Inspector Ghote Plays a Joker

by H. R. F. Keating

  He stood up briskly. Unwillingly, but inevitably in face of Anil Bedekar’s still turned back, Ghote put a question to him.

  “Please, do you know the circumstances in which this horse, Roadside Romeo, disappeared?”

  The Rajah shrugged his elegant shoulders a little.

  “My dear fellow,” he said, “anyone within fifty miles of poor Anil on Derby Day knew everything, but everything, about the circumstances.”

  “Then perhaps if Mr. Bedekar is busy . . .” Ghote said.

  “My dear old boy, Mr. Bedekar is not so much busy as unwilling. He really thought he was going to pull off the Derby this time. And everybody knows that that is his sole ambition in the world. It’s a most romantic story. I dare say your sergeant could have told it to you. It’s been in all the sports pages time and again. My poor Anil started life as a street boy, you know. He came up here to Mahalaxmi one Derby Day to see what he could beg, borrow, or, I’m sorry to say, steal. And he was so struck with the charming spectacle that he there and then determined he would one day own a racehorse and win the Derby himself. And, by George, this year he nearly did.”

  “How was it that this year was especially suitable for him?” Ghote asked.

  The Rajah of Bhedwar looked at him with an exaggeratedly surprised air.

  “My dear fellow,” he said, “you have really a very great deal to learn. Do you know, I think there’s only one thing for it: we must start at the beginning, and educate you. Nothing else will meet the case.”

  Ghote looked at him, trying to conceal the blank suspicion that had swept irresistibly through him.

  “That is very kind,” he said, concealing his misgivings hard. “Could you perhaps tell me first how it is that a horse that is expected to win an important race like the Indian Derby can be stolen from a place like this. I had some difficulty myself in even getting into the Members’ Enclosure.”

  The Rajah of Bhedwar pulled his beautifully cut cream jacket straight with an air of decision.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Details like that can be gone into later. The first thing is to give you as much practical experience of the racing game as we can crowd into one glorious afternoon. Come with me.”

  He set off across the neatly clipped green turf and Ghote thought it best to follow, though he was by no means pleased to be leaving Anil Bedekar, grumpily unhelpful though he was.

  “As a matter of fact,” the Rajah said carelessly, as he threaded his way ahead of Ghote through the relaxed groups of well-dressed men and bright sari-clad women standing about on the circular lawn, “poor old Roadside Romeo wasn’t pinched from Mahalaxmi at all. He was taken from some stables nearby where our friend Anil had been foolish enough to put him for the night.”

  They went out through the gate into the busy, thronged public part of the course.

  “Why was this then?” Ghote asked.

  “Oh, he thought the animal would be safer where it could be looked after completely by his own syces,” the Rajah said. “But don’t let’s bother with these absolutely mundane details just now, old boy. Let’s put some money on the first race while the odds are reasonable.”

  Ghote smiled a little.

  “Of course,” he said. “Please do not let me disturb your afternoon’s entertainment. It is most good of you to answer my questions.”

  The Rajah stopped, turned to him and put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

  “Not my afternoon’s entertainment, old man,” he said. “Our afternoon’s entertainment. You are to be entertained every bit as much as me.”

  There was something blandly assuming in the friendliness of his tone which Ghote did not altogether like. But he did his best to smile gratefully.

  “I am sure it will be entertaining, as well as instructive, for me to watch you—er—betting and so forth,” he said. The Rajah shook his head, just a little.

  “No, old man,” he said. “Not to watch: to participate. That’s the point, you know. You can’t learn what racing means unless you’ve got a proper stake in it.”

  He swung round and pointed over the heads of the thick crowd all round them at the row of bookies on their low platforms under the shade of the tiled roof surrounding the bookmakers’ ring.

  “I rather think I spot what we want just there,” he said. “From my good friends Shah and Salim. Some really very attractive odds for a certain animal I have in mind. Come on.”

  He caught Ghote by the elbow and pushed him along beside him in the direction of a white board hanging from the roof edge bearing the painted names Shah and Salim. Under it was a blackboard on which either Mr. Shah or Mr. Salim was busy scrawling ever changing numbers against a hastily written list of horses.

  “Yes,” said the Rajah as they got up close, “not a word to anyone, my friend, but do you see the odds for Cream of the Jest?”

  Ghote obediently looked at Mr. Shah’s notice-board. After some time trying to decipher that gentleman’s writing he located a scrawled abbreviation which he took to be Cream of the Jest and saw that the figure “20” was written against it.

  “Yes, I see,” he said, not wanting to appear too much of a fool.

  “And let me add this,” said the Rajah, putting his handsome, if a little dissolute, face close to Ghote’s ear. “It’s what they call a cert, old man. I have it from the stable.”

  Ghote felt extremely unhappy. He realised he was going to have to have a bet on Cream of the Jest. In ordinary circumstances he might not have minded, provided he was not expected to risk too much. After all, the Rajah seemed very knowledgeable about all this business and he had said he had a tip from the stable, which was presumably a good thing. But something not a little worrying had sprung up in his mind: Cream of the Jest was surely the name of the horse Sgt. Desai had recommended. And if anything was certain in the uncertain world of horses and racing, it was that any animal on which Desai put money, unless it was an absolute favourite, was bound not to win.

  On the other hand it was not going to be really possible to reject the Rajah’s advice.

  Inwardly Ghote shrugged. Provided that not too much was involved he would just have to write it off.

  He plunged his hand into his pocket and cheerfully pulled out a five rupee note.

  “Well,” he exclaimed with a touch of bravado, “you will have to tell me just what I am to say to Mr. Shah, or Mr. Salim.”

  “Oh, quite simple,” the Rajah replied, scarcely looking at Ghote now. “You just go up to him and say ‘A hundred on Cream of the Jest to win’ or ‘Two hundred’ or whatever you choose.”

  Ghote quickly dipped his hand back into his pocket, scrabbled around and got two five rupee notes between his fingers.

  “Yes,” he said. “Though I think I will be more modest than that. I suppose Mr. Shah will consider a mere ten rupees?”

  The Rajah turned and looked at him. Ghote found that he was beginning to dislike this habit he had of lazily raising one eyebrow.

  “But of course,” the Rajah said. “He will take any sort of chicken-feed anybody is foolish enough to offer him. And if you want to throw away twenty times a hundred chips, don’t let me stop you.”

  There was something so utterly calm and ruthless about the way he had said this that Ghote found that the two five-rupee notes between his fingers had slipped back among the rest of his money almost before the words had been finished. He set out in the privacy of his pocket to discover just how much in total he had on him. After a little he decided it must be about fifty rupees.

  “Look,” the Rajah said suddenly. “J. Kumar and Co. is offering 25 to one. Quick.”

  Ghote felt his elbow being caught again between four steel-hard fingers and a thumb and before he quite knew it he was standing in front of the white-shirted figure who represented J. Kumar and Co.

  “Fifty on Cream of the Jest to win,” he gabbled before the Rajah could speak for him and name a sum he did not even have to hand.

  He hauled the money out of his pocket. To his relie
f it did total fifty rupees. He surrendered it bleakly.

  “That’s splendid,” the Rajah said. “Now you will begin to see what it’s all about.”

  He set off purposely through the crowds again. Ghote followed. He had begun to do various pieces of arithmetic, in each of which the sum of fifty rupees was set against various necessary household purchases.

  The Rajah led him to the back of the big grandstand building, white and tall, each of its two end towers surmounted by a just fluttering flag. There were two more chaprassis on duty at the entrance, and one of them stepped in front of Ghote and said respectfully but fiercely “Your badge, sir?”

  “With me,” the Rajah said carelessly.

  The tall chaprassi stepped back.

  Ghote followed the Rajah through an ornately decorated refreshment-room and out on to the broad roofed-over terrace facing the white-edged circle of the course. They were near the side of the stand and in a few moments Ghote saw the runners for the first race coming filing on to the course itself through the Members’ Enclosure behind them, each with its jockey in bright racing silks on its back and led by a white-clad syce.

  The Rajah nudged him and pointed.

  “Cream of the Jest,” he said.

  Ghote thought the animal did not look as glossily groomed as the others. But he said nothing.

  The horses were led down to the tubular structure of the starting gate. A loud buzzer sounded out. The crowd hushed and then jabbered again. There was a good deal of fuss while each animal was manoeuvred into its allotted compartment. Ghote started wondering what proportion of the lost fifty rupees he could successfully conceal from his wife.

  The last recalcitrant animal was tugged into its place under the disparaging eye of the dark-suited Starter, long whip in hand. Then this authoritative figure took the microphone from its hook at the side of the gate and made an announcement that the horses were under orders. Ghote, even before the Rajah had explained that he could now in no circumstances get his money back if Cream of the Jest failed to win, felt a sudden totally unexpected tightening-up of excitement.

  He found that he was actually considering the possibility that the wretched horse might get past the post first. Fifty rupees at 25 to one, surely that would mean 1,250 rupees. Think of all the problems that-

  The starting gate clanged open. There was a concerted rising murmur from all parts of the course “They’re off,” and the six horses in the race strode out over the even turf before them.

  Ghote’s mouth was very dry.

  For a long time the six horses stayed bunched tight together, fighting it out stride for stride, the open patrol car skimming along beside them on the outside of the course, its white-walled tyres dazzling in the sunshine. The Rajah at Ghote’s side was commenting on various aspects of the jockeys’ riding. Ghote heard not a single word he said. He could think of nothing but the horse Cream of the Jest down there in the bright sun in front of him. Would it suddenly begin to emerge from the ruck of bunched animals? Or would another horse? Would Cream of the Jest even begin to fall back, as with that damned Desai’s wretched money on it it was almost bound to do?

  He craned forward, eyes stinging with the effort of picking out the vivid green shirt with a white band on it and the green and white quartered cap of the jockey, his jockey. And still the whole field remained obstinately bunched together.

  And then, as he had all along known would happen the green and white cap began slipping towards the back of the bunch. Soon the whole horse could be clearly seen there on its own. The jockey was lashing at it frenziedly with his whip, but Ghote knew that this was no more than the frantic actions of someone who knew his case was hopeless. It reminded him vividly of Desai trying to explain himself out of something under the cold gaze of one of the D.S.P.s.

  Before long a large and ever growing stretch of turf was between Cream of the Jest and the rest of the horses in the race. Ghote noted with bitterness that every other animal involved seemed to be capable of going at the same speed as the rest. Only the one bearing his fortunes was unable to put up even an average performance.

  He turned to the Rajah of Bhedwar, immaculate in cream suit and heavily knotted striped tie, to whom losing a hundred or two rupees was all in the day’s work. He longed to find a really cutting remark springing to his lips. But he knew that all that would come out would be an incoherent reproach.

  “Good lord, look.”

  The Rajah was suddenly gaping at the green circle of turf in front of them with a look of incredulous amusement. Ghote swung round.

  In the few seconds he had taken his eyes off the horses the scene had changed utterly. Where the five front runners had been striding impressively along side by side in a close bunch there was now only a confusion of rearing horses and flailing-armed jockeys. Something had plainly gone utterly wrong.

  “The two leaders tangled,” the Rajah said. “And look at that. Look at your Cream of the Jest.”

  Ghote looked.

  Cream of the Jest had been far enough behind completely to avoid the wild melee the other horses had got into. And its jockey, for all his frantic whip-work a few moments earlier, had at least been calm enough to take advantage of the situation. He had swung well clear of the rails and was now going round the whole bunch of faltering, caught up leaders. It looked as if nothing could possibly stop him winning, and handsomely.

  “One thousand two hundred and fifty." The number of rupees that would soon be in his pocket flashed clearly and ringingly into Ghote's head. He looked down at the brighdy sunlit course in front of him. Cream of the Jest was out there well in front, all alone.

  He found that he had actually closed his eyes in delicious terror.

  CHAPTER IV

  When Ghote opened his eyes again it was to hear the yammer of excitement from all over the watching crowd as Cream of the Jest at a price of twenty-five to one passed the winning post and its number was hauled jerkily to the top of the tall indicator mast, shortly to be followed by the white plates with their bold black lettering declaring its distance ahead at the finish to be five lengths.

  A flood of wild joy assailed him. Sudden wealth. There without any effort at all on his part was the price of—of what? Say, a first-class air conditioner. One moment hopelessly far away, and the next there for the buying.

  He turned to the Rajah of Bhedwar by his side. In spite of everything, he had a lot to thank him for. He found he was being looked at with an air of cool amusement. It acted like a sharp cold shower on the rising warmth of his gratitude.

  But he felt obliged to say something.

  “Thank you. Thank you. It was most kind of you to offer me the tip. Without it I would . . .”

  He gave up.

  “Perhaps now you can see how this business can grip people,” the Rajah said. “And I assure you our poor friend Anil Bedekar was a great deal worse affected than you will ever be.”

  Ghote came down to earth. He was not here to place money on horses: he was here to investigate an affair in which the new Minister for Police Affairs was directly and urgently concerned.

  “It really did mean a great deal to Mr. Bedekar to win the Indian Derby?” he said.

  “It obsessed him,” the Rajah replied.

  “The person who played that trick on him must have been almost equally obsessed,” Ghote said.

  The Rajah was silent for an instant.

  “An interesting observation, my dear chap,” he said, with that irritating rise of one eyebrow.

  “Well,” Ghote said, feeling the need to defend himself, “the crime cannot have been committed by any common sneakthief. To transport a horse all the way to Poona so quickly must have meant using a horse-box. Hiring that would have cost quite a lot.”

  “An excellent point, my dear chap. You know, I begin to fancy this business of reconstructing your criminal out of the sort of actions he has committed. It gives him a feeling of reality.”

  Ghote frowned sharply. It was not for the like of
the Rajah to interest himself in such matters.

  “The criminal is real enough,” he replied. “He stole Roadside Romeo.”

  The Rajah smiled.

  “Very well, he is real. And tell me do you think it was he himself who impersonated the policeman who so conveniently took over the guarding of the horse when the chowkidar’s house was set on fire.”

  “That is the chowkidar guarding the stables?” Ghote asked. “And was his house actually set on fire?”

  “Oh, yes. A good deal of damage done to the whole area, I believe. But no loss of life, as it turned out.”

  “I think,” Ghote said, “I am dealing with a madman.” The Rajah laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Don't worry so, old chap,” he said. “After all, you have me with you.”

  “You? With me?”

  The Rajah turned and began making his way through the crowd of standing, chattering spectators towards the refreshment-room entrance.

  “Yes,” he said. “The more I think of it, the better I like it. I used to read an immense number of thrillers once upon a time. I always hankered after being a detective, I suppose. But of course it would hardly have done for a prince in those days.”

  Ghote pushed his way through the spectators till he had caught up with him.

  “Please understand,” he said. “I very much regret, but it will not be possible for you to share in my investigation.”

  The Rajah turned his head and gave him a slight smile. They came out into the refreshment-room, which the Rajah quickly crossed. Ghote hurried after him.

  “It would not be at all proper,” he said. “A police investigation is a confidential matter.”

  “I shall be perfectly discreet, you know.”

  The Rajah spoke without really turning his head.

  “No,” said Ghote loudly.

  Outside the Rajah paused on the steps for a moment.

  “Well now,” he said with briskness, “what next? Is there anybody here you think it’d be worth seeing? I’m afraid poor Anil is hardly going to be helpful. The truth of the matter is that he is still smarting, I think. Unless he wins the Derby next year, I dare say he’ll smart for the rest of his life.”