Ajay Kasliwal held up a hand to silence his son.
"I understand," he said. He turned and addressed the detective. "I take it my wife found out, Puri-ji."
"About a month after Bobby left for London, Mary discovered she was pregnant," said Puri.
"Pregnant?" exclaimed Bobby.
"Desperate, she went to Madam. But the idea of a servant-a dirty tribal being with her son disgusted her. She abused Mary verbally, threatened her and ordered her to leave the house immediately."
"…And so that poor girl took a knife from the kitchen, went to her room and cut her wrists," murmured Ajay Kasliwal.
Facecream watched the evening's events unfold through the French windows of the sitting room.
First Boss appeared with Inspector Shekhawat and Bobby. Then Boss gave one of those long-winded soliloquies he so enjoyed. And finally, Ajay Kasliwal broke down in tears and attacked the doctor, punching him in the face.
Bobby, Shekhawat and Boss tried to restrain him and in the confusion, the latter was knocked over.
Now, Facecream watched as the inspector clapped a pair of handcuffs on the doctor and led him away.
Puri came and stood silhouetted by the French windows nursing his bruised cheek, while Bobby sat with his distraught father.
Facecream decided to stay put. Munnalal's murderer was still at large, after all.
Another five minutes passed. Jaya appeared again in the kitchen, standing at the sink, her face framed in the window. Suddenly, in the quiet night, Facecream heard the sound of the bell tinkle inside her room.
Someone had come through the gap in the wall.
A twig snapped underfoot. And then a man of average height appeared around the corner of the servant quarters carrying something long and narrow in one hand. He stopped, looked furtively from left to right, and then set off across the garden, sticking to the shadows on the left side of the lawn.
Facecream sprang forward and raced after him, her bare feet moving nimbly and silently over the grass.
She covered the distance that separated the two of them in just a few seconds and tackled the man from behind. He went down flat on his face and, in a flash, she pinned him to the ground, pulling back one of his arms.
The intruder let out a cry of agony and begged to be let go. His pleas brought Jaya running from the kitchen.
"Seema, what are you doing?" she cried. "Have you gone mad? Let him go!"
"No, Jaya, stand back!" insisted Facecream. "This man is dangerous! He killed Munnalal!"
"Dangerous? That's Dubey! He's a rickshaw-wallah! He's my…friend."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure! He wants to marry me."
Facecream released Dubey and the poor, shaken man stood up. He was still clutching a red rose that he'd brought for Jaya, but it had been badly crushed.
"I'm so sorry. I thought you were…" said Facecream.
But the rickshaw-wallah had taken to his heels with Jaya hurrying after him.
Ten minutes later, Puri stood with Shekhawat next to his Jeep in the driveway. On the backseat, in handcuffs, sat Dr. Chandran. He was glaring with venomous eyes at his captors through the window.
"You think he'll give her up?" asked the inspector.
"I doubt it," said Puri. "To do so would be to admit his guilt. He'll claim he's been framed, try to buy off or intimidate the witnesses. His trial will go on for years. It takes time to put away a man with his kind of connections."
"And her? She goes unpunished?"
"Oh no, Inspector. It is all over for her. She might have escaped prison, but no human being ever escapes punishment. One way or another, justice is always served. All of us must answer to the God eventually."
Puri rubbed his stomach and grimaced.
"Personally I'm now answering for the kachoris I ate at lunch," he added with a smile.
Shekhawat remained stony faced and aloof. His pride was too badly wounded. And he was not about to admit his mistakes-not here and now, and certainly not in his official report.
"Well, I'll be going," he said. "There's the killer Babua to track down and I've got a good idea where to find him."
"Oh, there's no need, Inspector," said Puri airily. "Didn't I tell you, I've got him locked in the trunk of my Ambassador?"
For once, Shekhawat was visibly dumbstruck.
"There?" he asked, pointing to the car, his eyebrows knitted together.
"That's right, Inspector. One advantage with Ambassadors is they have large secure trunks."
"But…?"
"I picked him up this afternoon after tracing his mobile phone. Let me show you."
They walked over to the car and Handbrake opened the back. Inside lay a burly man, bound and gagged, his eyes defiant and angry.
"Allow me to present one Om Prakash, alias Babua," said Puri triumphantly. "A right bloody goonda if ever there was one."
Twenty-Nine
At the end of every big case, Puri dictated all the details of his investigation to his personal secretary Elizabeth Rani, who could do speed typing.
He did so for two reasons.
Firstly, it was not uncommon for trials to drag on for years, sometimes decades. So it was imperative to keep a detailed record of events, which the detective could refer to when he was called upon to give evidence.
And secondly, Puri was planning to leave all his files to the National Archive because he was certain future generations of detectives would want to study his methods and achievements.
The detective also liked to entertain the idea that someday a writer would come along who would want to pen his biography. He had thought of the perfect title: CONFIDENTIALITY IS MY WATCHWORD. And what a spectacular Bollywood film it would make. Puri's favorite actor, Anupam Kher, would play the lead, and Rekha would be perfect for the part of Rumpi. Her screen persona would be that of a good, homely woman who also happened to be a talented and alluring exotic dancer.
"Sir, one thing I don't understand," said Elizabeth Rani after Puri had finished relating the twists and turns in the Case of the Missing Servant. "Who was the dead girl found on the Ajmer Road?"
Puri's secretary always asked such elementary questions. But he didn't mind spelling it out for her. Not everyone could have a mind as sharp as his, he reasoned.
"She's just one of dozens upon dozens of personages who go missing across India every year," he explained. "No doubt we'll never know her name. So many girls are leaving the villages and traveling to cities these days. And so many are never returning. Just they're turning up dead on railway tracks, in canals, and getting raped and dumped from vehicles. With their near and dear so far away, no one is there to identify the bodies. I tell you, frankly speaking Madam Rani, it is an epidemic of growing proportions."
Elizabeth Rani moved her head from side to side mournfully.
"Such a sad state of affairs, sir," she said. "Thank the God there are gentlemen such as yourself to protect us."
"Most kind of you, Madam Rani!" Puri beamed.
The two of them were sitting in the detective's office: he behind his desk; she in front of it with a laptop computer. Elizabeth Rani saved the document in which she had typed his dictation and closed the screen.
"Sir, one other thing," she said as she stood from her chair to leave.
"Yes, Madam Rani," said Puri, who had been expecting more questions.
"You said Mary got pregnant, sir. But what happened to the baby?"
"Sadly, she lost it on the train to Ranchi."
"That poor girl," commiserated Elizabeth Rani. "How she has suffered. Is there any hope for her and Bobby?"
"Sadly, there is no Bollywood ending. Mary refused to see him. Most likely, it is for the best. Too much hurt is there, actually. The poor girl has suffered greatly. This morning we brought her to Delhi, Rumpi and I. We've made arrangements for her to start work with Vikas Chauhan's family. Ajay Kasliwal has also promised to pay for her dowry so she might one day go the marriage way. He's being most generous and appreciative, I must say."