Last Goal

Mohan Pathak Surender

Description

About the BookIn this thrilling novel, The famous detective-sudhir kohli-is caught in a quagmire of murder mystery and lethal attack on his life. He acts quickly, speaks interesting dialogues, takes you on a romantic trip and finally, nabs the killer. Another thriller from pathak, this plot would enthral you beyond compare. A big wow ! * It is an edge-of - seat murder thriller. * A must read in one sitting. A real unputdownable. * Don't read the end. Just enjoy the anonymity of the murderer.About the Author : Surender Mohan Pathak is an author of Hindi Crime fiction with nearly 300 novels to his credit. His writing career, along with his full time job in Indian Telephone Industries, Delhi, began in the early 1960s with his brilliant Hindi translations of Ian Fleming's James bond novels and the works of james hadley chase. His books have been sold over 25 million copies, making him india's No.1 bestseller.

Informations

• Publié par: Diamond Books
• Date de parution: 19 juin 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789350835227
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE LAST GOAL


eISBN:978-93-5083-522-7
© Author
Publisher: Diamond Pocket Books (P) Ltd.
X-30, Okhla Industrial Area, Phase-II
New Delhi-110020
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E-mail: [e-mail]
Website: www.diamondbook.in
Edition: 2011
THE LAST GOAL
By - Surender Mohan Pathak
I opened my eyes.
I glanced at the wall clock which had a radium dial.
It was 1:30 a.m.
That meant I had been in the bed for hardly two hours.
Both my eyes moved around in a circular motion. Without making any movement and without moving my neck, I looked around in my bedroom. I could not see anything in the darkness, but I was sure that there was someone in the room; my eyes had opened because of his presence.
Someone was present in the bedroom of my flat at 1:30 a.m.
I remained motionless on my bed. Then, I turned and extended my hand towards the table lamp lying on the side table.
Before I could reach the switch of the table lamp, the room was lit up. Now, the room was full of bright light being emanated by a fluorescent tube.
I saw a heavy man near the electric switchboard. He was looking at me, his eyelids were not winking. He was laughing without any reason. His gums, made violet due to betel chewing, were visible to me; so were his teeth. His back was against the wall. He was holding a very dangerous-looking gun. He had not aimed it at me, but I knew that in a jiffy, he could not only aim it at me, but also shoot with it to make a window in any contour of my body.
Then, someone coughed. My eyes followed the sound of cough.
He was another hefty, wrestler-like man who seemed to be as dangerous as the first man near the switchboard. He was standing on the bedside, his back against the wall.
“Awake now?” The first wrestler like man asked in a nonchalant manner.
“What do you see here?” I asked.
“You have woken up early. You did so without our efforts. Do you have very thin ears, or had you not slept yet?”
“Who are you? What do you want? How did you get in?”
“Allah! So many questions all at once!”
“Answer me.”
“So, are you a police officer trying to cross-question?”
“Ustad Ji,” the young man standing by the side of my bed said, “May I thrash him?”
“No! No!” said the wrestler, “If you thrash him, he would die.”
“No! He would die.”
“Just a sampler?”
“No! He’ll be annoyed. We have to keep him well and willing.”
The young man’s face showed disappointment. He was too eager to deliver a couple of punches.
I turned my gaze towards the wrestler.
“Why do you want me to be well and willing?” I asked him.
“That’s the right question.”
“Why?”
“If you remain well, you would do everything perfect. If you are not well, you would create chaos. Who wants hullabaloo in the middle of the night?”
“I want. You scoundrels! You have broken into my home and now . . .”
“Ustad Ji,” the young man said in a hopeful tone, “Let me give a punch or two on his bloody face. At least, he would stop bickering.”
“Let him bicker,” the wrestler said in a philosophical manner, “because it doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll call the police,” I said, “and get both of you arrested.”
“Lo!” said the young man, “Now listen to him.”
“If,” I continued, “you want your well-being, then . . .”
“That means,” the wrestler interrupted me and said without any excitement, “You want to go to hell now, not later?”
He straightened his hand holding the gun. He cocked it without any emotion.
The small sound thus created was so much sharper than an actual sound of firing that I was terrified.
The change in my behaviour was quickly read by the wrestler.
“Good!” He said.
“What do you want?” I asked in a low tone.
“See!” the wrestler said to his young companion, “You were trying to hit him without any rhyme or reason. He is doing everything willingly. The poor chap himself is asking what we want.”
The young man said nothing.
“What happened now?” the wrestler said, “Cat took your tongue? Tell him what we want from him.”
“Get off the bed,” ordered the young man, “Change your clothes. Get ready to accompany us.”
“Where do you want to take me?” I asked with a suspicious tone.
“Ustad Ji, see now, he’s again giving me tongue.”
It was clear that the young goon was ready to have a duel with me.
“He is not asking you useless questions”, the wrestler politely reprimanded him, “rather, he is asking a genuine question. He certainly has the right to ask where he is to be taken.”
“But . . .”
“I’ll tell him,” the wrestler now turned towards me, “My dear, you dress yourself casually. You are not getting ready for a party or celebration, so you need not dress up like a prince. Got it?”
I didn’t reply.
“We are supposed to deliver you to someone, without hurting you. All in one piece. Alive and kicking. I request you to co-operate with us. If you try to be stubborn, or if you threaten Hamid, I would not be able to guarantee that you would remain in one-piece. I do not intend to deliver damaged merchandise.”
“Why not?”
“Because one of the terms of contract is the safe and sound delivery of commodity to the client.”
“Am I commodity?”
“Yes! Worth fifty thousand Rupees. If you are damaged in any manner, we would lose this money.”
“So I am goods worth fifty thousand Rupees?”
“Cash! On the dot! COD, as they say in trade lingo!”
“COD – Cash on Delivery! Oho! So, my honored guest of midnight knows English too.”
“I don’t, but that man does who is supposed to receive your delivery. He was stating ‘COD, COD’ time and again, so I repeated the term.”
“Good! How easy it is to understand when it is stated in our common lingo! So, you have been designated by someone to kidnap me and deliver me to him and you would get fifty thousand rupees for the services rendered.”
“Wah! Great! When things are stated in Hindustani, they sure are comprehended in a jiffy.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“A customer.”
“What would he do to me?”
“He would do exactly what Hamid wants to do to you. But he would do so when the time comes.”
“He would send me to hell. Won’t he?”
“Yeah!”
“That means my death is only a matter of time.”
“Yeah! But do not try to cut down the span of time now. If you remain stubborn, or if you die here, our fifty thousand would go down the drain. Hence, be a noble guy and be of some use to us. Be ready and come along. Allah would give you the fruit of this act of yours. Stand up! Shabash!”
I got off the bed and marched to the attached bathroom.
“Where are you going?” asked the wrestler.
“Bathroom,” I said, “I would take a bath.”
“This is not the time to take bath. Dress up casually as I said before and come along.”
“Let me at least wash my hands and face.”
“Oh! Have lions ever washed their face?”
“This son of Englishman,” young Hamid hissed with anger, “thinks that his face would be licked by beautiful white dames where he is being taken.”
“Hamid!” the wrestler reprimanded him sweetly, “Keep quite, else I shall thrash you.”
Hamid closed his mouth, his lips fully tight.
“Hey! You haven’t started yet!” the wrestler addressed me in surprise, “You haven’t finished wearing clothes yet! You are not ready yet!”
In my view, the temperament of a person should be according to his caste and status in society. The honey-dipped tongue of the wrestler was oozing out such words as were disturbing me. Had he been yelling bloody murder, yours truly had been terrified less but he was giving me a doze of poison with a coating of honey and that I could not comprehend in me present situation.
Folks, I hope to God that you have not forgotten yours truly, Sudhir Kohli, the only one. But it you have by any chance I’ll introduce myself again. Yours truly was named so by his esteemed mother twenty nine years back and I happen to be connected with the profession of private detective service, a field of operation which is not yet too well known in India. Just like tobacco and potato, the profession of private detective is also a gift of west. The crop of private detectives has come up in India in only recent years. You know that if one-odd sapling comes out of the ground, a new crop starts. Private detectives are mushrooming in India. But they have yet to be nourished and re-planted. One-odd plant was cut off in raw form, so it had failed. Only I have become a complete tree till date. What I mean is that you may call it a wonder of nature but yours truly, that’s me, is in demand in Delhi. I had my clients spread not only to the elite but also to the mawalis and gangsters of the kind the two were standing before me and giving me a choice—whether I’d prefer dying now or later.
Before the alert watch of the two goons, I discorded my payjama-kurta and wore jeans and jacket. There was a .38 caliber lying in the drawer inside the wardrobe; it was my licensed gun of Smith and Wasson make. However, the sharp, clever eyes of those two intruders did not allow me to reach up to my weapon.
In the end, I lit up a Dunhill cigarette and said, “What’s the order now?”
“It’s not an order,” said the wrestler, “It’s a humble request.”
“Speak up.”
“One car is parked in front of this building in which your flat is located. You will come along with us and ride it. Then, the car would push off. OK?”
“Is that all?”
“Yes! Except that if you make a noise while going up to the car or if you try to act smart, a bullet would pierce your skull and your soul would depart from your body.”
“Khalifa! If I die, your remuneration would go down the drain.”
“That’s true,” he spoke like a true gentleman, “but I can’t help it, can i? There can always be profit or loss in business.”
“Ustad Ji, why should we incur loss?” said a miffed Hamid, “Let him try his one smart act and I will . . .”
“Saale,” I said scornfully, “you are trying to be a hero because you have a gun! Put it aside and make your Ustad Ji the referee of this contest. I’ll be son of a goon if I don’t crush your bones here and now.”
“Ustad Ji” Hamid said in a highly dangerous voice, “He is crossing all limits.”
“Go screw yourself, you