Inspector Ghote, His Life and Crimes

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘And you have witnesses?’ he asked. ‘As many as I have?’

  ‘I have one witness. The best. I have the man you beat up.’

  ‘And he will give evidence, is it?’

  ‘Why would he not?’

  Daddyji shrugged. Elaborately.

  ‘How should I be knowing, my little Inspector, why this witness of yours will not tell the lies you are wanting? Perhaps it is that he is afraid.’

  ‘Afraid of worse treatment from you,’ Ghote stated blankly.

  Daddyji looked back at him. He held out his wrists as if for handcuffs.

  ‘You are going to arrest me for that then?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Ghote said. ‘Not you, Daddyji.’

  Again he surprised the gang boss.

  ‘Not me? Then who?’

  ‘I have come to arrest your brother Piloo.’

  ‘Piloo? But that’s no good. Why, my witnesses will be speaking the truth for him.’

  ‘Not when the charge is taking away feloniously from the Galerie Sodawaterwala a quantity of art material, viz six pictures in clay.’

  Daddyji relaxed visibly. Plainly whatever he had been expecting Ghote to arrest Piloo for, it was not anything as trivial as this.

  ‘Oh, but take, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Take the boy, take.’

  ‘Take?’

  ‘Yes. Take, take. For some pieces of mud clay he puts himself in danger. Why should I bother with him?’

  ‘But he is your brother.’

  ‘Brother, smother. What is brother? He is one of my men. Or until now he was.’

  Ghote looked at the broad-shouldered crook.

  ‘I should warn you, the boy is likely to get a long sentence. When someone as influential as the Minister has been insulted by him.’

  ‘The Minister? What to do with Minister? Piloo can go to gaol for all his life. What am I caring?’

  ‘But his pictures,’ Ghote said.

  ‘Those things. Pah!’

  ‘But do you not know,’ Ghote continued earnestly, ‘that the boy has very, very great gifts. Mr Sodawaterwala says he will be the Indian Hogarth. Hogarth is a very, very famous English artist.’

  ‘What is that to me? Here, you will be wanting your evidence, Inspector. Look under that charpoy there. That is where the boy put his bundle. You will find your pictures there.’

  Ghote went and knelt beside the rope-slung bed, as much to hide his sense of disgust at Daddyji’s behaviour – first his father, now his brother – as to get hold of the pictures. They were there, sure enough, and he dragged out the bundle and opened it up, thinking all the while, ‘Yes, the ACP was right, Daddyji is an all-bad man. All-bad.’

  ‘Hey!’

  Daddyji’s voice came loudly from over his shoulder.

  ‘Hey, look at that. It is me. Just as I am. It is me playing cards with Iqbal Singh and that idiot Chandra Chagoo. See, he is losing as always. It is on his face. Wonderful, wonderful.’

  Ghote looked more closely at the six hard-baked clay tablets. It was certainly true. Small though they were, it was clear beyond doubt that one of the card players was Daddyji and that on the miniature face of the man the gang boss had pointed out there was an expression of stupid chagrin, as if indeed he was losing at the game and could not understand why.

  ‘Inspector?’ Daddyji said, with a note of sudden calculation in his voice.

  ‘What is it?’ Ghote replied, prickling with suspicion.

  ‘Inspector, I am going to ask you to do something for me.’

  ‘For you? You dare to ask.’

  Ghote thought with rising anger of how this man was truly all-bad.

  ‘Inspector,’ Daddyji was continuing, oblivious of Ghote’s plain opposition. ‘I am asking you to take these pictures now to Mr Sodawaterwala and to tell him that, of course, Piloo did not steal them. That he brought them here to show me only, to me, his brother who had raised him from a boy.’

  ‘Take the pictures back? To Mr Sodawaterwala?’

  Ghote felt deeply dismayed.

  ‘Then there would be no charge against Piloo,’ he said.

  ‘That is right,’ Daddyji answered cheerfully. ‘And Piloo can go on and make more and more very good pictures like this. He can become the Indian Highlife.’

  ‘Hogarth. But–’

  And then an idea came to Ghote, an idea so good it was almost incredible.

  ‘You are quite sure you are wanting me to take back these pictures?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

  ‘But, yes, yes, yes. It is important for Piloo to have this chance. I may be a bad man, Inspector, but I am not all bad. I have some heart left for the boy.’

  Quickly Ghote gathered up the little clay tablets, wrapped them and took them off.

  He took them to Mr Sodawaterwala in his bed at the J. J. Hospital.

  ‘And, if what Daddyji told me is true,’ he said after he had handed them over, ‘when you get back to your gallery you would find Piloo already back there, making more pictures like these.’

  Mr Sodawaterwala smiled through his bruised and battered face. A smile of great gentleness.

  ‘But that is wonderful, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Wonderful. And Daddyji himself insisted that you have the pictures? It is yet more wonderful. It restores my faith in humanity.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ghote said, ‘it would seem that my own belief was all the time right. There is no such thing as the all-bad man. Even Daddyji has in him some spark of goodness. You know that his father, Piloo’s father too, has a gift for modelling clay. He is making little, somewhat obscene figures to sell to tourists at Flora Fountain. So the strain of the artist comes to the surface if only in appreciation of what is good, even in a proud fellow like Daddyji.’

  Mr Sodawaterwala smiled again.

  ‘But in Piloo,’ he said, ‘that strain has gone to the heights. Do you know what I will do for him?’

  ‘It would be something good I am sure.’

  ‘I hope so. I am going to hold a first-class, Number One exhibition for him. And, just as soon as I can, I will go back and put these first six pictures of his in the window of the Galerie, as a foretaste.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Sodawaterwala. Very good. And I will see that night and day there are four-five hefty constables guarding that window.’

  ‘Guarding?’ said Mr Sodawaterwala. ‘But surely, Inspector, now that Daddyji has shown he is not all-bad there is no need for that.’

  ‘But there is a need, very much of need,’ Ghote replied. ‘You see, one of those pictures is very important evidence.’

  ‘Evidence? But there is no longer a question of Piloo having stolen any clay. That is ridiculous.’

  ‘That is ridiculous, yes. But I will tell you what is not ridiculous: a charge of conspiring with two individuals, namely Iqbal Singh and Chandra Chagoo, to cause damage at the Loafer’s Delight Disc Mart.’

  Mr Sodawaterwala looked bewildered.

  ‘But I do not understand,’ he said. ‘How can one of Piloo’s pictures have anything to do with such a place as the Loafer’s Delight Disc Mart?’

  ‘Because that picture,’ said Ghote triumphantly, ‘shows Daddyji was a close acquaintance of those two men, something that up to now he was prepared to manufacture evidence to disprove. It shows the three of them playing cards together, clearly as clearly.’

  ‘Then you are going to arrest Daddyji?’ Mr Sodawaterwala asked. ‘But you cannot do that now.’

  Ghote looked down at him on the smooth white pillow of the hospital bed.

  He sighed.

  ‘Yes, Mr Sodawaterwala,’ he said, ‘I can arrest him and I will. Did you think I can let him go scot-free just because he gave Piloo his chance in life? Yes, even though it was in giving Piloo that chance he betrayed himself, I must arrest him nevertheless. All-bad or partly good, it is my duty to put him behind the bars and I will do it.’

  1984

  TEN

  Hello, Hello, Inspector Ghote

  – Hello, hello. Inspec
tor Ghote?

  – Ghote speaking.

  – Oh, hello, Inspectorji.

  – Who is this? Who is there?

  – Oh, Inspectorji, it is I.

  – I? I? Who in all Bombay is I?

  – Inspectorji, it is Budhoo only.

  – Budhoo? Budhoo? Are you …? Are you the Budhoo I am sometimes meeting?

  – But, yes, Inspectorji, it is I, Budhoo.

  – Why are you using telephone? Such is not at all what we were arranging, for when you were having something to tell.

  – No. No, Inspectorji, this is first time I have talked on telephone ever at all. But, Inspectorji, I have watched and watched Suleiman Dada when he was using, and now I have seen how to do it.

  – But you are not telephoning from Suleiman Dada’s posh flat itself? Malabar Hill, Mount Pleasant Road?

  – Oh, Inspectorji, Suleiman Dada is shifting. Now he has flat at Nepean Sea Road. But it is from there I am talking, I am not at all knowing if other telephones are working just like Suleiman Dada’s.

  – But— But is the dada there? Are any of his goondas there also? How dare you call me by name openly in front of such a Number One anti-social?

  – Oh, Inspectorji, Inspectorji, I would not. Inspectorji, if I was doing same Suleiman Dada would be slitting throat for me ear to ear. That you must be knowing.

  – True enough, my friend. So why are you taking such a damn bloody risk?

  – Oh, Inspectorji, Suleiman Sahib is out of station altogether. I am by myself here. That is what I am wanting to tell, Inspector. Suleiman Dada has gone in great hurry-purry, and I am thinking that today is going to be Big Day …

  – Speak up, man, speak up. I cannot hear. Shut off that damn radio.

  – No radio, Inspector.

  – Do not shout, man. Do not shout. Now, speak clearly. Did you say the Big Day?

  – Yes, Inspector, Big Day.

  – There has been a delivery?

  – Oh, yes, Inspectorji, big-big delivery. To a godown at Indira Docks, Inspector, it is two thousand cartons of catfish itself. Frozen catfish.

  – Catfish? But— Ah. No. It is that high-smelling stuff. So there are drugs placed inside for smuggling?

  – Ji haan, Inspectorji. What else?

  – And this is Big Day, you were saying? The Big Day I let you go free from that pocket-maar charge to learn all about?

  – Ji, sahib. I am hearing Suleiman Dada say Number One Boss is wanting to check consignment himself. That fellow no one is at all knowing will be at the godown, Inspector.

  – Yes, yes. But when, Budhoo? When? And just where in Indira Docks is this godown?

  – Inspectorji, it is—

  – Yes? Yes? Budhoo? Budhoo?

  – Budhoo?

  – Budhoo, you are there?

  – Inspector, I think I am hearing someone … Inspector, it is—

  Click

  Tringg, tringg. Tringg, tringg

  – Hello, hello. Is that V.P. Road Police Station? Inspector Ghote here.

  – Police station? Are you saying police station?

  – Yes, yes. That is V.P. Road Police Station?

  – No, no. This is New Gentleman Restaurant only.

  Click

  Tringg, tringg. Tringg, tringg

  – Hello. V.P. Road Police Station?

  – V.P. Road Police Station.

  – Is that V.P. Road PS? You are not at all sounding like a police station.

  – I am hoping not. I am hoping not. This is the paan-shop on corner of Sukhlaji Street. Nice paans to munch, and nice-nice girls we are having all round. But policewallas, oh, no.

  – Clear the line, clear the line. This is hundred per cent urgent.

  Click

  Tringg, tringg. Tringg, tringg. Tringg, tringg. Tringg, tringg … Click

  Tringg, tringg. Tringg, tringg

  – V.P. Road Police Station. Hello?

  – Inspector Ghote, Headquarters CID here. Give me the Station House Officer, ek dum, ek dum.

  – Yes, Inspector. Right away, Inspector.

  Click, click, click

  – Lock-up in-charge.

  – Lock-up in-charge? What do you mean, lock-up in-charge?

  – This is the lock-up. I am in-charge.

  – But I am asking for Station House Officer. Get me put on to your SHO. Headquarters CID here. Jaldi, jaldi, jaldi.

  Click, click, click

  – Station House Officer, V.P. Road PS.

  – Ah, thank God. Listen, this is Inspector Ghote, Headquarters CID. Now, I have a kabari in among Suleiman Dada’s gang.

  – Informer in there? First-class work, Inspector.

  – Yes, yes. Never to mind that. Thing is, this fellow was telephoning me from Suleiman Dada’s residence itself. Damn fool that he is. And in middle of call he told someone was coming and line was shut off. Now, I am thinking it was the dada himself coming and my fellow is in danger of his life only. So, can you get four-five men round there double-quick?

  – Certainly, Inspector. It is a damn bad thing if it is getting known to one and all that a kabari has met a nasty fate. Where is it that he is?

  – At Suleiman Dada’s flat, Nepean Sea Road.

  – And the flat is where, Inspector?

  – You do not know yourself? You are having top-notch gang leader inside your area, and you are not knowing where he is residing?

  – But, Inspector, I am thinking he must have just only come to Nepean Sea Road. I was hearing he was staying on Malabar Hill, no?

  – He was, he was. But he has shifted.

  – And now he is where? You are no more knowing?

  – No. My fellow was saying Nepean Sea Road only.

  – But, Inspector, there are twenty-thirty big flats-blocks there. How can we find just one flat only, when it is a matter of a damn hurry?

  – Yes. Yes, it is hard I am— No. No. Wait. I have one clue. While I was talking with my kabari I was—

  Click

  – Switchboard? Switchboard? I have been cut off.

  – You are calling, caller?

  – Yes, yes. I have been cut off. Damn vital call. To V.P. Road PS.

  – You were not cut off by me, caller. Kindly dial once more.

  Tringg, tringg. Tringg, tringg

  – Hello, hello, V.P. Road PS?

  – V.P. Road PS here.

  – Station House Officer. I was cut off. Urgent, urgent matter.

  Click, click, click

  – Hello. Lock-up in-charge speaking.

  – No, no, no. Get me back to SHO. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  Click, click, click

  – Station House Officer.

  – Ah. It is Ghote again.

  – Ah, yes, Inspector, we were cut off.

  – I know, I know. Now, listen. While my kabari was talking I was having much difficulty to hear because of some damn music.

  – A radio, Inspector?

  – No, no. He was assuring there was no radio there. But I am thinking. Why would there be music at this time of day, very loud?

  – Don’t know, Inspector.

  – A wedding, man. A wedding. Tell your men to go hell-for-leather only to Nepean Sea Road and to look out for a wedding party, those lamp-carrying fellows outside, anything. Then ask at the nearby block of flats for one Suleiman Sahib, or even for a newcomer only. Then they are to break in and be asking questions after. Okay?

  – Tikh hai, Inspector. Tikh hai.

  – Hello, hello, Inspector Ghote?

  – Ghote speaking.

  – Hello, Inspectorji. It is I, Budhoo. All is okay-okay, Inspector. Suleiman Dada was beating up, but your policewallas came in nick of time. And they were arresting the bastard only.

  – Arresting? Arresting? But how the hell is he going to go to his meeting with this Number One Boss nobody knows if he is behind the bars. How am I going to get my prize catch red-handed now? Budhoo, I am wishing one thing only.

  – Yes, Inspectorji?

&nbs
p; – That Suleiman Dada had taken the cord of that telephone and wrapped it round your damn neck.

  Click.

  1985

  ELEVEN

  Nil By Mouth

  Inspector Ghote ought, as he entered the guarded Cabin No 773 in the big noisy hospital, to have looked first of all at the criminal lying on the bed there, his kneecap shattered. But instead, his eye was caught for some reason by the boldly-printed card fastened to the top of his white tubular iron bed-head. ‘Nil By Mouth’ it said in thick black capitals in English, with below in devanagri script the same warning repeated in more immediately comprehensible terms: ‘No food or drink allowed’.

  He turned to the Sister, neat in her starched white headdress and white overall with smart epaulettes, its cotton belt fastened with a wide metal buckle. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘what for is it that he is not allowed food? Is it on police orders? We are wanting him to talk, you know.’

  The Sister looked shocked.

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘This man is a patient only here, whatever he may have done outside. Here it is Resident Medical Officer’s orders that count only. Patient is in Nil by Mouth condition because operation is to take place at six pip-emma today.’

  She turned away and stamped out, as if to re-emphasise that here within hospital walls it was the medical staff who gave orders not any policewalla.

  Ghote looked at the man he had come to see, had come to interrogate. Ram Dharkar, small-time goonda. But a small-time muscleman who worked for a very, very big-time gang boss, the mystery man believed to be behind twenty-five well-organised bank dacoities in the past nine months. The man no one in Crime Branch had been able to get near.

  But now, thanks to Ram Dharkar, they stood a chance. Because Dharkar had been found only five or six hours ago lying unconscious on a rubbish heap near the foul-smelling Chandanwadi Electric Crematorium, with his right knee smashed to pieces by a heavy lump of concrete left bloodily beside him. A clear case of a supposed informer having been punished and left as a lesson for any other gang member or hanger-on who might be thinking greedily of the large reward the banks of Bombay had, at last, collaborated to offer.

  And the beauty of it was that Ram Dharkar had not been an informer at all. So, rightly aggrieved, he ought to be ready to talk and talk.

  Ghote, who had been waiting for him to recover consciousness sitting for hours down in the crowded echoing entrance hall of the big hospital on a hard bench underneath a strident notice saying ‘OPD Case Notes Will Be Issued From 7.30 am’ – whatever that meant – had now at last been given the news by a white-capped ward-boy that Dharkar was in a condition to be interviewed.