Inspector Ghote Plays a Joker

by H. R. F. Keating

  “Precisely. Not a thing.”

  Ram Kamdar smiled with a great flash of white teeth.

  “Well, it is quite simple,” Ghote said. “You know of course that the Rajah of Bhedwar has been shot?”

  “I heard that you were on that case, when I was in touch with your Headquarters on a routine conditioning mission. But I wondered whether this was a mere subfunction, or whether it indicated the other business had been brought to a conclusion.”

  Ghote shook his head clear.

  “The fact is that the Rajah was responsible for the jokes,” he said. “He was the man who shot the Minister’s flamingoes.”

  “Oh, good work,” Ram Kamdar said, looking patently surprised. “The Rajah, eh? Now who would have guessed it?”

  “Unfortunately,” Ghote went on, “we could not obtain the necessary evidence to bring a successful prosecution.”

  “Ah, probably better not in any case,” Ram Kamdar said. “Much better not, I’d say. Could cause an altogether unwanted shift in environment.”

  “Yes,” said Ghote.

  He looked at the P.R.O., leaning happily back in his plump chair, puffing idly at his cigarette. He appeared to be in a reflective mood. Ghote began wishing he was over at Malabar Hill talking to Sir Rustomjee Currimbhoy. The joker business was finished now.

  “Yes,” Ram Kamdar said, musingly, “we shall have to ponder just how this altogether novel element in the situation is to be presented. There are tricky considerations here and there.”

  Ghote began to push himself out of the low arm-chair.

  “Well, that is your job, I suppose,” he said. “And I have-”

  “No. One moment, my dear fellow. Your help may be necessary. This situation has at present a high novelty-factor for me. Until I’ve made a bit of a motivation study I don’t know whether there’ll be anything more I’ll need to know.”

  Ghote resigned himself to a wait. But he wished all the same that he was at this moment in that preserved, dark-shaded drawing-room in the Currimbhoys’ old house.

  Ram Kamdar stubbed out his cigarette in a heavy brass ash-tray, also dedicated to the encouragement of some branch of handcraft. He reached for the big carved box and pushed it towards Ghote, with a lift of an eyebrow behind the tinted glasses.

  “Thank you, I do not smoke,” Ghote said stiffly.

  “No. No, of course not. Do you mind if I do?”

  “Certainly not.” .

  A tiny sweat of impatience sprang up on Ghote’s tensely held palms.

  Ram Kamdar lit up and savoured a deep puff.

  “Now the situation as I see it,” he said, “is this: we know now who was responsible for that act of wanton destruction which so properly enraged the Minister, and-”

  He paused, propped his cigarette in the ash-tray and went off on a new tack.

  “Old Bunny Baindur,” he said. “Extraordinary. You’re quite sure?”

  “I am perfectly convinced. But there is no possibility of obtaining formal evidence,” Ghote stated.

  “Old Bunny, eh? There certainly weren’t any behavourial indications. I knew him, you know. Only the merest acquaintanceship, of course.”

  “We met in his party at the water-walk,” Ghote said.

  “Oh, yes, so we did. So we did.”

  Ram Kamdar leant forward across the glass top of his huge glossy desk.

  “That water-walk,” he said, “was that-”

  “Yes,” Ghote said, “it was. And now, Mr. Kamdar.”

  He stood up.

  Ram Kamdar stood up. But he waved Ghote down.

  “Now, it’s Ram, my dear fellow. Ram. We agreed on it, my dear Gopal.”

  “Ganesh.”

  “My dear Ganesh. Now please sit down and help me out on this one. What we must get is a clear consensus before I even think of going to the Minister.”

  But Ghote did not sit down.

  “I regret,” he said. “I have been assigned to a murder inquiry. Full-out work is absolutely necessary. I must go. Now.”

  Ram Kamdar looked shocked behind the big whiteframed dark glasses. Ghote turned on his heel and walked straight out.

  : : : :

  When Ghote got out to the truck again it was to be greeted by a studiedly woebegone Desai. He made up his mind to ignore him. No doubt he was resenting being told to sit tight and keep his mouth shut. But there were limits to the amount of tactfulness it was possible to show to a subordinate. It had to be made quite clear that his heavy-footedness simply made him unsuitable for almost every task that might come his way.

  “We are going to the Currimbhoy house now,” Ghote said flatly. “I shall have to question Sir Rustomjee. You will stay outside in the truck. I may need you later, in case a question of checking alibis with the servants arises.”

  Desai gave him a long look.

  “Well, man,” Ghote snapped, “have you understood those simple instructions, or not?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  Ghote started the engine and eased the truck forward to the edge of the maelstrom of traffic in Mayo Road.

  Desai coughed. He coughed very loudly. If he had held up a placard with the words “Please listen” scrawled on it, he could hardly have signalled to Ghote more clearly.

  Ghote leant forward and peered at the jostling stream of cars, bicycles and lorries.

  Desai coughed again.

  “Bloody traffic,” Ghote said. “If you do not grab your first chance you can be stuck here for hours.”

  Desai fell silent. But not for long. They still had not got out into the road when he spoke.

  “Inspector.”

  “Quiet, man. Surely you can see I am looking at the traffic?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  So he wants sympathy, Ghote thought savagely. Well, he can want. I have better things to do just now than to make things nice and comfortable for someone who does not deserve it.

  A tiny gap appeared in the stream of cars in front. Ghote took his foot off the clutch and surged forward. The truck got its nose out into the roadway and stalled.

  “Damn,” Ghote snapped.

  He tugged at the starter. The truck failed to respond. Oncoming cars had to halt. Behind them drivers started banging at the sides of their vehicles. One incautious individual even used the forbidden horn.

  Like magic a traffic policeman appeared, yellow cap jammed on his head, buttons hard rubbed till they glinted, blue trousers sharply creased, black sandals gleaming with polish. He was all ready to enjoy himself with a torrent of abuse.

  Then he saw who it was causing the hold-up. His face fell.

  Ghote got the engine to life. The jam he had created had at least ensured him a clear run on the other side. It was not the direction he had meant to go but he took it.

  “Going round a back way then, Inspector?” Desai asked, with immense interest.

  “I am going to the Currimbhoy house,” Ghote said icily.

  From the corner of his eye he saw the woebegone look had come back to Desai’s dark face with renewed intensity. Well, let him look. If all he could think of to say was a fatuous remark like that, then silence was infinitely preferable.

  He swung round the corner to get back to his route to Malabar Hill. And there, spreadeagled right across the narrower road, was a huge lorry from the back of beyond somewhere with “Public Carrier” on a board over the cab and the driver and his cleaner out in the roadway staring up at their monster in bewilderment.

  Ghote braked and quickly stuck his head out of the window to see what was happening behind him. What was happening was that a little stream of traffic that had followed his truck evidently in the blind hope that it was on to a good way of dodging a jam, was piling up in the narrow road. There was not the least chance of turning and extricating himself. He glared at the huge bulk of the lorry at right angles to them.

  Desai laughed, a silly, sort of choked laugh.

  “Just by the rear entrance to our own building, Inspector,” he said. “
Way in to the canteen.”

  “Suppose you get out and start putting the fear of God into those two, Sergeant?” Ghote said in his most biting tone.

  Really, when things had gone wrong, to start making idiot remarks about the Headquarters building.

  Dolefully Desai jumped down and began shouting at the men in charge of the huge lorry. They, of course, promptly began shouting back. And it became clear almost at once that the driver, a little slightly hunch-backed man in a torn but very gaudy shirt and dirty brown shorts, was a great deal more expert at a slanging match than poor, confused Desai.

  Ghote thrust his head out of the window of the truck again.

  “All right, Sergeant," he called. “Let them get on with it.”

  Desai seemed glad of an excuse to retreat.

  “Yes, sir, Inspector," he shouted as if he was in charge of some giant parade and had just been asked to move off by the right. He marched back to the truck and climbed in with a patently ridiculous air of dignity.

  Ghote sighed and turned away a little to indicate that he was not going to join in a conversation however much Desai wanted.

  The sergeant did, for once, get the point. He sat in silent gloom.

  Then, noisy as a shunting engine in the shut-off quietness of the driving cab, Desai’s stomach began to rumble. It rumbled loud, long and continuously.

  And at once Ghote realised what the trouble had been: the man was hungry. He had had no lunch, and it was late. Come to that, he was really pretty hungry himself. And he had put all Desai’s hints down to a need for a little conversation.

  He turned to him now.

  “Come on, Sergeant," he said. “As you point out, we can be up in the canteen from here in less than a minute. Sir Rustomjee can wait half an hour.”

  It was the nearest to an apology he could reach.

  CHAPTER XIII

  It was, in fact, more than half an hour before they set out for the Currimbhoy house on Malabar Hill once again. Ghote had encountered D.S.P. Naik. It was just as he was leaving the canteen. The D.S.P. unexpectedly came bustling along the corridor towards him. He ought to have been at his own lunch. The lunches of D.S.P.s did not take place in the canteen and they did not last just half an hour. But instead here he was. Ghote would have preferred not to have seen him: since he had had Sgt. Desai foisted on to him in that extraordinarily irresponsible way he had developed a resolve to steer clear of D.S.P. Naik in any and every way he could.

  He tried to pass with a distant nod of respectful greeting.

  “Ah, Inspector," the D.S.P. said, pouncingly.

  “Yes, D.S.P.?"

  “Just the man."

  “Yes, sir?"

  No escape now. The D.S.P. was looking at him hard. But perhaps this was to be only an inquiry about his health. D.S.P. Naik was notorious for the morbid interest he took in other people's bodily afflictions.

  “Case going all right, Inspector?"

  That could be parried all right.

  “Yes, D.S.P. Still a lot of work to do, however. I am just going to interview Sir Rustomjee Currimbhoy."

  A crumb of hard information always was useful. The D.S.P. looked vague as soon as he was given it: he plainly did not want to get further involved.

  “And your sergeant. Inspector?” he said. “Er—what’s-his-name?”

  “Sergeant Desai, sir,” Ghote replied, allowing himself a touch of grimness.

  “That’s the chappie. Making good progress?”

  Suddenly Ghote decided to take the bull by the horns.

  “No, sir. No, D.S.P. I regret he is not. I had meant to speak to you, sir, on the subject as soon as opportunity arose. To tell the truth, sir, I find him a hindrance in my duties.”

  The D.S.P.’s round face with its little tab of soft black moustache went more and more distant with every word. By the time Ghote had finished he might have been at the other end of a long telephone line. And from this distance a small dry voice spoke.

  “It’s your duty, Inspector, to see that the men put into your care are given some responsible training. I don’t allocate you a sergeant solely to let you take the weight off your feet: I place a man under your guidance so that he can learn the ropes. And if he fails to do that, Inspector, I shall want to know the reason why.”

  And the D.S.P. turned on his heel and stamped away.

  It was only ten minutes later when, with Desai softly humming a film song in the truck beside him as they ran rapidly towards Malabar Hill, that Ghote realised that the D.S.P. had been coming towards him when they had met in the corridor. If that was so, why had he turned and left in the other direction? The answer must be that he had a bad conscience.

  And the sole result of that had been that he himself had got into the D.S.P.’s bad books.

  “Sergeant,” he said, “I trust that appalling humming sound will cease when we go into the house?”

  “But I thought you want me to stay outside, Inspector.” “Very well. If you come into the house.”

  Ghote brought the truck to a halt, and this time he made the brakes scream.

  When the same Goan bearer he had seen before opened the front door to his ring he thought he detected the faintest expression of disapproval on his face at this noisy arrival. He brusquely asked to see Sir Rustomjee.

  He did not have long to wait in the cool, dim, stiff-with-furniture drawing-room, shaded and dark even in the afternoon glare, before Sir Rustomjee appeared.

  “Ah, my dear Inspector,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  To Ghote, watching him with all the alertness he could muster, he appeared not a whit different from the earlier occasion they had met. He decided to try the same tactics he had used with Anil Bedekar.

  “It is a small thing only, Sir Rustomjee, and I was doubtful even about coming, since the last time I was here was with the Rajah of Bhedwar.”

  Sir Rustomjee’s grave face remained calm.

  “That was certainly a terrible affair,” he said. “Tell me, has your department come to any conclusions about it?” “Nothing which I know about,” Ghote replied. “Had you heard the full circumstances?”

  Sir Rustomjee shook his head in courtly negative.

  “I simply read a short account in the paper,” he said. All right, Ghote thought, we will try our little test.

  “It is all a mystery still, I believe,” he said. “He was there in the grounds of the Sun ’n Sand Hotel, Juhu.”

  Sir Rustomjee was listening intently, but not the faintest sign of surprise or disagreement disturbed his long face with the deep-sunk eyes.

  “Was it some sort of assault?” he asked. “One hears these stories of goondas lying in wait for people they suspect of carrying large sums."

  There was nothing at all to indicate whether this was the concerned question of a polite man or a calm bluff. Ghote sighed inwardly.

  “No," he said. “It was a case of shooting. The Rajah was shot at from a distance and killed."

  “I see," said Sir Rustomjee gravely. “What sort of a weapon was this then?"

  And there was perhaps something in the tone of the question that did not quite ring right. Sir Rustomjee seemed to want to know the answer too much. But it was difficult to be certain about such things. He was after all a man of unfailing politeness.

  “The weapon seems to have been a light sporting rifle," Ghote replied.

  “Oh, yes?"

  And this time Ghote was certain that, even in the quiet light of the big furniture-filled room he had seen Sir Rustomjee's right hand, thin and long-fingered, tense for a single moment.

  Then the Parsi scientist smiled a little.

  “But what was it you wanted to see me about?" he asked.

  “It is still the matter of the hoax that was played at your laboratory," Ghote said.

  Sir Rustomjee stiffened. If there had been doubt over his reactions to talk about the Rajah’s death, there could be no doubt about this reaction now.

  “Inspector," he said,
“I do not wish to be discourteous. But, quite simply, I have said all I am prepared to say on that matter."

  Ghote stiffened.

  “I must remind you that there is such a thing as Article 179 of the Indian Penal Code," he said. “It is offence to refuse to answer a public servant authorised to question.”

  Sir Rustomjee’s long, oval face took on its look of unflagging politeness.

  “My dear Inspector,” he said, “let us sit down and discuss this like reasonable men.”

  He indicated a high-backed, red plush-covered chair. Ghote sat. But he would not let himself sink back into the creaking, comfortable depths. Sir Rustomjee, however, lowering himself into a similar chair nearby, crossed his legs in apparent comfort.

  Ghote returned to his questioning.

  “Sir Rustomjee, can you tell me if there was ever anyone whom you suspected as being the perpetrator of that senseless joke?”

  The blank screen over the deep-set eyes seemed to harden. But Sir Rustomjee considered the question with care. “No,” he said at length. “No, there was no one.”

  “You thought about it at the time?”

  “Yes. Yes I did.”

  “And some name, or names, came into your mind?”

  Sir Rustomjee shook his head.

  “No,” he answered. “At first, naturally perhaps, the question ‘Who had done this to me?’ presented itself burningly enough. But at every turn I came up against a complete blank, and very soon I realised that there was no point in asking the question. I came to the conclusion, in fact, that I must put the whole thing out of my mind.” He smiled. The winter smile of a piece of statuary. “That is why I was disinclined to go into the matter again with you, Inspector,” he said.

  Ghote bowed his head in some acknowledgement. “Unfortunately there appear to have been other people involved in .similar incidents,” he said, “It is for them that my investigation must continue.”

  “And you are making some progress?"

  There was a sudden note of wariness in the old man's voice. Ghote forced himself to betray no sign that he had detected it.

  “Yes,” he said cautiously. “Yes, I think I can say that I have made progress.”