The Perfect Murder: the First Inspector Ghote Mystery

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘Your son is in the house, sahib?’

  Inspector Ghote had come to the conclusion that he would get no more out of the father at the present moment.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Lala Varde answered with eagerness. ‘My Dilip is in house. I will call a servant to take you to him.’

  He jerked forward in the chair and clapped his hands explosively.

  ‘Come, come quickly,’ he shouted. ‘Is there nobody to show the inspector sahib where Mr Dilip is? Has everyone gone to sleep in this house?’

  The erect little bearer, who had retreated indoors, came trotting back.

  ‘Take the inspector to the tika sahib. Quick, quickly.’

  ‘Lala Varde sahib,’ the inspector said, ‘where did you send Mr Perfect last night when he went out?’

  ‘Oh, somewhere, somewhere. I really cannot be answering all these foolish questions.’

  Lala Varde humped over away from the inspector and shut his eyes till the eyelids were squeezed together like two sets of rubber suction pads.

  The inspector looked at him. He turned to Axel Svensson.

  ‘Perhaps the answer will prove not to be necessary,’ he said.

  Apologetically.

  He rounded on the little bearer.

  ‘Show me where Mr Dilip Varde is,’ he said. ‘It is most urgent matter.’

  He was glad to see the man set off loping rigidly ahead of him with a thoroughly harassed air.

  Eventually he found Dilip Varde for them in one of the less used downstairs rooms. It was a sort of Number Two spare sitting-room, heavily furnished in the Western style. Dilip was sprawled across a big puffy arm-chair covered in a dark moquette. It must have been very hot and uncomfortable for him. Large patches of sweat were spreading from each of his armpits across his once crisp white shirt. Under his dark jutting moustache his mouth was set in a downturned sulky pout.

  Signalling to Axel Svensson to delay a moment outside, the inspector entered the room with a brisk stride. As Dilip heard the unaccustomed step he quickly thrust the paperback he had been reading down into the crack between the back and the seat of his heavy arm-chair. But not before Inspector Ghote had caught sight of its lurid cover on which a square-jawed private eye was for ever menacing a busty blonde.

  The little erect bearer bent in a stiff salaam.

  ‘Inspector sahib ask to see you, sahib,’ he said.

  By this time Dilip was standing up. His hands flew to the knot of his thin-striped club tie and swiftly tightened it.

  ‘Inspector?’ he said. ‘What sort of an inspector is this? Sanitary wallah, eh?’

  ‘Inspector, Bombay C.I.D.’ Ghote said.

  He looked Dilip up and down. The arrogant tilt of the head, the jutting moustache, the alien tie, the dark blue blazer with the brass buttons which he had left lying across the back of the heavy arm-chair, the dark flannel trousers immaculately creased.

  ‘C.I.D., eh?’ Dilip said. ‘Some trouble among the servants, I suppose. Why my father won’t get hold of some decently trained chaps I shall never know.’

  He strolled away in the direction of one of the windows looking out on to the central courtyard.

  ‘Anyhow, old chap,’ he said, ‘you’ve come to the wrong place, you know. Servants are nothing to do with me. Thank goodness.’

  He turned idly round again to look at the inspector, his hand toying with the bushy moustache.

  ‘Servants’ quarters not here,’ he said with elaborate distinctness. ‘Servants’ quarters other way. Understand?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Inspector Ghote, ‘officers of the Bombay police naturally have command of English. It is necessary to their work. Also I have not come about the servants.’

  He felt his anger rising step by step, and had just enough power over himself to keep it in check. He cast his mind round. There ought to be some way of dealing with a person like this. Doctor Gross would not have been at a loss.

  And in the nick of time inspiration came.

  ‘Mr Varde,’ he said, ‘it is you yourself I wish to speak with, but may I first introduce my colleague? He is Mr Axel Svensson, from Sweden, a visitor from Unesco.’

  Axel Svensson, tall, blond, distinguished, academic, came in.

  Dilip Varde’s whole face betrayed the success of the inspector’s stratagem. His eyes lit up and a crocodile smile appeared beneath his luxuriant moustache.

  He advanced on the Swede with outstretched hand.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘come in, come in. I had no idea you were hanging about out there. What on earth will you think of us?’

  Axel Svensson put his huge pinky hand briefly round Dilip’s slim brown one.

  ‘So,’ Dilip said, ‘you’re with Unesco, are you? I used to know some chaps with that outfit. Pretty good chaps. Though, mind you, that was some time ago.’

  ‘The personnel change with great frequency,’ Axel Svensson admitted. ‘It is a problem we have yet to solve.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dilip, ‘it must be pretty awkward for you. Difficult to get hold of the right sort of chap, I suppose. We have just the same trouble here. Simply nobody fit to do most of the jobs that are going, when it comes to the point.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the Swede politely.

  ‘Well,’ Dilip said, ‘just what is it that you’re doing here in Bombay? If there’s anything we can do to make life a bit pleasanter, for God’s sake let us know.’

  ‘At present I am following the inquiry into the Perfect Murder,’ Axel Svensson declared stolidly.

  Inspector Ghote forgave him a lot for this, even down to calling the case once again the Perfect Murder.

  Dilip took some considerable time to adjust.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, that,’ he said at last. ‘Shocking business.’

  The inspector took his chance firmly in both hands.

  ‘Yes, Mr Varde,’ he said, ‘it is precisely the attack on Mr Perfect that I have come to see you about.’

  Dilip Varde turned reluctantly away from the Swede to look at him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I dare say you have. But I’m afraid I can’t do anything to help you, old chap. Not a thing.’

  But now that the inspector had got his teeth in he was not going to let go.

  ‘You can answer some questions for me, Mr Varde,’ he said. ‘That at least will be most helpful.’

  ‘But look here,’ Dilip replied, ‘you can’t really want to question me. I mean, I know that somebody had a bash at that fearful old Parsi, but beyond that I simply don’t know a thing about it. Don’t wish to know.’

  ‘He is lying in this house most seriously ill,’ the inspector said. ‘Even at this instant he may be deceased.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right. As I said, it’s a bad business, definitely.’

  Dilip thoughtfully gave each end of his moustache a revivifying tweak.

  ‘What you chaps have got to do, Inspector,’ he said, ‘is to see that the whole business is wrapped up and dealt with in the shortest possible time.’

  ‘Yes, sir, that is certainly so,’ Ghote answered. ‘And for this reason I would be grateful to hear your answers to my questions.’

  Dilip shook his head.

  ‘But, no, my dear fellow. You’ve got the whole thing the wrong way round.’

  He turned to Axel Svensson again.

  ‘I dare say you’ve noticed the wonderful facility of the average Indian for grasping the wrong end of the old stick,’ he said.

  ‘Sir,’ said Inspector Ghote, ‘I do not understand. What do you mean: I have got the business the wrong way round?’

  ‘Perfectly simple,’ Dilip answered. ‘The object of the exercise is to dispose of the case as quickly as possible. Ek dum. Right?’

  ‘Speed is essential,’ Ghote agreed.

  ‘Right. So you don’t waste everybody’s time by going round asking a lot of bloody silly questions. You go back to your little office, wherever it is, and you file a pretty swift report saying that everything’s under control
and can safely be forgotten about. Right?’

  ‘But, Mr Varde …’

  It was the outraged voice of the Swede.

  Dilip turned to him.

  ‘Not quite European practice?’ he said. ‘Well, no, I know it isn’t. And let me tell you that in the old days it wouldn’t have happened here. But as things are today, it’s simply the only way.’

  ‘But you cannot write a report to say a case is closed when nothing has been found out,’ the Swede explained patiently.

  ‘Ah, I know what you mean. Too well I know it. And in the British days I wouldn’t for one moment have suggested it. No, no. If anything like this had happened then, it would have all been perfectly simple. Some decent chappie would have come round, we’d have given him a drink, he’d have asked anything that was necessary in a perfectly gentlemanly way and we’d have told him what he wanted to know. But, my dear chap, not today.’

  He glanced significantly at Ghote.

  The big Swede looked puzzled.

  ‘This is a problem I do not wholly grasp,’ he said.

  ‘Well, the plain fact of the matter is,’ Dilip said, ‘that our policeman as he is today may be a good chap and all that, but he’s simply had no experience of how civilized people live. He’d be totally out of his depth in a house like this. So there’s only one thing to do: draw a decent veil over the whole thing.’

  Inspector Ghote stepped forward.

  ‘Mr Varde,’ he said, ‘I may be out of my depth but I am not out of my country. It will not help you now to be more English than the English. You will all the same have to answer questions. And I will point out that this is certainly what an Englishman from England would do.’

  Dilip looked at him with a sudden total disappearance of geniality.

  ‘Are you quite sure who you’re talking to, Inspector?’ he said. ‘You don’t have to remind me that this is India. I’m only too well aware of the fact. But however many drawbacks there are in that, there are also certain advantages. Advantages for me.’

  ‘Mr Varde.’

  Axel Svensson had got beyond outrage and into incomprehension. And certainly Dilip’s unsubtlety was difficult to believe in.

  Inspector Ghote decided that he must intervene quickly.

  ‘When a crime has been committed,’ he said sharply, ‘it is neither India nor England nor America nor anywhere else. When it is a question of finding out who is to blame it is all the same world. No matter what place it is, first you must find the facts and then you must look at them to see what is the logic of them. That is why you must answer questions, Mr Varde.’

  Dilip smiled.

  ‘All this,’ he said, ‘for a ridiculous long stick of an old Parsi that no one cares tuppence for.’

  ‘All this for a man who may be dying,’ said the inspector.

  Axel Svensson, calmer now, came to his assistance.

  ‘Mr Varde,’ he said, ‘believe me, you must answer.’

  Dilip shrugged.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but be quick about it.’

  ‘Then to begin,’ said the inspector, ‘where were you last night?’

  ‘I was here in the house, if you must know.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. And at what time did you last see Mr Perfect?’

  ‘My dear chap, I really don’t know.’

  Inspector Ghote’s mouth tightened.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Varde,’ he said, ‘but such an answer is quite unsatisfactory. It is possible for the servants not to be able to answer a question of this sort through ignorance, but you are an educated man. You must know when you last saw Mr Perfect.’

  But already Dilip was regaining his initial truculence.

  ‘I don’t see why I should take any particular notice of one servant any more than any other,’ he answered.

  ‘Mr Perfect is not a servant, Mr Varde. He is your father’s confidential secretary.’

  Now Dilip’s large eyes glowed with anger.

  ‘You will permit me to know who is a servant in this household and who is not, Inspector.’

  ‘Very good, if you wish to describe Mr Perfect in this manner. But that does not alter the facts. He is in a different class altogether from people like the sweeping boy. You must have noticed whether he was there or not.’

  ‘And I tell you I didn’t. I didn’t ever take any particular notice of him. I knew he was a Parsi my father employed in the office and at home, on confidential matters if you like. But he was of no importance to me, Inspector. I didn’t have to go through a Mr Perfect when I wished to speak to my own father, you know.’

  Inspector Ghote found himself resenting the implication that he would know so little of life that he could make a mistake of this sort.

  ‘Of course not, Mr Varde,’ he said. ‘I never suggested such a thing.’

  Dilip looked a little mollified. His hand went up to his moustache and he stroked it with affection.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I hardly knew the fellow. My father took him on after I had gone to take charge of the firm’s affairs in Delhi. I suppose he needed someone. And, in case you don’t happen to know, I haven’t been back in Bombay very long.’

  ‘So you mean to say that you cannot tell me when you last saw Mr Perfect because you did not notice him?’ the inspector said with a trace of discouragement.

  ‘Exactly.’

  The inspector wearily braced himself for a new attack.

  ‘Very well, Mr Varde,’ he said, ‘then I must now ask you what you were doing in detail during yesterday evening.’

  Dilip responded with an access of sudden wild rage. It made his eyes pop wide and his mouth open convulsively.

  ‘Are you accusing me of killing that ridiculous Parsi?’ he spluttered.

  ‘Mr Varde,’ said the inspector, ‘there is no need for anger. I am not accusing: I am asking only.’

  Above all, he told himself, he would not give way to the jet of pure rage that he longed to shoot out in answer to the hot blast of Dilip Varde’s fury. There would not be a shouting match. Investigations were not like that.

  But Dilip interpreted his restraint in another fashion.

  His fury turned to confident contempt.

  ‘You are asking, are you, Inspector?’ he said. ‘Well, you can whistle for your answer.’

  He turned and began walking towards the doorway.

  The inspector felt himself in a ferment of contradiction. Was he right to keep so calm? Or was he really giving way to something deep in himself which feared Dilip and his like?

  There was no time to resolve the conflict.

  While Dilip was still in the room he let out an almost incoherent shout.

  ‘Stop.’

  Dilip did stop. He turned and looked at the inspector.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Ghote said, trembling with suppressed emotion.

  ‘I am going to see my wife.’

  ‘Your wife? Where is she?’

  ‘I expect she is in the women’s quarter. My mother is old-fashioned and prefers that. Do you intend to break in there, Inspector? I would have thought that was something even you would respect.’

  Inspector Ghote hesitated.

  And Dilip saw his hesitation.

  He turned back to the doorway.

  ‘When can I see you again?’ the inspector stammered.

  He knew that he had lost. An acute feeling of depression swept over him. He wanted just to sit down and let Dilip Varde do what he liked.

  But Dilip gave him an answer.

  ‘I really cannot say when you’ll see me, Inspector. I have some important matters I wish to discuss with my wife. I may be a long time. And it is possible that I shall have to go back to Delhi quite soon. The firm cannot be left to run itself just because of an old Parsi.’

  He walked out.

  Inspector Ghote found he had not the moral energy even to point out that the firm had so far been left to run itself for less than half a day.

  He stared at the doorway through w
hich Dilip had departed, asking himself dully whether he would ever be able to get a clear picture of what went on in this house where Mr Perfect lay battered and perhaps dying.

  There was nothing he could do, he felt. The old Parsi might be at this very moment breathing his tremulous last breath. If it was so, it would have to be so. The black darkness of obscurity would enfold the Perfect Murder in its every detail and he would be lost for ever.

  7

  Axel Svensson at last broke the long silence in the over-stuffed sitting-room.

  ‘This is a great problem,’ he said. ‘In countries where perhaps the police are associated with the former rulers, when independence comes there will be elements who are not willing to accept that they too must come under the same law as every other citizen.’

  Inspector Ghote looked up at him gratefully.

  ‘A policeman must not allow himself to be intimidated by the position of those he has to deal with,’ he said.

  ‘That is certainly correct,’ the raw-boned Swede agreed.

  Inspector Ghote rectified the droop of his shoulders.

  ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘a police officer must not allow himself to bully a weak person. You will remember perhaps that Doctor Gross in his Criminal Investigation speaks of the danger of harassing a witness into making a false statement.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Swede a little doubtfully.

  Inspector Ghote brightened. This was a subject he had long wanted to talk about to such an expert as Mr Svensson. Much cherished though his copy of Gross was, there were sometimes moments when he wondered exactly how much authority the work carried. It was not an official issue; he had bought his own copy at a bazaar bookstall and, his eagerness to acquire it showing too plainly, had had to pay a stiff price. So occasionally he had traitorous doubts. This seemed to be an excellent moment to clear them up.

  ‘Tell me, Axel sahib,’ he said, ‘is Gross a book much used in the police forces of Europe? What do you think of it yourself?’

  Axel Svensson assumed a doubly serious expression.