All very well, he thought, to be throwing looks of suspicion towards each and every employee who may come under my eye. But still there may be some other way for Yeshwant to have learnt about the fine jewellery that is seeming always to attract him. Look, here right by my side there is this vendor sitting on his stool, his tray on its stand in front of him, busy rethreading the beads on a necklace for that fat housewife, her keys hanging from her waist. It may be possible, if a fellow like this is keeping his ears open, to overhear what customers coming out of the showroom are saying. I am thinking I was getting one bargain there, a marvellous pair of diamond karas for less than a lakh.
It might be.
But, no. No, the fellow could sometimes pick up a scrap or two of talk, but he could never have overheard precise information about each one of Yeshwant’s victims. Too good to be true altogether. Another fine idea dead before it had truly come to life.
So …
So the first person I am seeing when I am pulling at this big handle and hauling open this door may be Yeshwant himself.
But the first person Ghote did see when, the Swede at his heels, he had gone through the door and the down-draughting air-curtain beyond into the cool, dust-free, almost antiseptic atmosphere of the big showroom was, beyond any doubt, not Yeshwant. He was a man sitting at the very rear of the showroom, wearing only a simple white churida kurta. But there was such an air of solidly aggressive confidence about him, from the broad dome of his bald head to the thrust of his nose, the determinedly downward turn of his wide mouth and the steady set of his heavy shoulders, that he altogether eclipsed the suited, tie-wearing assistants behind the room’s ranks of showcases. Ghote had no doubt this was the establishment’s long-time proprietor. He was – he must be – Shri Pappubhai Chimanlal himself.
As Ghote came up to the wide glass table behind which Pappubhai Chimanlal was seated, he saw on its black velvet-backed surface a scatter of glittering diamonds, with beside them a little silver jeweller’s loupe, a silver instrument for holding the tiny gems, a decorative tin of chewy, spicy paan masala and a multi-buttoned white telephone.
So this is it, he thought. Not at all the time for suspicious looks to everyone I am chancing to see. The time now to ask Shri Chimanlal directly who can have been telling Yeshwant, the master thief, about the expensive-expensive purchases made here over months past.
‘It is Shri Pappubhai Chimanlal?’
‘Yes.’
The heavyset Gujarati looked up at him.
Hard to tell whether this was just a blank statement of affirmation or something with a hint of an enquiry in it.
Ghote chose to believe the latter.
‘Mr Chimanlal,’ he said, ‘I am Inspector Ghote, of Crime Branch. I am making inquiries concerning the thefts committed by the man the press is calling as Yeshwant.’
‘So?’
‘Mr Chimanlal, you must be aware that it is pieces of Pappubhai Chimanlal jewellery that have been stolen.’
‘What if?’
‘But perhaps you are not aware, sir, of what my full inquiries have revealed. Each and every one of this Yeshwant’s robberies has been of jewels recently purchased from this showroom itself.’
The jeweller looked up at him, his heavy face even more sombre than before.
‘So, what for are you telling me this, Inspector?’
Ghote, feeling as if he was pushing and pushing uselessly at some soft but unyielding massive substance, forced himself to lean forward more sharply over the diamond-studded table.
For one quick moment he thought how easy it might be to put his hands flat on the black surface below him and come away with one of those tiny chips of immensely valuable— What was it he had once read they really consisted of? Yes, crystalline carbon.
‘Sir,’ he said, back in an instant to the police officer, ‘were you all along knowing that each of Yeshwant’s thefts was of a Pappubhai Chimanlal jewellery?’
A look of calculation on the broad face below him. But a fleeting look only.
‘No, Inspector. No, I was not. The newspapers were not always mentioning where this Yeshwant’s thefts had been bought, also they were not giving proper descriptions. They are using only ridiculous expressions, and ridiculous sums of rupees also.’
At last some sort of acknowledgement.
‘Then, sir, I must repeat. Rigorous inquiries have shown that none of the thefts which the said Yeshwant climbed up to commit were of jewels other than from your establishment. Sir, I ask: what is that meaning to you?’
A silence. The silver pick-up tool, grasped in podgy, be-ringed fingers, was shifted a little to and fro.
‘Yes,’ Pappubhai Chimanlal said at last. ‘It might seem to show this Yeshwant has some means of knowing what is sold from this shop.’
‘Some means, sir, of finding out in utmost detail what is sold from this shop. You must be knowing that Yeshwant has never stolen anything that was not worth a very great deal of money. Only one theft of his, I am able to tell you, was bringing him nothing. But that was because the lady in question had had the good sense to place a diamond necklace, bought from you, sir, into her safe.’
‘Very well, Inspector. Yeshwant has some good means of knowing about the more valuable sales we are making.’
‘So, sir, the question is there. How is he knowing such? Sir, may I interview each and every one of your employees?’
‘No, Inspector.’
At this rebuff Ghote felt, rather than saw, Axel Svensson moving up behind him. Quickly he put in his own word.
‘Sir, howsoever important is an establishment like yours, police inquiries must take precedence.’
‘Must, Inspector?’
The jeweller let go the little silver tool he had been fiddling with. But before Ghote had brought himself to mention the article of the Indian Penal Code that set penalties for obstructing an officer of the law, Section 186, Pappubhai Chimanlal produced something that might have been a conciliatory smile.
‘Inspector, let me explain the workings of this establishment, which you have been good enough to describe as important. We are handling here gold, diamonds and other jewels worth, shall we say, almost as much as the revenues of the Maharashtra State Government.’
His eyes dropped to the array of dozens of glittering little diamonds in front of him.
‘So, Inspector, it becomes necessary to have certain rules and procedures.’
He glanced up now with a sudden hard and hostile look.
‘For example, Inspector, if it should have occurred to you, standing where you are, to dip your hand down and take one of these diamonds in front of you, one worth perhaps your whole year’s salary plus increments, do you think you would be able to leave these premises with it dropped into your shirt pocket?’
‘I am supposing not, sir.’
‘You are supposing correctly, Inspector. Before you had so much as turned round I would have put my foot on a button under the table here, and those doors behind you, and every other door in the showroom, would have been fast-locked.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Ghote said, inwardly flushing with gladness that his tiny wicked thought of a minute or two earlier had been no more than a tiny wicked thought.
‘Other precautions also are necessary, Inspector. Every valuable piece in the whole showroom has to be accounted for at all times. Any information about them is always kept as strictly confidential. No employee may discuss any sale they are making with any other employee. I myself, of course, conduct all sales that are coming over a certain value. So, you see, Inspector, questioning, as you said, each and every one of my employees will be unnecessary. It would also make them angry. So, Inspector, it is No.’
Ghote stood for a moment considering what Pappubhai Chimanlal had said. Had those arguments of his been put simply because he did not want his staff upset? Or had they been valid in themselves?
He had still not answered that in his mind, as Pappubhai Chimanlal sat solidly looking up at him, when he b
ecame aware of what seemed like a heavy storm cloud gathering force at his shoulder. Before he could do anything to check it, it broke.
‘Mr Pappubhai,’ Axel Svensson boomed out, ‘you are not behaving in any sort of correct manner.’
Ghote turned.
‘Axel sahib—’
‘No, I must say it. Mr Pappubhai—’
‘Svensson sahib,’ Ghote jabbed out. ‘Kindly be silent.’
And this frail umbrella did succeed, more effectually than his wishes had done during his scooter trip from Meher Apartments to the Taj, in holding back the deluge.
He thought it best, however, not to attempt to explain the intrusion to the jeweller.
‘Yes, sir,’ he hastily said to him, ‘I am altogether appreciating the reasons you have stated. I no longer consider it necessary to put questions to your staff.’
He swirled round to the firinghi.
‘Come, Axel.’
But then, perhaps because the big Swede seemed ready to block his path, he turned back again.
‘Mr Chimanlal, one thing more only.’
‘Yes, Inspector?’
The jeweller looked up from the diamond he was already beginning to scrutinize through his loupe.
‘Sir, can I have your full assurance that there is no one whatsoever among your staff, even down somehow to the sweepers, who may for any reason have knowledge of all transactions taking place here?’
Pappubhai Chimanlal slowly took the loupe from his eye.
He gave Ghote a long hard look.
‘You are right, Inspector,’ he said at last. ‘There is someone. Yes. No sooner had you turned to go than I realized that to a certain extent I had misinformed you. I did not, however, think it worth putting right my mistake.’
‘Sir, but—’
‘However, thanks to the foreign gentleman who seems to be with you, the opportunity is now there.’
Ghote hardly knew whether to feel gratitude to Axel Svensson or not.
‘So, sir …’ he ventured.
‘Yes, Inspector. There is my secretary, Miss Cooper.’
‘And she is knowing all your business affairs, sir?’
The solidly heavy face rose up to meet his eyes. There was a gleam of sullen determination on it.
‘Yes, Inspector. She is, how do they say, my right arm. Everything she is knowing. Everything.’
‘Then, sir …’
‘No, Inspector.’
‘But, sir, if as you are stating Miss Cooper is only one besides yourself who is knowing what-all happens in this showroom, then, sir, if someone is telling this Yeshwant where are the owners of items sold from here, sir, it must be Miss Cooper.’
‘It is not, Inspector.’
‘Sir, why are you knowing this with so much of certainty?’
Ghote began to be afraid that Axel Svensson, still within hearing though he had now stepped back a pace, would again come blundering in.
He could think, which was worse, of no way of stopping him.
Luckily, however, the jeweller answered his question in an altogether milder tone.
‘Inspector, Miss Cooper has been my secretary for more than twenty years. She is coming next to my wife. I can be sure of her loyalties always.’
‘Yes, sir. But all the same it is still seeming that somehow through her Yeshwant must be gaining his informations. Sir, Miss Cooper is here? May I see?’
‘No, Inspector.’
‘But, sir …’
The shrewd eyes in the heavy big face looked up at him again.
‘Inspector, what you were saying is your name?’
Ah, here it comes. A word to the Commissioner, and you will find you are no longer able to go question-questioning people who have no time for such.
‘I am Inspector Ghote, sir.’
Get ready for battle.
But Pappubhai Chimanlal said something very different from the customary threat.
He lowered his voice, almost to a thin growl.
‘Inspector. Get rid of that foreigner, whoever he is.’
What is this, Ghote thought.
But without hesitation he turned to Axel Svensson. If this influential witness wanted the big Swede not to hear what he was going to say, the big Swede had to go. Find what excuse to him he could.
‘Axel, my friend, I think you had better step outside just now.’
‘But—’
‘No buts and butting, please. Go only.’
There must have been something in his tone that told the Swede he had to do as he had been asked.
‘Well, I will see you shortly, my friend.’
‘Certainly. Yes, yes. But go now.’
Axel Svensson went.
Ghote turned back to Pappubhai Chimanlal.
‘Sir?’
‘Mr Ghote, you are a man of world?’
Only one answer.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then let me tell you a story. Once upon a time— That is the way the English begin their stories, yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then once upon a time there was a young shop-owner in this city. Young, but wanting to make the small business his father had left to him get bigger and better. So, first of all, he was doing what anyone like himself should do. He was marrying a wife who came with some dowry, not too much but enough. Yet she came with that only. A girl of a good Gujarati family, in same line also, but not too much educated. No college-bollege. So, one knowing jewels, yes, but nothing of business-fizziness. But this young man was determined still to make himself one day rich-rich. About business-fizziness he also was not knowing too much. But about other things he had already learnt all he was needing to know. So what was he doing next? He was getting as secretary, confidential secretary, an educated Anglo-Indian girl, first class with letters-writing, account-keeping, tax and legal matters, as the Anglo-Indians are if they are having good education. For some weeks this young man was watching her and watching her. He found she was a lonely girl, Miss Ivy Cooper, not at all experience. No lover-dovers. Good church-perch Christian girl. So then, when he was satisfied he knew all about her, what do you think he was doing, Mr Ghote?’
‘I do not know, sir.’
‘Perhaps you do not. Perhaps you do. But what he was doing, even though he was having one good Hindu wife, was one night keeping that girl late, late in office. And at last having. Once and once only having.’
Ghote had almost asked: Having? But then he realized what the young Pappubhai Chimanlal had done to the young Ivy Cooper. He had seduced her. Ruthlessly but cleverly. And once and once only. And thereby he had ensured himself for as many years as he wanted of a lastingly loving, absolutely loyal secretary.
‘Sir, a one hundred per cent interesting story. Thank you, sir.’
An interesting story. But one that told him, as clearly as could be, that he was not going to be allowed to go to any office at the rear of the big showroom to interview Miss Ivy Cooper.
He looked down at Pappubhai Chimanlal, already with a paan he had taken from the pretty round tin at his elbow sloshily moving between his jaws.
‘Then, sir, I will be going now,’ he said. ‘Once more, thank you.’
And through the big glass doors he went.
But as they swung closed behind him he made a vow.
By hooks and by crooks, I am going to find out where is staying Miss Ivy Cooper. I am going to ask her many, many questions. And she will be answering. Howsoever much she is still loving her boss.
ELEVEN
Ghote found Axel Svensson wandering like a great lost bear among the crowd in Zaveri Bazaar. Shoppers were shopping, and window-gazing. Teaboys were swinging their six full milky glasses in their wire baskets. A sadhu was wandering past, lost in his own world. A little group of posh girls, jeans tight round their legs, headphones clamped to their ears, were walking through, oblivious of everything, everyone and each other. Handcartwallas were hurrying by pushing their long, loaded carts, Way please, way please. A pair of stu
dents, cloth bags stuffed with books, were idling along, talking hard to each other regardless of anyone else. Coolies with their odd and immense head-loads, a TV set, a rolled-up mattress, were making their way past, seemingly ignoring the weights pressing down on them.
‘Axel sahib,’ Ghote called out. ‘Axel sahib.’
The big Swede turned, and gave Ghote a look, sullen as a reprimanded schoolboy.
‘Axel, I must be apologizing for making you leave like that. But, kindly believe, it was most necessary. Chimanlal sahib was feeling he was not able to speak freely before a foreigner. When I tell what I was learning you will see.’
‘Well, what was it?’
At once, rapidly as he could, he gave the Swede the gist of Pappubhai Chimanlal’s sideways-on explanation of how, though his secretary knew everything about his firm, she could not possibly have passed on any confidential information.
‘But Miss Ivy Cooper I am going to see,’ he concluded. ‘It is seeming to me it cannot be anyone else whatsoever who is giving Yeshwant what he is wanting to learn.’
‘No,’ Axel Svensson shot out, still distinctly belligerent.
‘No, you are saying? No?’
The Swede gave him a grimly triumphant smile.
‘It is not the secretary miss who is passing to Yeshwant the information he requires,’ he said. ‘Shall I tell you who it really is?’
Ghote found all this hard to understand.
‘Kindly do,’ he said.
Axel Svensson turned round and pointed dramatically back towards the showroom he had been so unceremoniously turned out of.
‘There,’ he said. ‘There. There is your man.’
After a moment Ghote realized he was pointing at the bead-stringing vendor, sitting idle now on his low stool beside the showroom’s shining glass doors.
His felt a sharp little sinking of depression. How was he to explain to his Swedish friend that he had jumped to a totally wrong conclusion?
‘Axel sahib,’ he said. ‘That is, Axel. Axel, what you have guessed is very clever. Up to a point. But I am afraid it is no good. I, too, was surmising about that fellow. But, you know, no one sitting just only where he is could have heard at twenty different times – and remember Yeshwant has stolen nearly twenty maha valuable jewelleries – the exact informations he has had.’
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