The Perfect Murder: the First Inspector Ghote Mystery Read online

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘and what do you do in this household?’

  ‘I am sweeper, sahib.’

  ‘I see. Well, I do not suppose you were cleaning up anywhere after it got dark this evening.’

  ‘Oh, no, sahib.’

  Inspector Ghote sat back in his chair.

  The last witness and not even in a position to be helpful.

  A final dreg of conscientiousness made him put one more question.

  ‘Where were you in the evening then? In your quarters?’

  ‘Oh, no, sahib. I was in hall.’

  The inspector sat up with a jerk.

  And promptly cursed himself. This might be a fish who had to be caught gently.

  ‘In the hall of the house?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sahib.’

  ‘I see. Where in the hall?’

  ‘Just inside room by door, sahib.’

  ‘By the door? The room where all the unwanted things are?’

  Inspector Ghote held his breath.

  ‘Yes, sahib, there.’

  He waited for an instant. And then put his next question.

  ‘What were you doing there, then?’

  ‘I was waiting in case the master went out.’

  ‘Oh, yes? Why was that?’

  ‘Sometimes, sahib, when he is going out he is chewing paan. And he puts what he has not chewed in the brass bowl by the door. Then I can come out and take it.’

  Out of the corner of his eye Inspector Ghote detected the head constable working himself up into a rage about such a deeply criminal act. He gave him a sharp glance and went back to the boy.

  ‘While you were there in that room, could anyone see you?’

  ‘Oh, no, sahib. It was dark.’

  ‘I see. And did you see anyone? Did you see Mr Perfect? You know who he is?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know, sahib. He is the old Parsi who looks so tall and thin like a lathi. I knew him even though he had on atchkan.’

  ‘I’ll give you lathi,’ growled the head constable, flexing his arm in the air as if he was about to bring a particularly thwacking lathi down on someone’s back.

  ‘Quiet,’ snapped Inspector Ghote.

  ‘You saw Mr Perfect then?’ he asked the boy.

  ‘Oh, yes, sahib, I saw him go out and then come in again. And then one time more.’

  ‘When was this? Was it early or late?’

  ‘It was twelve o’clock, sahib. He came into room and saw me then. He made me go back here.’

  ‘Twelve o’clock?’ the inspector asked. ‘You mean it was some time late in the night? Is that it?’

  ‘No, sahib. Twelve o’clock really. I heard the clock in the Christian church. Twelve times it sounded.’

  Inspector Ghote looked at the head constable with an air of triumph.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we are getting somewhere.’

  He leant towards the boy again with a friendly smile.

  ‘Inspector Ghote. Inspector sahib.’

  The urgent voice of a constable came from behind him.

  ‘Go away. Don’t interrupt, man.’

  ‘Message from D.S.P., Inspector. Most urgent.’

  Inspector Ghote turned round.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘Please report at once to D.S.P., Inspector sahib.’

  ‘To the D.S.P.? At his house?’

  ‘No, Inspector sahib, he has come into office.’

  ‘Into the office? In the middle of the night?’

  ‘It is morning, Inspector sahib.’

  Inspector Ghote looked upwards.

  It was indeed morning. The night had passed while he had so painstakingly questioned Lala Varde’s army of servants and hangers-on. But it was still very early.

  ‘You say the D.S.P. has come into his office already?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector sahib. And he sent me jildi jildi to fetch you.’

  Inspector Ghote got up and buttoned up his uniform.

  The D.S.P. in his office at this hour. Something totally unprecedented must have happened.

  4

  Inspector Ghote got to the office in record time. His driver, a middle-aged stately fellow, invariably changed the moment he clambered into a police truck into a sort of impersonal, hectoring, hysterical onward force, all screeching tyres and squealing brakes. Having learnt, well before the inspector, of the urgency of Deputy Superintendent Samant’s summons, he excelled himself.

  The inspector, impelled by the momentum of his break-neck trip, raced up the steps into the building and headed for D.S.P. Samant’s office door as fast as his legs could carry him. But, as his hand was raised to knock, a terrible, jovial shout from behind brought him to a full stop.

  He turned round with misgiving to see, as he had known he would, the towering, blond-haired figure of Axel Svensson, his principal worry in the world until the moment the D.S.P. had put him on to the Perfect Murder.

  Axel Svensson was a Swede who had arrived in Bombay about a fortnight before during a tour of the Asian countries sponsored by Unesco, for whom he was writing an extensive study entitled Police Force Prototypes for Emergent Nations. D.S.P. Samant had handed him over to Ghote with instructions that looking after him was to be his first priority. Axel Svensson had delightedly availed himself of the D.S.P.’s generosity.

  And evidently had not yet finished.

  ‘My dear Inspector,’ he shouted.

  His big voice boomed clangorously down the corridor outside the D.S.P.’s office. It was probably the loudest noise that had ever been heard there.

  Inspector Ghote ran quickly towards him.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Svensson, good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Axel, my friend. You must always call me Axel. Don’t stand on ceremony. I have told you before.’

  Inspector Ghote bobbed a little acknowledgement at the tall, long-boned Swede.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Axel sahib,’ he said.

  ‘Splendid to have caught you,’ Svensson said.

  Although the inspector was standing very close to him now, his voice sounded as loud as ever. The inspector glanced over his shoulder at D.S.P. Samant’s door, but it remained blessedly closed.

  ‘Splendid to have caught you. I have a most urgent query I wish to put to you.’

  ‘In just a moment, Mr Svensson, I –’

  But the Swede battered remorselessly on.

  ‘It is this, my dear Inspector. I have read that in your religious works gods are shown as taking bribes. Is that correct?’

  Inspector Ghote flushed.

  ‘The State police force has a department specially concerned with anti-corruption,’ he said.

  The Swede spread his big, bony hands wide.

  ‘Ah, my dear Inspector, that I know. Already I have admired its work. It will form a most useful chapter in my book. But you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Examples of most excellent behaviour are shown in accounts of the deeds of the gods,’ the inspector said. ‘But, Mr Svensson – But Mr Axel, I have a most urgent summons by the D.S.P.’

  ‘Oh, this won’t take a moment,’ the Swede said cheerfully. ‘Just tell me: do the gods take bribes? Yes or no?’

  He laid a widespread paw on the inspector’s thin shoulder.

  ‘There are stories where this appears to happen,’ the inspector said.

  ‘Excellent. Excellent. This will be most highly interesting. Because, you see, my friend, here is the point: if that is held up as admirable conduct, what effect does it have on the average policeman? That is it in a nutshell.’

  ‘Yes in a nutshell. You put it very well.’

  He slipped out of the Swede’s great red grasp.

  But he lacked the brutal resolution to walk away sharply, and, before he had manoeuvred himself to the point where he could take a decent farewell, the Swede was standing toweringly between him and the D.S.P.’s door.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if certain sections of the holy writings which do not conform with modern practices cou
ld be officially set aside, it would undoubtedly solve the problem.’

  ‘But they are sacred. Sacred writings,’ Ghote protested.

  ‘Yes, but they advocate the offering and receiving of bribes.’

  Inspector Ghote looked quietly firm.

  ‘You cannot alter sacred writings,’ he said.

  The Swede shook his big head crowned with the short array of upright blond hair.

  ‘On the one hand,’ he said, ‘you have an official campaign against bribery. On the other, respected religious writings condone and even encourage it. I do not understand.’

  The inspector’s face brightened.

  ‘But it is perfectly simple,’ he said. ‘You have explained it yourself. On the one hand, on the other hand. The two things are quite separate.’

  The Swede’s pale blond eyebrows locked hard together.

  And while they stayed locked Inspector Ghote at last slipped efficiently as a snake into the D.S.P.’s office.

  He found D.S.P. Samant sitting squarely at his desk attacking a report that lay in front of him. He was working with a red ball-point and used it to make sudden, savage inroads on any part of the document which met with his disapproval.

  Inspector Ghote saluted and gave his name in the sharp, military fashion he knew the D.S.P. liked.

  After some time, during which two or three more paragraphs were dispatched as cleanly as a terrier deals with a rat, Inspector Ghote abruptly found the D.S.P.’s keen grey eyes were focused on him.

  ‘Well, Inspector? What is it? What is it, man?’

  ‘You sent for me, D.S.P.’

  ‘I did? I did?’

  Hot surges of panic rushed through Inspector Ghote’s brain. The constable had made a mistake. He had probably fetched the wrong inspector. The Perfect Murder had been abandoned at the very moment the scent was hottest. And, the D.S.P. had been irritated.

  ‘Ah, yes. Ghote. Just the man I want.’

  The inspector’s shoulders sank to their normal place.

  ‘Yes,’ the D.S.P. said. ‘A very important and urgent matter has come up and I’m going to put you on to it. Number one priority.’

  Inspector Ghote felt himself assailed by a swarm of contradictory emotions. Pride, in being singled out in this way. Disappointment, at losing the Perfect Murder. Relief, that that was now going to be someone else’s burden. Annoyance, at being switched so quickly from one thing to another.

  Pride won.

  ‘I will do my best, D.S.P.,’ he said.

  ‘I expect every officer to do that,’ snapped the D.S.P.

  ‘Yes, D.S.P.’

  ‘But this is a matter requiring extreme tact. Extreme tact.’

  The words of Doctor Hans Gross rolled sonorously through Inspector Ghote’s brain.

  ‘You may lack certain other qualities, Inspector, but at least I can rely on you to exercise tact. The utmost tact. I hope I can rely on you, Inspector.’

  The cold threat of the last words made Inspector Ghote’s mouth go so dry that he was unable to reply.

  ‘Well, can I, man? Can I?’

  ‘Yes, D.S.P.’

  The croaking whisper was accepted.

  ‘Very well, then. Now listen to me. There has been a serious crime, a very serious crime, in the personal office of the Minister for Police Affairs and the Arts. Now, I needn’t tell you what that means: the matter has got to be cleared up. At once. Without fuss. With the maximum of efficiency. And the Minister is not to be in any way worried. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, D.S.P.’

  ‘Very well, then. I think you’re the man to do it. Apply to me personally for any help you want. You’ve got my fullest backing in this, Ghote.’

  ‘Thank you, D.S.P.’

  D.S.P. Samant picked up his red ball-point again.

  Inspector Ghote cleared his throat.

  ‘Can you give me any further details, D.S.P.? Or will they have them in Main Office?’

  ‘Main Office? Main Office? Do you think this is a Main Office matter, man? Main Office know nothing about it. Nothing. The Minister was put through to me personally. And I’m giving you your orders direct.’

  ‘Yes, D.S.P.’

  Inspector Ghote waited.

  ‘Well, what is it? What is it, man? What are you hanging about there for? Get on with it, man. Get on with it.’

  ‘Particulars, D.S.P. sahib,’ Inspector Ghote said.

  He tried to make the word as quiet as possible.

  ‘Particulars? Particulars? What particulars?’

  ‘Particulars of the crime at the Minister’s office, D.S.P. You said that he had informed you personally.’

  ‘Of course he did, of course. You don’t think that when the Minister for Police Affairs comes on the line he talks to any little whipper-snapper, do you?’

  ‘No, D.S.P. Of course not, D.S.P. And the details, D.S.P.?’

  The D.S.P. drew a long breath.

  Inspector Ghote tensed.

  ‘A sum of money has disappeared from a drawer in the Minister’s own desk,’ the D.S.P. said. ‘That is virtually all you need to know.’

  ‘Very good, D.S.P.’

  Inspector Ghote saluted and began marching smartly out.

  ‘The sum of one rupee, I believe,’ the D.S.P. said.

  Inspector Ghote stopped in his tracks. He turned. The D.S.P.’s cold grey Mahratta eyes stared at him fixedly.

  ‘Well, Inspector, was there something else you had to ask?’

  Inspector Ghote gulped.

  ‘Well, was there, man? Out with it, out with it.’

  Tact, thought the inspector. Tact, tact, tact. Many awkward situations circumvented by.

  ‘Yes, D.S.P.,’ he said. ‘The Perfect Murder. Who will be taking over on that case?’

  ‘Taking over? Taking over? What do you mean, taking over? An officer of resource should be able to handle more than one matter at a time, Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, D.S.P. but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But you told me to give the Perfect Murder number one priority, D.S.P. And this new case too, D.S.P. Number one priority there too.’

  He looked into the chill grey eyes.

  ‘And I was giving number one priority to the Swedish gentleman too, D.S.P. Anything he needed to know, number one priority. Anything he wanted to look at, number one priority.’

  ‘Well, what are you coming yapping to me about, Inspector? Am I a mother that I have to nurse my officers day and night? It’s a police officer’s duty to get his right order of priorities. Think it out, man, think it out. Use your brains. Look at me. Do you think I don’t have questions like that to deal with every moment of my life? Look at my desk now. Look at it, man.’

  Inspector Ghote looked.

  On the right-hand side of the desk was the ‘In’ basket. On the left hand was the ‘Out’ basket. Between them stood three other baskets, shoulder to shoulder. They were labelled ‘Immediate,’ ‘Urgent’ and ‘Top Priority.’

  ‘You’re not the only police officer who’s ever had to make a decision, Inspector Ghote.’

  ‘No, D.S.P.’

  He saluted, turned, and this time marched straight out.

  In the corridor Axel Svensson was waiting.

  ‘Ah, Inspector,’ he said, ‘I hoped I would catch you. There is another important problem –’

  ‘I am very sorry, Mr Svensson,’ Inspector Ghote said, ‘but I have just been put on to a new inquiry. Number one priority.’

  ‘Ah, excellent. I will come with you if I may. It would be a first-class opportunity to see the Bombay force in action.’

  Inspector Ghote smiled. Palely.

  ‘Of course, sahib,’ he said.

  ‘Axel. Axel, my friend.’

  As they drove together over to the Ministry of Police Affairs and the Arts in Mayo Road, Axel Svensson sought opinions on the effect of an arranged marriage on the ambitions of a typical police officer. Inspector Ghote felt it was altogether too much that he should be asked to cope wi
th this as well as his other problems. He allowed himself to think just once of his wife, Protima, and what she would be feeling about the fact that at the end of his spell of night duty he had not returned home. And then he set to work on the desperately delicate task of weighing the demands of the attack on Mr Perfect against those of the theft of one rupee from under the very nose of the Minister of Police Affairs and the Arts.

  He had done no more than miserably stare at the problem before they arrived at the Ministry.

  And there he found that he had only one desire in all the world: to rush to a telephone and find out whether there had been any change in Mr Perfect. Firmly he pushed the impulse to the back of his mind. He was at the Ministry; he was on the missing rupee case; the only logical and proper thing was to proceed with his duty as it lay before him.

  He left Axel Svensson and went up to the formidable-looking chaprassi standing magnificently turbaned in the very middle of the huge marbled and pillared entrance hall.

  He coughed slightly.

  ‘Police Inspector Ghote, C.I.D.,’ he said. ‘To see the Minister. Urgent business.’

  The chaprassi looked at him.

  He was a good deal taller than the inspector.

  ‘Minister extremely busy today,’ he said tersely.

  ‘Naturally,’ said the inspector, ‘a man like the Minister must always be extremely busy. But on this occasion he has specially requested me to come as quickly as possible.’

  The chaprassi shrugged his wide shoulders, tapering elegantly away to a slim but virile sashed waist.

  ‘What name did you say it was?’ he asked.

  ‘Inspector Ghote, C.I.D.’

  The inspector said each of the last letters as forcefully as he could, but he was conscious that it was most unlikely to do any good. There was only one way to surmount this obstacle. Money would have to change hands.

  Yet for an inspector of police to have to treat a doorman in this fashion was unthinkable. Especially as Axel Svensson was sitting sprawled over a stone bench at the edge of the great hall intently observing what was going on.

  ‘Well,’ said the chaprassi, ‘I will pass in your name, but you will certainly have to wait a long time. The Minister is a very busy man.’

  He put enormous significance into the last phrase. The inspector knew he was taking him for a fool. For a moment he was tempted to hint at the exact nature of his business, but the memory of Doctor Gross on the need for tact saved him.