India

The Case of The Too Many Fingerprints

Abha Iyengar

Inspector Monty stood in front of the mirror, proudly surveying himself. At forty, he still cut a natty figure. Apart from a slight widening of the girth, which disappeared when he sucked his stomach in, he thought he looked good.

His mobile, lying on the bedside table, rang. He lunged for it like a young schoolboy. His eagerness was evident; this was because he knew the call was from his lady love, police officer Maya. He called her his Maya Memsahib. Both of them worked together in the Crime Branch. He had been wooing her for several years, but she refused to marry him, saying that she prized her independence.

Her voice was urgent. ‘Monty,’ she said, ‘come quickly to 10, Jordan Hill. A murder has been committed. I’ll meet you there.’ She disconnected before he could question her further.

Monty revved up his bike. Jordan Hill was quite far from where he lived, so he decided to speed up a bit.

*  *  *

Jordan Hill was a posh area, a secluded lane of twelve houses. Number 10 was a two-storey house, with vines climbing its sides, and lush, well-tended lawns. The red-tiled roof and rough grey exterior finish of the house aimed to give it a rustic look. However, it spoke of money well spent. The heavy, wooden front door was now ajar.

Monty could see Maya’s blue Maruti 800 parked outside. He parked his bike next to her car, and felt his heart lurch at the sight of such togetherness. He squared his shoulders with pride and sauntered in with a masterful air. Maya met him in the hallway, and led him to the kitchen, where the body of an old man, in a once-white kurta-pyjama, lay in a pool of blood. Nothing had been touched. By his side lay a revolver, obviously the murder weapon.

He could hear women crying. Maya walked with him into the living room, where an old lady was sitting on the watered silk sofa, sobbing quietly. A middle-aged, plumpish maid, dark of skin and wearing a nylon sari of indeterminate print, cowered in one corner on her haunches. Tears coursed down her fat cheeks. A teenaged girl, slim and wheatish-complexioned, was sitting with her arms wrapped tightly around the plump woman. She was sobbing incoherently.

Inspector Monty was a bit perturbed by this emotional scene. Maya touched his arm reassuringly. He straightened up and adopted a more official demeanour. On his entrance, the women in the room tried to wipe their tears.

Monty sat on the chair opposite the old lady. Maya took one of the other sofa chairs. The plump woman got up and stood in the corner with the slim girl close to her, holding onto her arm. Both of them seemed to be supporting each other.

Monty waited for someone to speak. Someone would break the silence.

The old lady spoke. ‘Inspector, that man lying there is my husband, Colonel Verma.’

She broke out in sobs again. ‘She … killed him.’ She pointed an accusing finger at the plump woman.

Maya said quietly to Monty, ‘That is their maid, Vandana. And next to her is her daughter, Sunita.’

Vandana, cowering in the corner, refused to say anything, and kept sobbing into the frayed end of her sari. Her daughter stood protectively next to her.

Monty looked at Mrs Verma. ‘What makes you say that, madam?’ he enquired.

‘She’s admitted it,’ the old lady replied.

Monty looked at Vandana now. ‘You killed the Colonel?’

Vandana shook her head, as if to say ‘Yes’.

‘Did you kill the Sahib, Vandana?’ Maya asked her gently.

‘Yes, madam,’ Vandana sobbed.

‘What for?’

‘He was trying to … my daughter, Sunita,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘In the night … in the kitchen … I came to turn off the kitchen light, I thought I’d left it on by mistake.’ She stopped talking, emotion overtaking her.

‘And …?’ prompted Maya.

‘Sahib was holding Sunita against the wall in a compromising position. I looked at my daughter’s eyes; she was facing me. I could not stand it. I rushed to the living room, took out Sahib’s revolver, and shot him!’ She was sobbing again.

Monty watched her face as she talked to Maya. Monty realized that her tears were for her daughter, not for having shot the Colonel.

The young girl was quiet. Maya looked at her watch. Monty said they were taking Vandana away to the police station for further questioning.

‘I’ll take care of Sunita,’ said Mrs Verma to Vandana suddenly. Monty’s moustache twitched once. When this happened, Monty knew that something was not right. It was not normal for a person to offer to look after the child of her husband’s murderer.

Maya told Mrs Verma and Sunita to stay in. They were not to touch anything, and would be questioned again later. Still sobbing, Vandana followed Monty and Maya out.

*  *  *

The forensic report came in the next morning. The old man had been shot from the back. There were three sets of fingerprints on the revolver: two were most likely female, one male! One set of prints matched Vandana’s, but the other two? Monty called Maya, and they decided to meet at 10 Jordan Hill again, to continue their interrogation.

Referring to the forensic report findings, Maya told Monty, ‘Current science can only determine the high probability of one gender or the other.’ She emphasized ‘high probability’, her face extremely serious. ‘So we can’t be too gender conscious here.’

Monty nodded and rang the bell.

‘Good morning, Sunita,’ said Monty to the young girl as she opened the door for them. She looked dishevelled and frail, with dark patches under her eyes.

‘How’s my mother?’ she asked, sounding concerned and unhappy.

Maya said, ‘She’s fine, Sunita. Where is Mrs Verma?’

‘Memsahib is resting. She doesn’t wish to be disturbed,’ Sunita answered.

‘So we’ll just come in and wait awhile,’ said Monty, and they walked in.

Sunita stood quietly in the middle of the living room. She was a pretty girl, with the delicacy of newly blossoming youth. She must have been barely fourteen.

‘Sit down,’ said Maya; Sunita sat on the floor.

‘I am going to ask you a few questions, Sunita. Don’t be afraid,’ said Maya. Head down, Sunita nodded.

‘Can you tell us what happened that night?’ asked Maya.

‘My mother has already told you.’

‘We want to hear it from you,’ Maya said gently.

Sunita began her story. Her mother, a widow, had been employed at Colonel Verma’s for over five years now. Sunita had grown up here, and had begun helping her mother in the household chores. Recently, the Colonel had started making amorous advances towards her. She had at first ignored it, but later complained to her mother. They had decided that they would leave the job and find some other place for work. Her mother had been asking around. And then that night …

Sunita continued. ‘I had gone to the kitchen to fetch myself a glass of water. The Colonel Sahib also came into the kitchen. I stepped aside to let him open the fridge. Instead, he caught hold of my arm and pulled me towards him. When I tried to resist, he pushed me against the wall and began kissing me. It was Bhaiya …’

She had begun crying now and was trying to wipe her tears away with the back of her hands, leaving dirt marks on her soft cheeks. Monty noticed that her fingers were long, the hands delicate, and the skin so fine that the bones almost shone through. It would have been very easy to overpower this girl.

He returned to the present. ‘Bhaiya?’ Had the girl said ‘Bhaiya’?

Maya was already asking Sunita, ‘Who is this Bhaiya? Was there someone else in the house? Tell me, girl.’ Her voice had a steely ring to it.

Sunita’s hands flew to her face in despair. ‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘It is nothing. The words just came out of my mouth.’

‘Who is Bhaiya?’ Maya’s voice was firm.

‘Bhaiya … he is Raj Bhaiya, Sahib’s son.’

‘He was here that night?’

‘Yes.’ Sunita’s voice was a whisper.

‘And … he saved you?’

‘No, no …’

Monty shot a volley of questions at the girl. ‘He killed Colonel Verma? Where is he now? Why was he not here when we arrived?’

Sunita answered, ‘I don’t know who killed Sahib. I was trying my best to push him away, pleading with him. I was not even aware that there were other people in the room. All I know was that I heard a shot, and before I knew it, Sahib was dead at my feet. My mother, the memsahib and Bhaiya were at the door. The gun was lying on the floor. My mother says she has killed him, but I know she is innocent. I do not know where Bhaiya is. Mrs Verma sent him away to some farm in Ludhiana.’

Sunita broke down. ‘Please help my mother. I don’t know who killed Sahib … I don’t know …’

The girl was becoming incoherent. It was useless questioning her any further.

*  *  *

The Golden Egg Farm in Ludhiana was vast acres of land with a large sprawling bungalow, a swimming pool, tennis courts, rare flowers and well-manicured lawns where the clipped hedges had a disciplined look. Raj Verma was a slim, long-haired boy who sported a diamond in his ear and was dressed in blue jeans and a tee shirt. When Inspector Monty and Maya introduced themselves, his face registered shock, but he recovered soon enough.

‘So what brings both of you so far from your home turf?’ he asked.

Whatever brought you here, my dear, Maya felt like saying. She bit her tongue.

He introduced them to his friend, Ravi – a tall, well-built young man who twirled his moustache as he stood there, an intimidating presence.

Monty answered his question. ‘You know what brings us here, young man,’ he said in a stern voice. ‘Or don’t you know that your father is dead?’

‘My father … dead!’ The look on the face of the boy was of dismay and disbelief. But Inspector Monty was not one to be fooled. He played his ace card.

‘Your mother has told us everything,’ he said.

Raj broke down completely. ‘I am the culprit,’ he said. ‘That is why I ran away. It is not her fault. Please don’t believe anything my mother says. She will do anything to protect me. I killed my father.’

Monty and Maya now listened to his version of the story. On that fateful night, he had gone to the kitchen to fetch some orange juice for himself. He had been unable to sleep, having had an altercation with his father the same evening.

‘What was that about?’ Maya asked. Raj looked up, a sad look in his soft, brown eyes. These were not killer eyes, Monty decided.

‘You see,’ Raj said, ‘I live with my friend Ravi here. I had gone to visit my parents for a few days to reveal this to them; I had become sick of hiding my love. So, on the very first day of my arrival there, I got this rock off my chest and told my parents about it. They were shocked.’

He looked down again. ‘My mother came to terms with it. My father, however, made my life hell from that day on. He said I was not a man. We argued everyday. Things came to a head on the evening of the day the murder happened. In fact, I had planned to depart that very night. And I was forced to do so, in any case.’ His tears fell in gentle plops on his pale, pampered hands.

Ravi put a protective arm around his shoulder and asked him if he wished to stop talking.

‘No, let me continue,’ said Raj. ‘I was surprised to see the kitchen light on. I stepped into the kitchen and saw my father trying to force his attentions onto Sunita. Sunita is like a sister to me. We have grown up together. I was aghast. I ran to fetch the revolver, which I knew was kept in the side cupboard drawer, and returning, shot my father. I just wanted to stop him from doing what he was doing. I did not think that I would kill him.’

Monty did not believe Raj’s story. It could be that his fingerprints were on the revolver. However, who did the other two sets belong to? After all, there were three sets of fingerprints on the revolver.

Though Raj had owned up to the murder, they were not convinced. They left after giving Raj a stern warning to stay where he was. If what he said proved to be true, they would return to take him away.

Raj walked up to Maya and said, ‘Please, I am the culprit. Please, leave my mother alone.’

‘We have to carry on investigations and reach our conclusions,’ Monty said. They did not mention to him that they already had someone else owning up to the murder – none other than the maid, Vandana.

As they walked to the car, Monty looked at Maya and said, ‘Why does he keep bringing his mother up? Does he think that his mother is the murderer?’

He said again, ‘Why were there three sets of fingerprints on the revolver? If two sets belong to Raj and Vandana, whose was the third hand? It could not be Sunita, na? What about Mrs Verma? Or was there someone else also there, of whom we do not know? Also, had three people together tried to kill Colonel Verma?’

Maya nodded. ‘There are many questions to be answered.’

*  *  *

Returning to Delhi, Monty and Maya checked with their department for further developments. They had told the police department to match Mrs Verma’s fingerprints with those of the main set of fingerprints on the revolver, the set that had yet to be identified. The report was still to come and they would have to wait.

Monty and Maya decided to meet over dinner at their favourite restaurant, The Broken Bread, so named because when people break bread together, they share a bond of conviviality and friendship with each other. Here, over food and a glass of wine, they discussed the case.

‘This case has too many fingerprints,’ Maya told Monty. Monty loved the way Maya’s eyes danced as she discussed the case with him. He wanted to take her in his arms, but knew that she never mixed business with pleasure. He sighed.

The next morning, they met at Colonel Verma’s house. The house had a forlorn air. Sunita led them in. Mrs Verma was waiting for them in the living room. She looked composed and in control of herself. Her crème, printed silk sari offset her fine features well. She had a set of pearls at her throat, and her diamond earrings caught the light as she nodded her head to acknowledge their presence. They sat facing her.

‘Good morning, Mrs Verma,’ said Monty. ‘We are sorry to disturb you, but we have to perform our duty.’

‘I quite understand, Inspector,’ she answered graciously.

‘We wish to know what actually happened that night.’

‘ Vandana the maid has already owned up to the murder. She has also told you how it happened. What else is there for me to say?’

‘We met Raj yesterday, Mrs Verma. You did not tell us that he was here that night. He has owned up to the murder, too. He says that he is responsible for the death of his father.’

A cry of anguish escaped the old lady’s lips. ‘Raj, my son!’ She wailed. ‘Oh, why did you do this?’

‘He did it to protect you, madam,’ said Monty.

‘I can take care of myself. He should know that. Oh why did he do this?’ She was beside herself.

‘Madam, did you commit the crime, or did he, or did the maid? Why don’t you tell us the truth?’

‘My son is innocent,’ Mrs Verma said. ‘This is the truth,’ she said.

On that fateful night, Sunita had gone to fetch water for herself. Seeing Colonel Verma arrive, she had moved to the side, but he had caught hold of her and tried to embrace her. When she resisted, he had pinned her against the wall. This is what Raj saw as he came down to fetch some orange juice for himself. Aghast, he ran to his mother’s room to tell her. This father of his, the so-called paragon of manliness, was a disgrace.

Mrs Verma ran out with Raj. What she saw filled her with disgust. The poor girl was struggling silently, hoping that the Colonel would let go of her. Mrs Verma was blinded with rage. She ran out and fetched the revolver. Meanwhile, Vandana had also come upon the scene.

Seeing what was on Mrs Verma’s mind, Raj and Vandana had tried to take the revolver from her hands. She had resisted them, and fired anyways. The bullet had found its mark.

This was the explanation given by Mrs Verma. She now claimed to be the murderer.

*  *  *

Any of the three could have killed Colonel Verma: Mrs Verma, her son Raj, or Vandana. All three had a good enough reason. However, if it was Vandana, Raj would not have owned up to the crime. It was the mother or the son. The son seemed incapable of committing the crime. If he had really committed the murder, he would not have run away and left his mother to deal with it. Mrs Verma seemed the likely culprit. But she could be taking the blame now to protect her son. There were more explanations needed. Who was protecting whom? And why had Vandana agreed to take the blame?

The strident ringing of Inspector Monty’s mobile cut through the tension in the air like scissors ripping cloth. He reached into his pocket and moved out of the living room, into the hallway. The call was from the police department. The forensic report was in. The third, unidentified set of fingerprints belonged to Mrs Verma. This was the main set of fingerprints around the butt of the revolver. Monty’s moustache twitched twice. When it twitched twice, he knew he was on the right track. He could smell his prey now.

Monty went in. He was more or less sure who had committed the crime. He wanted some further information.

He sat next to Mrs Verma. ‘If you committed the crime, as you now claim, why did Vandana agree to take the blame?’ he asked her. ‘She could not be so devoted a servant as to agree to such a heinous act.’

‘I told Vandana that I would look after her daughter, Sunita. I would make sure she had a good marriage and provide for her dowry. You know that such a task is impossible for these poor people. She agreed. She was living for her daughter’s sake; her husband had deserted her long ago. She saw the value in my reasoning. It is as simple as that, Inspector.’

She continued talking, ‘My son went away at my insistence. I did not want any undue publicity to befall him. It would not be good for the family to have its secrets out in public. Moreover, he did not do anything. He cannot hurt a fly.’ Her face softened for a moment, then became tense again.

‘I am responsible for everything that goes on in my home. The murder is also my responsibility.’ There was a steely edge to her voice now. She was a woman who usually got her way.

She did not get her way this time, though, thought Inspector Monty wryly as he moved forward to take Mrs Verma into custody. He was sure of his prey now. By putting the blame on Vandana, she had thought that she could continue to be there for her son and protect the family name.

Mrs Verma did not weep, and Monty was surprised that he had not noticed her tenacity earlier, thinking of her as a timid, old woman.

‘I am glad Raj is with Ravi, Inspector,’ she said. ‘He will look after Raj in my absence. My son is a good human being. My husband has proved how much of a man he was. I have no regrets about killing him.’

Monty and Maya left with Mrs Verma in custody. The dynamic duo of Monty and Maya had solved another case. They would be celebrating with ice cream after lunch, Monty promised himself. As they drove off, he looked at Maya in the rear-view mirror and winked.

Abha Iyengar is a poet, author, essayist and British Council-certified creative writing facilitator. Her writings have been featured in Asian Cha, New Asian Writing, The Asian Writer, Bewildering Stories, Danse Macabre, among others. Her story ‘The High Stool’ was nominated for the Story South Million Writers Award. She won a Special Jury Prize in Patras, Greece for her poem-film Parwaaz (Flight). She was the Lavanya Sankaran Writing Fellow 2009–2010. Her published works include Yearnings (poetry), Flash Bites (flash fiction) and Shrayan (fantasy).

For more information about the author and her work, visit www.abhaiyengar.com and www.abhaencounter.blogspot.in.