The Case of the Love Commandos Read Online Free PDF Page B

of six national awards and one international, also,” he added. “The Federation of World Detectives saw fit to name me super sleuth some years back. My picture was on the cover of
India Today
. Probably you must have seen it.”
    “Sorry, Uncle, I think I missed that edition.”
    The young men turned to their BlackBerries, their indifference compounding Puri’s sense of indignation at having been robbed.
    Fighting his inclination to try to impress them further—another thing Papa had often tried to teach him was never to show off—he considered the best course of action to retrieve his wallet.
    Inspector Malhotra, the Jammu deputy chief of police, was a good fellow, both reliable and honest. He was also discreet. Puri could ask him to meet the train and have the pickpocket searched on some pretense or other. But first he needed him located and identified.
    He tried to think of someone in any of the towns en route who might be able to help on short notice. Only fellow private investigators came to mind and he ruled them out. Puri would rather have dropped the whole affair and never seenhis wallet again than let it be known in professional circles that he’d been hoodwinked.
    There was only one option: he’d have to call Rumpi and ask her to locate the pickpocket’s berth number. By checking the chart—a list of passengers with confirmed berths was always pasted on the outside of each carriage—she should be able to ascertain his name.
    Under no circumstances, however, was Mummy to get involved. Not because she wouldn’t be able to help. On the contrary: she had an uncanny knack of getting to the bottom of things. But then he’d never hear the end of it.
    As it was, she brought up the Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken every time they met, never failing to remind him of her involvement and how, in her words, she had “solved the case.” And although Rumpi implored him not to rise to the bait, he didn’t always keep his cool.
    “Yes—eventually!” Puri would thunder. After keeping vital information about the case to herself and thus jeopardizing its outcome, Mummy had identified the killer. And yes, she had been in a unique position, given her involvement with certain events in 1947, to assist with
his
investigation. But had it not been for his own bold and daring crossing into Pakistan—at a good deal of risk to his own life—the case would not have been successfully resolved.
    Furthermore, Mummy was quite wrong in asserting that he’d promised to work with her. He had only given his word to look into the odd matter that she had brought to his attention—and this for the sole purpose of keeping a closer eye on her. She was always going off on her own, sticking her nose in other people’s business, after all. One of these days she was going to land herself in a hot soup.
    How many times did he have to reiterate that he was the only detective in the family? Mummy-ji, as he’d put it toRumpi recently, should “stick to what she is best at: making gulab jamuns and all.”
    Puri stepped into the corridor of his carriage and dialed his wife’s number.
    “Chubby, that you? Hello? You’re on another train, is it?” asked a familiar voice.
    “Mummy-ji, why are you answering Rumpi’s phone?”
    “Just she’s currently indisposed. Something is the matter? Some tension is there?”
    “No tension,” Puri lied, feeling his stress levels steadily rising. “Just I—”
    “One moment hold. She’s reverted.”
    He heard Mummy say, “It’s Chubby. Something urgent sounds like.”
    Hands fumbled with the phone before Rumpi’s voice came on the line.
    “Anything the matter?”
    “I would require a private word if at all possible.”
    “You’ll have to speak up. I can hardly hear you.”
    The reception was indeed terrible. It didn’t help that Puri’s train was still trundling through Delhi’s moribund outskirts and the driver was blowing his horn to clear the people walking along the tracks