Ghote looked round the cool white-walled room and spotted a heavy teak dining arm-chair. He slid it over the smooth wooden floor, set it at the green-baize table opposite the Rajah and sat down. Without a word the Rajah cut for dealer. Ghote in his turn cut too. The Rajah won. Expert as ever, he dealt the ten cards each.
At the very sight of his hand, all Ghote’s playing instincts revived buzzingly in his head. He summed up his position in a fever of delighted speculation. He had fair cards, no more. Quickly he calculated the chances of improving them.
Opposite him the Rajah drew his first new card. Without any change of expression he put down his hand. Ghote looked at the array of cards. They all melded neatly together, a gin—and with hardly any play involved.
With a sudden sweep of depression Ghote laid down his own cards. They could not have served him worse.
“Hard luck, old chap,” the Rajah said.
He reached across to the teak side-table with the bottles on it, flipped open a drawer, pulled out a scratch-pad and noted the score.
Ghote gathered the cards together and shuffled. The sudden sweat that had sprung up on his palms at the quick advantage the Rajah had gained made the cards sticky to his touch. He shuffled them in clumsy lumps which infuriated him.
And the second deal proved no more happy for him than the first. He held out a little longer but before long the Rajah was calmly adding a moderately hefty total to his original score. Ghote leant forward and looked at the pad.
On the next round the Rajah could hit a hundred, even with moderate luck. He bit at the inside of his lower lip.
But as he picked up the new hand the Rajah had dealt him his spirits soared. Rapidly he sorted the cards round. Really, this was as promising a lot as he could have wished for.
They drew a card each in turn. Ghote surveyed his hand. This last draw was ideal. He decided to take a risk. He would go down at once, on his present fairly high total, and count on the Rajah being caught off balance.
He flipped the cards down on to the green baize.
The Rajah studied them for a moment without putting his own hand down. And then one by one he laid his cards on the table. Each single one but the last melded into Ghote’s hand. There was no need to tot up the score. The Rajah had won the game with points and points to spare.
Ghote looked at the array of cards upside down in front of him, three jowly kings, four sixes laid neatly black and red black and red, a sequence of spades. He thought: So now I have almost given official permission to this man to play whatever practical jokes he likes on the Minister for Police Affairs and the Arts.
“You had some lousy cards, old chap,” the Rajah said.
“And I lost,” Ghote snapped back.
The Rajah swirled the cards together.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Double or quits.”
He took the unused pack from the side of the table and thrust it across towards Ghote.
Without hesitation, without thought, Ghote cut for dealer.
The Rajah cut highest. He won the first hand too, though Ghote had some good cards. He lost the second, quite narrowly, and the third by an even smaller margin. He won the fourth deal thumpingly. Ghote came out on top for the fifth. But it did not matter. The few points the Rajah gained were quite enough to push his total neatly past the hundred mark.
“You don’t seem to be terribly lucky, old chap,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s two thousand chips you owe me.”
“Yes,” said Ghote.
It was no news to him.
“Would it be convenient if I let you have the sum to-morrow?” he asked.
“Any time, dear boy. Any time. Though of course I may be fairly busy soon, so on second thoughts you’d better not leave it beyond to-morrow, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a little something in mind which’ll take a bit of preparation.”
The even white teeth flashed their unsmiling smile.
“It’s rather a nice little something,” the Rajah said. “As you’ll see in due course.”
Ghote got up.
“Shall I come here with the money?” he said.
There were his winnings, of course. But he had little idea at the moment where he was going to get another thousand rupees from.
“Yes, do that. Any time after eleven.”
“Good-bye then.”
He turned and marched stiffly across to the high teak-wood door. As he opened it the Rajah spoke again.
“Oh, one little thing, old boy. When I told you I’d dropped that gun into the sea, that wasn’t quite true. I’d meant to. Only someone had the damned cheek to pinch it first. If you do find it, it may turn your luck.”
It took Ghote much less time than he had expected to raise a thousand rupees. He got the sum from the bania who kept a big shop selling food, clothing and a hundred other things at the edge of the big colony of Government Staff Quarters where he lived. He had never visited the man for this purpose before—the very idea had made him walk a bit more uprightly with shoulders a bit more straight— and he had no notion that it would all be so easy.
Diffidently he had asked to see the bania himself, and at once the man—Ghote had never liked him: he smiled too incessantly showing two rows of large, evenly spaced yellow teeth—and at once the man had actually asked if he needed money.
And making loans without a licence was illegal, and he knew Ghote was a policeman. It was too bad.
“Yes,” Ghote had said.
And from then on it was simplicity itself—except that what Ghote borrowed was not 1,000 rupees but 1,200, and what he took away was not 1,200 rupees but 1,200 less a first payment of interest, i.e. 1,000.
With the case of the shot flamingoes in practice wound up, he had taken the afternoon off to go through the grim business of raising the money which he knew would take years to pay back. And now with this unexpected success he found himself at a loose end. To-morrow he would have the unpleasant duty of appearing before D.S.P. Naik to explain the report he had made out stating that the shootings at the zoo had been the work of the Rajah of Bhedwar but that they had no possible evidence to take to court. D.S.P. Naik would make life very nasty for about a quarter of an hour, and then he would come to realise that there was in fact nothing that could be done. He would give orders to keep the Rajah under observation when there were men to spare knowing quite well that there seldom if ever were. And they would decide on something to say to the Minister. Whatever formula was found would not satisfy the Minister, and he would make a lot of trouble in various ways for a long time to come. But that would have to be borne.
In the meantime Ghote decided to take his son for an outing up to the Hanging Gardens. It was a treat, of a sort, that had been postponed often enough. This afternoon there was at least time for it.
But they set off at odds with each other. Ghote was lugubrious: he could not be otherwise. Little Ved was in tearing spirits: why should he not be?
Still the way he clung to his father’s hand and danced along on it like a fire-puppet on a bouncing string soon began to do its work and as they approached the gardens themselves Ghote found he was miraculously shorn of all responsibilities. Later would be a time for troubles; for the next couple of hours at least he could live for what was happening as it happened.
So they ran races, he and his just six-year-old son. Races were the thing with Ved just now. He wanted to do nothing else. They were short races mostly, and Ghote had to take care not to win them. That was understood. They ran from the corner of a flower-bed full of bright-hot canna lilies to railings round a jacaranda-tree in total blue-covered bloom. They ran from a huge poinsettia-tree in a mass of scarlet flower to the railing that edged the tumbling slope down to the sea. There Ghote was allowed to stand for a few minutes, on the plea of old men needing a lot of rest, and stare out at the huge rounded bow-taut stretch of the bay far below. But such employment had no attraction whatever for Ved, and soon enough a new race had to be devised.
“See the mali
there, the one with the cane for cutting the grass?”
Ghote pointed to the stooping figure of the gardener about thirty yards away, swishing in regular strokes at a patch of long grass with a thin bamboo.
“Yes, Pitaji
“First one to go round him and back to that hedge where it’s cut in the shape of a peacock. One, two, three, go.”
This was a longer race and so the winner had to be rewarded with some refreshment. They went over to a coconut vendor, a parched sun-blacked man crouching patiently beside his basket of nuts. Ghote found a coin and the man began the customary elaborate parade of tapping at each fruit with his knuckles to select one juicier than the others and then with the sword-sharp knife from his waist slicing off narrow sections of the husk with the nut held firmly against his naked thigh. Ved watched in utter fascination, and Ghote watched Ved, unable to stop himself admiring the set of the boy’s head on his neck, the roundness of his young cheek, the deep gloss of his blue-black hair.
And then all of a sudden an odd notion flitted into his head.
Without particularly thinking of the sense or stupidity of it, he began pace by pace creeping backwards out of the boy’s sight. And then when he had got about ten yards away and his departure was still completely unnoticed, he turned, ran a few yards and stooped behind the long hedge cut into animal and bird shapes that had been the finishing line of their last race.
He waited crouching there, watching Ved still absorbed as the coconut vendor slipped the razor sharp knife back into his waistband and took in its place a short heavy one and with two expert chops at the hard inner shell cut off the top of the nut. He tore away some still clinging fibres and handed the fruit to Ved, a broad grin splitting his black face.
Ved turned, holding the nut, to his father. And no one was there. The look of dismay on the smooth unmarked face should have been comical. It was blankly distraught.
Ghote leapt up.
“Ved, Ved,” he shouted.
He flung himself awkwardly over the elaborate animal-decorated hedge. He ran forward, still shouting.
It was only a matter of seconds before he had reached the boy, seized him and hugged him hard against his chest. Only a few seconds in which the utter bewilderment had lasted. But the small thin body in his arms was trembling like a struck spring.
The coconut had fallen and the thin juice had trickled out to form a tiny patch of wet stickiness on the gravel and asphalt of the path. It had attracted three flies. After a minute or so Ghote tried to distract the frightened mind in his arms with the offer of a fresh nut. At first Ved simply shook his head in a comprehensive negative. But after a little he conceded at least a passive agreement. Ghote felt with difficulty into his pocket, with his other arm still hard round Ved’s shoulders, and produced another coin, a little too big but what matter? He tossed it to the black-faced vendor who, for value given, went solemnly through his whole performance again.
This time Ved hardly watched.
He took the nut when it was at last offered to him and when coaxed began to drink the sweet liquid. But, though he had now ceased to tremble, he drank without enjoyment. They set off together slowly along the path to the way-out, by mutual unspoken consent.
And all at once, as they did so, an entirely new thought came into Ghote’s head from nowhere : what if the person who had stolen the Rajah of Bhedwar’s sporting rifle had been one of those he had hoaxed so cruelly?
When the Rajah had so irritatingly added this piece of information to the depressing calendar he had already been given he had simply said, with dignity, that if the Rajah wished to report a theft he must do so to the police station nearest Juhu at Ville Parle. And he had simply put the matter out of his mind. But now it had risen up unbidden, and the more worrying for the amount of time that had passed since he had learnt about it.
Now he had to walk slowly because Ved, in contrast to the way he had come bouncing along at the start of the outing, was walking with drooping sedateness. But at last he saw a shop where he might telephone from. Leaving Ved standing there—and even depriving him of a hand to hold caused him a pang—he plonked down fifteen naye paise, asked if he could use the phone and got through to Headquarters.
First he inquired, with hardly-won casualness, whether anything particular had cropped up. Surely if the Rajah of Bhedwar had been shot there would be talk enough for it to be mentioned in even the most chance conversation. But nothing was said.
He felt chastened. Was he after all being ridiculous? Things did get stolen, in plenty. Why should the Rajah’s rifle have been stolen by someone wanting revenge for a cruel trick?
The operator at Headquarters was asking him something. It sounded as if it was for the second time.
“Yes? Yes? What is it?” he said testily.
“Inspector, Sergeant Desai is in the office. He wants to know if you have any orders.”
“Orders? No.”
The idiot. Just like him to hang about the office after he had been pulled off his watch over poor Lal Dass. What did he think there was-
“Hello, hello,” he said into the telephone, suddenly frantic.
“Yes, Inspector?”
“There is something I want Desai to do. Would you tell to go and see Sir Rustomjee Currimbhoy. He is to ask him whether the Rajah of Bhedwar left a sporting rifle at his house. He knows where the house is. Got that?”
“Sir Rustomjee Currimbhoy and the Rajah of Bhedwar. Yes, Inspector.”
The man sounded intrigued. Ghote put down the receiver. He went back to little Ved, who had been standing watching him all this time, his thumb in his mouth as it had not been since he was two years old.
He took him by the hand and with the squidgy wet thumb moistening his palm left the shop. The concerns of a father could not be always sacrificed to the lightest calls of duty, and surely giving this sort of clumsy warning to Sir Rustomjee would be enough?
Even when they had got home Ved was not quite his cheerful self. They ate. Ved fell asleep and Protima took him and put him to bed. Ghote sat on beside the remains of the meal. And nag, nag, nag the little thoughts started to peck away at him.
Say Sir Rustomjee had got hold of the Rajah’s rifle in order to kill him? Perhaps it was not such an impossible idea. His life had been wrecked after all. Wrecked by a few minutes of stupid trickery. And those eyes of his. Sometimes they had been screened from everything, sometimes they had been wearily polite, and sometimes . . . had they blazed with a cold fire?
Then he began to think about Desai. He was bound to blunder in the business. If anyone could make that screen sweep up from over the eyes in a sudden fury, it was surely Desai.
The sergeant had a wife, too, and children, four children. He had said he found it hard to provide for them. He attempted to make his barely sufficient pay go further by endless gambling. And nine times out of ten he lost. He had lost to-day, a good deal, over Lal Dass.
Suddenly Ghote jumped up and actually ran across to the telephone. The duty sergeant at Headquarters said that, yes, he had sent Sgt. Desai out as instructed.
“I have been expecting him back for the past hour, Inspector. But you know him.”
“You gave orders for him to report to you?”
“I certainly did, Inspector. With that fellow you have to give orders pretty damn’ smart.”
“Yes.”
Ghote put the receiver back quickly. It slipped from his suddenly sweaty palm and nearly fell off the rest. He called urgently to Protima that he had to go out. He sprinted through their little rectangle of garden and into the cool dark.
Getting to Malabar Hill took him an incredibly long time. He had no transport and had to use buses. There were two changes to be made. At each of them the crowds waiting to get on the new bus were thick and sullen. Ghote without hesitation elbowed his way through. The traffic in the streets seemed heavier than ever.
He ran from the bus stop to the Currimbhoy house at a fast trot. He must not pelt full out, he told himsel
f, he might need to be fresh from the moment of arrival.
A yellowy street-lamp ahead showed up the big double gate of the house. He recalled from his visit its peeling paint and the scraped gravel of the drive.
A clear picture had formed in his mind now. He saw Sir Rustomjee, tall, upright, wintry-faced, standing with legs firmly apart and the Rajah’s rifle in his hands. He heard him coldly utter a sentence of condemnation on moon-faced, blundering Desai. And then the shot. At close range there would be no need to shoulder and aim. It would be just a question of extending the blue-steel barrel and pressing the trigger.
He hurled himself at the big old peeling gate and forced it open. The huge tree beside the house darkened the garden in front to impenetrable blackness. He was forced to make his way towards where he remembered the big front door was almost on tiptoe, hands held out in front of him, his pace dead slow for all the snickers of increasing certainty striking at him in the stomach.
He stumbled over the steps up to the door at last. There seemed to be no lights in the front part of the big old house at all. But the red curtains he had noticed had been very thick. With out-stretched fingers he skimmed over the wall beside the door till he found the big bell push.
He put his thumb on the fat button and pressed and pressed.
CHAPTER IX
It was a long time before there was any sign of life in the big old house. But then quite suddenly-a light clicked on above Ghote’s head and simultaneously the tall front door swung open.
The Goan bearer he had seen before, smart and cosy in his good uniform, was there.
“Police,” Ghote said sharply. “Where is the sergeant who came two hours ago?”
The bearer bowed slightly.
“You were here yesterday, sahib,” he stated.
“Yes, yes. But my sergeant, where is he?”
“You say he called this evening, sahib?”
The politeness was insufferably calm.
“Yes. I told. Two hours ago. And he has not been seen since. Where is he?”
Ghote pushed past the man into the hall and looked almost frenziedly all round. The big house seemed empty, solid and tranquil.
Inspector Ghote Plays a Joker Page 10