Breaking and Entering

by H. R. F. Keating

  Still he held Pappubhai Chimanlal’s wife in his judge’s unyielding gaze.

  What would she answer now?

  But then into the picture he had had of her telling her story as she had sat on the big ornate swing one unnoted tiny detail suddenly rose up.

  He saw clearly that the delicately thin gold necklace she wore, just a little more in sight as she had swung back to jump down from the swing and the pallu of her sari had slipped, was formed out of a chain of tiny golden monkeys each one grasping the tail of the one in front of it.

  And he had seen just such a necklace—

  No. No, I was not seeing it. I was reading about it and seeing it in my mind’s eye only. I was reading about it in the report on the theft from Mrs Latika Patel of her sapphire necklace. The sapphire, in a setting of diamonds, was the pendant to a fine, delicately worked, monkeys-linked necklace. Just like what I was seeing a few moments ago.

  How many such extremely expensive pieces of jewellery could there be in existence? Was this a pattern Pappubhai Chimanlal and Co. specialized in? Or had Mrs Patel’s necklace been, as she had seemed to state, a piece of jewellery made for herself alone? Or, after all, was it possible that, although Pappubhai Chimanlal himself may have assured Mrs Patel her necklace was unique, he had also had made another chain of exactly the same intricate workmanship as a private gift for his wife?

  But if the necklace I am now just glimpsing was the only one Pappubhai Chimanlal ever had made, that surely must mean …

  A wild idea was beginning to flutter like a caged songbird in his mind.

  How to find out if it was true?

  But Mrs Chimanlal was answering his forcefully thrust-out question, How do you account for Yeshwant knowing where he can find such fine loot?

  ‘Inspector, how can I say how such a thief as that goes to work? How can I, a simple housewife brought up knowing very little of the world, answer such a question as that? Right from my days as a girl, I was allowed to know almost nothing. Of course, like most of the girls I was at school with, I had dreams of going out into the wide world. Like most of them I wanted nothing more than to be a doctor, or even an engineer.’

  She gave them both a wistful, wry smile.

  ‘But, of course, there was never possibility of that. You know, until I was married I had never even chosen one sari for myself? My mother was saying what each one should be like. And even now I hardly have any choice. My husband tells me I must always dress well, and that comes to mean my saris must be almost the same as the ones I brought to the marriage. No, I know nothing of the world and its ways. Marriage was always my destiny. And, yes, marriage is very nice. There is the security, and to have that is to have a great deal. But sometimes, even now, I think how good it would have been to be a doctor, or a barrister. Many women nowadays are barristers. Or, yes, an engineer. I could be building huge bridges and great dams holding back vast lakes of water from bursting out in floods.’

  But Ghote had hardly paid attention to all that. He could think of nothing else now but the glimpse he had had, and still was having, of that fine monkey-chain necklace.

  Was it the one Yeshwant stole from Mrs Latika Patel? Or was it a replica Pappubhai Chimanlal had had made in secret for his wife?

  There was only one way to be certain. Somehow to see the pendant that must be dangling just under the top border of her sari. To see if it was, or was not, a rare-rare Sri Lankan, cushion-cut sapphire, worn to ward off Saturn’s baleful influence.

  But how to do that?

  ‘Madam,’ he said, cautiously feeling his way, ‘I am well seeing that someone, brought up as you have told, must be knowing little of the world. In fact …’

  A faint idea had begun to glimmer.

  ‘In fact, madam, what-all you have been telling about your life in a good Gujarati family almost answers the questions I came here to ask.’

  Then, as he saw her just visibly relaxing at the possibility that he was after all going to accept the warning in the tale of the sparrow and the crow, the idea took firmer shape in his head.

  ‘Madam,’ he went on, scarcely daring to hope the seemingly absurd notion that had come to him could give him his answer, ‘I am sure my friend, Mr Svensson, will take back with him to Sweden a fine picture of the good Gujarati home you have here. Madam, I am hoping he will be able, back in ice-cold Sweden, to see in his mind’s eye that fine swing itself with you sitting on same telling one of our nicest Indian stories.’

  And, as he had hoped, Axel Svensson broke in now.

  ‘Yes, yes, Mrs Pappubhai, a fine life, a fine picture of it. I am only sorry I do not have a camera with me. A photo would be marvellous.’

  ‘But Axel, my friend,’ Ghote said, making himself glow with enthusiasm, ‘you do not need any camera-whamera now to put into your mind a picture. If Mrs Chimanlal would be so kind as to do it, you can see her now and in your memory ever afterwards, swinging on that swing, back and forwards, back and forwards.’

  Pappubhai Chimanlal’s wife, relieved of a burden, gave them a sudden almost mischievous look.

  ‘Oh, yes. I would be delighted to do that for you, Mr Svensson. Why not?’

  She hopped back on to the swing’s broad seat and, with a bigger push than one might have expected from a quiet housewife, launched herself backwards.

  Ghote watched, keenly as a hovering kite.

  And, as he did so, he realized that the photographs of the athletic schoolgirl he had seen in the corridor outside were not of the Chimanlals’ daughter – they had no children, Ivy Cooper had said – but of the woman on the swing herself.

  And then the green silk sari slid down by perhaps half an inch more, and Inspector Ghote was able to see what he had planned and contrived to get a sight of: the deep, deep blue of a fine cushion-cut sapphire, set in a surround of tiny diamonds, flashed for one instant into his view. It was only the quickest of glimpses, but what it showed him could not be mistaken.

  Mrs Chimanlal jumped lightly down from the swing.

  ‘There, Mr Svensson,’ she said. ‘Enough for a picture for your mind, I hope.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, Mrs Pappubhai. That was superb.’

  Then Ghote stepped forward.

  ‘Madam,’ he said. ‘Madam, now I am knowing. You yourself are the man they are calling as Yeshwant.’

  Mrs Pappubhai Chimanlal took one sharp step backwards. The sound of the edge of her sari ripping under her heel came into the big room with all the impact of a pistol shot.

  FOURTEEN

  Then Ghote knew beyond doubting that his wild idea was right. The pieces fell into place with all the rapidity of some machine designed to slide into correct alignment a score of different odd-shaped segments. Climbing Yeshwant was not a man but a woman. No point now in wondering how an everyday criminal could be daring and discriminating enough to capture those headlines. No need now to ask in perplexity how a rich woman like Mrs Chimanlal could somehow pluck out such a badmash from among the city’s criminal population. No need to wonder how a simple Gujarati housewife could possibly control such a wild animal. Plain to see now, too, that someone who in her school days had been a triumphant athlete could manage such dizzying climbs. Even those unusually stubby hands were accounted for. No need any more, either, for that fear that Pinky Dinkarrao would put something in her column which would frighten ‘Yeshwant’ into losing himself among the millions of India. Scarcely any need now to ask why on earth all the thefts were from places it was necessary to climb up to. And, of course, no need to wonder why they were all of maha expensive pieces from the house of Pappubhai Chimanlal and Co. The puzzle of why ‘Yeshwant’ had never taken more than one single piece was, too, all but answered now.

  ‘Inspector, it was such fun,’ ‘Yeshwant’ said, stepping clear of the torn edge of her sari, cool and unblushing.

  Ghote looked at her. He found that cheerful declaration, despite the inkling he had of her motivation, hard to understand.

  ‘Oh, Inspector,’ little, compac
t, bright-eyed Mrs Chimanlal went on, with the most rueful of smiles. ‘You were too clever for me. Too clever altogether. Of course, of course, when I heard you were at the door I shouldn’t have taken the risk of putting on Mrs Latika Patel’s necklace. But I can’t help loving a risk, small or not so small. It comes, you know, from all those long years of being a girl of good family. Never allowed to step beyond the limits chalked out for me. A girl of good family never walks in the road. Of course, she must wait for the family car, or at worst she takes a taxi. A girl of good family never talks to a boy alone. She waits and waits till she is provided with a husband. So many rules. And all the time I longed to break just one. And, at last, I have. A girl of good family, you know, does not go climbing up the sides of buildings, scrambling in through windows, creeping and creeping past sleeping people and— And just taking away some prized new possession.’

  She looked at Ghote now with a grin, rather than a smile, on her once demure face.

  ‘But, madam …’ was all that Ghote, suddenly dazzled and bemused, managed to say.

  ‘But, madam what, Inspector?’

  ‘Madam, you have been committing crimes. Serious crimes, madam. Breaking and entering is punishable under Indian Penal Code Section 446, house-breaking by night. Or, worse, madam, you must be liable under Section 454, Whoever commits lurking house-breaking … and if the offence intended to be committed is theft, the term of imprisonment may be extended to ten years.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I knew that. Or something like it. But … but … Inspector, you cannot imagine the pleasure it was to be inside those places where I shouldn’t have been at all. Lurking, as you were saying. But being there, Inspector. Being there secretly in the heart of some person’s home, without them having any idea I had penetrated inside. It thrilled me. It thrilled me through and through. It made me feel sick with delight.’

  It was as if, now that her secret was out, a dam had burst. The words came pouring through the shattered stonework.

  ‘The first time it was when my husband just said to me one evening that he had sold a pair of diamond karas for a twenty-fifth anniversary present to K. P. Parulkar, the barrister; I suppose he told it because K. P. is such a famous man. He was mentioning also the big, big price he had been paid. And then … Then, Inspector, I suddenly saw how I could break out of being the little girl of good family that I still was after nearly twenty years of marriage. I don’t know why, but it just came into my head, I am going to steal those karas. So I found out where the Parulkars stay. It wasn’t difficult. And then I went and looked at that place, and, Inspector, it was so easy to climb up there. At school I was best in class at rope-climbing and all. I felt even the old house itself was saying, Come up, come up, I am daring you. And I took that dare. And it was simple, even by night. And then, when I was there inside, I didn’t even want to go away with those karas. The pleasure of just being there with them under my hands would have been enough. But— But I had to have something to tell me what I had done. I might have thought afterwards it had all been some dream. I had had so many dreams like that in all the years when I could do nothing. Then, too, each time afterwards I was wanting to tell the world what I had done, what I could do. It became in the end something like one of those drugs that people talk about, the excitement of doing that. And so from time to time I would just ask my husband if he had made any big sale that day. Then I began reading in the papers about what parties and events were coming up so that I could find a good opportunity to go climbing. And that was a strange thing too. Because, that first time I broke the rules I had had to climb up to the Parulkars’ flat, each other time I felt I must have some climb to make for Yeshwant, each one more dangerous and daring. Oh, and that was such a nice thing as well, when Pinky Dinkarrao in her column told the story of Shivaji Maharaj and his ghorpad. Suddenly then I became – it was so funny – climbing Yeshwant. Climbing Yeshwant breaking those rules that had made such a cage for me from my girlhood up. Breaking those rules at last.’

  ‘Madam,’ Ghote found himself saying, ‘I can understand what you are telling. To a certain extent I can understand. I know you were not stealing for the sake of getting hold of valuable objects to sell, like any common thief. But, nevertheless, madam, you were committing an offence, many offences, under Section 446 read with Section 454.’

  And now Axel Svensson, beginning to recover from the shock of the revelation, put in his word.

  ‘Mrs Pappubhai, what have you done with all the things you stole? I know about that necklace. Even now it is still round your neck. But the other things? A pearl choker, a very valuable diamond ring, diamond bangles, some – what are they called? – ear-tops … Where are they? What have you done with them?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Svensson, they are all safe. Safe here, locked in that wall cupboard we never use, just behind Goddess Lakshmi. Such fine and expensive jewels should be under the guard of wealth-bestowing Lakshmi, yes? And some things I bought at a sports shop to help me in my climbing are there, too. But— But, yes, now that all this is known, I can send each and every piece back to the people I took them from. Yes, I will do that.’

  She gave Ghote now a pleading, almost coy look such as might have come from the schoolgirl she had been when she had first built up the muscles that took her climbing eighteen storeys high.

  ‘Inspector, if I send each and every one of those things back, can’t we forget about all this?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  Ghote felt a hot flame of outrage. These rich women, they thought the law did not apply to them.

  ‘Oh, Inspector, this nice Swedish gentleman understands. He knows I wasn’t really stealing. He believes me when I say I’m going to return each one of those things.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do,’ the big Swede chimed in.

  Idiot. Fool. What is his head made of? Butter only?

  ‘I only wish,’ the Gujarati thief went on, ‘I had also that diamond necklace Mrs Soonawala was sensible enough to put in her safe before I was climbing up to her flat. I could return that, too. Or, if I had managed to get into Mrs Ajmani’s house out at Madh Island and got hold of her triple-string emeralds, she could have had them back also.’

  ‘Muddy Island?’ Axel Svensson burst out. ‘You were there at Muddy Island? Where the Amjani murder took place? You climbed in there?’

  Before Ghote could intervene to point out once more it was Madh Island and Ajmani Mrs Chimanlal gave a sharp little laugh.

  ‘Oh, no, Mr Svensson. I am sorry to say Mr Anil Ajmani was too good for me with all his security measures. Almost as good as Inspector Ghote here.’

  ‘But you were trying and attempting to steal even from there?’ Ghote could not help asking, however much he set aside the blatant attempt to flatter him.

  Mrs Chimanlal gave another little laugh.

  ‘Oh, yes, I was trying to get in there, Inspector. You see, I had been reading about that place. It was in the Pinky Thinking column. The Ajmanis had given a big party, and Pinky was thinking Mr Ajmani had not held it at Shanti Niwas because some guest might have got to know where were his security lights, or something like that. And then I thought: if I could get to steal that emerald necklace my husband had told me Mr Ajmani had bought for his wife – it was before the terrible murder, you know – that would be the best Yeshwant thing of all. I think, if I had managed that, I might even have been able to stop.’

  She gave Ghote another piteous, or perhaps mockpiteous, look.

  ‘But now, I suppose, Yeshwant, poor Yeshwant, must just fade away? No more climbing. No more creeping in the darkness of the night, softly, softly, through someone’s home, hearing them in their bed, breathing. And myself hardly making any breathing sounds at all. Oh, Inspector, won’t you let me do it once again? Just once? Won’t you let me see if I can get into Shanti Niwas after all? I think I could do it, you know.’

  Ghote felt a prickle of sharp interest. The Ajmani murder was not his case. But if he could learn how Yeshwant might get into the ho
use, and then tell Mr Kabir how, despite all the security measures, a murderer could break in there …

  ‘You are saying,’ he asked, ‘that it might be possible to get into that place, Shanti Niwas?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Inspector, I am sure I could do it. I failed the first time because they had five-six ugly big dogs going about inside that wall. So then I spent some days looking at the place from a distance to see if anything could be done. I was taking my husband’s binocular, you know. The one he bought when he used to go to the races at Mahalaxmi.’

  ‘And you did see how it could be done after all?’ Ghote asked.

  ‘Well, it is yes and no. If you are a Number One climber, you could get inside there without too many problems, and the house itself would be quite easy. But the trouble was always those dogs. You could never get past them.’

  Ghote experienced a sudden downfall of disappointment.

  Very well, he would get something of kudos for having put an end to the famous Yeshwant’s exploits. But he had already begun to realize, with a certain grim awareness, that in all probability merely ending Yeshwant’s exploits would be all that he would succeed in doing.

  The story of the sparrow and the crow came back to his mind. Yes, this sparrow’s nest was built of hard, hard wax. Round her she had wound and wound the wealth and influence of Pappubhai Chimanlal, jeweller to all the rich of Bombay. The wretched, feathers-awry cawla that was himself could never truly penetrate her safe nest. Or, if he forced and forced his way in, then the hot chapatti stove would doubtless await him. Daring to stand up against Mr Pappubhai Chimanlal could lead to his being pressured to resign, or to being posted in charge of the Armed Police on the furthest frontier of the state. To anything. Nothing would be heard in public of the ending of Yeshwant’s career. Perhaps Pinky Dinkarrao would make something in her column of the mysterious return piece by piece of all Yeshwant’s stolen loot. It would be a talking point for a few days, perhaps even a couple of weeks. Then silence.