Inspector Ghote, His Life and Crimes

by H. R. F. Keating

  Did they know, back in Bombay, that Dattu Phadkar was accompanied by Mrs Phadkar, Ghote wondered. Would that have altered their view? Because, if the young smuggler looked like an ordinary holiday maker, Mrs Phadkar looked a dozen times more like an ordinary middle-class lady. Indeed she seemed the very pattern of the obedient Hindu wife, timid, hardly speaking, never out of a sari, its end usually modestly over her head, eyes only for her husband.

  Well, if back at Headquarters they wanted him to stay down here and laze by the sea, to eat huge meals and to drink a little of the local liquor, strong-tasting feni, then he would do his duty and keep a discreet watch from a distance on the young smuggler. It was really very pleasant.

  Except for Miss Bhatt. Miss Bhatt, one of the few other guests here this early, taking a well-earned rest after her widower father’s death had ended years of devotion, was the fly in the ointment, decidedly. Because if her weary limbs were resting now, her tongue certainly was not. And, as he was on duty watching the young smuggler’s every move, he could not escape that clacking whenever she chose to descend on him.

  Thank goodness she had not come out yet.

  ‘Mr Ghote, how very very pleasant. May I join you? Ah, I see Mr Kolwar down there on the beach already, and that nice little Mrs Kolwar.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Ghote interrupted, though he knew that to do so would only redouble the spate of chatter that awaited him. ‘Excuse me, but that is Mr and Mrs Phadkar down there. Mr and Mrs— Mr Kolwar and his lady are the other guests here.’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course,’ Miss Bhatt answered. ‘But I always get things muddled. My poor father, it was a wonder only that I was not poisoning him with all the different medicines that he had to have.’

  She sat back with pride.

  ‘But look,’ she said an instant later, ‘there go the Kolwars now. Or are we not to say “Mrs Kolwar”? Ah, what a naughty world it is.’

  Only Miss Bhatt, Ghote thought – muddle-headed, talkative, rushing-in Miss Bhatt – could have believed that Lalitha the film star, elegant, sophisticated, bikini-wearing, was the legal wife of Mr Kolwar, that excessively rich manufacturer of ice-cream. No, Lalitha – though she had had long-lasting and well-publicised relationships with two male stars, one maharajah and a famous sitar-player – was not the marrying kind. Indeed, she really owed her screen success – if all that he had heard was true – to having cultivated for years the image of the Wicked Lady.

  ‘But,’ Miss Bhatt resumed, leaning closer towards him but still speaking in a voice which, he was only too well aware, could easily carry down to the beach below, ‘but there can be no doubt she is a most beautiful woman. They say she is a star, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ghote. ‘I know.’

  ‘And Mr Kolwar is so rich. Did you hear him last night ordering one of those paans that cost a hundred rupees? And did you hear him chewing it?’

  Miss Bhatt laughed.

  ‘Not very educated,’ she said. ‘But powerful, you can tell. Not a person ever to let go when he has something in his grasp. Ah, they have joined the Phadkars now. They seem already to know each other well.’

  ‘No doubt they were acquainted in Bombay before they came here at all,’ Ghote consoled her.

  ‘Ah, yes, the wealthy circles. Of course, I could never … But, tell me, Mr Ghote, do you think that down here we might venture to join them?’

  ‘No,’ said Ghote.

  Nevertheless before that day was done he found himself being forcefully introduced by Miss Bhatt to the little group. ‘Mr Ghote is a civil servant, you know, most senior.’

  And he was at the same time introduced to a new guest, already swept up under Miss Bhatt’s vigorous wing. He was a hearty Sikh, clutching a shiny leather sample case. ‘Mr Singh Anand is a pharmaceuticals representative for a very well-known German firm. Many, many of his products I have had to give to my poor father.’

  Within a few minutes of their meeting Ghote found himself being nudged by the pharmaceuticals traveller and a thick voice whispered in his ear, ‘Damn fine woman, Lalitha, haan?’ And before he had managed to excuse himself from the group on the grounds of having to make a telephone call the Sikh had nudged him again and had whispered, even more loudly, ‘Pretty little thing, Mrs Phadkar. Too bad.’

  The reason for this last comment was only too clear: young Dattu Phadkar, Crown Prince of Smugglers, was paying heavy attentions to the glamorous Lalitha. Indeed, not long afterwards Ghote was an unwilling witness to little Mrs Phadkar’s further discomfiture. Having ascertained from the hotel manager that Mr Singh Anand was indeed a pharmaceuticals representative who regularly stayed here on his round, he was dutifully keeping up his watch on the young smuggler from a hard bench in a corner of the lobby. And from there he saw Mrs Phadkar come out of the bar and, apparently not noticing him, turn and signal to her husband that he should come with her upstairs. But there was no response from the bar, except perhaps for an even louder shout of laughter. Ghote watched Mrs Phadkar trail sadly and alone up the stairs, and it was not until much later that he was able to end his vigil when Lalitha and her admirers at length went up in their turn. Then at last he got painfully, bones aching, to his feet.

  But he had forgotten swooping Miss Bhatt.

  ‘Mr Ghote, what a pity you had to leave us. You missed some most interesting conversation.’

  She leant towards him.

  ‘Though, if you are asking me, poor little Mrs Phadkar left because she was not understanding. We were talking in English. Naturally. And she must learn also not to demand from her husband. That is always a very great mistake in married life.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ghote. ‘And good night, Miss Bhatt.’

  Three evenings later the murder took place. Miss Bhatt had, as was now her custom, assembled them all for drinks before dinner. All except Lalitha, still upstairs with her maid – another part of the holiday routine that had become customary. But the party was not a happy one. Only Mr Singh Anand seemed really content, having secured for himself a chair next to the one awaiting the glamorous if ageing film star. The place on the other side was hotly disputed between young Dattu Phadkar and the rich ice-cream manufacturer, each glaring at the other and constantly calling for fresh drinks. Miss Bhatt soon began to look greatly distressed by this bull-like rivalry. And serve her right, Ghote thought.

  But at last Lalitha came sweeping in.

  ‘Somebody get me a feni, please, please, please,’ she called. ‘I am half dead already with that stupid girl.’

  Both the rivals leapt to their feet. But Lalitha’s powerful protector was the more cunning.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ he said. ‘Take my drink. I have not touched.’

  Lalitha flung herself down, took the feni from Mr Kolwar’s hand and downed it in one. ‘Life saver,’ she declared. Only to choke, to clutch at her stomach and to be laying dead on the floor within two minutes.

  The Inspector of the Goa Police, who arrived with commendable promptitude, very quickly learnt all about the situation between Lalitha, her protector and the young Dattu Phadkar. Miss Bhatt’s unstoppable tongue saw to that. And when, turning to question the young smuggler more clearly, he spotted a small bottle in the pocket of his bush-shirt and on inquiring was met with a loud denial that he knew anything about it, he arrested Phadkar there and then, grabbing the little bottle as he did so. It proved to have contained a heart remedy with – clearly written on its label – a warning against exceeding the stated dose. There were only a few drops left.

  Miss Bhatt, as soon as the young man had been hustled out to the manager’s office and Lalitha’s beautiful body had been removed, favoured Ghote with her views.

  ‘What a ghastly moment for him. To have decided to get rid of his rival and then to have to watch while the deadly glass was handed to the woman he loved. Should he speak and incriminate himself? Should he try somehow to prevent her sipping the fatal brew? And then, before he could utter a word, gone. Swallowed in one. No wonder that he forgot to get
rid of the little bottle. Ghastly.’

  ‘Yes, ghastly,’ Ghote agreed. ‘But it was not exactly like that, you know.’

  And, with that, he left her.

  ‘Stop, Mr Ghote, stop.’

  Inspector Ghote, coming into the lobby an hour or so later fresh from a quiet word with his Goa Police counterpart, froze to a halt. It was Miss Bhatt. He might have known he could hardly have left for Bombay, his cover now unavoidably blown, without encountering her once more.

  He turned to her with resignation.

  ‘Yes, Miss Bhatt?’

  ‘Mr Ghote, you cannot go out of the hotel without telling why you think this terrible business was not exactly as I have said. It is altogether plain to me that it was Mr Dattu Phadkar who was responsible. Who else could it have been? Why, we all saw them finding that deadly bottle in his pocket.’

  ‘It was put there,’ Ghote said.

  ‘But … but it was quite clear also that Mr Phadkar was terribly terribly in love with Lalitha, and Mr Kolwar is not at all the sort of person to let go.’

  ‘True, Mr Kolwar would not let go of anything he was wanting.’

  ‘Well then,’ Miss Bhatt began in knock-down triumph.

  But at that moment out of the manager’s office came young Dattu Phadkar with the manager himself beside him, scuttling along and assuring the Crown Prince of Smugglers that, if he felt he must leave, his luggage would be fetched at once and a taxi for the airport found immediately.

  Miss Bhatt was silenced. But not for long.

  The moment the young smuggler had stepped outside she swung round to Ghote.

  ‘But–’ she said. ‘But he should be under arrest. What is happening? I do not at all understand.’

  Ghote sighed.

  ‘Well, you see,’ he said, ‘the truth is that Mr Kolwar did not any longer want Lalitha. She is no more young, you know. So now it was her who was wanting to keep him. That was why each and every evening she was taking so deplorably long to make herself look beautiful. But there is one person here who is young, and pretty also, as even Mr Singh Anand agreed, although like everybody else he felt that he had to a little bit flirt with a famous star. And that pretty young person is, of course, Mrs Phadkar. I am afraid that, for all her appearance only of being the good little Hindu wife, it was she who was in truth the wicked lady here.’

  Miss Bhatt blinked in total astonishment.

  ‘Little Mrs Phadkar attracted to Mr Kolwar?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, that was the situation. She was undoubtedly the one who obtained that medicine from Mr Singh Anand. But, of course, it was Mr Kolwar who, when we all looked at Lalitha as she came in, slipped the stuff into his own drink. Then he could easily hand to the lady who was not going to let him go what you were calling – isn’t it – the fatal brew.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Bhatt, ‘the fatal brew.’

  Ghote took a little pity on her then.

  ‘But you were perfectly right about one thing,’ he said. ‘Mr Kolwar was not at all educated. He did not know fingerprints, and when we took his to compare with those on that little bottle he altogether broke down.’

  ‘We took?’ Miss Bhatt asked in new bewilderment.

  ‘Well, yes, we took,’ Ghote said. ‘Appearances are sometimes deceptive, you know. I am actually from Bombay CID.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Miss Bhatt. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

  And after that she chattered no more.

  1976

  SEVEN

  The Cruel Inspector Ghote

  Inspector Ghote stood deep in thought. He was in a dilemma. It was the matter of the Hashambhai son, young Musa. Undoubtedly the young fellow was the one responsible for the theft of rupees one lakh from his own parents. But no doubt either about two other things. The first was that those hundred thousand rupees were almost certainly ‘black money’, the hidden-away unbankable accumulation of cash payments not entered in the books of Mr Hashambhai’s watch-making business, one of the most prosperous in all Bombay. The second was that Mr Hashambhai was a person of ‘influence’. He had friends in high places. Doing anything that displeased Mr Hashambhai, like getting the Hashambhai name in the papers, would bring trouble. A word in the Commissioner’s ear. Something like that only.

  But nonetheless, young Musa Hashambhai had stolen that money. He himself had all the evidence necessary. He ought to arrest the boy, no matter how indulgent about the whole matter his father might be. Even, he owed it to the boy himself. One big shock now, when he was seventeen-eighteen years of age, and he might behave himself well for the rest of his life.

  On the other hand, Mr Hashambhai did have that influence and might well use it. Nor did he perhaps deserve to get back that tainted money.

  Suddenly Ghote realised something. While he had been standing stock-still in thought here on the pavement beside Churchgate Station he had been witnessing a crime, witnessing it without taking it in at all.

  Never mind that it was not the most serious crime in the Indian Penal Code. It was a crime. Never mind that the perpetrator was no more than a child, a chubby little boy of eight or so with an air of bouncy joyfulness about him, what he was doing there on the opposite pavement at this very moment was a crime.

  Only, as the little devil was on the pavement opposite and half the roadway betweeen them was blocked by one of Bombay’s most curious sights, there was nothing that he himself could do to stop that crime taking place. But he could probably prevent the criminal getting away.

  What the boy was doing was slitting with a razor blade stuck into an old cork the underneath of a big blue leather handbag on the arm of a rather plump European lady in a boldly flower-patterned dress, who stood peering into the view-finder of her camera recording Bombay’s curiosity, the dabbawallas.

  The dabbawallas, who were occupying the roadway and blocking him off from his quarry, were very much worth photographing for a foreign tourist, Ghote thought. Each morning of Bombay’s working week they collected up from homes in the suburbs home-cooked tiffin for husbands working in offices in the heart of the city. Each lunch was placed in four round cans fitting neatly one on top of the other into their carrier marked in red paint with its code numbers. The dabbawallas took them to the nearest suburban rail station and went with them to the Churchgate terminus. There, in the roadway outside, the tiffin-carriers were rapidly sorted according to destination and placed in long wooden racks which other dabbawallas would carry on their heads at a fast trot to offices all over Bombay’s commercial and administrative heart. It was a sight to see – and to record on film. Only, unfortunately, while you were concentrating on doing that you were at risk of having your pocket picked. Or handbag slit open.

  Ghote stepped through the criss-cross jumble of wooden racks. He waited impatiently while half a dozen trucks clattered by on the clear side of the road. At last he darted over, keeping his eye all the while on his chubby little target. Then, as the boy made off with suspicious nonchalance in the direction of the pavement-dwellers’ huts standing in tumble-down confusion some quarter of a mile distant, he launched himself forward at a run. In less than a minute he had the little thief firmly by the ear, digging a finger sharply in, a trick he had long ago learnt to make sure no slippery captive got away.

  Even as he made his catch he was aware that the little thief’s crime had been discovered. From behind his back, some fifteen or twenty yards away there rose a wail of purest English anguish.

  ‘My bag. It’s empty. My purse. It’s gone. My passport.’

  Keeping the urchin firmly held in his special grip, Ghote wheeled him round and marched him back towards the outraged lady in the flowery summer dress, her indignant voice joined now by other shrill comments. ‘It’s too bad, too bad.’ ‘I just hope they catch him, whoever it is.’ ‘Yes, and put him where he belongs – for as long as they can.’ ‘If they want tourists they should make sure they protect them.’

  ‘Madam,’ he said to the outraged victim, ‘kindly be no longer worrying. I am a
police inspector, Inspector Ghote by name, and I have had the jolly good luck to catch the thief of your possessions.’

  He reached down with his free hand, grasped the little criminal’s ragged khaki shorts by their top and gave a good tug. Passport and purse, cunningly tucked away, fell to the ground. The boy opened his mouth in a big round ‘O’ and let out a howl of dismay.

  The circle of British ladies – they all looked much alike to Ghote, large, pink-faced, heads tight with curls golden or greying, all flowery-frocked – peered down at the small figure.

  ‘Oh,’ said a voice from among them. ‘The poor mite.’

  A chorus broke out at once. ‘Yes, the poor little thing.’ ‘Oh, he can’t be more than six or seven.’ ‘Was it him really?’

  The lady with the razor-ripped blue bag was as transformed as any of her companions.

  ‘Inspector,’ she said, bending forward and addressing Ghote confidentially, ‘Inspector, don’t you think – he’s only a bit of a thing, isn’t he? – don’t you think you could let him go? I’ve got my purse back. I don’t mind.’

  Ghote, finger crooked hard in the boy’s ear, looked at her stone-faced.

  ‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘I have caught the little riff-raff red-handed only.’

  ‘Yes, I know Inspector. But all the same … I’m sure he’ll never be so naughty again. He’s got such a sweet little face.’

  And it was true that the boy, who probably hardly understood a word of English but who knew a tone of voice when he heard one, had stopped howling and was looking up at the ring of large pink faces with the hint of an endearing smile trembling on his chubby features.

  ‘Madam,’ Ghote said once more, ‘I am suspecting that you are wanting this little anti-social to go free because you are thinking what a very, very great nuisance it would be for you to give evidence tomorrow morning at Esplanade Police Court.’