Murder in Bollywood by Shadaab Amjad Khan Read Free Book Online Page A

a deathly whisper. ‘Don’t bother with that tree, Mr Mule. I had to pay half a dozen men from the nearby village to put it there in the first place, in anticipation of your arrival.’
    Chandu spun around sharply, staring the figure in the eye. His hand moved slowly towards the gun, even as his mind tried to think of words to keep the person standing before him unsuspecting and occupied.
    ‘I didn’t think you’d follow me here from Mumbai. But I’m even more surprised that you got ahead of me and managed to set up this ambush. How did you know I’d be coming this way?’ he asked, betraying a hint of admiration in his voice.
    ‘It was easy. After the landslide along Highway 22, this was the only way out of Shimla, and I knew you’d be in a tearing rush to get back to Mumbai so that you can hand over to your client everything you’ve discovered, and expose me. But I must say, Mr Mule, I never expected you to piece together the past and find your way to Shimla and Padiabeda this quickly. But then again, you PIs are like rats—if you come across one little crumb, you somehow find your way to the whole bakery,’ the figure smiled and said.
    Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Chandu pulled out his weapon, and without a moment’s hesitation pointed it at the figure, and pulled the trigger, five, maybe six times, but to his horror, the gun was empty.
    ‘A word of advice, detective. The next time you step into a country liquor bar for a quick drink before you hit the highway, never leave your gun in the glove compartment, because it doesn’t take much for someone to break in and steal your bullets,’ the figure whispered, pulling out a gun and pointing it at Chandu’s head.
    ‘A gun!’ exclaimed Chandu, almost amused. ‘It seems that you’ve come prepared.’
    ‘We both came prepared with similar weapons of choice, detective. The only difference is that the one I hold carries six little pieces of lead.’ The figure laughed like a woman more treacherous than the sea.
    ‘Listen to me. Nikhil and Mallika are dead, and their secret’s dead with them. You don’t have to kill any more, Manjeet,’ Chandu reasoned in an attempt to survive.
    ‘Manjeet!’ the figure repeated almost nostalgically. ‘Now that is a name I haven’t been called in a very long time. Which isn’t surprising, since in Bollywood, people are known to go by other names. How I wish, detective, that you had stayed out of my business.’ With these words, Manjeet cocked the hammer of the gun and pulled the trigger. Bang! Bang! Bang!. The shots rang out and when the smoke had settled, Chandrakant ‘Chandu’ Mule lay dead, his body riddled with bullets from toe to head, covered in a violent shade of red.
    Inspector Hoshiyar Khan arrived a bit early at the SCS headquarters on the morning of 15 January. None of the other officers had reported for duty at that time and even his bête noire, the passport renewal office, hadn’t opened its gates by then. But lying on his desk, as if waiting for his arrival, was an exquisite blue envelope with his name written across it with a fountain pen, that too in Farsi, in a handwriting whose beauty and style was reminiscent of calligraphy. At first glance itself, Hoshiyar knew exactly where that envelope came from; therefore, he understood that it was futile asking the constables at the front gate if they got a look at the person who delivered it, for rest assured, the sender of that letter had taught his minions well, making it child’s play for them to move in and out and go anywhere they pleased, much like the wind, unheard and unseen. Hoshiyar sat behind his desk and held the letter in his hand. Once again, there was no point in dusting it for fingerprints. The only ones he’d find would be his own. He then ran it past his nose and smiled contentedly, as the envelope was delicately scented with fine Arabic
oudh
. Hoshiyar then tore open the envelope to find a neatly folded sheet of writing paper