‘Well, I suppose it may be like that.’
He saw the Swede making a visible effort to accept the likelier account. But he had more than a few doubts that he would ever agree completely. His mind had been too cunningly attacked.
‘Come,’ he said briskly. ‘Eat that good food you have put on your plate. Eat it up, and then we will be off to find if we can, this very afternoon, one fine clue to Mr Yeshwant’s whereabouts.’
So, instead of riding out to Juhu Beach, Ghote had the Taj’s tall colourfully turbaned Sikh doorman summon over his booming loudspeaker the next taxi in the line waiting at a respectful distance.
For some while as their journey unwound Axel Svensson remained silent, lost in thought. Yet, glancing at him from time to time, Ghote saw those thoughts were not the sort of vaguely pleasant ones he himself had managed eventually to fill his head with while he had gone to Mrs Patel perched high in her apartment at Landsend. No doubt the firinghi was mulling over and over the blackness of life that had been thrust into him in a way he had not at all expected beneath the Indian sun.
And Axel Svensson’s fear was to be reinforced before they were halfway to their destination. They were halted at a red signal near Byculla Station. Suddenly on the Swede’s side of the cab there came a soft, dull tapping on the glass as insistent as the thumps Axel Svensson had delivered to the window of the Rajah Super Airbus to gain the attention of his friend of years past, rapt in that cricketing reverie.
It was, of course, a beggar tapping. But it was not with an ordinary beggar’s dirt-encrusted, claw-like hand. It was the stump of the man’s amputated arm that was being softly banged in a steady, demanding rhythm on the window, through which no doubt he had spotted the Swede’s white face.
‘Take no notice,’ Ghote said quietly. ‘You should not allow such a fellow as this to trouble you.’
‘But no,’ Axel Svensson replied. ‘No, the poor man has lost his arm. No, look. Look, he has lost both arms. He must be unable to do any sort of work. I must give him something.’
He rummaged in the inside pocket of his suit for his wallet.
‘Give him just only a coin, if you must give,’ Ghote said. ‘You know, the fellow is actually working. Begging is his work. That is part of life in Bombay that has always been here. You must accept same, and not be letting such people break in on your peaceful feelings.’
‘Well, if you say so.’
But Axel Svensson, digging into his trouser pocket, produced a good handful of silvery coins, wound down the cranky window – and found it impossible to put his gift into non-existent hands.
The beggar, however, skilled in his trade, contrived quickly to swing forward the little leather bag he had tied round his neck. The coins went in. And, to Ghote’s relief, the light ahead turned to green and their taxi shot away.
At least, he thought to himself, the beggar was not one of those women who go round with a dead baby, hired by the day. What would my soft-hearted friend have mistakenly done about one like her?
Happily the rest of the journey went without incident, and by the time they had passed Juhu’s Sun ’n’ Sand Hotel, haunt of film stars, and come in sight of the beach, with its scurrying children, its predatory fortune-tellers, its depressed-looking riding camels, its monkeywallas and acrobats, Axel Svensson was beginning to show signs of enthusiasm about the interview ahead.
‘Perhaps, my friend,’ he said, ‘before much longer you will actually be hot on the trail of Yeshwant.’
‘Perhaps.’
They had no difficulty in finding the Gulabchand shack, boldly labelled Peace and Quiet. Standing in the doorway of the comfortably substantial beach-side house was a person who could be none other than Mrs Gulabchand herself. Tall and imposing in a plain blue cotton printed sari, if one that was gold-bordered, she was imperiously supervising a sweeper with his stick-bundle broom swishing at the sand on the fenced-off wooden deck in front of the house.
‘No, no. You have left some there. There. Yes, there. Brush it away. I must have the place clean. Brush it. Brush. Whatever dirt and filth there may be on the beach, I am not having it brought on to my property. Not by so much as one sand-grain. Sweep. Sweep.’
Ghote went over and introduced himself, adding in a slightly shame-faced patter, ‘And this is Mr Svensson, from Sweden, he has written many reports for UNESCO on Indian policing methods.’
Mrs Gulabchand appeared to accept the Swede’s intrusion placidly enough.
‘Shall we go inside?’ she said. ‘I must apologize for this little place. It is not like my home itself. But I have to come out here when I can. Otherwise the pressures of my social engagements become altogether too great.’
‘Madam,’ Ghote said, ‘I quite understand.’
His sympathy, however much contrived, earned them immediately a servant bringing tea. When they were settled with it, in a great deal more comfort than Mrs Gulabchand’s apologies had warranted, Ghote gave a little cough and began.
‘I am well knowing, madam, you may have been asked all this before. But I am having to admit we are becoming altogether desperate to get even one clue that would lead us to the man they have named as Yeshwant.’
‘You should be desperate, Inspector,’ Mrs Gulabchand proclaimed. ‘That badmash was climbing right up to our apartment. On ninth floor itself. He was entering by one of the windows in— In our bedroom. Our bedroom, Inspector. How he was having the daring to do it I cannot imagine.’
‘And when were you realizing that he had made away with’ – Ghote consulted his notebook – ‘with one pearl choker necklace, valued at two lakhs of rupees.’
‘No, no, Inspector. That choker was worth much more than that. A great deal more.’
‘I regret, madam. I was quoting only the description given by Pappubhai Chimanlal and Co., from whom you were purchasing same only three weeks before the theft itself.’
‘Very well. Let us say two lakhs. It is not important.’
‘No, madam. But I was asking when you were realizing choker was not there.’
‘It was first thing in the morning, Inspector. I am always up early. I like to take down a tray of food for a cow that an old woman brings to the front of the building each day. I have a nice silver tray I keep especially for the purpose. I would not like it to be used for anything else when the cow has licked it, even after thorough washing. The woman comes always at seven, so if I am to be there before other people I have to be up in time to have my bath and get decently dressed. I would like even for the woman to be earlier, but the man she rents the cow from will not give it at the right hour. You can expect no more of such people these days, Inspector, I am sure you will agree.’
‘Yes, madam, yes. And that is bringing me to the question of your servants. Madam, do you believe any one of them may have somehow told this Yeshwant you had just bought your pearl choker?’
Mrs Gulabchand thought. Ghote could almost see her servants lined up in front of her as she pitilessly probed into each humbly bent head. But at last her face brightened.
‘No, Inspector, no,’ she said. ‘I am sure that such a thing was not happening. You see, I am always altogether most careful to keep all my jewelleries in the safe. The servants would not be knowing all I have got. It would be wrong if they did so.’
‘Wrong, yes, madam. But on the night that Yeshwant climbed up to your apartment you had left your choker out of the safe, yes?’
‘Yes. Yes, Inspector, I had. You see my husband had just been made president of his local Lions Club, a great honour. A great charity organization. So … So there had been a party. And, Inspector, when we were getting home, at two a.m. itself, I was altogether exhausted. There had been so many people to see, to talk to. And so, just that once – I promise you, just that once – I did not open up the safe.’
‘I see, madam.’ Ghote sighed, if hardly accepting the just that once. ‘I suppose Yeshwant had been watching your apartment and had seen you returning so late, and then when at last the light
in your bedroom was shut he was climbing up. It must have been something like that.’
‘And it was wrong that it should be, Inspector. Wrong.’
‘Yes, madam. But you were telling how and when you saw that choker had gone next day.’
‘Yes. Yes, it was not until I had got back from feeding the cow.’
Axel Svensson, who had been showing signs of restiveness, leant forward sharply now.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘why is it you feed a cow? And from a tray of silver? Why is that?’
Ghote could have kicked him. But, happily, Mrs Gulabchand seemed pleased enough to instruct a firinghi.
‘The cow is sacred in India, sir,’ she said. ‘One gains great merit by feeding her. And all the more so if the food is properly served. In conditions of utmost cleanliness. The people you see buying bundles of dirty grass from women leading cows in the streets will not get their prayers very well answered in that way. I can assure you.’
‘But does the cow—’
Ghote jumped in before more harm was done.
‘Mrs Gulabchand,’ he said, ‘I am sorry to be questioning and questioning. But you may have noticed some small thing at the time of discovering the theft that would give us in the police just the line we are looking for. So, may I ask please, whether you were seeing anything out of place near where your choker was when this Yeshwant was lifting same?’
‘You are asking if there were dirty footmarks or something, Inspector? Let me assure you that my house is always in a state of full cleanliness. Whatever may be outside my door, I can promise you that inside everything is perfect. Perfect.’
‘But, madam, Yeshwant may have left his footmarks just only two-three hours before you were getting up to feed your cow. You could have seen same.’
‘Impossible, Inspector. Impossible. No one would dare leave dirt on my bedroom floor.’
For a moment Ghote wondered if he could point out the illogicality of what she had said. And then he saw that Axel Svensson was about to do just that. Quickly he decided that, however little he had learnt, he was unlikely from as self-regarding a person as Mrs Gulabchand to learn more.
‘Madam,’ he said. ‘You have been most kind. But what I now need is to inspect scene-of-crime itself. When will you be back at your so wonderful and perfect home?’
‘You may come tomorrow, Inspector. Or, no, that may not be a good time to have the police coming into my apartment. So, say, next day. Or soon. Soon. Telephone me.’
FIVE
In the taxi going back, Ghote found himself becoming yet more irritated by Axel Svensson than when the Swede’s interruptions had put an end for the time being to questioning Mrs Gulabchand. The firinghi seemed to be gripped now by the hunt for Yeshwant to the exclusion of almost everything else. All too plainly he was feeling, too, that the case was not being handled in the way it would have been in Sweden.
‘But all the same,’ he broke out again, ‘you could have insisted Mrs Gulab-whatever gave you a definite appointment. She is making you run here and there and telling you nothing. And you could have insisted on asking her more out there. You should have—’
He stopped himself with a rein-jerk of last-second politeness.
‘No,’ Ghote said, sharp in resentment at this continuous breaking in on his own thoughts. ‘I am well knowing people like Mrs Gulabchand, so rich she is not at all living in same world as myself. Yes, if such a person should happen to be a murder suspect or a key witness even, then you must go on and on at them. Go on until it gets into their heads that they must think about what you are saying and give answers. But when it is a less important case, and after all this is a matter of B and E only, then it is no use to press and press. In the end it will come down to the husband complaining to State Minister for Home.’
‘B and E? What’s that? It’s not a term we use in Sweden.’
‘Oh, it is just only breaking and entering. Breaking and entering. Not at all nice for any victim, but not the most serious crime under Indian Penal Code.’
‘Yes, yes. I see that. But all the same—’
‘No. No, Axel sahib. No use to be talking and talking. That is all there is to be said.’
He had not meant to be that brutal. But he felt he had endured enough probing questions.
There was silence from then on. After a while Ghote did not know how to break it. He began almost to wish that, when they stopped at a red signal, another beggar would come up beside the big Swede to tap-tap-tap at the taxi’s window, smeared already by dozens of demanding fingers, by as many peeringly inquisitive snot-running noses.
But no beggar appeared. So they both sat without a word, and before long Ghote found he had succeeded in retreating to his Northern fastness, there to puff out a fine protective cocoon of vaguely pleasurable thought.
He had made it so prick-proof, in fact, that, although he had intended to reverse his order to the driver to go first to Police Headquarters and then to take Axel Svensson to the Taj, he forgot to do so. The taxi came to a halt inside the compound at Crawford Market before he had realized where they were.
Well, he thought, it is not any big problem. Svensson sahib can stay with me while I go to my cabin to collect any messages, and then I can send him off to the hotel and spend some time quietly writing my reports. In any case, perhaps it may please him to see once more the cabin where, all those years ago, we sat and discussed the Perfect murder. Pehaps, in spite of everything, I owe him that much.
But he was not destined to reach his cabin as quickly as he had imagined.
‘Halloo, halloo,’ a resonant female voice called out from behind them. ‘Halloo, Inspector Ghote.’
He looked back.
It was as he had expected. From the doorway of the little Press Hut just by the nearest entrance gate to the compound there had emerged a woman of about forty, greying hair a wild tangle, face gaunt, stick-thin body carelessly wrapped in a highly coloured red and green cotton sari, a big battered old leather satchel banging against her hip.
Turning to Axel Svensson, he explained.
‘It is one Miss Dinkarrao. She is a journalist. Known by the name of Pinky itself. She was the one who was first calling the climbing thief as Yeshwant.’
‘Yeshwant? It was her who was telling that story of Maharajah Shivsena and his climbing lizard?’
Ghote let out a long sigh.
‘Axel sahib,’ he said, ‘it is not Shivsena. It is Shivaji. Shivaji Maharaj. You must have seen the name Shiv Sena on some wall-writing somewhere. It is a political party. Shiv Sena is meaning the Army of Shivaji. They are very much fighting to keep our state of Maharashtra for Maharashtrians only. And when I am saying fighting, that is what I am meaning. They were the ones who were insisting and insisting on Bombay turning back into Mumbai, even though it was fifty years after the departure of the British who were always calling it Bombay.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Axel Svensson said hastily. ‘But this lady, this Miss Pinky, she must be following the Yeshwant inquiry with great keenness. Will she be able to tell me more about him, what he has done in the past, what he is likely to do now? That is the thing.’
Ghote felt a new descent of depression as he realized that the Swede, if he got talking to Pinky Dinkarrao, would be all the more enthusiastic in wanting to have a full share in the hunt for Yeshwant.
‘Inspector, Inspector,’ the angularly thin journalist called out now. ‘Just the man. I was hoping to catch you. I hear that you have been made sole in-charge of the Yeshwant case. I want to know what you have discovered. Those crime reporter fellows can think of nothing else now but the Ajmani murder, and all they have to write about it is that somehow the servants there have been eliminated. Nothing interesting in that. So I thought I should get something more into my column about just how Yeshwant is being tracked down.’
Oh no, Ghote thought, falling yet deeper into gloom. Now I am to have two questioners-pestioners riding on my head. First Axel Svensson, now Pinky Dinkarrao.
; Nothing for it, however, but to speak to Pinky, whatever traps and trip-ups she may lay for me to make out hunt for Yeshwant is being disgracefully neglected.
‘Miss Dinkarrao,’ he said, going up to her, ‘may I introduce Mr Axel Svensson, from Sweden. He is altogether interested in the story you were putting in your famous column about the ghorpad Yeshwant and his climbing feats.’
He let himself hope for a fleeting second that somehow the two of them might cancel each other out, or get together to talk endlessly about Shivaji and his ghorpad while he himself could get on with his business uninterrupted. But at once he abandoned the idea. It was too much to hope for.
‘Mr Svensson, good afternoon,’ Pinky said.
But it was to Ghote himself that she turned the full glare of her attention.
‘Now, Inspector, what news? A new theft? A yet higher climb? More daring even? And some record price for whatever jewellery he has stolen?’
‘No, madam. Unless I am hearing something when I am getting to my cabin, I do not think there has been a new theft.’
He sent a longing glance back over to the bat-wing doors through which he had hoped, just a moment ago, to pass into the familiar security of the cabin.
But he was not to get there yet.
‘Well, you must tell me at once if there is something fresh,’ Pinky Dinkarrao said. ‘But now I want to know what it is you yourself have been doing today? You are on the track of something? Yes? No?’
‘No. No, madam, all that can be done just now is once more to ask questions of each and every victim so far of Yeshwant’s daring climbs. I am not at all liking to intrude upon these ladies again. But it must be done.’
‘So who have you just seen? Who are you going to see next?’
Ghote wondered whether he could say, Police business, but he knew how the majority of his colleagues all too soon abandoned that awesome phrase when there was a chance of seeing their name in print, accompanied if possible by the adjective energetic or the description top-sleuth. He could hope to fare no better, even if he was not so hundred per cent keen on getting into the papers.
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