The Perfect Murder: the First Inspector Ghote Mystery Read online

  PENGUIN MODERN CLASSICS

  The Perfect Murder

  H. R. F. KEATING was born at St Leonards-on-Sea, Sussex, in 1926. He went to Merchant Taylors, leaving early to work in the engineering department of the BBC. After a period of service in the army, which he describes as ‘totally undistinguished’, he went to Trinity College, Dublin, where he became a scholar in modern literature. He was also the crime fiction reviewer for The Times for fifteen years. His first novel about Inspector Ghote, The Perfect Murder, won the Crime Writers’ Association’s Gold Dagger and an Edgar Allen Poe Special Award. He lives in London with his wife, the actress Sheila Mitchell, and has three sons and a daughter.

  ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH is the author of several series of novels and is best known as the creator of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency books.

  H . R . F . KEATING

  The Perfect Murder

  The First Inspector Ghote Mystery

  Preface by ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN CLASSICS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published by Collins 1964

  Published in Penguin Books 1968

  Published in Penguin Classics 2011

  Copyright © H. R. F. Keating, 1964

  Preface copyright © Alexander McCall Smith, 2011

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of both the author and the author of the preface has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-196287-0

  Contents

  Preface by ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH

  The Perfect Murder

  Preface

  A perfectly loveable inspector

  I went to Bombay, as Mumbai then was, as an incidental literary pilgrim. I was an incidental pilgrim in the sense that I had to pass through the city on my way elsewhere, but even so I was aware from the moment my plane landed that I was on hallowed turf: I was in the city of Inspector Ganesh Ghote of the Bombay C.I.D. Others feel the same way, no doubt, when they first set foot on the pavements of Baker Street, or find themselves outside one of the houses associated with Jane Austen. Pilgrims, of course, may go to the places of their pilgrimage in awe, but must be ready for a let-down. Bombay, though, did not disappoint: there were the Ambassador cars in which Ghote might travel; there were the street characters; there were the buildings and alleyways into which some suspicious character – some goonda perhaps, a thoroughly bad hat – might vanish. The whole intriguing world of this remarkable city, so brilliantly caught in Keating’s little gems, was there for the savouring. And yet, we might remind ourselves, the first nine Inspector Ghote novels were written before the author had actually visited India.

  H. R. F. Keating began work on the Ghote novels as a deliberate attempt to give his fiction a more international tone. The Perfect Murder, the first of the series, was intended to broaden the appeal of his work, particularly in the United States. Something his earlier crime novels had failed to do, being considered ‘too British’ to appeal to American taste. And it would not have been surprising if novels set in a country that the author had never visited ended up reflecting the author’s culture, rather than that of the country in which they are set. Yet in Keating’s case this did not happen. These books are not embarrassing portrayals of an idealized India; they have an authenticity that has been recognized, even in India. As such they fall into that small – very small – category of novels: those that are works of pure imagination but that nonetheless convey a valid sense of place and culture.

  It would be easy, of course, to dismiss these novels as being classic examples of post-colonial assumption of voice, and no doubt there is a body of critical writing that does just that. Such criticism, however, is not only somewhat predictable, but misses the point that an accomplished piece of fiction can perfectly easily transcend the circumstances of its creation. It does not matter who wrote it and what the author’s personal credentials are: the story can soar above all that, revealing truths about what it is to be human. So the fact that Keating, at the beginning, had no direct experience of India matters not one whit. If he could make his books feel Indian; if he could step into the shoes of an Indian detective inspector and make it sound credible, or at least highly enjoyable, then that was merely testimony to a rich and creative imagination, a tribute to his ability as a novelist. After all, historical novelists do this all the time: they write about places they have never been and cultures of which they cannot, by definition, have personal experience. If one wants the contemporary blood and sinew of Mumbai, then one can read Vikram Chandra’s magnificent epic, Sacred Games; if one wants something more picaresque, something lighter and more comic, something that has the elusive quality of fable to it, then Inspector Ghote can be called to hand.

  The real charm of the Inspector Ghote novels lies in the characters who populate them. Ghote himself is one of the great creations of detective fiction. Unlike many fictional detectives, who are often outsiders, possessed in many cases of difficult personal demons, Ghote is utterly loveable. His rank gives him some status, but not very much. He has his own office, with some personal furniture and effects, but we are always aware of his superiors, and of the barely disguised contempt that many of them have for him. In Inspector Ghote Trusts the Heart, for instance, not only is there the coldly dismissive Superintendent Karandikar, known as ‘the Tiger’, who is only too happy to belittle a mere inspector, but we also meet the Commissioner of Police himself, a being so elevated as to inspire quite understandable awe in Ghote’s breast. What visitor to India over the last few decades – although less so now – will not have caught a glance of the chauffeur-driven cream or white Ambassador cars of such personages – complete with flags and curtains to exclude the common gaze?

  Ghote, then, is the small man, the man who has made enough of himself to be given a position of responsibility, but who is always at the mercy of those more powerful than he is himself. If one were to read these books with no knowledge of India, one would conclude that it is a society of egregious inequality. And that, alas, is the reality of modern India, in spite of vastly increased wealth and the rise of a much larger middle class. Keating has an intuitive understanding of this feature of Indian society, and of the way i
n which the rich and powerful work. The wealthy Mr Desai, in Inspector Ghote Trusts the Heart, is typical of the rich businessmen who crop up in the novels. He has made his money and is not at all apologetic about the comfort and power it brings. He is surrounded by servants, just as is Mr Lala Varde in The Perfect Murder, and these servants are treated with a haughty lack of consideration, not as people with feelings. Overstated? If one were to be tempted to say that the master–servant relationship in the Ghote novels is unrealistic, then one might simply read that remarkable fictional portrayal of exactly that issue in Aravind Adiga’s Booker Prize-winning The White Tiger. Keating, it seems, has got it spot-on.

  Ghote’s dignified acceptance of his perilous status makes us want so much for him. We want him to remain on the case when influential people further up use every weapon they possess to have him taken off. We want him to be heard when he is ignored or deliberately silenced. We want him to find domestic contentment, and we want happiness for his wife, Protima, and his son, Ved. They deserve it so much more than the spoiled and over-indulged families with whom Ghote comes into contact. The picture of the ghastly child, Haribhai Desai, in Inspector Ghote Trusts the Heart is utterly toe-curling and, one fears, very realistic. I remember once visiting a cloyingly luxurious safari lodge in East Africa and meeting fellow guests, a very rich Indian family (surely related to Keating’s Mr Desai). Their young son was with them – a pampered and overfed child dressed in a beautifully cut miniature safari suit. How the rich so obligingly set themselves up to be preserved in aspic by the novelist, and how skilfully, and with what relish, does Keating perform this task!

  But it is not just finely pitched social observation that makes these novels so good, it is also Keating’s engagement with issues of corruption and integrity. Keating has often expressed his interest in broad philosophical issues, and his writing, although entertaining and amusing, frequently engages us in an examination of how we understand the world and work within it. This, perhaps, is the single quality that gives to the Ghote novels their timelessness. They are about how the good man, the honest man – the man who is sufficiently self-aware to allow himself a lot of room for self-doubt – preserves his integrity in a world of false values, greed and rampant injustice. Ghote’s struggles, like the struggles of the powerless and downtrodden people whom he sees in his day-to-day work, are universally recognizable. In these books they are presented in such a way as to engage and amuse us; that is Keating’s skill. That is what confers on these vivid and lovely little books their status as classics of detective fiction. That is what gives these novels their lasting appeal.

  Keating’s overall contribution to crime fiction has been a major one, but we should be particularly grateful to him for what he has given us in his marvellous creation of Inspector Ganesh Ghote, Bombay C.I.D, solver of mysteries, agent of such justice as an imperfect world can muster, or expect.

  Alexander McCall Smith, 2011

  1

  It was called the Perfect Murder right from the start. First the Bombay papers plastered it all the way across their pages. And then it was taken up by papers all over India.

  The Perfect Murder: Police at House.

  The Perfect Murder: New Police Moves.

  The Perfect Murder: Police Baffled.

  Every time Inspector Ghote saw the words he felt the sweat spring up all along the top of his shoulders. It was as if every one of India’s four hundred million people were looking at him, challenging him to break it. The Perfect Murder.

  Each time he had to pull himself together and remind himself of the cold facts. It was nothing like four hundred million people. Most of them would never hear of the Perfect Murder however many times it made the headlines in Bombay or elsewhere. Many of them were unable to read; some of them had never even heard of Bombay.

  But still people kept calling it the Perfect Murder. And, though Inspector Ghote repeated to himself again and again that all that the case required was the proper procedure tirelessly applied, each time he heard the words the long patch of sweat came up right across his skinny shoulders.

  Arun Varde himself had called it the Perfect Murder the night he had sent for the police with such urgency.

  ‘The Perfect Murder,’ he stormed, ‘and in my house, the house of Lala Arun Varde. It must not be allowed. It shall not be allowed.’

  Inspector Ghote knew what he meant. Arun Varde was a man of immense wealth, a lala, a man with vast influence in the highest quarters. A murder in his house was a murder indeed.

  The inspector swallowed nervously. He had a feeling that he ought not to let such a person tread all over him, otherwise his chances of ever applying the proper procedure would be slight.

  ‘There are ten thousand murders in India every year, Mr Varde,’ he began.

  He was not allowed to finish. Lala Arun Varde swung his huge bulk round to face him, to tower over him.

  ‘Ten thousand murders in India. What do I care about them? Are there ten thousand murders in my house? In the house of Lala Arun Varde? Are there one thousand? Are there a hundred only? Or fifty? Or ten? Or two? Are there two only?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘No. In my house there is one only. The Perfect Murder. They have dared to come into my house for that. Into my very house. They have come with their murderous knives, their guns, their pistols, their clubs, their cannons to strike me to the inmost middle of my heart.’

  He came to a forcible halt for lack of air, sucked in a breath with a noise like the last great slurge of an elephant ingesting the entire contents of a river pool, and charged again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘into my very house they have come. But do not think they will get away with it. Oh, the rotten, murdering, lying, robbing, fornicating devils, I will crush them. Blot them out, squeeze them to powder, crumble them to dust of dust.’

  Looking at him as calmly as he could manage, Inspector Ghote thought that crushing and crumbling would come only too easily to such a massy, rolling mountain of a man.

  ‘But, Mr Varde,’ he said, ‘the detection and apprehension –’

  Lala Varde let loose an immense sob.

  ‘Oh,’ he moaned, ‘they have struck me to the heart. They have entered my fortress. They have dared to do it. They have defied me, spat on me, rubbed me in the dirt. They have come into the very middle of my home and have defiled it. I am lost, lost. Helpless, hopeless, handless. Killed, murdered, dead.’

  He flung himself down on a low couch, which groaned and buckled under the impact, and sat with his great pumpkin head lolling in abject dejection.

  Inspector Ghote drew attention to himself with a neat little rat-tat of a cough.

  ‘A murder has taken place, sahib,’ he said. ‘Very well. We will settle down to find out who is responsible. Just as we settle down to find out who killed all the other ten thousand people who are murdered every year.’

  Lala Varde swung his head upwards and the inspector caught a glimpse of two sharp pig-eyes glinting.

  ‘And how many murderers do you find? Ten only?’

  ‘Nearly one third of murders reported result in convictions,’ said Inspector Ghote stiffly.

  Lala Varde laughed.

  He laughed till his huge belly shook like a great steam engine pumping in and out.

  ‘Oh, my poor Inspector,’ he said, ‘your police force is not very good.’

  ‘It will be good enough to find out who committed this murder,’ Inspector Ghote answered.

  ‘So that is why to my house they send an inspector only,’ Lala Varde countered.

  Inspector Ghote smiled a little uneasily.

  ‘I am not in charge of the case officially, Mr Varde,’ he said. ‘This is a D.S.P. matter, definitely a D.S.P. matter.’

  ‘D.S.P. one, two, three,’ Lala Varde said. ‘What do I know of your D.S.P.s? All I see is inspector. A murder in my house and they send inspector.’

  Inspector Ghote smiled again.

  ‘D.S.P. is Deputy Superintendent of Poli
ce,’ he said. ‘D.S.P. Samant is personally in charge of the case, personally.’

  ‘The Perfect Murder,’ Lala Varde said with a great, gusty sigh, ‘and a deputy only.’

  Inspector Ghote did not succeed in smiling again.

  He felt there was a due limit to the amount of such aspersion. It had been overstepped.

  ‘Mr Varde,’ he said with an edge of anger in his voice, ‘I must remind you that this case is called the Perfect Murder for one reason only: the victim’s name is Perfect, Mr Perfect, your Parsi secretary.’

  He looked firmly at the huge man in front of him.

  ‘There is no reason at all,’ he added, ‘why the crime should not be dealt with in a perfectly normal and easy manner. No reason at all.’

  ‘Reason treason,’ said Lala Varde. ‘It is not a normal murder. It is my murder. They did it to me. Ah, the dirty ravishers of their own mothers, they thought that, without Mr Perfect, Lala Varde would be no good. Well, let them see. I’ll show them, Perfect or no Perfect. They think I can’t follow the details of my own business. I know what they say. They say I owe all my success to a Parsi secretary. Let me tell them that Lala Varde had made his lakhs and crores of rupees before he had ever heard of any secretary mekretary.’

  He looked round for enemies.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘they struck right to the heart. What am I to do without Mr Perfect? Am I a clerk that I should have to add this figure to that? Am I a poke-and-pry little old dry-as-dust of a lawyer to go looking at deeds and land registers all day with my nose pushed down into old papers peepers?’

  He creased his pot belly suddenly forward and peered down at some huge imaginary tome like a whale aping a tortoise.

  Inspector Ghote drew himself up to a position of attention. ‘Mr Varde,’ he said, ‘if you know the names of the murderers, I must request you to give them to me without delay.’

  Lala Varde stopped peering into his imaginary register.