Inspector Ghote's Good Crusade

Home > Other > Inspector Ghote's Good Crusade > Page 12
Inspector Ghote's Good Crusade Page 12

by H. R. F. Keating


  A group of 400 guerillas has been causing trouble in Yunnan, according to … Corroborating reports of unrest in Canton the Hongkong Tiger Standard said … According to an eye-witness report a special meeting was held.

  ‘Inspector.’

  He looked up.

  D.S.P. Naik was standing right up close to his desk, looking down at him coldly. Slowly he lowered the paper and tried to stuff it away under his chair.

  ‘Inspector, I do not expect to find my officers idling with the papers and such trash in working hours. A policeman must be a dedicated individual, Inspector. He should be above such trivial nonsense.’

  Ghote slowly stood up with head bowed.

  The D.S.P. regarded him in silence.

  Now comes the moment when he asks why I am back here, Ghote thought.

  His stomach muscles tightened. He felt sick.

  ‘And Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Yes, D.S.P.?’

  ‘You do not look at all well. There is a distinctly greenish tinge to your complexion. I spoke to you before about the need to take regular exercise. Have you made any arrangements yet? Have you asked the Sports Officer when he can find you a place in a hockey team?’

  ‘No, sir. Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Then see to it, Inspector, see to it. There is one thing I will not stand and that is unfitness among my officers. That I will not stand.’

  And to Ghote’s amazement, with those words D.S.P. Naik turned and, wheezing like a dynamo, stumped out of the room.

  Ghote straightened his shoulders as the door shut. There was nothing else for it now. He would have to go and see those boys.

  He hoped he would not find them. The Foundation’s clients were supposed to take jobs when they could, and Ghote hoped that this would be a day when all the boys of the gang would be employed somewhere in the city, and that no one would know where. It was possible. It was possible even that they would all choose just this day to drift mysteriously away from the temporary security the Foundation offered. This was something that could happen. He knew that much from his first long, patient night of investigation.

  But it had not happened today.

  The pear-shaped bearer took him with great solemnity round to the boys’ dormitory. He did not throw open the door and announce him, but not being able to do so obviously left him feeling uneasy. He salaamed to Ghote with extra deepness as if to put the situation to rights.

  The dormitory was simply a large room in the big, rather old, bare bungalow. It may once have been a drawing-room. It would have needed a large, very expensive carpet to cover the big area of floor. Now the heavy tiles were bare, with here and there a black crack snaking jaggedly across them. The only furniture was two ranks of serviceable string beds running down the two long walls. Once there must have been a lot of chairs, sofas, tables to fill the empty echoing space.

  On the bed in the farthest corner the whole gang was assembled. At the head, squatting smoking a stub of cigarette, was Edward G. Robinson in the dignity of his tattered black jacket. At the foot, comfortably upside down, was Tarzan, resting on the nape of his neck with his bare legs running up the wall. The others lounged between them, half on the floor, half on the creaking bed.

  Before Ghote said anything he held a quick debate with himself. Should he or should he not talk in the film American he had used before? It had worked then, but he had a strong feeling that he had over-rated its success. After all, Edward G. had behaved very badly over helping Krishna Chatterjee when he had attempted to get away. It was no thanks to the boy that he had not disappeared entirely.

  On the other hand, there was the fact that Amrit Singh had not been warned off. Edward G., with his mysterious appearance when the big Sikh had entered the compound, had even seemed to be on Ghote’s side.

  Ghote abruptly came to a decision.

  It was not good enough. He was a police officer. He was not going to hang on every whim of a dirty, cheeky little street urchin like that.

  ‘Yes,’ he said sharply, ‘you are the boys I wanted to see.’

  Edward G. removed the butt from between his crinkled lips with finicking care and blew out a cloud of rank smoke.

  ‘Now, you listen to me carefully,’ Ghote said. ‘It seems you do not realize what has happened in this house where you are treated so well. Mr Masters has been murdered. That is no joking matter.’

  He looked at them severely.

  It was difficult to be sure whether Edward G. did or did not make some tiny movement of command. Possibly Tarzan simply took it into his head himself. But whichever way it was, he lazily but with plain intent swung his wiry legs round and moved them pointedly apart in a gesture which could only indicate the lewdest contempt for the inspector and everything he had to say.

  Ghote ran forward and delivered a stinging blow with his open palm on the boy’s lean thigh.

  Tarzan took absolutely no notice.

  ‘Now, look –’ Ghote began to shout.

  And then he pulled himself together. After all, what he wanted from these boys was co-operation. And this was certainly the wrong way to go about it. Whether he really did want them to cooperate as fully as D.S.P. Naik had ordered, he did not know. But he was at least going to do everything he ought.

  He decided to approach the matter obliquely.

  ‘You must tell more about the message to Amrit Singh,’ he said. ‘It is not clear how he came to know that Mr Masters had found the smuggled gold and locked it in the dispensary.’

  He reflected that this was true enough. That whole part of the business, he had hoped, would have made itself clear after Amrit Singh had been arrested. Now it would form a very useful introduction to the subject of ‘witnessing’ the big Sikh actually take the poison from the dispensary.

  He glanced at the boys. For the most part their faces were stony. He might as well have not been there. Only Tarzan appeared to react at all. He slowly lowered his legs and swung himself round till he was sitting upright with his back to the inspector. That was something.

  ‘Come on,’ Ghote said sharply. ‘I want answer.’

  Still the boys said nothing. Edward G. puffed intently at the stub of cigarette. Ghote addressed him directly.

  ‘And from you,’ he said, ‘I want explanation. Your behaviour when I was questioning Mr Chatterjee was deplorable.’

  ‘I had to give the sucker a chance,’ Edward G. said casually. ‘Guess I had my fun with him. So now I help.’

  ‘What do you mean “sucker”?’ Ghote said. ‘Mr Chatterjee is a very important person. He is charged with great responsibilities for your welfare. How dare you speak of him in such terms?’

  ‘If the guy’s a sucker, he’s a sucker,’ Edward G. explained with tired patience.

  ‘He is social worker.’

  ‘Brother, you said it.’

  Ghote tried another tack.

  ‘When I have gone to great trouble for you boys,’ he said, ‘that is hardly the reward I expect.’

  Edward G. slipped off the bed and walked across the room. Ghote turned to watch him. The boy kept silent. He crouched on the floor in the opposite corner and began scuffling at the broad tiles. Ghote could not quite make out what he was doing. He spoke sharply.

  ‘Well, I am waiting for explanation.’

  Edward G. answered without turning round.

  ‘Listen, fella, you are a cop. You don’t get treated nice. Get it?’

  ‘But I have been better to you than a policeman might be,’ Ghote argued.

  For a little Edward G. did not bother to reply. Ghote saw that he had succeeded in prising up one of the tiles. Now he dipped his hand into a hole under it. Only when he had secured a crisp and shiny packet of American cigarettes did he say anything.

  ‘Listen, fella, when the cops have got something to give, they get something too. When it’s nix, it’s nix.’

  ‘In this world it should not be get, get, get only,’ Ghote said fiercely. ‘Sometimes it should be give. I am going to ask you t
o give.’

  Edward G. replaced the tile and tapped it into place with the heel of his bare foot.

  ‘Mister,’ he said, ‘for give you have come to the wrong guy.’

  He dropped his hands to his sides and stood in front of the inspector. Ghote looked at him. The bare feet, the bare thin legs, streaked with dirt, the battered and filthy pair of shorts hardly kept up round the desperately thin waist, the bare chest with the remains of the black plastic jacket hanging from the shoulders above, the diseased and wrinkled old man’s face on the boy’s head. No, he had indeed come to the wrong guy for giving.

  He felt confused.

  All he could do was to plough on. He was a policeman. He had received clear and categorical orders from his superior officer. All he could do was to carry them out to the very best of his ability.

  ‘I have come to discuss your evidence when we make arrest for the murder of Frank Masters,’ he said.

  The boy could not prevent a quick dart of interest.

  ‘You must know who it is we are going to arrest,’ Ghote went on.

  ‘It would take more policemen than you have got to get Amrit Singh out of the Morton Road place,’ Edward G. said.

  ‘We shall see about that,’ Ghote answered quickly. ‘You boys need not think that the police come out worst every time. Your friend Amrit Singh may be pretty tough, but we are not so weak.’

  He puffed out his chest a bit. It was important that the gang should be taken in by this boast. Otherwise they would realize they had let slip where Amrit Singh was hiding.

  ‘Oh,’ said Edward G., his crinkled face splitting with delight, ‘I would like to see Amrit Singh taking you apart, Inspectorji. Oh, that would be good to see.’

  ‘But you will not,’ said Ghote. ‘You will see your friend Amrit Singh in handcuffs before too long. We shall find him all right wherever he is.’

  The boy was after all only a boy. Ghote had no difficulty in detecting the faint look of relief in the wrinkled face at the thought that he had not really given away the Sikh thug’s hiding place.

  ‘Now,’ Ghote went on, ‘it is when we have arrested that you boys will come into the picture. It is a question of evidence.’

  He saw them look at one another with open uneasiness.

  ‘Well,’ he said sharply to Edward G., ‘you have important evidence to give. You were the one who saw Amrit Singh go into the dispensary where the poison was kept. It will be your duty to state that fact in court.’

  ‘Mister,’ said Edward G., casually taking out one of the American cigarettes, ‘I ain’t going to court.’

  ‘You are,’ Ghote said. ‘You will be called as witness. It is too late now.’

  ‘You call away, mister.’

  ‘We would do more than call. If you did not come by yourself, you would come in handcuffs.’

  Ghote thought again of how he had threatened to use handcuffs before and how ridiculous he had felt when the boy had held out his stick-like wrists. But perhaps he had been wrong to have allowed himself to be influenced by the thought of the ridiculousness of the situation. After all, D.S.P. Naik expected him to get his witnesses and if this was the only way …

  ‘You would have to find first,’ Edward G. said.

  ‘We would find,’ said Ghote. ‘But now it is a question of just what you would say in court.’

  ‘I would say nothing, mister.’

  Ghote decided to ignore this persistent line.

  ‘You know,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of the string bed next to the one the boys were lounging on, ‘you know, we have to be very careful about the way we tell the truth when it comes to court. This is one of the difficulties a policeman faces.’

  The boys received this insight into another kind of life with stoicism.

  ‘Yes,’ Ghote went on, ‘it is all very well to come out with the simple truth. But the defence employs lawyers. Very clever lawyers. If we are not careful, they can make the simple truth look like simple lies.’

  ‘That is bad,’ Edward G. stated.

  Ghote began to wonder if after all he was not beginning to make contact again. Perhaps all that was needed was to show that even a policeman had his difficulties.

  He sighed.

  ‘It is hard for us,’ he said. ‘Very hard. We would like to tell the truth just as it happened. But if that will not be believed, what are we to do? That is why sometimes we have to –’

  He stopped and searched for an analogy which might make it clearer to his audience.

  ‘Sometimes we have to polish up the truth a bit,’ he said. ‘You know, like you polish up a brass ornament so that it shines and everybody can see that it is what it is.’

  Edward G. Robinson puffed out a long conical cloud of tobacco smoke. The rich smell of best American tobacco.

  ‘Hey, Tarzan,’ he said, ‘go and polish the ornaments, boy. They ain’t shining too good.’

  The joke was extremely successful with the other members of the gang. They lay on their backs, kicked their legs in the air, and roared with laughter.

  Ghote frowned.

  ‘That was to give you a general idea of what I meant,’ he said. ‘You do not have to have ornaments to understand.’

  But the boys went on laughing. Only when they had stopped did Edward G. answer.

  ‘You want me to fake some evidence?’ he said. ‘How much you going to pay, copper?’

  Ghote’s heart sank.

  He had not expected this. Somehow it had been in his head all along that he would have the greatest difficulty in persuading Edward G. to agree with the Deputy Superintendent’s plan. And now it looked as if he had known from the start what Ghote would be bound to ask and would be only too pleased to agree, if the price was right.

  ‘It is only a question of stating what we know to be true,’ Ghote said. ‘We know Amrit Singh poisoned Mr Masters. You yourself saw him go into that dispensary. You were too far away to see him take the jar of poison down and take some of the powder out, but if you had been looking through the window you would have seen.’

  ‘Oh, but I did see, mister,’ Edward G. said.

  TEN

  Inspector Ghote stood on the bare tiles of the clients’ dormitory of the Masters Foundation and gaped. On the string bed in front of him the boy called Edward G. Robinson sat with his legs tucked underneath him and his half-smoked, fat American cigarette dangling from the puckered lips of his raddled and diseased face. There was a look of utter candour in his eyes.

  ‘You saw Amrit Singh take the poison?’ Ghote said incredulously. ‘You actually saw in the dispensary hut and Amrit Singh went over to a cupboard and took some of the poison?’

  His thoughts were wild. Shooting through them all was the feeling of maddening irony. He had contemplated disobeying the orders of a superior officer so as to avoid persuading this boy to say falsely he had seen the Sikh thug steal the poison. And all along the boy had actually watched him do it and had chosen to keep silent.

  Mixed with this were surges of plain fury. Why had the little devil taken it into his stupid head to say nothing about going up to the window of the dispensary hut when he had been on watch at the bottom of the compound?

  The fury might have over-ridden everything else, except for one thing. Amid all the inconsequent jumble in his head, Ghote could not entirely suppress a strain of growing triumph. Never matter how it had come out, the fact remained that he had now got his evidence against Amrit Singh. And he had got it without cheating. Here was something he could put up in court without the least hesitation, and it was something which by all the laws of reason and justice should hang Amrit Singh. At one stroke he would have ended the career of the biggest thorn in the side of the police department and at the same time have solved the murder of the biggest foreign benefactor in the whole city of Bombay.

  But under the whirl and tumble of these thoughts another strain lay.

  Ghote took a step nearer the boys on the bed and looked hard down at Edward G.


  ‘You saw him take the poison,’ he said, ‘the poison in the little blue jar?’

  Edward G. looked up at him, candid-eyed as ever.

  ‘Oh yes, Inspector sahib,’ he said, ‘from the little blue jar. I saw with my own eyes.’

  Ghote stepped back.

  The smashed fragments of the brown glass jar on which the Fingerprint Bureau had failed to find a single print belonging to Amrit Singh formed a picture in his mind as clearly as if they were laid out at that moment on the cracked tiles of the dormitory.

  Ghote might have persisted. Edward G.’s evasion had not solved his dilemma. If anything it had sharpened it. It was plain that, if the boy was happy to invent a story about seeing Amrit Singh steal the poison just to annoy, then in fact he certainly had not crept up to the window of the dispensary when the big Sikh had been in there.

  So D.S.P. Naik’s orders to secure witnesses who would swear to seeing this happen were all the more difficult to obey.

  Ghote had just reached this conclusion when the stately bearer who had escorted him to the dormitory reappeared.

  ‘Inspector sahib,’ he said, with a salaam worthy of the bare room’s days of former glory.

  ‘What is it?’ Ghote snapped at him.

  The man’s unvarying solemnity invited insults.

  ‘Telephone, Inspector sahib. If you would be so good as to step this way.’

  Unpuncturable, it seemed.

  As the inspector followed him through the bungalow, he turned to hoping it was so.

  He picked up the telephone.

  A fearful wheezing could be heard on the other end of the line. D.S.P. Naik. Ghote’s heart sank. If I was unpleasant to that bearer, he reflected wryly, I have been punished for it soon enough.

  ‘Inspector Ghote here,’ he said into the telephone.

  ‘Ah, Inspector. You have got the boys all right?’

  Ghote hesitated an instant.

  ‘I have just been interviewing, D.S.P.,’ he said.

  Two prolonged wheezes. And then the D.S.P. spoke again.

  ‘Interviewing, yes. But making sure of evidence, what about that?’

  It was at this moment that Ghote took a decision.

 

‹ Prev