investigations-especially given that Puri was usually working on two or three at a time. Her job required her to keep Boss's diary, answer the phones, manage the files and make sure Door Stop, the office boy, didn't steal the milk and sugar.
But unofficially, it was also Elizabeth Rani's remit to listen patiently to Puri's expositions and, from time to time, give his ego a gentle massage.
"Such a good job you have done, sir," she said, placing the Ramesh Goel file on Puri's desk. "My sincerest compliments."
The detective grinned from his executive swivel chair.
"You are too kind, Madam Rani!" he answered. "But as usual, you are correct. I don't mind admitting this operation was first class. Conceived and carried out with the utmost professionalism and secrecy. Another successful outcome for Most Private Investigators!"
Elizabeth Rani waited patiently until he had finished congratulating himself before giving Puri his messages.
"Sir, a certain Ajay Kasliwal called saying he wishes to consult on a most urgent matter. He proposes to meet at the Gym tonight at seven o'clock. Shall I confirm?"
"He give any reference?"
"He's knowing Bunty Bannerjee."
A smile came over the detective's face at the mention of his old friend and batchmate at the military academy.
"Most certainly I'll see him," he said. "Tell Kasliwal I'll reach at seven come rain or shine."
Elizabeth Rani withdrew from the office and sat down behind her desk in reception.
Her tea mug was halfway to her lips when there was a knock at the door. Apart from the various clients coming into Most Private Investigators Ltd., there was a small army of wallahs, or people charged with specific tasks vital to the rhythm of everyday Indian life. Ms. Rani found the lime and chili woman at the door and remembered it was Monday. For three rupees per week, the woman would come and hang a fresh string of three green chilies and a lime above the door of each business in the market to ward off evil spirits. Ms. Rani was also in charge of paying the local hijras during the festival season, when they approached all the businesses in the market and demanded bakshish, and ensured that the local brass-plaque polisher kept the sign on the wall next to the doorbell shiny. Engraved with a flashlight, the company's symbol, it read:
Meanwhile, Puri turned his attention to the evidence he had compiled against Ramesh Goel and, having satisfied himself that everything was in order, prepared for the imminent arrival of his client, Sanjay Singla.
Reaching into his drawer for his face mirror, he inspected his moustache, curling the ends between his fingers. His Sandown cap, which he only ever took off in the privacy of his bedroom, also required adjustment. Next, he glanced around the room to check that everything was exactly as it should be.
There was nothing fancy about the small office. Unlike the new breed of young detectives with their leather couches, pine veneer desks and glass partitions, Puri remained faithful to the furniture and decor dating back to his agency's opening in the late 1980s (he liked to think that it spoke of experience, old-fashioned reliability and a certain rare character).
He kept a number of artifacts pertaining to some of his most celebrated cases on display. Among them was a truncheon presented to him by the Gendarmerie Nationale in recognition of his invaluable help in locating the French ambassador's wife (and for being so discreet about her dalliance with the embassy cook). But pride of place on the wall behind his antique desk belonged to the Super Sleuth plaque presented to him in 1999 by the World Federation of Detectives for solving the Case of the Missing Polo Elephant.
The room's focal point, however, was the shrine in the far corner. Two portraits hung above it, both of them draped in strings of fresh marigolds. The first was a likeness of Puri's guru, the philosopher-statesman, Chanakya, who lived three hundred years before Christ and founded the arts of espionage and investigation. The second was a photograph of the detective's late father, Om Chander Puri, posing in his police uniform on the day in 1963 when he was made a detective.
Puri was staring up at the portrait of his Papa-ji and musing over some of the invaluable lessons his father had taught him when Elizabeth Rani's voice came over the intercom.
"Sir, Singla-ji has come."
Without replying, the detective pressed a buzzer under his desk; this activated the security lock on his door and it swung open. A moment later, his client strode into his office-tall, confident, reeking of Aramis.
Puri met his visitor halfway, shaking him by the hand. "Namashkar, sir," he said. "So kind of you to come. Please take a seat."
Puri sounded obsequious, but he was not in the least bit intimidated at having such a distinguished man in his office. The deference he showed his client was purely out of respect for hierarchy. Singla was at least five years his senior and one of the richest industrialists in the country.
Private detectives on the other hand were not held in great esteem in Indian society, ranking little higher than security guards. This was partly because many were con men and blackmail artists who were prepared to sell their aunties for a few thousand rupees. Mostly it was because the private investigation business was not a traditional career like medicine or engineering and people did not have an appreciation-or respect-for the tremendous skills the job required. So Singla talked to Puri as he might to a middle manager.
"Tell me," he said in a booming voice, adjusting his French cuffs.
The detective chose not to begin immediately. "Some chai, sir?"
Singla made a gesture with his hands as if he were brushing away a fly.
"Some water?"
"Nothing," he said impatiently. "Let us come to the point. No delay. What you have found? Nothing bad, I hope. I like this young man, Puri, and I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character. Ramesh reminds me of myself when I was a young man. A real go-getter."
Singla had made it clear to Puri during their first meeting a fortnight earlier that he had reservations about commissioning an investigation. "This spying business is a dirty game," he'd said.
But in the interest of his daughter, he'd agreed to make use of the detective's services. After all, Singla did not really know Ramesh Goel. Nor Goel's family.
How could he?
Up until two months ago, they-the Singlas and the Goels-had never met. And in India, marriage was always about much more than the union between a boy and a girl. It was also about two families coming together.
In the old days, there would have been no need for Puri's services. Families got to know one another within the social framework of their own communities. When necessary, they did their own detective work. Mothers and aunties would ask neighbors and friends about prospective brides and grooms and their families' standing and reputations. Priests would also make introductions and match horoscopes.
Today, well-off Indians living in cities could no longer rely on those time-honored systems. Many no longer knew their neighbors. Their homes were the walled villas of Jor Bagh and Golf Links, or posh apartment blocks in Greater Kailash and NOIDA. Their social lives revolved around the office, business functions and society weddings.