Go West, Inspector Ghote

by H. R. F. Keating

  Fred Hoskins’ boom recalled him to what lay ahead. The hammering music had abruptly ceased.

  He looked out of the huge car’s ever-closed windows. They had slid to the kerb outside a tall glass tower of an office block. By ducking and twisting his head he could see it climb and climb into the smog-greyed sky.

  And not five yards away at the side of the glossily impressive marble portal of the building there was a large brass plaque on which were incised simply the two words Lansing Realty.

  Ghote felt a sickening sense of opportunity wasted. He had been sitting with nothing to do in the car for exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes, and he had failed altogether to bring his mind to bear on the problem that lay like a great ironstone boulder across his path, the mystery of the missing knife. He had allowed Fred Hoskins’ music to beat him.

  He was not even ready for the interview that lay ahead.

  “Fred,” he said, succumbing to a temptation, “you have made very, very good time, but are we too late? Will Mr. Bradfield Lansing be here to receive us?”

  “It’s not even a quarter to five. An American business executive will still be at his desk.”

  Was that really so? There were Bombay businessmen who came to the office at half past ten in the morning, left early for lunch at the club, came back from lunch late, and were soon away again, heading for the golf course. On the other hand, there were other Bombay businessmen, those whose offices were often no more than a low-ceilinged room above a small factory or at the back of a shop, where under creaking fans they spent hour after hour from early morning to late at night at their cash-books.

  Were all American businessmen, in contrast to this diversity, as total slaves to designated office hours as Fred Hoskins had stated? Perhaps when they entered this great glass tower of a building they would find out.

  Already the fellow was out of the car.

  Ghote hastily scrambled to join him on the sidewalk. He felt yet more unready to tackle the real-estate tycoon.

  “Fred,” he said, “even if Mr. Bradfield Lansing is at his desk, why would he consent to see me?”

  The mountainous private eye turned towards him.

  “Gan boy,” he said, “you have the privilege of being accompanied by a licensed private investigator of the state of California. And I’ll present my credentials to the gentleman we want to interview. A California businessman, I assure you, will appreciate the work carried out by the licensed private investigators of the state. He’ll give us an interview, Gan boy, don’t worry.”

  He will not, Ghote said to himself in a spurt of perverse rebellion. I will take a bet with myself that we do not, just because Fred Hoskins is a licensed private eye, get to see the head of Lansing Realty.

  “Yes, Fred,” he said. “Shall we go in?”

  Side by side they climbed the broad steps to the massive entrance, passed through its tall, opened aluminum doors, walked across a lofty lobby and took the elevator to the thirtieth floor—how swift, how silent it was. Did it ever have a notice on it saying OUT OF ORDER?—where, it appeared, Lansing Realty’s particular share of this great glass tower began.

  When they got out they found themselves in another lobby where, behind a long black marble reception-counter, a girl was sitting, one long leg crossed over the other, as impressive and antiseptic as the polished stone in front of her.

  Fred Hoskins marched across, took out his wallet from his back pocket, extracted from that a large white card, scrawled a few words on it and asked the girl to send it “at your earliest convenience” to Mr. Bradfield Lansing, Senior.

  A little to Ghote’s surprise the girl, when she had glanced at the card, picked up the pale green telephone at her elbow and spoke urgently into it in a deliberately low voice. He wished he could make out what she was saying.

  But he was not left long in suspense. He had not had time to reach the long leather sofa on the far side of the lobby when the girl’s voice, loud and clear now, broke the softly humming silence.

  “Mr. Lansing will see you directly. His personal office is at Floor Thirty-five.”

  So he had lost that wager with himself. An American business executive, it seemed, was to be found at his desk until the very end of business hours, and a licensed private investigator of the state of California did have some divine claim to obtain an interview on request.

  Fred Hoskins had been right.

  FOURTEEN

  The man’s office was overwhelming. Ghote, in its doorway, was for a moment unable to take a step forward. He stood, convinced for that fraction of time that he had been transported back through all the hours of his long, disorienting flight from India to California and that he had been physically displaced, too, from Los Angeles back to Bombay.

  Displaced to an overwhelming office at the top of a tall building where, as here, a man sat behind an immense carved, dragon-disporting desk separated from the door by two vast carpets, light in colour, ready to be smirched at the touch of a shoe, fields as well for the writhing play of guardian dragons. To an office where, as here, the walls were all window, and the windows were concealed by pale slatted blinds, themselves half-hidden by rich green foliage lushly growing in great earthenware pots or fat sagging baskets.

  He pulled himself sharply together. No, he was in Los Angeles, conducting an inquiry on which perhaps his own career depended, and which was going to end, must end, in the exposure of a diabolical trick.

  Yet, despite the fact that the man in the tall, studded chair behind the huge desk bore a distinct resemblance to young Brad Lansing, he almost said to him, “Good afternoon, Mr. Ranjee Shahani, sir.”

  But Fred Hoskins, Fred Hoskins who had triumphed in predicting the ease with which they would get this interview, was already trampling forward over the first of the two huge pale carpets. Ghote made sure that by the time they had reached the great glossy dragon-writhing table-desk they were marching shoulder to shoulder.

  “Mr. Lansing,” Fred Hoskins boomed as they arrived, “you already know who I am and also, no doubt, the fact that I am here with information concerning your son, Bradfield Lansing, Junior. I’m here to tell you that he’s deeply involved in the case of the murdered swami, which you will be familiar with from your hourly news bulletins.”

  Brad’s father—that look-alike face, Ghote saw now, was fired by a different, tougher seriousness and was leathery-dry where the son’s was pale—looked at the tall, belly-jutting detective with shrewd, hard eyes.

  “Mr.—er—Hoskins,” he said, “I can give you just three minutes. What is it you have to tell me about Brad?”

  “What I have to inform you of,” Fred Hoskins replied, not at all subdued by his reception, “can best be communicated by the gentleman I have brought here with me.”

  He swung round to Ghote.

  “Mr. Lansing, I have the honour to present one of the most eminent investigators in the Indian hemisphere, Inspector Goat, of Bombay, India. He is collaborating with myself and the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department in the solution of the case in which your unfortunate son is mixed up.”

  “Inspector?” Bradfield Lansing said, a note of considerable respect for such top-brass police showing itself in his voice. “Inspector. Well, I am extremely glad to meet you, sir, and to hear you’re interesting yourself in my hippie son.”

  Ghote decided he would not divest himself of the dignity Fred Hoskins had brashly bestowed on him.

  “Mr. Lansing,” he answered, rounding out his tones as much as he could, “you are busy and I would try not to keep you long. But it is true, as you have heard, that your son is possibly under suspicion of murder. So if you would be so good as to answer a few questions for me, it would undoubtedly assist him.”

  The long, leathery face on the far side of the huge, gleaming carved desk took on a plainly sour look.

  “I don’t know whether I’m prepared to go very far to get that hippie out of a hole. He’s opposed me in everything he could since he was thirteen years o
ld. I’ve told him he was going to hell, and now he’s there, I’m not so sure he shouldn’t stay.”

  “But, Mr. Lansing, he is your son.”

  “Right. He is. My only son. But, goddammit, I’d rather see every cent of all this”—a swift wave of the hand embraced huge table-desk, sombre gold cigar-box on it, dragon-sporting carpets, green jungle tapestry of house-plants, the whole tall glass building—“all this go to the state of California when I pass on rather than into his pockets.”

  “Mr. Lansing, tell me please, is your son aware of the sentiments you have expressed?”

  Brad’s father gave a little grunt by way of a laugh.

  “If he isn’t,” he said, “it’s certainly not my fault. And he’s often enough had the cheek to tell me he doesn’t want any of my money. What’s money for, I ask you, if not to hand on to those who bear your name when the day comes. Long may it be.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Fred Hoskins with enthusiasm.

  “But, Mr. Lansing,” Ghote put in quickly, “have you any proof of what you have said?”

  “Proof?” The hard eyes in the leathery, long face considered for an instant. “Yes, sir. I’ve proof enough if you need it. I’ve had that conversation with the boy in front of his mother. I’ve had it here in the office in front of my secretary. I’ve even had it in front of the Mex servants. Mr.—Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, that boy is mad. Mad and bad.”

  “So there is no question,” Ghote said quietly, “of your having asked him to assist you in securing the land upon which the ashram stands?”

  “There is hell—”

  Bradfield Lansing brought himself to a sudden halt. Ghote caught one sharp, shrewd look in his eyes. Then he saw him draw in a long breath.

  “Inspector,” he said at last, and very slowly, “I guess I don’t altogether understand what it is you’re driving at. How come, for instance, you have such a particular interest in the ashram? As I recall, the—the guy in charge there was killed less than twenty-four hours ago. Has the Indian Government got some special concern about the case? Have they had you flown out here already?”

  Ghote cursed inwardly. If Bradfield Lansing was going to challenge his right to ask questions, he would not have a leg to stand on. And if the necessary questions were not put, then the prospects of clearing up the mystery of the swami’s death would be solidly blocked.

  What to do?

  He was still hesitating when an unexpected ally came crashing to his side.

  “Mr. Lansing,” Fred Hoskins clattered out, “Inspector Goat is in close collaboration with myself, and I am, as you are aware, a licenced private investigator of the state of California.”

  “So the girl in the front office said,” Bradfield Lansing answered, his face unmoving.

  But, Ghote saw, his right hand slid along the underside of his huge carved desk. It was a fair bet that it had touched a concealed bell-push.

  “Yes, sir,” Fred Hoskins was saying, “a licenced investigator. And I am in process of investigating a matter of the very gravest importance, so I would be greatly obliged if you would answer my questions.”

  Bradfield Lansing’s eyes rested on him for a moment. Then he spoke.

  “Well? What questions do you have?”

  Fred Hoskins drew in a massive breath.

  “I—I would like to ask—that is—that is, I prefer these questions be asked by my Hindu colleague, Inspector Goat.”

  “And if I’m not willing to answer questions from a person with no standing in the matter?”

  “Then—then—”

  But Fred Hoskins was saved from finding a fearful enough penalty for such a response by the sound of the door opening at the distant end of the enormous office.

  Bradfield Lansing’s secretary was there.

  “Mr. Lansing,” she said, cool and efficient in every syllable, “it’s time for your Jacuzzi.”

  Ghote failed to understand the meaning of the sentence. But he very well understood why it had been said. Bradfield Lansing, under unexpected pressure over his land deal at the ashram, had secured his retreat.

  And, with that realisation, a sharp and angry determination jetted up inside him. There were questions he must ask this man, questions that very well might clear a path through to a solution of the intolerable mystery that confronted him. He was not going to let those questions go unasked.

  “Mr. Lansing,” he said, “I am not at all understanding what is a Jacuzzi, nor how important it is that it cannot wait. But there are matters which you must answer. If you do not answer them to me now, then you will have to answer them to Lieutenant Foster of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department later.”

  The long face, only a shade paler than its background of the tall, glowingly polished leather chair, looked at him in silent thought.

  “You’re collaborating with this Lieutenant Foster, are you?”

  Ghote guessed the question was asked more in order to stall for time than for information.

  “Lieutenant Foster has requested me to give him such assistance as I am able to,” he said firmly.

  “Yeah.”

  Bradfield Lansing fell silent again.

  Ghote looked him straight in the eye across the expanse of his huge, swirlingly carved desk.

  At last the realtor moved a little in his tall chair.

  “Okay,” he said. “You want to ask me questions, I’ll listen. If it saves me a session with the Sheriff’s Department I’m happy. But I really do have to get into that Jacuzzi pretty soon. Will you join me?”

  “Please, what is this Jacuzzi?” Ghote said, not restraining the suspiciousness he felt.

  Bradfield Lansing had slipped out of his imposing chair and was coming round the big desk to them.

  “Come and see for yourself, Inspector,” he said. “It’s up on the roof. We’ll take my private elevator.”

  Without waiting for an answer he set out across the two enormous dragon-covered carpets. Ghote paused an instant, then followed him.

  A minute later they were out on the roof.

  At once Ghote realised that they were above the level of the smog. Warm sunshine struck on his shoulders and he looked up to see a sky of deep, delightful blue.

  Whatever a Jacuzzi might turn out to be, he felt immediately he would be able to cope with it. However evasive Bradfield Lansing might prove, he would be able to pin him down eventually.

  He looked around him more carefully. About half the roof, he saw, was taken up by the mechanical contrivances necessary for any tall building, great belching air ducts, blank-walled shapes that no doubt housed elevator motors and water tanks. But the other half of this sunshiny, out-of-the-world area was devoted to sport and leisure. There was a pair of high-meshed tennis-courts and a small swimming-pool. And there was an enclosure surrounded by a tall wooden fence towards which Bradfield Lansing was leading them.

  Rising above the palings Ghote saw wisps of steam. The realtor opened a narrow door and went in. Ghote and Fred Hoskins followed.

  Inside there were wooden steps leading in a gentle spiral to a wooden platform in the middle of which there was a little pool about six or eight feet across, its sides made of heavy redwood. The clear water filling it almost to the brim was steaming vigorously.

  “Here you are, Inspector,” Bradfield Lansing said. “The Jacuzzi or hot tub. Come on in.”

  Was there a hint of malice in the hard eyes in that long, leathery face? Ghote could not decide.

  But the real-estate tycoon was already stripping off his clothes and dropping them on to a narrow wooden bench running round the inside of the enclosure. And Fred Hoskins was peeling off his bright plaid shirt and carefully putting his piece in its holster under the bench.

  It was plain that if Bradfield Lansing was to be questioned effectively it would have to do be done in the tub. To stand over it while the fellow lolled in its hot water and bend down and shout out what he wanted to know was obviously not a practical possibility.

  But that woul
d mean taking off his clothes. All his clothes.

  Well, if that was what was necessary to get the answers to his questions, so be it. If this was all that lay between him and the eventual solution of the mystery of that disappearing knife, then it was a small price to pay.

  He sat on the bench and rapidly removed his shoes.

  Bradfield Lansing and Fred Hoskins were a little ahead of him. Each, as soon as he had stripped, sat on the edge of the steaming pool and then slipped into its clear water. Ghote saw the huge private eye’s skin, milk-white where it was not normally exposed to the air, turn instantly scarlet.

  He pushed down his underpants and, feeling absurdly unprotected, hastily stepped up to the poolside, sat and dropped his legs into the water.

  It was fiendishly hot.

  But Bradfield Lansing was in it up to his neck and his long, tanned face wore a slight smile. Was it sensuous pleasure, or was it delight at having manoeuvred an enemy into an awkward position?

  Ghote gritted his teeth, did his utmost to plant on his features an expression of calm, even of mild boredom, and slid downwards.

  Immediately he felt his body buffeted by a strong underwater current, live and lithe as a heavy snake. It pushed him to one side. Another similar current struck him and pushed him back. The twin flows, and others from other angles, brutally beat at his flesh already within seconds softened and made swollen by the heat of the water.

  He felt humiliated. A cat’s-paw.

  “Well, Inspector, you like it?”

  Bradfield Lansing’s long face was beaded with sweat, but it seemed to Ghote as it came floating up close to his own, to wear an expression of something like triumph.

  “Yes,” he answered firmly. “It is very, very hot, but I am liking it. Yes.”

  “Guaranteed to smooth away all the cares,” Bradfield Lansing said, pushing himself backwards.

  “All the cares?” Ghote asked sharply, fighting inwardly to regain his mental balance. “You have many, many cares then, Mr. Lansing?”