Inspector Ghote Plays a Joker

by H. R. F. Keating

  “And-”

  But Sir Rustomjee stopped himself.

  “My dear Inspector.” he resumed almost at once, “you must forgive me. I am becoming a deplorable host. Will you take some refreshment ?"

  Ghote smiled a little,

  “No. thank you, sir,” he said. “I hardly feel I am guest. This is an official visit.”

  Sir Rustomjee inclined his white-haired head,

  “But all the same,” he said, “ a glass of lemonade?"

  “Thank you but I must not stay long," Ghote said.

  He waited for a little hoping that the old scientist would go back to whatever it was he had been going to say when he had interrupted himself. But he guessed it was a forlorn hope. The old man plainly would like to know more about how far the investigation had proceeded. And equally plainly he had decided not to ask.

  Ghote went back to his former line of questioning.

  “You were saying, Sir Rustomjee. that you did not at the time the incident occurred have the least idea who might be the perpetrator. But may I ask if you have subsequently formed any conclusions?"

  He waited for the answer like a hunter lying up on a machaan with a goat tethered at the foot of the tree below. He did not expect the answer to be a simple ‘Why, yes, I suspected the Rajah of Bhedwar' but he did hope that the manner in which it was given might betray something.

  "No," said Sir Rustomjee evenly. “No, as I told you, I have attempted to put the whole business right out of my mind.”

  There was nothing in the words to indicate anything. But the old man had paused, paused just a little long, before saying them.

  It was not much to go on. It might be only the chance effect of a hundred and one considerations that had nothing to do with the case—a spasm of indigestion even, the sudden remembering of another engagement, anything. But it was enough to make Ghote move on to the next stage in a now familiar process with a little more confidence.

  “I told you my investigations had made some progress,” he said.

  And again the wary flicker of interest appeared to reveal itself. Ghote longed to stride to the windows and push back the heavy red curtains to their utmost, to jerk aside the shading blinds. He would have liked to have had Sir Rustomjee under a glare of lights so as to detect the least tell-tale muscular movement. But he must continue to operate in the cross-shadowed gloom that he found himself in.

  “In fact,” he went on, “I think I can tell you that there is little doubt who was responsible for that hoax.”

  Now quite clearly Sir Rustomjee was forcing his face into a rigid blankness. There was nothing more to be gained by teasing him.

  “Shortly before the Rajah of Bhedwar’s death,” Ghote continued, “he admitted to me that he alone was the figure behind your affair and several others. Does that surprise you?”

  It certainly had not appeared to have done.

  Sir Rustomjee sighed gently.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, it does surprise me. My brother and I knew his father well in the old days. It was one of the most conservative princely families of India.”

  “So I understand,” Ghote replied. “But I believe also that the young Rajah was the very last of the line, cut off from all ties.”

  “Yes, that is so. I begin to see how it was possible that he did the things you mention. You are sure that it was he?”

  “You begin to see,” Ghote replied. “Tell me, please, what is it that makes you see?”

  Would Sir Rustomjee reveal a process of reasoning that he had in fact made much earlier, made while the Rajah was still alive?

  “I can-That is-Well, I scarcely know.”

  Sir Rustomjee, for the first time since Ghote had known him, was completely at a loss.

  “But you told you saw why the Rajah had fooled you,” Ghote said sharply.

  It was a mistake. Sir Rustomjee sat more straightly in his big red arm-chair.

  “Really, Inspector,” he said, “it would seem from your tone that you think you have a right to pry into my mental processes. I note that you have discovered who played that trick on me. But as I said earlier I am doing my best to put the whole thing out of my mind. So I cannot exactly thank you.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, his long thin body slightly bent.

  “And now I think I must ask you to leave,” he said.

  Ghote stood up in his turn. But he did not make any effort to go.

  “I am prying into your mental processes, Sir Rustomjee,” he said. “And the reason is simple. We are not certain why the Rajah of Bhedwar was shot, and it is at least highly probable that he was shot by someone he had played a cruel trick upon.”

  He expected a blaze of cold fire at this. But Sir Rustomjee actually smiled.

  “Inspector, it was stupid of me not to see that at once. But, to tell you the truth, my mind recently has not been working as it should. The edge is dulled, Inspector."

  Ghote refused to let himself show any compassion. If Sir Rustomjee had been bowled over so badly by the trick the Rajah had played on him, then he was all the more a possible murderer.

  “Sir Rustomjee," he said, “I must ask you to account for your movements on the evening of the day before yesterday."

  Sir Rustomjee looked at him.

  “And that is why you are here, is it, Inspector?" he said. “I see you have been a little disingenuous."

  It was a high-faluting word, and one which Ghote was never quite sure of the meaning of. He wondered whether Sir Rustomjee had chosen it half on purpose, to put him meanly at a disadvantage. But he knew what the general tenor of the remark had been.

  “A police officer has certain duties," he said, very stiffly. “He has to consider the best means of carrying them out."

  “My dear Inspector, I perfectly understand. I—I was thinking aloud a little, I confess. All this has come as a surprise."

  Playing for time, Ghote thought.

  “Yes, sir," he said blankly. “And your movements at the time in question?"

  Sir Rustomjee smiled his weary smile.

  “You must allow me a few moments, Inspector," he said.

  “We ordinary people do not carry a list of our movements about in our heads in case we are questioned by the police, you know.”

  “That is a common feeling, sir,' Ghote replied. “But nevertheless if you begin thinking, it will very quickly come back to you.”

  “Yes, no doubt.”

  And then Sir Rustomjee shut his eyes.

  Ghote experienced a quick spark of annoyance. It was typical of this sort of person. Very well, he had invited him to think. But calmly, and insolently, to shut his eyes in that fashion.

  “Well, Sir Rustomjee?" he said sharply.

  The eyes, below their heavy rampart of brow, opened suddenly.

  “Yes," Sir Rustomjee said. “I was here, in this house. Probably in this room. No. No, not in this room."

  He had added the last few words with a sudden hurry. Ghote pounced.

  “Not in this room? Why do you say that?”

  “Because I was not in here, Inspector."

  The words were calm, studiedly calm. Ghote accepted a defeat.

  “Then where were you, sir?" he asked stolidly.

  “In my own room, Inspector.”

  Sir Rustomjee leaned forward as if for emphasis.

  “You may find it curious,” he said, “that I should not have spent the evening in this well-furnished comfortable room in the house my family own.”

  Ghote sat unmoving.

  “Yes," Sir Rustomjee went on, as Ghote had known he would. “Yes, you might find that odd, at first sight. But it is perfectly simple really, Inspector. I have always tended to be a lone bird, you know. I like to be on my own to think. And Homi is an excellent fellow, but he will chat.”

  Ghote felt a creeping sense of disappointment. Was all that was worrying Sir Rustomjee merely the necessity to account for his not having spent the evening with his own brother when they were both
in the same house? Some people could afford the luxury of fine feelings.

  “So what you are telling,” he said, a little irritatedly, “is that you spent the evening in your room, while your brother happened to be in here.”

  “No. Oh, no.”

  Sir Rustomjee sounded positively dismayed. What on earth was all this about? Again he waited for Sir Rustomjee to make matters worse.

  “No, Inspector. We were both up in my room. That is what I have not sufficiently explained to you. The room is my bedroom, of course, but it is also, if you like, my private sitting-room. Chairs. Chairs, you know, and so forth.”

  And now Sir Rustomjee was waiting for him.

  “I see,” Ghote said. “You and your brother spent the evening together up in your room?”

  “Yes. Yes, exactly.”

  Well, it was a perfectly good explanation, and Sir Rustomjee had provided himself with an excellent alibi.

  Why then had he insisted on saying so much? Ghote decided he would not leave the loose-end dangling.

  “But why was it, then,” he asked, “that you did not both sit down here, in this most comfortable and delightful room, if you were happy on this occasion to listen to your brother chat?”

  And Sir Rustomjee was positively nonplussed. He failed to answer for some while. He opened his mouth and said nothing. He licked along the edge of his top lip, almost furtively. At last he broke out in a sudden spasm of petulance.

  “Really, Inspector. Cannot a man sit where he likes in his own home? We happened to spend the evening in my room. I told you there are chairs there. Chairs. Why should my brother and I not be in there as well as here?”

  He stared challengingly at Ghote. And it was certainly a question which Ghote could not answer. Why not indeed? If you had a house with plenty of rooms in it, with chairs in them, then why should you not sit here and there as the fancy took you?

  “No reason, no reason at all, Sir Rustomjee,” he said.

  He stood up, feeling the light sweat that had sprung up down his back cooling with the sudden movement.

  “Well, thank you, sir,” he said. “You have been most kind in answering all my questions. Most helpful. You realise, I hope, that they had to be asked?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Sir Rustomjee replied, all affability now. “And there is nothing more I can do for you? Nothing more I can tell you?”

  “No, no,” Ghote said. “No, I do not think so. Thank you.”

  It was difficult to say which of them seemed more pleased that they were parting on friendly terms.

  “Then I’ll just see you out, my dear fellow,” Sir Rustomjee said.

  He made for the door. But before he had got there it was quietly opened. The youngish, smart Goan bearer stood there.

  “Excuse, sahib,” he said to Sir Rustomjee. “There is a telephone call. For this gentleman.”

  He inclined his head in Ghote’s direction.

  “A telephone call. Ah, yes. Yes,” said Sir Rustomjee.

  He turned to Ghote.

  “Well, I’ll say good-bye, my dear fellow,” he said. “Felix will show you where the phone is and all that.”

  “Good-bye, Sir Rustomjee. And thank you again.”

  Ghote followed the bearer out. He was led to another room on the ground floor, a smaller one than the shaded drawing-room, evidently some sort of a study to judge by the big old-fashioned roll-top desk that stood against one wall. It was open, but the assorted papers on it looked dusty as if the room was little used. There were, however, three comfortable-looking brown leather arm-chairs, Ghote noticed. If Sir Rustomjee had a fancy to sit somewhere else than in his drawing-room he had plenty of choice, it seemed.

  On a curious shelved piece of furniture opposite the desk the telephone was standing with the receiver lying beside it. He picked it up and darted a look at Felix.

  The bearer bowed slightly and went out.

  Ghote picked up the receiver.

  “Inspector Ghote speaking.”

  It was Headquarters. A message from D.S.P. Naik. This was the duty sergeant.

  “Yes? What is it, Sergeant?”

  “The D.S.P. would like you to go out to Juhu Beach straight away, Inspector. A man called Lal Dass has been arrested there. A hathayogi. He is at Ville Parle police station.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  Ghote, driving along the wide road following the coast northwards at a fair speed, though nothing like as fast as he would have liked, wished he had been able to find out more about this arrest of Lal Dass. But the duty sergeant had been able to tell him practically nothing.

  Leaving the select Breach Candy swimming baths behind to his left and approaching the highly unselect great bulk of the Mahalaxmi Temple, he asked himself: Why Juhu? What on earth was Lal Dass doing there ? He had left him comfortably installed—no, highly uncomfortably—on the beach not far ahead of where he was now at Worli. It was a good six miles farther before you got to Juhu. Why had Lal Dass gone there ? It was not as though the favourite sands of the wealthier Bombayites were the sort of place that the hathayogi would be at home in.

  On the other hand you could never tell with a religious figure like that.

  The main road took him a little inland at Worli at the point where he had had that unsatisfactory interview with Lal Dass crouching under that damned awning. Luckily there was less and less traffic with every half mile. He could begin to make some real progress.

  Mahim and the long bridge across the creek to Bandra. Three miles to go now. He turned, feeling more cheerful to state this obvious fact to Desai, sitting slumped and mercifullv silent beside him.

  Desai was asleep.

  And at last, down to his left a glimpse of the enormous stretch of the sands through gaps between houses and beyond a fringe of tall palms. And now a turn right, and here was Ville Parle police station.

  He left Desai where he was—guarding the truck, you could call it—and walked straight in.

  “Ghote,” he said to the man at the desk. “Inspector, C.I.D.”

  The man’s face broke into a smile, half simple greeting, and half something else which Ghote did not quite like. A touch maliceful, as if there was something decidedly amusing in the situation. But he was quick to point out the office Ghote wanted.

  “Inspector Gadgil is waiting for you, Inspector.”

  Gadgil. Ghote’s heart sank. Was he involved in this too? Another encounter with the little swagger-stick flourishing figure who had locked poor ageing Captain Harbaksh Singh in the Rajah’s lavatory was hardly welcome.

  What would his attitude be now?

  He knocked on the office door.

  “Come. Come,” a voice barked out.

  Wearily Ghote went in.

  “Ah, Inspector, glad you could get here,” Gadgil said, bouncing up from behind a meticulously laid-out desk.

  They shook hands.

  So far so good, Ghote thought pessimistically.

  “Well, Inspector,” he said, “you will have to put me in the picture. I got the most short report from Headquarters only. I was out on an investigation.”

  A peace offering of this sort might not come amiss.

  Inspector Gadgil sat neatly back in his chair. The swagger-stick lay, precisely placed, on the desk in front of him near the front edge.

  “Take a seat Inspector. Please take a seat,” he said.

  Ghote sat on the battered little cane arm-chair he saw and waited.

  “I made the arrest personally," Inspector Gadgil began. “I was informed by the constable making the routine patrol I had ordered that there was an intruder in the Rajah of Bhedwar—in the ex-Rajah of Bhedwar’s bungalow.”

  “In the bungalow?” Ghote said, unable to conceal his surprise.

  “Yes, yes. I had given strict orders that a patrol was to inspect the building at intervals of not less than two hours. You get all sorts of unwelcome people about after a case like this, the Press, sightseers.”

  Gadgil twitched his little black brush o
f a moustache with distaste.

  “And your patrol reported Lal Dass was actually inside the shack?” Ghote said, with a hint of sharpness.

  “In the back shed. In occupancy. And so of course I immediately went along there in person and effected the arrest.”

  On a murder charge? Again? The thought appalled Ghote. Tentatively he set about discovering whether it was true.

  “You arrested him and charged him?” he said.

  “Yes. I brought in a charge of unlawful entry,” Gadgil replied.

  He rubbed his hands together in front of him. The dry skin of his palms made a brisk rustling noise.

  “But of course,” he added, “that was only in the nature of a holding charge.”

  “A holding charge?”

  “I left it to you to make the formal charge of murder under Section 201.”

  “Thank you,” Ghote said.

  “Just as well for me not to get involved at the stage of giving evidence,” Gadgil replied. “Plenty to do out here, you know, without having to spend days waiting to go into the box.”

  “Did you- Did you ask Lal Dass what he was doing at the shack ?” Ghote asked,

  “Certainly not. That was hardly my province.”

  “But it is mine?”

  Ghote stood up.

  “And I think,” he said, “that I will go and carry it out.”

  : : : :

  Lal Dass was sitting on the floor of the bare cell in what looked exactly the attitude he had sat in on the beach at Worli. He looked no different in any way. Even in the poor light coming through the tiny square of barred window high up in the far wall of the cell his skin could be seen to glisten smoothly. His face was uncreased by the slightest suspicion of a frown.

  “Lal Dass,” Ghote began formally.

  The hathayogi did look up.

  “You will recall me,” Ghote said. “I am Inspector Ghote of the Bombay C.I.D. and I am inquiring into the circumstances of the death of the Rajah of Bhedwar.”

  Lai Dass’s big, limpid eyes were on him though he did not speak.

  “Earlier this evening,” Ghote said, “you were found at the late Rajah’s bungalow near here at Juhu Beach. Did vou have any right to be there?”

  “Yes,” said Lai Dass.