Breaking and Entering

by H. R. F. Keating

  That would be all. The nest of wax would be untouched.

  ‘So you are saying that no murderer can have got in there?’ he asked dully.

  ‘Yes, Inspector, I am. If I could not do it, I cannot see how anyone else could.’

  ‘But they must have done. Ajmani sahib was stabbed to death, and all the Crime Branch inspectors out at Shanti Niwas are certain neither Mrs Ajmani nor the servants could have done it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose, then, there must have been someone there much more clever than poor Yeshwant. With the head of security Mr Ajmani had I could find no way to do it. Except for that man I could easily have bribed one of his guards. I know their sort. I was talking to them even. But none of them could tell me, pay out as I might, how to defeat the double-checked arrangements that man had made. All I was learning was that he himself was one of those iron people who cannot be bribed.’

  Easy to see now how Yeshwant was achieving those daring feats if she was ready to go to such lengths, Ghote thought. But, all the same, she must be wrong in her final conclusion. Ajmani sahib had been killed. There, right inside his guarded home. So someone, somehow, must have penetrated into it.

  ‘But, surely, surely, there must have been some way to get in?’ he asked once more, unhopeful though he was of hearing any answer.

  ‘No, wait,’ Axel Svensson jumped in. ‘You must be wrong about that iron man. That security chief himself was bribed. There is always an explanation.’

  Mrs Chimanlal looked at him.

  ‘It is not so easy as that, Mr Svensson. Do you think I was not exploring all such matters? Because it is true that the man – he is one Victor Masters, an Anglo-Indian – is the key to that place. He is a devil of efficiency, an ugly hunched fellow marching up and down in his Ajmani uniform, poking and prying, checking and checking again. A devil. I was even able to see such through my husband’s binocular. I tell you, you could not find enough money to bribe him if you stole all the jewellery at Pappubhai Chimanlal and Co.’

  For a moment the Swede looked as if he believed Mrs Chimanlal thought him capable of such a monster crime. Then he recovered.

  ‘But perhaps someone knew something to the disadvantage of this fellow,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he was blackmailed into relaxing his guard when he should not have done.’

  Damn it, Ghote thought, the Swede is right.

  ‘Yes, are you certain,’ he asked Mrs Chimanlal, ‘that no one could have somehow persuaded this Victor Masters to turn a Nelson’s eye at whatsoever time they were wishing to climb in?’

  Yeshwant-of-old stood in silence in front of the big swing that had in the end betrayed her.

  ‘Yes?’ Ghote said after a little.

  ‘You are right, Inspector,’ she said at last, a look of calculation in her dark brown eyes. ‘You know, one of the men in his team that I was paying a fat bribe to, although he could not tell me anything of how to get round those security arrangements, did say one thing that might have helped. What he told made me think there may be something not right about Mr Victor Masters.’

  ‘What it is?’ Ghote shot out, the thought of how he might put himself once more in Mr Kabir’s good books strong in his mind.

  His hot question was answered with a cool smile.

  ‘Well, Inspector, what will you give me if I am telling you that?’

  ‘Give you? Give you, madam?’

  ‘Yes, give me. Well, I will tell you what I am wanting to be given. When I was a girl I never dared ask before Diwali for any present that I was wanting and wanting to have. Good girls do not do that. But now, now I have learnt not always to be a girl of good family, I can say what it is I want without shame. So, Inspector, if I am telling you why I believe Victor Masters has a secret, will you be saying no more about your Section this and Section that and all your lurking house-breakings?’

  Ghote stood half-astonished at this effrontery. Was she really proposing to a police officer that the crimes she had committed would go no further than the four walls of this room? All right, she may have believed that, wife of a man of influence, her crime might eventually be treated with discretion. But now the situation was different. She was making an offer not to the Commissioner for leniency in exchange for influence, but an offer to himself of silence in exchange for information about— About what could very well lead to finding the killer of Anil Ajmani of Ajmani Air-Conditioning.

  It was wrong. Wrong.

  But – the thought came snake-sliding into his mind – if the information she was offering him led him to the arrest of the man who had stabbed Anil Ajmani to death …

  So he did not immediately reject the offer.

  And that was his mistake. One that Yeshwant-of-old was quick to pounce on.

  ‘I see, Inspector, you are liking my idea. So, we have a bargain? Yes? No?’

  Ghote drew in one long breath.

  The Ajmani murder, he thought, solved by myself.

  ‘Madam, yes.’

  FIFTEEN

  Abruptly Ghote felt as if he had set out walking along a high, high ridge no more than an inch or two wide, with on either side almost vertical slopes running down to far-off spikily piled rocks.

  What have I done? What have I said I will do?

  And there is a witness also.

  He took a quick glance at his Swedish friend. But there seemed to be no look of stern disapproval on his sun-reddened face.

  Am I really going to inform nobody, he asked himself then, that Mrs Pappubhai Chimanlal is the daring and discriminating Yeshwant? All right, if I were after all to inform someone, it would be Mr Kabir. And Mr Kabir would inform the Commissioner. And the Commissioner, almost to a certainty, would decide it is a matter where discretion should be exercised, especially when he knows that the criminal has returned all her loot.

  So perhaps I am justified – he felt a tiny stab of irony – in doing Commissioner sahib’s work for him.

  And then – the treacherously narrow ridge seemed to broaden out a little – what I have undertaken to do may result in Anil Ajmani’s murderer being brought to justice. And no one in the police will exercise any discretion for that man. Yes, even if I am in the end somehow not getting full kudos for tracking down the killer who first bribed or threatened Victor Masters, security in-charge at Shanti Niwas, to chain up for one hour only his five-six ugly dogs I will feel I was right to get my information from the woman who was Yeshwant.

  But what if she is tricking me? What if she has got nothing about Victor Masters to tell me? And, if she has, can I believe what it is she may tell? Or, what if she is thinking she has information worth hearing, and, when she is telling same, it crumbles to dust in my hands?

  ‘Madam,’ he made himself say, ‘what it is you were learning from this guard you had bribed? What is making you think there is something not right about Victor Masters?’

  Would her answer, when it came, be worth having?

  ‘Inspector,’ Mrs Chimanlal replied soberly, ‘please do not think I am giving you the answer to the Ajmani murder on a gold plate. If it had been easy to discover what is wrong about Victor Masters, I would have found it out and made use of it long before this. But I could not.’

  ‘Very well’, Ghote said. ‘But tell me what you are thinking you learnt from that guard.’

  ‘All right. It is this. I was asking the fellow what his boss was doing before he came to work for Ajmani Security, and all he could say, rack his brains though he might, was that Victor Masters may have been in the army, or have been in the railways or in the police even. And he was only guessing that because his boss had the habit of always stating the time by the twenty-four-hour clock. Then when I was asking where his boss was staying, it was Do not know, memsahib, I have seen him get on Churchgate train at Malad Station but where he was getting down I do not know. I was asking is he married? Do not know, memsahib. I was asking did he ever speak of his parents, his children? Never, memsahib. I was asking does he go with women? Well, I was myself being the woman of good
family when I was talking with him, so I was not putting it just like that. But the answer I was still getting was Do not know, memsahib. Oh, and then, of course, I was offering bigger, bigger bribes, and the poor fellow was willing to be bribed. But it was once more Do not know, memsahib.’

  ‘But you were not leaving it at that, Yeshwant?’ Ghote said.

  ‘For the time being I was. You see, what I would have had to do next was to follow Victor Masters every day when he was leaving Shanti Niwas at the end of his night duties until I could find where he was reaching home. And how could I do that? How could a Gujarati lady who still always goes anywhere in one of her husband’s cars follow that man? How even could a Gujarati lady of good family know how to find a detective to do that work for her?’

  ‘But if,’ Axel Svensson said puzzledly, breaking a long silence, ‘if you were not able to find out anything at all about this Victor fellow, you can have nothing to pass on to us.’

  ‘Ah,’ Ghote said, ‘but what you have to tell, madam, isn’t it, is just that nothing? It is meaning to one hundred per cent that there is something altogether mysterious about Mr Victor Masters.’

  ‘Quite right, Inspector. Victor Masters has some secret in his life. He must have. And it is that which Ajmani killer must have somehow got to learn. Would any decent man, with no secret to keep, tell so little about his life?’

  She turned to Axel Svensson.

  ‘In India, you know, Mr Svensson, everybody feels free to ask questions like You are married? How many children? What is your native place? They tell me that in the West, and especially in UK, it is considered very impolite to ask such questions. But here we like to show interest in people we meet. We ask, and they answer. No one will hide that they are married, or refuse to say how many children they have.’

  Now Ghote felt a lot happier. Yeshwant had had something worth knowing to offer as her side of the bargain. It was not easy to see straight away how he was going to find out more about Victor Masters than the bribed guard had got to know by asking all the questions anyone would feel they had a right to ask. But if there was a secret there, then one way or another he was going to find it out. Then, if it proved to be a secret that Masters would have given a lot to keep, he would have taken the first step. With luck, after that, the simple knowledge of what that secret was would point to whoever had used it to force Masters to suspend for a vital hour Anil Ajmani’s famous security arrangements.

  ‘Very well, Yeshwant, if I may be calling you as such for last time,’ he said, ‘I will tell no one what has been revealed under these four walls, provided of course I am going to learn that certain objects have been returned to their owners. Perhaps, when that is done, you may telephone, without giving a name, to Miss Pinky Dinkarrao. She is certain to put such a nice piece of news, when she has thoroughly checked same, into Pinky Thinking. I will wait to see it there.’

  ‘Well,’ Axel Svensson said as they stepped into the lane outside Lakshmi Mahal, ‘once more I am inclined to think a promotion must be coming your way, Inspector Ghote.’

  ‘A promotion? No, I am not thinking so.’

  ‘But— But you have found the first good clue to how the Amjani— How the Ajmani murder was committed. It is something not one of your colleagues has succeeded in doing. Yes, he has found the murder weapon, your Inspector Antick. But has that led any further on? No, I think this time—’

  Ghote felt he had to stop all this. Yes, he did think very occasionally of what it would be like if somehow promotion came. But it was only in the most secret places of his mind. There were thoughts, he felt, too unthinkable ever to be brought to light. Not even to his wife in their most cherished moments had he murmured Ganesh V. Ghote, Commissioner of the Bombay Police or Inspector-General Ganesh V. Ghote. No, not even the least whisper of such things should ever go beyond the privacy of his own head. There even they should be secret, less to be thought of than a dream.

  To deflect the blunderingly advancing Swede he seized the nearest weapon to hand.

  ‘Axel sahib, it is Adik,’ he almost shouted. ‘Adik, not Antick. He is Inspector Adik. Adik, Adik, Adik.’

  ‘Oh, my friend, I am sorry. Sorry. But your Indian names are so difficult for me.’

  For a few moments the Swede was silent. Ghote imagined him repeating Adik, Adik, Adik, Ajmani, Ajmani, Shivaji, Shivaji, Juhu, Juhu, Pappubhai Chimanlal … Chimanlal, Chimanlal.

  He hoped that, after this, there would be no more talk of promotions.

  ‘But, my friend, the fact is still there. Ghote is higher in the ratings now that Adik. Much higher.’

  Ghote pursed his lips.

  ‘Kindly think,’ he snapped out, ‘what has Inspector Ghote discovered that is so clever? Yes, he is knowing who is Yeshwant. But he has taken a vow not to tell anyone whatsoever who that is. And, yes, he has some small idea how it may be that the Shanti Niwas killer penetrated the ring of security Ajmani sahib was putting round himself. But what is Inspector Ghote able to do about that? He cannot go to Deputy Commissioner Kabir and tell about this line, because he would first have to say how he was learning what he has. And the name of Mrs Pappubhai Chimanlal is not one that may be pronounced before Mr Kabir or any other officer of the Mumbai Police.’

  ‘Yes,’ Axel Svensson said slowly, ‘I see all is not as simple as I had thought. So what are you going to do? Are you going to take this Masters fellow in for questioning? I know that your Indian police methods are not exactly what we in the West practise, beatings with lassis—’

  ‘Axel, lassi is a drink, made of curds. It is with lathis, our police weapons, that suspects are, I admit it, sometimes beaten. But how can I get that done, even if I was willing? First I would have to report to Mr Kabir that I had reason to suspect Victor Masters of knowing some good clue to the Anil Ajmani murder, and to do that I would have to tell him about Yeshwant. The thing I am altogether unable to do.’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, my friend, I see all that now. So what will you do?’

  ‘Whatever it is, I must do it soon. Victor Masters will not be employed out at Shanti Niwas for many more days, not now that the man all those precautions were made for is already dead.’

  ‘So what can be done?’

  Ghote shrugged.

  ‘First of all,’ he said, ‘I must at least check in police records and also ask army authorities if one Victor Masters was ever in their ranks. Luckily, both keep excellent records. Railway people perhaps not so good. So not much of hope there.’

  ‘Yes, yes. That is excellent, my friend. Something may come of that. In the short times I have been here I have once or twice cursed Indian bureaucracy. But now I must admit there are two sides to that question. But … but what if you find nothing? Or if this time bureaucracy is so bureaucratic it provides no immediate answer?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ghote said, ‘that I am taking into account. So, if I am getting nowhere in that way, I think I must try to penetrate the secret of Victor Masters while Mr Kabir is thinking I am still attempting and trying to find out who is Yeshwant. And to do that I will have to become like one of those private eyes you may see in the cinema hall.’

  ‘But that is good, my friend. That is very good.’

  Ghote saw the light of joy abruptly beaming from his Swedish friend’s great big face.

  Oh my God, he said to himself, the fellow is thinking he is going to be a Sam Marlowe also, if that is the name of that American fellow.

  He thought rapidly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘luckily I have had some experiences of what it is I would need to do. You see, the way now to find out this fellow Masters’ secret is to follow him whenever he is leaving Shanti Niwas. And in my days I have done plenty of shadowing work, even in disguise. The best thing, you know, is to put on a burqua.’

  ‘A burqua, what is— Oh, it isn’t, is it, one of those head-to-foot black garments Arab ladies wear?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is. Muslim women in India often wear them also. They make excellent disguises.’

/>   For a few paces as they walked along, looking out for the yellow top of a taxi, Axel Svensson was silent.

  At last he spoke.

  ‘Some Muslim women must be rather tall?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh, yes. Quite tall, though of course nothing like as tall as yourself, Axel sahib.’

  ‘No. No, I suppose not.’

  Very early the next day Ghote, dressed not in an enveloping burqua but in his oldest faded red shirt and plain trousers, was waiting outside Malad Station watching the buses bringing people in from the direction of Madh Island. Neither police records nor Army ones had produced any documentation for a man named Victor Masters. So he had set off from home while it was still dark, leaving Protima and Ved soundly sleeping and the kitchen, like almost every one in the crowded city, full of scuttling night-time cockroaches.

  He had few doubts that he would be able to recognize Victor Masters, if only by his Ajmani Security uniform coupled with the short stature and hunched shoulders Yeshwant had spoken of. If the security guard she had bribed had told her the facts, it was certainly Masters’ custom after his night on duty to take a train from Malad in the Churchgate direction.

  But where would he leave it? Trains out here at this early hour ran three-parts empty. But as they approached Churchgate Station in distant south Bombay they became more and more crowded. Thank goodness, Ghote thought, at this time of day they will not be as jam-packed as at the peak hour when passengers hang out from open doors and are crammed so closely inside that, as they say, no pickpocket has room to dip in his hand. So if I can get into a carriage here next to whichever one Masters enters, I can easily look for him among the few passengers who will get out at Goregaon or at Jogeshwari or Andheri or Vile-Parle or Santa Cruz. Even between Khar Road and Matunga Road not many will leave the train.

  But as it gets nearer Churchgate it will not be so easy to spot him. When we get to whatever station he may use nearer the heart of the city, Dadar or Elphinstone Road or Lower Parel or Mahalaxmi or Bombay Central, even as early in the day as this there will be a good many people getting down. If the fellow leaves at any of those, and if he is still wanting to hide himself from any of his colleagues who may be on the train also, he would probably find it easy enough to conceal himself among the passengers hurrying off.