Inspector Ghote Caught in Meshes Read online

  Professor Strongbow smiled just a little.

  “That’s more or less the point,” he said. “We weren’t all that anxious to find ourselves with a crowd of people from the States.”

  Ghote, who was beginning to think of the next stage in his inquiry, added one more question out of mere politeness.

  “You preferred to see more of our country?”

  Busy with his thoughts it was an instant or two before he realised that the professor had not answered. He looked across at him.

  After a moment the American spoke.

  “The truth of the matter is,” he said, “that Hector had become somewhat notorious just recently back home. He had expressed certain vigorous political views, and had been forced out of his post at the university we both teach in. So I persuaded him to keep out of the limelight for a while.”

  It was plain that he was reluctant to say this of a brother so recently killed. Ghote stepped quickly out of the shade of the little banyan and signalled to the constable.

  The man, who had been waiting patiently just out of earshot, came over at a trot and crashed thunderingly to attention.

  “Inspector sahib?”

  “You were the man who reported the dacoity?” Ghote asked.

  “Yes, Inspector sahib. I am stationed five miles away only. As soon as one of the men from road repair gang informed I proceeded here by bicycle immediately.”

  “Good man. The body was still where it fell then?”

  “Yes, Inspector sahib. But owing to the great number of flies and the presence of vultures I ordered it to be taken under shelter, having first made outline in road dust.”

  “Excellent. And what signs of dacoity did you observe?”

  “The body had been robbed, Inspector sahib. But the thieves had failed to notice passport in back trouser pocket. It was through this that I made preliminary identification. When the burra sahib here arrived he carried out confirmation.”

  The constable dipped his head respectfully towards Professor Strongbow.

  “Yes,” said the American. “It was Hector all right. And the men who killed him must be found.”

  The angry glint had come back into his eyes. Ghote hurried on with his interrogation of the constable.

  “I hear the men in question waited all morning up there under that Flame of the Forest tree,” he said. “Is that correct?”

  “It is what the villagers say, Inspector sahib.”

  “How many men were there?”

  “Three, Inspector.”

  “And you obtained full descriptions?”

  The constable sighed.

  “These village people,” he said. “They see nothing. They make no methodical observations. They told only that one was a Sikh and that they smoked a great many cigarettes.”

  “I will question myself later, but you seem to have done well.”

  “They were right about quantity of cigarettes smoked, Inspector,” the constable said. “I examined ground under tree myself. There were forty-eight stubs present. Cavander’s brand.”

  “Common enough,” Ghote said, “but good work all the same.”

  He felt some pleasure that the constable was giving a good impression to the American. Certainly the latter was missing nothing. His eyes never lost their grave alertness for an instant.

  “How did the men get here?” Ghote asked the constable next.

  “They came by car, Inspector.”

  “Did any of the village people take its number?”

  “None who saw it can read, Inspector sahib. They said it was a blue car and old only.”

  Ghote grimaced. But it was the sort of thing that might be expected.

  The American beside him took half a pace forward.

  “Inspector,” he said, “I’d like to know something.”

  “Certainly,” said Ghote.

  “Now that you’ve established those guys waited all day just till Hector’s car came along, does that alter your opinion at all of the nature of the crime?”

  “That it was a dacoity?” Ghote said.

  “If that means highway robbery, yes.”

  “A dacoity is technically a robbery carried out by five or more persons,” Ghote said.

  “All right, allowing for the fact that there seem to have been only three in this case, do you still think it is just a matter of straight robbery?”

  “It is unusual for dacoits to wait so long,” Ghote agreed.

  He saw a look of acute interest flick into the American’s eyes, to be replaced at once by his habitual cautious watchfulness.

  “It is unusual,” Ghote repeated, “but no more. It is probable that your brother’s car was the first to stop at the roadworks. You see that the bullock-cart there blocked the way.”

  He turned to the constable.

  “The cart was there at the time of the accident?” he asked.

  “Yes, Inspector sahib. I gave orders for no one to move.”

  “Good man.”

  “There is one thing, Inspector, also.”

  “Yes?”

  “Some of the village women report having seen a small fire of black smoke start from a point down the road shortly before the dacoits left their waiting place. They believe it was a signal fire, Inspector.”

  Ghote heard the American catch his breath beside him.

  “These women,” he asked the constable, “are they to be trusted? Or are they foolish gossips only?”

  “I think they may be right, Inspector. Certainly, it is strange for anyone to start a fire like that. But I could not leave the scene of the crime to carry out investigation.”

  “No,” said Ghote. “But I will investigate just as soon as I have finished here.”

  “Then you think this may not be a simple robbery?” the American said eagerly.

  Ghote turned to him.

  “Please,” he said. “There are certain things which appear a little unusual. But it is people we are dealing with, even though they are criminals. You cannot expect people always to do things according to the pattern of the textbooks.”

  “So you are going to claim this was just robbery?” Professor Strongbow said.

  He sounded disappointed.

  Ghote looked up at him squarely.

  “Professor,” he said, “it is perhaps hard for you to understand that someone as close to you as your brother has been killed in a most ordinary way. But this is almost certainly what has happened. He has been victim of accident, if you like. The accident of these men choosing this day to commit dacoity. It is natural to look for signs of something special. But it is a mistake to try to read special meaning into the slight differences this case has from one to-morrow.”

  For some moments the American did not reply. Then he sighed deeply.

  “You could be right,” he said.

  Ghote looked round more briskly.

  “It is necessary now for me to examine the body,” he said. “I imagine you would prefer to stay here by the car with Miss Brown?”

  “No,” said the American, “I’ll come with you.”

  “But it is not necessary for me to hear your identification,” Ghote said.

  “All the same I’d like to come.”

  “As you wish.”

  They walked back along the road to the village in silence. The constable marched just ahead of them to show Ghote the way to the hut where he had had the body carried. His feet thumped steadily and evenly on the dusty surface of the road and then squelched through the mire of the shady village.

  They stooped and entered the hut.

  Already there was a sharp, unpleasant smell and the flies were buzzing hard. Ghote looked down at the rather thin figure in the beige, silk suit with the ugly rips in the chest and the dark, dried stains of blood. The face bore only the slightest resemblance to the professor’s by the hut entrance. Above all, the crest of flaming red hair and the streak of beard of the same intense colour made the dead man look different.

  Behind him the Ameri
can spoke.

  “He was not the sort of man you could mistake,” he said.

  “No,” Ghote said. “A fine man, Professor.”

  “A distinctive man,” the professor answered.

  Ghote felt that the comment was hardly the proper one in the circumstances. It was not what ought to have been said about a brother so recently killed. It was not a correct tribute.

  But after all the professor was an American, and perhaps they were different about such things.

  To change the subject a little he pointed to a small black and white metal disc the dead man had in the buttonhole of his left lapel.

  “What is this, please?” he said. “It is some sort of badge?”

  “Yes,” Professor Strongbow answered. “It’s a badge all right. A CND button. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Hector was a great one for that. As a matter of fact it was that that caused all the trouble back home, the reason why I persuaded him to come over here really.”

  He watched silently as Ghote continued with his examination.

  “Yes,” he said after a little, “I persuaded him to come. To keep him out of trouble.”

  He gave a short, unmirthful laugh.

  Ghote finished doing what he had to do and straightened up.

  “There’s one thing,” the American said. “That button. Can I take it?”

  Ghote knew it was not strictly allowable.

  “Please to have it,” he said.

  The American bent forward, twisted the button out of its place on the lapel of the beige-coloured suit and slipped it into his pocket. They went out in the oppressive heat.

  Ghote was relieved to be able to walk briskly back to the scene of the shooting, and as soon as they arrived he fired a stream of questions at the patient constable, who dutifully pointed out the few material factors there were to show. Ghote checked the name of the car-hire firm that owned the dark green Chevrolet. He inspected the vague scuffled patches in the dust where the killers must have stood. He gauged the distance between the car and the bullock-cart at the far end of the roadworks.

  The police breakdown truck coming to haul away the Chevrolet for examination arrived in a great swirl of dust. It stopped with a howl from its brakes, slewing dramatically across the road. Ghote bit his lip in vexation. Behaviour of that sort did not really give an impression of efficiency. It simply made the Police Department look like a lot of children.

  A cheerful head constable jumped out of the truck swinging a driving-wheel fitted with clamps to go over that of the car to be fingerprinted.

  “Okay to take, Inspector?” he shouted.

  Ghote noticed that the American had turned and was walking slowly back towards Shakuntala Brown under the little banyan. He turned back to the head constable.

  “You be damned careful with that car,” he snapped.

  The head constable executed a pantomime of being extremely chastened. He approached the dark green Chevrolet on tiptoe.

  Ghote hoped that the professor had not seen this display. It was difficult to make out.

  “Inspector sahib,” the local constable said respectfully at his elbow.

  He turned to him with relief. At least here was somebody who did what he had to do sensibly and properly.

  “Yes?”

  “If the car is going, Inspector, shall I tell this bullock cart wallah to be on his way?”

  Ghote looked across at the squatting figure of the driver on the big, unwieldy cart.

  “No,” he said, “you will not tell him to go. That man set up a fine road block at just the right time. I want to know why.”

  TWO

  Inspector Ghote strode determinedly towards the patient, squatting figure of the bare-backed bullock-cart driver. If there was anything more to the attack on the red-haired American than a simple dacoity, then this was in all probability going to be his chance to find out.

  But something in the sharp forcefulness of his stride must have signalled a warning to the man perched on the clumsy shaft of the big cart. Because with a sudden leap into the air he flung himself down on to the road, staggered once and hared off along the dusty concrete surface with his long, bare legs scissoring out like a champion runner’s.

  Ghote went after him in an instant.

  The constable was scarcely slower off the mark. But both of them had to negotiate the bulk of the heavy cart and by the time they had a clear run the bullock driver was well ahead. His skinny body looked as if it ought not to have the stamina to keep going at this pace for more than twenty yards, but plainly his looks were deceptive. It was all Ghote could do not to fall behind, and the constable, pounding along in his heavy boots, seemed to be even less well able to keep in the chase.

  Ghote swore to himself. The fellow would not have to go far before he got some chance to get out of sight. And once he had done that he could disappear into the vast stretch of the countryside with its hundreds and hundreds of anonymous, almost unidentifiable people and be lost perhaps for ever more. There were thousands of homeless men wandering up and down the length of India, and it was beyond the scope of the possible to check on more than a handful of them.

  Already the almost naked runner ahead of them was nearing the professor, slowly making his way towards the banyan tree. A hundred yards or so further on and the village would be reached. And there in a dodging game among the cluster of huts their quarry would be almost certain to get away.

  And then the man stumbled. Perhaps in passing the tall form of the American he had taken his eyes off the road at his feet for an instant. But whatever the cause, he had stumbled badly. And Ghote and the constable had their chance. Within moments Ghote had closed up to the point where he was ready to fling himself forward in a final lunge.

  He felt a sense of pounding joy as he took a deep breath and launched himself into the air.

  Something heavy struck him a tremendous blow on the left shoulder, sending him sprawling away off target. His reaching fingers almost touched the bullock driver’s earth-stained loincloth but the impact of the blow was too strong. With a jarring crash he landed flat on his face on the hard concrete.

  It was the big American. He had taken it into his head to hurl himself at the bullock driver at just the instant Ghote had launched himself forward. And he too had landed every bit as awkwardly in the dust. Above them the constable came to a teetering halt, his way totally blocked by their outstretched bodies.

  Ahead, the fugitive gave one quick glance round and then turned, leapt helter-skelter down the road embankment and was off across the wide spread of the fields.

  “Damnation,” said Ghote.

  The American heaved himself up till he was on all fours on the dusty road.

  “Inspector, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve let him get away.”

  He pushed himself upright.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” he said. “I don’t usually act like that. I guess it was just that I suddenly realised that here was someone who could lead us to the men who killed my brother. I guess I suddenly thought I could avenge Hector that way.”

  He looked at the figure of the bullock driver, already getting smaller as he headed stubbornly across the pattern of the little fields. A long way behind, the constable, who had in his turn jumped down the embankment, was toiling conscientiously on.

  “And all I did was to make sure the guy got away,” the professor said.

  Ghote reflected that this was probably true.

  “Kindly do not worry,” he said. “It was good of you to try to stop the fellow.”

  And suddenly he saw that all was not yet lost.

  He turned to the professor.

  “Your car,” he said, “can I use same?”

  “Sure thing.”

  The American swung round at once and began running towards the little grey Hindustan by the banyan. Following, Ghote noted that he ran well, taking long economical strides over the dusty surface of the road.

  And he thought fast too, for all his gen
erally cautious approach to things. Already he was shouting to Shakuntala Brown at the wheel of the little car to move over.

  By the time Ghote had got there she was in the front passenger seat. The professor scrambled into the back. Ghote jumped in, banged the door to and tugged at the starter. The engine broke into life and Ghote swung the little vehicle round and set off along the road in a storm of fresh dust.

  Within a minute they had reached the narrow cart-track which Ghote had suddenly spotted as they had watched the fugitive gradually getting smaller and smaller as he ran from field to field. Ghote swung the little Hindustan off the road and set it bucketing and swaying down the narrow, crumbly track as fast as he dared.

  “You know,” said Professor Strongbow from the back, “with any luck we’re going to cut the guy off.”

  He leant forward with an elbow on the top of each seat. And suddenly the little car gave a violent lurch to the right as its front offside wheel dipped into a deep rut and its engine stopped dead.

  They were hanging perilously over the banked edge of the path, with below them in the shade a miry patch of caramel-coloured earth waiting for their fall. The professor flung himself back with a groan.

  “I just should never have said that.”

  And the shift in weight did the trick. The little car rose an inch or two in the front, Ghote leant backwards as much as he could and restarted the engine. Cautiously he slipped into reverse and put in the clutch. The car crept back on to the path again.

  Half a minute later they were off once more. And within another two minutes Ghote and the professor were sliding down the bank from the path into the fields. Ahead of them, not fifty yards away, the bullock driver plunged on unaware of his danger.

  “This time I’ll leave him to you,” the American said as they set off across the soft earth of the recently flooded fields.

  He dropped back a yard or two and left Ghote to make the running. Quite soon the bullock driver heard them. He looked up startled almost out of his wits, and began to go off in a new direction. But it was too late. A pace or two more and Ghote was within striking distance again.

  This time, with his quarry plainly exhausted to dropping point, he did not attempt to fling himself forward. He ran on a little, closing the gap between them with every stride. Then he reached forward and grabbed.