Inspector Ghote's Good Crusade

by H. R. F. Keating

  His spirits slumped.

  Sonny Carstairs’s prints had been identified on the glass fragments, and so had Dr Diana’s. There was one other set, unidentified, doubtless belonging to someone at the pharmaceuticals factory. But not a trace of Amrit Singh’s.

  And equally not a trace of Krishna Chatterjee’s, since the bureau had his prints along with all the others taken at the Foundation.

  There was worse to come, a little. Underneath the bureau’s report lay another one. It was from the sergeant detailed to check the key business, and it entirely confirmed what Dr Diana had said. The sergeant had seen her correspondence with the lock importers. Something of the awe with which she had come to be regarded by the firm seeped through even the formal words of the report. And the facts were clear: only two keys to the dispensary had ever existed. Only one now did.

  So it would all depend on what could be got out of Amrit Singh at ten o’clock. There were a great many things Ghote wanted to ask him: details of his movements during and after the time the poison had been taken from the dispensary, what exactly he had been doing hanging around the Masters Foundation, and, above all, what his relations were with Frank Masters himself.

  Nor did a third report, brought in a few minutes later, advance matters. It was on the check made to see whether Fraulein Glucklich had in fact spent Friday evening with Swami Dnyaneshwar. The swami had been unexpectedly precise. He was prepared to swear his sannysini had been well and truly at his feet the whole time. Definitely.

  Ghote looked at his watch. A long while to go yet before it got near ten o’clock.

  He went over in his mind arrangements made the evening before to have the big bungalow in Wodehouse Road surrounded at the appropriate time. It would be a tricky business. Put too many men into the area before Amrit Singh was due, and it was almost certain he would spot something and be scared off; on the other hand, if it came to an arrest, there could never be too many hands waiting to grab a character like the big Sikh.

  Resolutely Ghote set himself to tackle what routine work he could find to do. But it lasted all too short a time.

  He picked up the telephone and spoke to Chavan, the uniformed inspector in charge of the ambush party. Chavan simply made it clear that he resented being fussed over, and Ghote put down the receiver with a sigh.

  He looked at his watch again. It would still be absurdly early to set off.

  He took out his copy of the Times of India Sunday edition. He had already read the meagre report of the case and the long obituary of Frank Masters. For all its length the latter had not helped him one little bit to understand the American. There had been the lists of charities which had benefited from his wealth. There was a reference to his education in America, but the names of the school and college he had attended meant nothing to Ghote. There was a more detailed account of the origins of the Masters fortune, but what use was it to know about how Frank Masters’s grandfather had added acre to acre and oilwell to oilwell? There was a sonorous passage about India’s poverty. It had not helped.

  Ghote removed the paper’s week-end supplement for women and children and put it in the top drawer of his desk to take home later. He closed the drawer firmly and with conscious virtue. He had resisted the lure of the colour comic page.

  He turned to the political news.

  Pak inhumanity to women. Even hard-boiled, old-time reactionaries burst into tears in the Lok Sabha today while referring to the plight of the large number of women who were recently abducted in East Pakistan.

  Ghote shook his head. There was a limit to the amount of that that he was prepared to read. Something a little more down to earth would be needed to take his mind off Amrit Singh until the moment he could decently set off.

  Opposition Parties Accused. Stating that the Congress today was as strong as ever, a party spokesman said Opposition members were magnifying small differences to vilify the organization. Party members should not be frightened by such tactics of the Opposition, but work with redoubled energy and in a selfless manner for the good of the people.

  Ghote looked up. Was there something he should be doing with selfless energy at this moment to make certain of pinning that enemy of the people, Amrit Singh?

  He looked all round his little office. A flicker of movement caught his eye down in the dark corner by the filing cabinet. He got up and went over.

  Sure enough, at the bottom of the small glass-fronted bookcase in which he kept copies of current information circulars a tiny lizard had contrived to get itself trapped. As he approached, the little beast flung itself into a maniac whirl of activity trying to penetrate the thin sheet of glass that cut it off from escape. But within a few seconds it had fallen on its back on the bottom of the shelf, palpitating and exhausted.

  Ghote took a sheet of paper from the top of his desk, rolled it into a tube, opened the drop-front of the bookcase and flicked the little creature out.

  For an instant it lay on the floor, its beady eyes still. Then suddenly it appeared to realize what had so mysteriously happened to it. With a twist of its tail it righted itself, paused just long enough to gulp once, and darted straight into the safety of a small crack between the floor and the wall.

  Ghote walked back to his chair, picked up the Times of India again and flapped over the pages. For a few seconds he lingered at an advertisement showing four women grinning frantically over a naked baby with a fifth looking soulfully away out of the picture with firmly shut mouth. ‘A friendly tip to the fifth woman,’ he read. ‘Use our toothpaste and smile like the others: brush your teeth with it every night … and every morning, of course. More confidence in company … more fun!’

  He found himself wondering whether his own breath was up to standard. He tried jutting out his lower lip into a sort of vent shape and puffing upwards. It seemed to be all right but it was hard to tell. And with a convenient neem tree at the bottom of the garden at home it was surely a waste not to use its twigs as he had always done.

  He puffed upwards again.

  His hand stretched out to the notebook lying on his desk ready to be slipped into his pocket when he left. He flicked through it until he came to the first blank sheet and scrawled a couple of words.

  ‘Buy toothpaste.’

  He looked at his watch again. Half an hour more and he could leave without upsetting Chavan’s plans.

  He made up his mind to settle down to the book reviews page. It was at least a way of catching up with all those things he wanted to know about, and should just occupy the right time.

  He lowered his head and plunged in.

  The door opened briskly.

  It was Deputy Superintendent Naik. Hastily Ghote thrust the paper down behind his desk and stood up.

  ‘Good morning, D.S.P.,’ he said.

  The D.S.P. came and stood on the other side of the little desk peering closely at Ghote.

  The inspector tried to withdraw his eyes from the round, softly moustached face so close to his own. He could detect a slight asthmatic note in the D.S.P.’s breathing and it was evident too that here was someone who was thoroughly modern in the matter of dental care. A faint minty tang in the air was quite unmistakable.

  ‘Now then,’ the D.S.P. said, ‘are you making progress, my dear fellow?’

  Ghote quickly debated the wisdom of telling the D.S.P. his exact dilemma. He decided to say nothing. So much still depended on what he was able to get from Amrit Singh. If he could screw just one admission out of him, then he could justify pulling him in. But there was no point in handing the defence points on a plate by acting without enough evidence. And unless he had something concrete to put before the D.S.P., it would be much safer to say nothing. Rouse no expectations, bring no recriminations. You learnt things like that after a while in the C.I.D.

  ‘I think we are doing well, D.S.P.,’ he said. ‘There are several possible leads.’

  He launched into an account of all the groundwork he had gone through at the Foundation.

  After
a little he gave up. It was obvious that the D.S.P. was not listening.

  Instead he was leaning forward over the narrow desk and peering with an extraordinary tenseness. For a few moments neither said anything. Then the D.S.P. spoke.

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, sir? Yes, D.S.P.?’

  ‘Inspector, there is a pimple on your neck. A small pimple, but distinct. I cannot make out whether it has come to a head yet.’

  Ghote swallowed.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You must watch such things, Inspector. I cannot have my officers being unhealthy. It won’t do at all.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Are you taking plenty of exercise, Inspector? Exercise is very important. Are you playing hockey?’

  ‘No, sir. Actually, no. I would like to, sir. But the work takes up a great deal of time, sir.’

  ‘You must not let it interfere with proper precautions over your health, Inspector. And one more thing.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘All these men Inspector Chavan is sending out for you. What is that about?’

  Caught.

  Ghote drew a deep breath.

  ‘I came across a lead up at the Foundation on Amrit Singh, sir.’

  ‘Amrit Singh. Amrit Singh. Those men are for Amrit Singh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I thought it best to take pretty full precautions. You cannot be too careful with a fellow like that, sir. I had this tip from some of the young boys up at the Foundation. They said he would be there again at ten a.m., sir. So I shall tackle him myself then, and Chavan will give me backing.’

  ‘You will go up there at ten a.m. and tackle him, eh?’

  ‘Yes, D.S.P. I managed to get the confidence of those boys, sir. They are a bit mixed up in Singh’s smuggling activities, I think. But I will sort it all out at ten o’clock.’

  ‘You will not, Inspector. You certainly will not. A pack of pavement sleepers choose to tell you that Amrit Singh will be up at the Foundation at ten a.m., and you sit on your backside here and wait for him. He’ll be there and gone this moment, Inspector. Get after him. Get after him, you damned fool.’

  Ghote felt the sweat spring up from every pore in his body. What if the D.S.P. was right? Amrit Singh warned and …

  His heart thumping, his mouth dry, forebodings of disaster screeching like sirens in his brain, he tore from the room and flung himself down the stairs.

  EIGHT

  The blue Dodge truck skidded to a halt on the loose gravel of the drive at the Masters Foundation. Inspector Ghote leapt out. He took one look at the big, slightly shabby bungalow. Nothing different as far as he could tell. Still, silent and asleep in the hot sun.

  But Amrit Singh would hardly be in the house itself. The compound was the place.

  Ghote ran.

  There was nothing for it but a frontal approach. To go round to the lane at the back would take too much time now. And help him no more. Amrit Singh could go out this way just as easily as by the back.

  Darting glances to left and right, the inspector pelted over the dark green grass of the big lawn, dodging trees and flowerbeds and all the time searching along the line of the trellis ahead for the least sign of telltale movement.

  Nothing.

  The garden, the dispensary hut, the garage shed, the whole place seemed to be asleep. Ghote conscientiously examined every corner, but with growing despair. He ought not to have relied on what that boy had said, even though at the time they seemed to be getting on so well. Obviously since the incident of Krishna Chatterjee’s panic flight they had found a way of warning Amrit Singh. If he had come here at all, it had been earlier. And now he was safely away again. Lost somewhere in the teeming vastness of the city.

  He came to a dispirited halt. Hot, sweaty and profoundly miserable. Why, oh why, had he been so self-confident in front of the D.S.P.? It was all very well to feel he had done everything possible on the case so far, but there was no need to have boasted like that.

  ‘You looking for someone?’

  As he might have guessed, it was Edward G. Robinson. He chose moments like this to appear from nowhere. Ghote hardly looked up from the matted grass at his feet.

  ‘You looking for a guy called Amrit Singh?’

  ‘You know that.’

  ‘You think a guy like Amrit Singh going to be caught by a policeman only?’

  Ghote’s eyes flashed in anger.

  ‘Not when he has friends like you to warn.’

  But the boy simply grinned.

  ‘Look,’ he said softly.

  Ghote turned and followed the line of his glance.

  And there, happily swinging over the tall, barbed-wire-topped wall in the far corner of the compound, was the burly figure of the Sikh himself. He landed lightly enough, for all his size, on the balls of his feet on the soft, dusty ground. Ghote could see his great, black beard shining lustrously under a heavy blue and red turban.

  With one quick look at the black-jacketed boy at his side, Ghote stepped forward.

  ‘You, Amrit Singh,’ he said in a loud, clear voice. ‘Stay where you are. This is the police.’

  He saw the brawny figure stop and look towards him. Then there came a quick second of calculation. A glance back to the tall wall behind him, a look forward to the big empty garden.

  ‘Hallo, Inspector Ghote.’

  Amrit Singh strode forward to meet the inspector, his hand outstretched, a smile showing the white teeth in the depths of the luxuriant black beard.

  Ghote found that the boy by his side was no longer there. He took the big Sikh’s outstretched hand. His grasp was as steely as the quietly glinting bangle that circled his wrist.

  ‘And why would as great a man as Inspector Ghote want to see a poor travelling salesman?’ Amrit Singh said.

  ‘There are some questions to ask,’ Ghote said.

  He felt that he had been a little more rushed into his interrogation than he would have liked. But there was something to be said for holding it here in the deserted garden. If the big Sikh tried to get away there was plenty of time to shout a warning. And Chavan’s men, with any luck, would soon be taking up their positions round the house.

  ‘Questions?’ Amrit Singh said. ‘It is sad that I can never talk to my friends in the police just like two men talking. Always they want the talk to be questions and answers. Their questions, my answers.’

  ‘If you had less to hide, perhaps there would be less to ask,’ Ghote replied.

  The big, thickset Sikh laughed till his beard shook.

  ‘How can you think that I have things to hide?’ he said. ‘You know me. I travel about selling here, buying there, making a poor living.’

  ‘And what were you selling or buying in this compound on Friday evening?’ Ghote said suddenly.

  ‘In this compound? You are joking only, Inspector. This is no bazaar. How should I be buying and selling here?’

  ‘You do not deny that you were here?’

  Amrit Singh opened his great hands wide in a gesture of simple amazement.

  ‘Why should I deny? You have seen me here now. You know how I know my way here. And what is there to deny after all?’

  ‘Then you admit trespassing on private property?’

  ‘Oh yes, I admit.’

  The big Sikh laughed.

  ‘Oh, I have committed very terrible crime,’ he said. ‘No wonder it is a C.I.D. inspector himself they have sent to arrest me. Trespassing. Will it be hanging matter, do you think, or seven years R.I. only?’

  Ghote felt the sting of a defeat.

  ‘It is not rigorous imprisonment matters only that I am wanting to talk,’ he said. ‘How did you get the key to the dispensary hut there?’

  He glanced over at the long, low hut with its criss-cross of heavy wires at the windows and stout wooden walls.

  The Sikh laughed again.

  ‘Hanging matters, is it?’ he said. ‘To have a key to an old hut. Oh, you policias, you are getti
ng more strict every day. Once they did not want to hang you for every little mistake. But now the least thing you do and already a policeman is there with a rope ready to put round your neck.’

  ‘You have not answered my question,’ Ghote said. ‘How did you get that key?’

  ‘There are so many keys,’ Amrit Singh said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘How can I remember each one?’

  ‘There are not so many keys. There is one only. The lock on that door is no ordinary one. It is American-type. There is one key only for that, and you had it.’

  ‘Perhaps it was given to me,’ Amrit Singh replied.

  His eyes were bright and dancing under the jutting black eyebrows.

  ‘And who should give you the key to the dispensary at the Masters Foundation, you a notorious thug?’

  ‘Who knows who might give it?’ the Sikh said. ‘Masters sahib himself it could have been.’

  Ghote felt his blood begin to race. Was there really some link between the Sikh and the mysterious American millionaire? Or was it, after all, only the big thug’s particular brand of humour?

  ‘Masters sahib,’ Ghote said cautiously. ‘What do you know of Masters sahib?’

  ‘Oh, he is a very generous man,’ the Sikh replied.

  ‘Everybody knows that,’ Ghote said. ‘You have to read the papers only to see that.’

  ‘Then if he is so generous, why should he not give me key?’

  Amrit Singh leant back on his heels delighted with this simple piece of wit.

  ‘What did Frank Masters know about you so that you had to make sure he could not speak?’ Ghote snapped suddenly.

  But Amrit Singh was too old a hand to be caught this way.

  ‘How should I know a man like the great Masters sahib?’ he asked. ‘I, a poor travelling salesman?’

  ‘What were you doing so near his house on Friday then?’ Ghote said.

  A dark glint of humour came into the Sikh’s eyes.

  ‘I suppose you have witness who saw me, Inspector sahib?’ he said.