‘No.’
Axel Svensson jerked his head round to look at the slight form of the inspector beside him.
‘No,’ said Inspector Ghote. ‘I do not see that it makes a difference. A rupee missing from the Minister’s desk this week cannot have a connexion with the same Minister’s sex life three years ago.’
‘But all the same –’
‘No. I know what I have to do there. I must see the Minister. It is ridiculous to attempt to deal with the case without doing that. What would Doctor Gross think?’
‘But, my friend, what can you do?’
‘I shall ask for another interview with the Minister.’
‘But after being late last time?’
‘I shall apologize. But if he wants to know who stole that rupee, he must see me.’
He craned his neck to discover if the driver was showing any sign of returning.
‘What has happened to that fellow?’ he said.
‘But you oughtn’t to be in a hurry, my friend,’ Axel Svensson said. ‘That is the lesson the East has for us today: the answer to the problem of unending rush.’
The inspector looked at him with an irrepressible dart of impatience.
‘No,’ he said sharply.
He paused and shook his head from side to side like an animal dodging the whine of an insect.
‘But listen, Mr Svensson,’ he said, ‘you are really making a mistake there. I am a police officer, but if I always said “There is no hurry for that” or “Leave that till tomorrow” I would not deserve to be police officer very long.’
Axel Svensson looked at him.
‘I suppose you are right, my friend,’ he said, ‘as far as police work is concerned. But all the same the Indian approach to the problem of hurry is decidedly of interest.’
Inspector Ghote decided to leave it at that. He looked out along the narrow street again for a sign of his impassive driver.
‘It is a pity I did not bring my own car,’ the Swede said. ‘But to tell you the truth the problem of pedestrians in Bombay is sometimes too much for me. After I had nearly had two accidents on my first day in the car with people walking right into the way I decided to drive as little as possible.’
‘But you must not give up like that,’ Inspector Ghote said.
He forgot to keep the scandalized tone out of his voice.
‘No,’ he went on, ‘that is to admit defeat. If we all left our cars at home the whole city would fall back fifty years, a hundred years.’
‘Sometimes I think that would not be a bad thing,’ the Swede said.
‘No,’ Inspector Ghote said with solemnity, ‘I want you to promise not to have such ideas. Motor transport is a sign of progress: we need to make so much progress.’
The Swede looked down for a moment at his Indian friend’s intense face.
‘All right,’ he said with matching solemnity, ‘tomorrow I will come to the office in my car. I promise.’
*
After waiting beside the police truck a little longer Inspector Ghote had impatiently set off down the street in search of the missing driver. He had found him just round the corner soundly sleeping in an attitude of great respectability. In a sudden fury he had kicked him sharply awake with the toe of his brown shoe and had snapped orders at him all the way back to the office.
But once sitting at his own small desk with everything in its proper place all round him his bad temper had quickly melted away, and he had been able to make the intensive study of all the facts of both his cases recommended in the hallowed pages of Gross’s Criminal Investigation. He had too written a careful report of his interview with Lala Varde, neatly omitting the actual details of his revelation and substituting equivalent details for the eyes of D.S.P. Samant or anyone else who should come to read what he had written.
‘Nevertheless,’ his report concluded, ‘although above disclosure would appear to have no direct connexion with the attack, the above line of inquiry should be pursued as a most highly suspicious coincidence. To investigate movements of suspects further would prove most useless as none have offered alibis for period midnight to 1.47 a.m. (time of police receiving request for assistance). Of suspects as at present ascertained, Prem Varde may believe that victim was urging that he should be taken into office, to which he gravely objects. But no climax has arisen requiring sudden action by this suspect. Also Shrimati Lakshmi Varde, as before stated, has given occasion to believe she distrusts ambitious plans of her husband and may think victim was supporting these. However, in this case also no immediate cause for action has arisen. Lala Arun Varde himself is, of course, beyond suspicion since victim’s indisposition is causing him severe trouble. Finally, Dilip Varde may believe victim was instrumental in regretted return from Delhi, which might provide reason for action. The foregoing reason also applies to Neena Varde. Proposed to proceed on these lines.’
He placed his neat signature at the bottom of the report and took up the telephone to make two calls.
The first was to Arun Varde’s house. He made it with less anxiety than usual. What he had learnt from Doctor Das earlier in the day had given him a certain amount of confidence.
Nor did this prove to be unjustified. There was no change in Mr Perfect’s condition. He succeeded in speaking to the reliable Anglo-Indian nurse, and she told him that her patient lay exactly as before. There had been no more muttered words, and no symptoms of damage to the brain.
With growing optimism the inspector put through his second call – to Mr Jain, Ram Kamath’s personal assistant. And again things fell into place neatly and smoothly. Mr Jain even seemed especially anxious that the inspector should see the Minister.
‘I assured him that only the very gravest circumstances would have made you miss your appointment,’ he said. ‘And now I shall be able to repeat the assurance.’
He did not ask the inspector for an explanation. The inspector mentally withdrew his elaborate and not very convincing series of partially true reasons.
‘Then we shall say at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Mr Jain said with warm finality.
‘Nine o’clock,’ said the inspector.
He felt no need to add ‘I shall not be late again’ or anything of that kind.
For once he left the office at the exact time he was due to finish. And in his comfortably optimistic mood he did not have the heart when he reached home to spoil the evening by saying anything to Protima about what she had persuaded little Ved to do that morning to tame his father.
And next day he was in no danger of being late for the office. He had slept well and had woken in good time to breakfast comfortably before leaving. The puris were cooked to perfection, the way he always liked them, thin and crisp.
When he had finished he went to the telephone and rang the Varde house to find out how Mr Perfect had spent the night. He was not surprised when he was told that the night had gone by completely without incident.
Things were going well, and going to go well.
He buckled on his belt, caught hold of Ved under each arm and swung him upwards until his softly gleaming hair all but touched the low ceiling of the room. Then he held him tight for a moment and kissed him.
‘Kiss Bibiji too,’ said Ved with authority.
He kissed Protima.
‘Really,’ she said, ‘Mr Inspector. And what would D.S.P. have to say?’
‘I don’t mind what D.S.P. says,’ he replied.
‘Well, I do,’ said Protima. ‘I want you to keep in that man’s good books, the way you are.’
‘I won’t stay there if I miss my appointment with the Minister a second time.’
She smiled.
‘Oh, you won’t be wrong twice, Mr Good Police Officer who is going to go where he deserves.’
‘Now,’ he said with a flicker of anxiety, half-felt half-feigned, ‘you promised you wouldn’t say a word about that to anyone. If Mr Svensson thought I had repeated that all over the place he would never speak to me again.’
She s
miled, slowly. A fire of mischief running over the surface of a deep, fast-flowing stream.
‘Now, go to office with you,’ she said.
He went. And arrived in very good time. Even before Axel Svensson, who regularly presented himself well in advance of the official starting hour, a trick he had learnt in the early days of his stay after Inspector Ghote had succeeded in giving him the slip for the whole morning on two days running.
The inspector sat down at his desk and took stock of the day ahead. First the meeting with Ram Kamath. Then anything that had to be done arising from that. And if just possibly he was able to put paid to the whole rupee business there and then, he could go straight off to Arun Varde’s to deal with the Perfect Murder.
He stopped himself calling it that with a trace of impatience, and looked at his watch.
It was time his Swedish friend showed up. Otherwise they would be in danger of not arriving at the Ministry with plenty of time in hand.
He got up, padded quietly round his desk and went to the little set of bamboo-edged shelves. There in the shelf labelled ‘Sacred’ was the file on the Rupee Case, with its reports from the men who had interviewed the Ministry clerks and the Ministry window cleaners, with its plans of the rooms round Ram Kamath’s office and of the floors above and below, with his own accounts of his interviews with the fussily neat Mr Jain and the deplorable Felix Sousa. And with the mystery still as mysterious as ever.
He let the file lie where it was. Until he had seen Ram Kamath there was nothing more he could do to it.
And in the shelf labelled ‘Dance’ there was the file on the Perfect – No, not the Perfect Murder. The file on the attack carried out on Mr Perfect, Arun Varde’s secretary.
He stretched out a hand to it, but instead looked at his watch. Axel Svensson would be arriving at any moment. Already he was more than a bit later than might have been expected.
The inspector straightened up, picked Gross’s Criminal Investigation from its place on top of the set of shelves and opened it where he stood. He could start at any one of the familiar pages and know exactly where he was. The moment he heard the big Swede’s long-stepping stride outside he could close the book and still know what came next.
Happily he read.
Through the thin partition between his room and the next he heard without paying attention to it the raucous noise of some of his colleagues talking to each other. They were swapping stories of how best to get confessions out of reluctant prisoners. Inspector Ghote knew it was only a sort of boasting match, and that more than half of what anyone said was made up. But he was uneasily conscious that Doctor Gross would not have felt able to join in.
Time passed.
Inspector Ghote rang the transport office and made sure that a truck was waiting for him. His friend Chimanlal was on duty again, and he felt reassured.
But Axel Svensson was cutting it pretty damn fine.
He read another paragraph of Gross.
The door opened slowly, hesitantly.
Inspector Ghote swung round. It was Axel Svensson. But there had been no loud strides along the corridor, and in an instant he understood why. The big Swede’s normally rosily cheerful face was totally deprived of colour. His eyes looked sunken and his mouth was set in a hard streak of distress.
‘Mr Svensson,’ Ghote said. ‘What’s the matter? For god’s sake, what’s happened?’
‘The car.’
The huge Swede could hardly get the two brief syllables out.
Inspector Ghote caught hold of his desk chair, dragged it to the middle of the room and guided the tall Scandinavian down into it.
The big Swede sat with his elbows on his knees, staring straight in front of him. In the small, fragile chair he looked like a great animal pretending to take part in human activities.
‘The car?’ Ghote said softly. ‘What happened? Tell me.’
The Swede slowly shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s late. Your appointment with the Minister. If you don’t go at once you will miss it again.’
The inspector flicked a look at the watch on his wrist. Axel Svensson was right.
‘Listen,’ Ghote said, ‘just quickly tell me what happened. Are you all right? I can’t go till I know that.’
‘There was a boy,’ the Swede said.
Each word jerked out.
‘A boy,’ he repeated. ‘Not old – He ran out, right into – Just the way –’
Huge sobs suddenly shook his wide-shouldered frame under the white sweat-stained shirt. A moment later he was crying without restraint. A few broken sounds came from his jerking mouth.
Through the thin partition wall came the noise of a renewed burst of guffawing.
Inspector Ghote bent forward and put his arm on the huge Swede’s shoulders.
‘Now, just sit here and tell me everything,’ he said.
The Swede attempted to shake his head.
‘Listen,’ said Ghote. ‘Ram Kamath can wait. You sit here, and, when you feel you can, tell me all about it.’
16
After some five minutes Axel Svensson began to recover. Inspector Ghote put no more questions to him. Instead he patted him from time to time on the back and murmured almost wordless expressions of comfort.
And then the big Swede lifted up his head a little and started talking.
‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that was the most terrible thing. As soon as I went round to the front of the car I could see he was still alive. And then I knew what I must do. Already I had passed that big hospital near Victoria Terminus. I was going that way to avoid the traffic. I thought it would be safer.’
With an effort he prevented himself collapsing into tears again and went on.
‘So I had to pick him up and drive him quickly back there, I had to do it. I knew.’
He turned for the first time and looked directly at Inspector Ghote.
‘My friend,’ he said, ‘at that moment I nearly ran. I nearly ran off from it all.’
‘But you didn’t,’ Ghote said quietly.
‘No,’ said the big Swede, ‘in the end I picked him up and drove to the hospital. And then a police inspector came and questioned me.’
Again the big Swede looked up at Ghote. He peered up into his face as if his life depended on it.
‘You know what that man said to me?’ he asked. ‘He said it would be best for me if the boy was dead. He kept asking the hospital authorities if he had died yet, and all the time he did not bother to conceal that it would be good news if he had.’
‘Yes,’ said Inspector Ghote. ‘That is the customary thing. If the accident victim does not live, he is not there to claim that the driver was at fault.’
‘But –’
‘No, I know what you are thinking. And, believe me, you are right. A life is at stake. But all the same you must remember that if that boy recovers, even if he recovers thanks to your prompt aid, then all the same he or his parents will almost certainly make out that you deliberately drove him down.’
‘That is what the inspector said,’ Axel Svensson admitted. ‘He told me not to agree to anything, and above all not to offer any money to the boy’s parents.’
He clutched Ghote’s thin arm.
‘But they will need money,’ he said. ‘People as poor as that will need money at a time like this.’
‘I will see if something can be done without giving some slick little lawyer the chance of saying you admitted guilt by trying to pay them off,’ the inspector replied.
‘But listen,’ said the Swede, ‘I have not told you the worst thing yet. It was this, my friend. That inspector hardly bothered to ask me how the accident happened. Because I was a car driver – what is it you call them? a burra sahib – he just assumed I was in the right and that that poor boy was in the wrong.’
He looked at Ghote as if he would gouge out of him some reassurance.
But Ghote shook his head.
‘That is not exceptional,’ he
said. ‘But you must listen to me. Just because he took that attitude, you are not to do the opposite. Do you understand? You are not to go looking for reasons to blame yourself. You were not to blame. Isn’t that so? The boy ran out right under you, didn’t he? You told me that first of all. Before you recovered. Now, tell me that again.’
The big Swede breathed in slowly, a long deep breath.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, you are right. I cannot in all truth blame myself.’
‘That is good,’ said the inspector. ‘Now you will have the right basis to work on. So, let us just see how things are at the hospital, shall we?’
He picked up the telephone and asked the switchboard for the number. While he was waiting he watched the big Swede. Bit by bit he was pulling himself together, looking round about him, wiping the stale sweat off his face, making his shirt more comfortable.
Once through to the hospital it did not take the inspector long to find out about the boy. He had been operated on. The operation had been a success, but it was too early to say if it had been too much of a strain. He thanked the nurse he had spoken to, rang off, and relayed his information to Axel Svensson.
‘Then there is hope,’ the Swede said. ‘But, my friend, I have just thought. What about you? What about your appointment with the Minister?’
‘Well,’ said Ghote, ‘I’ll go off to that now, if you are feeling a bit better.’
The big Swede looked at him with pleading bright blue eyes.
‘May I come?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
Inspector Ghote let the thought of his appointment and its consequences come properly back into his consciousness. He looked hastily at his watch. Five to nine. It would be impossible to get to the Ministry in time, but he did not consider abandoning the idea.
‘Come on then,’ he shouted.
With the tall Swede thundering along behind him he raced out to the waiting car and yelled an order to the driver. They scrambled in and started off with the forbidden horn going full blast.
Traffic melted away in front of them. Every light was in their favour. The driver equalled his efforts of the time before.
But it was well after nine when they arrived at the Ministry. Inspector Ghote bounded up the wide flight of shallow marble steps. The same chaprassi was on duty. He recognized Ghote at once.
The Perfect Murder: the First Inspector Ghote Mystery Page 18