Chapter II
DJ, Inspector Lomdi and I stood staring at the dead body of the black marketer found in the fish market. We were at the morgue.
“Al Topper was running a mail scam”, explained Inspector Lomdi as DJ walked around the corpse observing it from every angle. “3 Down and Dirty Tricks to Crack Any Tough Nut Exam – that was his promise. A lot of students in the Bahrain University paid for it and the Tips, it turned out, were not as dirty as promised. Many suspects there too, DJ.”
I wanted to ask what the tips were but did not have the nerve for it. I was sure that DJ would not approve.
Finally, DJ took out a pen and lifted Al Toppers ear. There, as Faris had promised, was a mark left by the killer. It was the drawing of a tiny bell in black ink. DJ gently scratched it and licked his finger.
“Hmm… common ball point pen – untraceable. But I already know who he is.”
As soon as we reached home, DJ plunged into a pile of old newspapers, frantically searching for some particular piece of news. I sighed, realizing that DJ was in one of those bad moods when he would curse himself for not reading the newspaper on a rainy Thursday three months ago and then go rummaging for it, all in an insane attempt to be completely aware of the world around him. I was about to retire to my room when DJ, with a loud yelp, as if a rabid dog had sunk its teeth into his backside, waded through the sea of newspapers, clutching a sheaf.
We went through them, dating almost two years back, and in each of them, there was a major robbery. An ancient crown from Morocco, a gem studded scepter from Calais, the Golden Camel that belonged to the ruling family of Oman, the first copy of the first issue of the Playgirl magazine from a Polish museum…. and so went the list. In each of the scenes, the thief left a calling card – the crude drawing of a bell.
“That last one”, said DJ, “the Playgirl issue. He was in a hurry there. Left a witness who gave a dead accurate sketch. The Interpol sent it out and found him a week later. He was masquerading as the Professor of Linguistics in the Cairo University. But he gave them the slip before they could nab him.”
“Who is he, DJ?” I asked.
“Professor Maniarty”, said DJ, a hardened look of constipation gracing his countenance.
“Erm… DJ, what exactly is Linguistics?”
“Doctor”, sighed DJ running his hands through his hair1, “While your bottomless ignorance is at times fanciful, I do find it fatiguing now. You must thank your stars, for I possess a certain flair for languages. The word Linguistics, if you must know, comes from the archaic Arabic word lingam, which means penis. Professor Maniarty, it appears, is a master of the secrets of the penis and the mysterious ways. Many have gone in search of its answers, none have returned…”
His last few words faded away and DJ sat staring into nothingness. I got alarmed and shook him, “DJ, what is it?”
“This man, Doctor, is more wily and crooked than anyone I’ve been against. His list of devilish deeds is indeed endless. He is, I must say, the Napoleon Dynamite of crime.”
1. DJ later, in one of his mushroom induced deliriums, revealed to me that he did this to relieve his palms of the uncontrollable itch to slap me on account of my ever present idiocy and mediocre intelligence.
Sanjeev Priyam said,
December 30, 2009 at 6:10 am
Good going mate… Keep writing… DJ jerks… I mean rocks…