The Perfect Murder: the First Inspector Ghote Mystery Page 8

  ‘This is a very interesting subject,’ he began. ‘The book is, of course …’

  His voice faded away.

  Inspector Ghote looked at him. He in his turn was looking at the open doorway with his blue eyes widening every moment.

  For an instant Inspector Ghote was puzzled.

  What on earth was this mad foreigner – And then he understood. He took up the conversation where the Swede had left it.

  ‘I think you will find that the methods of Doctor Gross which I am using in the present case will bring results,’ he said. ‘The key to the whole problem is using an efficient system. If an efficient system is used nothing slips through the net.’

  As he spoke he crept quietly towards the doorway. His efforts to sound casual and at the same time deeply interested were only moderately successful.

  ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘method and order: those are the keys to success in any criminal matter. As I am sure you would –’

  A sharp bound took him out into the corridor.

  Pressed against the wall just beside the doorway was a young man of about seventeen, slim and still a bit gangly, dressed in a loud blue bush-shirt for which his chest frankly lacked the necessary development.

  “Well,’ said Inspector Ghote, ‘and did you find our conversation interesting?’

  ‘Conversation? I did not hear any conversation,’ the young man said.

  He began to slide away from the wall.

  ‘I was just passing,’ he said. ‘I did not know there was anybody in there, as a matter of fact.’

  He tried an insouciant smile.

  ‘Just passing?’ Inspector Ghote snapped. ‘It was taking you a very long time to get past such a narrow doorway. What is your name and your business here?’

  ‘My name is Prem. Prem Varde. I am a student, last year in college. Excuse me now, if you please, I have a great deal of work to do today.’

  ‘You are Mr Arun Varde’s second son?’ Inspector Ghote asked without moving.

  ‘That’s right, Inspector.’

  A feeble grin.

  ‘Inspector. Inspector. Oh, so you know I am inspector in charge of the investigation into the attack on Mr Perfect. You heard nothing as you happened to pass by this room but you know that. Come in here, young man.’

  He stood by until Prem had sidled into the room.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘sit there and answer a few questions.’

  Prem sat down cautiously on the very edge of a great overblown sofa and sucked at his full lower lip.

  ‘Your name?’

  Prem looked up in sudden hostility.

  ‘I have already said.’

  ‘Your name, young man, and quick about it.’

  ‘My name is Prem Varde.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Eighteen, soon.’

  ‘Seventeen. Occupation?’

  ‘Student.’

  ‘Student. And not at college. Why is that?’

  ‘My father said I had better not go today. He said everyone was to stay in the house.’

  ‘And did he tell you to spy on the police during their investigations? I suppose he did that, did he?’

  The inspector refused to examine his motives in jumping so hard on the boy. If he was revenging himself for his defeat at the hands of Dilip, he was not going to admit it even to himself.

  Prem swallowed and looked even more miserable.

  ‘No, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Listening was my idea.’

  ‘Ah, now we’re beginning to get somewhere. You admit you were attempting to overhear a confidential conversation between two investigating officers on the subject of a criminal matter. You realize this could be a very serious offence?’

  Prem’s head sank till he was looking stonily at his shoes.

  From behind the inspector came a cough from the big Swede.

  ‘Luckily for this young man,’ he said, ‘we were discussing simply police methods in general. Otherwise he might really be in trouble.’

  Prem looked up at him gratefully.

  ‘Yes,’ said Inspector Ghote, ‘it is lucky for you. Otherwise you would find yourself behind bars pretty quick. Now, are you going to answer my questions, or are you not?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. If I can.’

  ‘Let me tell you this, young man. It is your duty to answer. No “if I can” and “if I want to”. You will answer and answer the truth.’

  ‘But I only meant that I would tell you what I know. If I don’t know, I can’t answer.’

  Fortified by this incontrovertible logic Prem looked a little happier.

  ‘There are two possible meanings to my words,’ he went on. ‘They could be said to mean “I will answer if I feel that there is nothing to prevent me” or they could mean “I will answer if I know the answer.” Now –’

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ Inspector Ghote said. ‘We haven’t come here to listen to a lot of school lectures. We want the answers to a few straight questions. For example, when did you last see Mr Perfect? Or are you going to tell that you don’t know who Mr Perfect is?’

  ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘Of course I know him: he is my father’s secretary, I see him every day. He always is in the house in the evenings after Daddyji comes back from office. In case there is anything he wishes to dictate or anything like that.’

  ‘When I want to hear what the duties of your father’s secretary are I shall ask,’ Inspector Ghote said. ‘Now, will you please tell me when you last saw Mr Perfect?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Prem.

  ‘Good. When?’

  ‘Half an hour ago, Inspector.’

  ‘Half an hour ago? But –’

  Inspector Ghote bit his lip in baffled fury.

  ‘I did not mean when did you last see him,’ he said. ‘I meant when did you last see him before the attack.’

  ‘I am sorry, Inspector,’ Prem said. ‘I thought you wanted to know if he was better. He is not. He is just the same. But I can tell you when I last saw him yesterday. I saw him leaving the house at about eight o’clock.’

  ‘Eight o’clock. Where was he going? Was he going home?’

  ‘On, no, Inspector. At least I don’t think so. I met him by the door, and something made me wonder where he was going. It –’

  ‘Did you wonder only? Why didn’t you ask?’

  ‘But I did, Inspector. I asked but he would not tell.’

  ‘He would not tell?’

  ‘No, Inspector. He just said it was on business for my father.’

  ‘That’s a likely story. On business. At that time of the evening.’

  ‘But, Inspector, it is possible. Sometimes Daddyji does send Mr Perfect to talk business in the evenings. There are some things he says it is better to do then. Of course, often he does such things himself, but sometimes he sends Mr Perfect.’

  ‘All right. But if you saw him go out at eight o’clock, when did he come in again?’

  ‘I don’t know, Inspector.’

  ‘Don’t know, is it? Or won’t say?’

  Prem gulped.

  ‘Don’t know, really, Inspector. I told you truth. The last time I had seen Mr Perfect last night was when he went out. I can’t do more than tell you truth.’

  Prem looked at him gloweringly.

  ‘Very well, then, we’ll leave that for the time being. Now, what did you do yourself after eight o’clock?’

  ‘I had dinner with them all,’ Prem answered, ‘and then I went up to my room. I had to write essay. It was a very important subject. On the nature of beauty. I distinguished four kinds of beauty. There was –’

  ‘We don’t want your opinions on beauty: we want to know if you can prove what you say about being in your own room.’

  ‘Oh, but, Inspector, I can. I can prove. For part of the time at least. For part of the time Dilip was there.’

  ‘Your brother? He said nothing of this.’

  ‘But he was there, Inspector. He was. I did not want him to come in. I told him I was busy. I was very inte
rested in my essay. I wanted just to finish. But he insisted on coming in.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  Prem looked up quickly.

  ‘He just wanted to talk,’ he said.

  ‘He just wanted to talk. And how long did he want to just talk for?’

  Inspector Ghote noticed Prem’s tense calf muscles relax.

  ‘Oh, for about half an hour,’ the boy said.

  The inspector saw his way ahead.

  ‘I see,’ he said less sharply. ‘And this was from about what time? Just round about?’

  ‘I do not remember exactly. It was late, I know. I was getting sleepy. It must have been about a quarter to twelve.’

  ‘Quarter to twelve. Good, good.’

  Inspector Ghote turned casually away.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we have made some progress.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. May I go now?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes.’

  The inspector gestured vaguely.

  Prem hurried toward the doorway.

  ‘Wait.’

  Prem stopped as if an iron hand had clamped down on his shoulder.

  ‘This talk with your brother,’ Inspector Ghote snapped, ‘what was it about?’

  Prem turned round unwillingly.

  ‘It was just talking,’ he said wearily.

  The inspector surmised that his tactics were going to work: the boy had felt the pressure was off and now that it was on again he was near to cracking.

  ‘Just talking?’ he said relentlessly. ‘Just talking what about?’

  Prem looked at the floor.

  ‘Just one brother talking to another,’ he muttered.

  ‘And you can’t remember what was said? I don’t believe that talk took place at all.’

  ‘But it did take place. It did, Inspector. It took place when I said. From about quarter to twelve till quarter past. No, till a bit later.’

  ‘I see. You talked with your brother for nearly three-quarters of an hour and you can’t remember a word of the conversation. Come now, that just isn’t good enough. What were you talking about?’

  Suddenly Prem’s head jerked up and he looked the inspector full in the face.

  ‘I won’t say.’

  ‘You won’t say? You won’t say? What you mean is you can’t say. You can’t say because the conversation never took place.’

  ‘It did. It did.’

  ‘Then what was it about? One part of it only.’

  ‘I refuse to say.’

  ‘You refuse to answer my questions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Prem glared sullenly in front of him.

  ‘You realize that this may get you into serious trouble?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Come, I give you a last chance. What were you and your brother talking about?’

  ‘I will not say. I refuse to answer any more questions.’

  A cunning look came into the boy’s eyes.

  ‘I am under age,’ he said defiantly. ‘I refuse to speak until I have seen my father.’

  He stared up into space.

  Inspector Ghote went and sat on the sofa where he had placed Prem at the beginning of the interview.

  For some time he looked at the boy, and when he spoke it was gently.

  ‘Your essay,’ he said, ‘you were telling me what it was about.’

  Prem flicked a suspicious glance towards him.

  ‘Perhaps on second thoughts,’ Inspector Ghote said, ‘the essay could provide proof that you had been busy working in your room. Of course, it would be necessary to show that you had not begun it earlier, but that should not be impossible. What did you say the essay was about? The three kinds of beauty?’

  ‘Four,’ said Prem.

  ‘Ah, four. And what are they?’

  Little by little Prem recapitulated his essay. The inspector listened with profound attention though he did not follow a great deal of Prem’s argument.

  And in the middle of a most abstruse piece of explanation, in which the last of the four categories of beauty was divided into three sub-categories and the third of these had five subsections, quite casually Prem left his theme.

  ‘And that was where Dilip came in and insisted on telling me what he had just found out,’ he said.

  Inspector Ghote held his breath.

  The boy looked at him.

  ‘But I don’t want to repeat it.’

  ‘I do not want you to repeat out of curiosity only,’ the inspector said.

  He leant towards the boy.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Mr Perfect was attacked in this house last night. It was a most serious attack. Even now he may be dying. At this moment. And, listen, that attack took place after midnight. We know that. And just at midnight all the servants went to their quarters and the iron gate was locked.’

  He waited until he saw from the widening of Prem’s serious eyes that his point had sunk fully in.

  ‘You know that all the outside windows in the house are fitted with American steel grilles, don’t you?’ he asked.

  Prem nodded.

  ‘So what do we learn from this?’ the inspector went on. ‘It is simple. That the attack on Mr Perfect almost certainly came from someone inside the house. There are not so many. There is your father and mother. There is your brother and his wife and there is yourself. Now do you see why I must know just what you were doing?’

  The Inspector held Prem with his eyes, would not let him go. At last the boy dropped his gaze. The inspector saw the tip of his tongue come out and lick along the length of his upper lip.

  When the boy spoke it was in a whisper.

  ‘I think I will tell you,’ he said.

  8

  Inspector Ghote leant forward.

  He felt as if little by little he had lured a wild monkey, sensitive and suspicious, to the very door of a cage. And he had a strong impression that this would be a monkey worth capturing. There was something odd about Prem Varde’s refusing to say what it was that his brother had told him during the time that Mr Perfect might have been attacked. He had sensed this from the very first time the boy had mentioned the conversation.

  What it was that had alerted him to the emotional charge Prem put on to the talk he could not exactly say. Perhaps it had been something to do with a tensing up of the muscles somewhere, or a slight over-emphasis in speech, or the sudden appearance of a sheen of sweat on the forehead. Any or all of these signs might betray the difficulty of concealing something. This was a fact he had learnt in response to the Teutonically severe behest of Doctor Gross. ‘The smallest observation may some day be of decisive importance.’ He knew the words by heart.

  And now the wary monkey had put one paw right into the waiting cage.

  ‘Oh ho, Inspector.’

  Inspector Ghote whirled round as if a gunman had come at him from behind.

  It was Lala Arun Varde.

  ‘Oh, Inspector detector, what is this I hear? What is this about the way you have been treating my poor son?’

  Inspector Ghote felt a quick flush of shame putting beads of sweat on his forehead. It was true: he had been guilty of bullying a witness for the sake of bullying.

  ‘I hope I was not really too rough with him, Mr Varde,’ he said. ‘But you know what these young college boys sometimes are. They think that policemen are just there for them to make jokes at. You have to show them at first that you are talking serious matters.’

  ‘College boys? What college boys is this?’

  Lala Varde looked about in a puzzled way. His eye fell on Prem.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said. ‘You do not know that this is a police inspector? He has important work to be doing. Now, off you go. Back to your books with their category pategories. Back to your studying while you can. Your father has something important to say to the inspector. This is not a time for little children only.’

  Prem looked at him with blazing eyes.

  ‘How often must I tell you,’ he said,
‘I am not a child. Soon I will be B.A. I am college student. I am learning the fundamental principles of things. Then one day –’

  Lala Varde broke into a deep belly roar of laughter.

  ‘Then one day you will come into office and learn they were all wrong your fundamental principles,’ he shouted. ‘But until that day comes, off you go to your books. Shoo, shoo, shoo.’

  He waddled towards Prem holding his arms wide and making slight pushing gestures as if he was an old woman chasing along a chicken.

  Prem glared at him.

  ‘I will never come in office,’ he shouted. ‘Never, never.’

  He turned and ran from the room.

  Lala Varde laughed.

  ‘My sons, my sons. What trouble bubble they are, Inspector. Have you got children to trouble you?’

  ‘I have one son,’ the inspector said. ‘But he is five only.’

  ‘Not too young to be trouble,’ said Lala Varde. ‘These two they were trouble all their lives. First Dilip, then Prem. And after Prem, Dilip some more.’

  ‘Well, in a way that is what you must expect from children,’ the inspector said.

  ‘Yes, yes, that is so. Have you got sons, Mr Svensson?’

  The big Swede smiled.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘at present I am unmarried. I do not yet have those problems.’

  ‘Ha. Well, you are a lucky man, Mr Svensson. A lucky man.’

  ‘Well,’ the Swede said, ‘on the other hand I have the problems of being a bachelor.’

  Lala Varde rolled up to him and dug him four or five times in the ribs.

  ‘Not very difficult problems, heh?’ he said.

  A delicate blush stole up the Swede’s high-boned cheeks.

  Lala Varde poked him in the ribs again and went on chuckling deep in his wide chest.

  Till suddenly he stopped and turned to the inspector.

  ‘But why did you treat my son so badly?’ he asked.

  ‘I explained, sahib. He is young and –’

  ‘No, not that son. My son who is man.’

  ‘Mr Dilip Varde?’

  The inspector could not keep the surprise out of his voice.

  ‘Yes, yes. What other sons have I got? And why will you not tell me why you treated Dilip so badly? He comes to me five minutes ago and tells me you insulted him, Inspector.’

  ‘Insulted? Insulted a witness? I assure you, sahib, that is quite impossible.’