The Case of the Love Commandos Read Online Free PDF

name of Vishnu Mishra, had vowed to kill him, yet claimed to have no knowledge of the boy’s whereabouts.
    “There’s something else going on here—something I’m missing,” Facecream had said over the phone, before going on to explain that Ram and Tulsi had met at the University of Agra, but both hailed from rural Uttar Pradesh, India’s most populous state. Ram’s village was to the west of the state capital, Lucknow, and it was there that Puri suggested they try to pick up his trail. He had a hunch (which he’d kept to himself) that the young man had decided to go back on his commitment to the girl. No doubt the father, Vishnu Mishra, a wealthy man, had bought Ram off. Thus the boy had staged an abduction and run away.
    Puri’s Lucknow-bound train pulled onto the platform.
    In the first-class carriage, he found two young men already occupying two of the four berths. They greeted him with respectful nods, eyes lingering on his dirty trouser leg. The coolie placed Puri’s bag on the floor and the detective reached inside his safari suit to take out his wallet.
    It wasn’t there.
    “By God,” he mumbled, struck by an uncommon panic.
    He began to pat himself up and down as if there were insects crawling on his skin. But his pockets were empty. The wallet was gone.
    “There’s some problem, Uncle?” asked one of his fellow passengers.
    “Yes, I, well … my wallet.” Puri sounded uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “Seems to be gone, actually.”
    He thought back to where he might have lost it. He’d definitely had it with him when he’d left the office … the only time he’d needed any money was to pay the dhaba owner and for that he’d used loose change.
    And then it came to him.
    “Maaderchod!” he cursed to the shocked bemusement of his fellow travelers.
    Out on the platform, the station manager was blowing his whistle.
    The coolie, who wore a “Likely story, saab” expression, held out his hand. Puri fished out the last hundred rupees from his trouser pocket and handed it to him. The old man touched the note to his lips, then his forehead, and hurried toward the door.

Three
    Puri wasn’t one to jump the gun. His father had drummed it into him from an early age never to assume anything. Gather the facts and weigh up the possibilities before drawing conclusions, he’d always said—advice that had proven both invaluable and wise.
    In this case, however, Puri was in no doubt as to the identity of the individual who’d stolen his wallet: that fat bloody bastard who’d blocked the aisle on the Jammu train.
    He’d used classic distraction tactics—the old stepping on the toes and garlic-pickle-breath ploy—while slipping his hand inside the detective’s safari suit.
    “Must be he is a master pickpocket,” Puri explained to his fellow passengers once the train was under way. “He had the advantage, actually. What with the train getting started and all, I was in a hurry to alight.”
    “Not to worry, Uncle, it could happen to anyone,” said one of the young men. They were sitting on the lower bunk opposite the detective. “There are pickpockets everywhere these days.”
    “But my wits are always about me,” insisted Puri. “Nothing escapes my notice. My radar is working twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, only.”
    “You’ve got extrasensory perception is it, Uncle?” asked the second young man with a playful smile.
    The fact that he was being teased didn’t escape Puri’s attention. His tone became officious. “There is nothing
extra
about it,” he said, his chin jutting out from the folds of his throat. “It is my job to notice what all is going on around me. I am a private investigator after all.”
    “You’re a jasoos?” asked the first, who sounded surprised.
    “Perhaps you have heard of me? Vish Puri is my name. Most Private Investigators Ltd. My offices are in Khan Market above Bahri Sons.”
    They both shrugged.
    “I’m winner