‘That’s better.’
Dr Diana turned and began pacing sternly up and down the big lawn. Ghote walked beside her, adjusting his steps as well as he could to her formidable stride. But beyond that he would not let her get away with anything.
‘You told you had something to help,’ he said firmly.
Dr Diana looked at him.
‘It’s just this,’ she said. ‘It so happens the dispensary was being watched last evening. On my instructions.’
Her announcement, which was made with no little impressiveness, fell singularly flat.
Because, just as she produced it, the inspector became aware that at that very moment a watch was being kept on him.
All along the top of the wall which hid the house’s dustbins discreetly from the garden he perceived a row of heads. Two of them he recognized at once. At one end was the boy who called himself Edward G. Robinson. At the other end was the young acrobat, Tarzan. Between were four other gang members.
And it was plain that every word of Dr Diana’s clear English tones must have fallen sweetly and easily on those six pairs of pricked up ears even from down by the wistaria-laden trellis.
Inspector Ghote took hold of himself. One deep breath, two, three. Then he put a question without the least tremor of the mortified anger that had at first seized him.
‘The dispensary was being watched on your instructions?’
He looked intently at the doctor.
‘Why was that? Did you expect such a theft?’
Dr Diana laughed. The short bark of a well-trained English sporting dog.
‘No, I didn’t actually expect the theft of poison from my stocks. If I had, I can assure you I’d have done something about it, pretty quickly. But as a matter of fact the dispensary was only being watched as a sideline, so to speak.’
‘Please explain,’ Ghote said.
He tried by keeping his voice low to influence Dr Diana to drop her own tones to a point where every syllable at least would not come clearly to the listening boys.
But his quietness seemed only to make her louder.
‘It’s really perfectly simple,’ she enunciated. ‘It so happens I keep my car down in a little shed right at the bottom of the compound. You get into it from a lane at the back. Well, a couple of times recently someone, or some people have bloody well desecrated it.’
Her shocked tones rang through the big garden. From the quick flurry of movement up by the dustbin wall, Ghote deduced quickly enough that the ‘desecration’ had been the work of the listening gang, and that they were delighted with the reaction it had got.
‘I see,’ he said, in a properly impressed manner.
‘Yes,’ said Dr Diana, ‘and I had a pretty good idea who was responsible. So, you know what I did?’
Ghote realized what she would have done: have told off a couple of the gang to watch the car themselves to stop them interfering with it.
‘What did you do?’ he asked.
Dr Diana drew in a good breath.
‘I told off a couple of members of that particular gang to watch the car,’ she said. ‘Stop them interfering with it themselves.’
She glanced at Ghote with an air of triumph.
‘A most ingenious manoeuvre,’ he said. ‘And who were these boys?’
Dr Diana’s face hardened.
‘The couple I mentioned last night,’ she said. ‘The ones they call Edward G. Robinson and Tarzan. The worst of the lot. I’ve some hopes for Tarzan sometimes, but I utterly despair of the other.’
Ghote was interested in this division.
‘Why have you hopes for Tarzan?’ he said.
They were getting nearer the dustbin wall. But perhaps it would do the boy good to hear something bright about himself.
‘Oh well, we happen to have been able to trace his family,’ Dr Diana proclaimed. ‘Fisher folk, actually. They come from a little village up near Bassein. There’s the usual history of a broken home. The father’s taken up with another woman. But when we have a few facts to go on we can generally do something.’
‘That is altogether encouraging to hear,’ Ghote remarked. ‘And did your device stop this desecration?’
‘No, it didn’t as a matter of fact,’ the doctor said shortly. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is that anyone watching the garage shed would have been bound to see whoever tried to get into the dispensary. Look for yourself.’
She wheeled round and pointed down the long garden.
Ghote saw that she was right. The garage was tucked away in a corner of the compound and like the big dispensary was cut off by the wistaria trellis. To watch the garage it would be necessary to use this as cover and from that position anyone trying to approach the dispensary door, however stealthily, was bound to be seen.
‘Yes, you are perfectly correct,’ he said, turning to the doctor.
She took him by the elbow and propelled him swiftly and unexpectedly round.
‘Then there’s your answer,’ she said.
She was staring straight at the row of heads along the wall over the dustbins.
FIVE
The boys of the gang, confronted so suddenly with the combined glares of Inspector Ghote and Dr Diana, grinned fiercely back like so many monkeys.
Ghote turned to the doctor.
‘I can find you in the house if I want?’ he asked.
Evidently contented with the businesslike note in his voice, Dr Diana merely nodded briskly and set off indoors.
The inspector strode swiftly across to the boys.
Slightly to his surprise they made no attempt to scuttle away. When he rounded the wall he saw that they were standing in a row on tip-toe on the line of dustbins, which he had so painstakingly sorted through in the early hours of this same day. The boy in the black jacket, with the privilege of a leader, stood astride the open-topped oildrum, one bare foot on either rim.
‘Come down off there at once,’ Ghote snapped.
Nonchalantly the boys jumped one by one and squatted happily on the grimy concrete of the little backyard. Only the one called Tarzan disobeyed. With one flick of his wiry wrists he simultaneously hoisted himself up and swung himself round until in a flash he was sitting perched on the top of the protective wall looking down at the inspector.
Ghote decided to leave well alone.
He placed himself squarely in front of the black-jacketed, wrinkled-faced, squat form of the leader. He noticed with pleasure that, although the boy had risen to his feet, he had succeeded in almost transfixing him to the wall. Perhaps for once the conversation would not end in some atrocious impertinence followed by flight.
He gave him a long hard look.
‘Before it was just talking,’ he said, ‘but now you have come right into the case. So it is answer up, and speak the truth.’
A wry grin worked its way through the boy’s wrinkles.
‘Oh, sahib,’ he said, ‘have you ever know when I not speak truth?’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Ghote. ‘Now then, name?’
‘Edward G., you can call me.’
‘Edward G. I cannot call. What is your name?’
‘Okay, okay. You want my full name?’
‘I certainly do.’
The boy looked up at him. His eyes were wide.
‘Edward G. Robinson.’
It was all Ghote could do to stop his hand flashing out and landing smack on the crinkled cheek in front of him. Perhaps it was the very crinkles that saved the boy.
‘You are speaking to police officer,’ Ghote said, banging out each word. ‘A police officer in the execution of his duty. You have been required to give your name. Your proper name. Are you going to obey?’
The boy’s eyes stayed serenely wide.
‘No,’ he said.
Ghote gritted his teeth.
‘Do you realize you are committing offence?’ he shouted.
‘So what?’
The words allowed the boy to give full play to his proudly acquire
d American. He took the opportunity for all it was worth.
‘So you will find yourself in gaol,’ Ghote shouted.
‘For just not giving a name you like?’
The eyes in the crinkled face widened again.
‘For obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty.’
The boy abruptly held out his arms towards Ghote. His two thin wrists protruded far beyond the sleeves of the tattered black plastic jacket.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘put on the bracelets.’
Ghote looked down at the pair of hands under his nose with baffled fury. It would be utterly ridiculous to lug a boy like this along to the station in handcuffs and solemnly charge him with an offence. But he was not going to let his authority be flouted. He was dealing with an important case, perhaps the most important case that would ever come his way. And this pip-squeak of a gutter urchin was holding him up.
He felt a wave of red rage come spurting up ready to burst in a deluge of frenzied action.
And suddenly in the middle of it the picture in front of his eyes registered. The two thin wrists held close together, looking as frail as the legs of a bird. Two stalks of grass almost that you could snap between your fingers.
This was only a boy.
What had he been himself at such an age? Nothing like as serious as he was now. The seriousness had come only when he had had to transform his desire to be a policeman into the slow slog of learning the job and taking its constant damping frustrations. He had been long enough sobering down, too. There had been the years at college when in the early days at least it had been touch and go whether he got through the course. And in his school-days the teachers he had cheeked, the hours he had played truant.
He remembered himself running one day at the tail end of some political procession. He had had little idea of what it was all about. It had been enough that it was a chance to make all the noise he could. To run with his shirt tails flying and his bare feet shooting up the dust behind him, to wave a ragged piece of flag and to shout the worst insults he could think of at anyone who looked staid enough.
‘Yah, ravisher of your own sister. Yah, imperialist dog.’
In a flash he pointed his finger straight out at the black-jacketed boy in front of him.
‘Stick ’em up, wise guy,’ he said.
And it worked.
A slow grin spread itself on the boy’s wrinkled old man’s face.
‘So you wanna play it tough?’ he answered.
‘You tell me what I wanna know,’ Ghote said, ‘or I’ll fill you so full o’ lead you’ll never know what hit you.’
All the lore of boyhood afternoons spent in the cinema came flooding back to him. Those long, hot, thirsty mornings of marching through the streets carrying an advertisement placard to earn a free ticket for later on were paying unexpected dividends.
‘Now, talk, buddy,’ he said, ‘and talk fast. Were you watching that dame’s car last night?’
‘Sure was,’ said the boy. ‘Me and Tarzan.’
He looked over at his almost naked friend perched on top of the wall.
‘Okay,’ Ghote said. ‘And whaddya see?’
But this time the boy did not answer. A wary look flicked back into his eyes.
‘What did you see?’ Ghote said. ‘Come on, this is important. I want to know just what you saw down there.’
‘I tell you what I saw,’ Edward G. answered suddenly.
‘All right.’
‘Saw a parrakeet,’ the boy said. ‘Parrakeet with green feathers.’
Ghote’s fist tightened.
And then he realized his mistake.
‘Okay, kid,’ he said. ‘So you saw a boid. But what else did ya see? See any guy hanging around the dispensary?’
For a moment Edward G. calculated. Ghote could see it happening. Then the boy spoke.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I saw some guy.’
‘You did?’
‘Sure thing.’
‘You knew this guy?’
‘Sure I knew him.’
‘He know you were watching?’
Ghote risked taking his eyes off Edward G. long enough for a quick look at Tarzan on the wall. He just noticed the boy glancing down at the ground on the far side. There was nothing he could do to stop him if he made a bolt for it, unless he wanted to lose Edward G. as well.
He decided to stick to what he had got and shifted a quarter of a pace to the side to be in the best possible position for a quick grab. Edward G. did not seem to take much account of the manoeuvre.
‘Nah,’ he said, ‘when I keep watch on a fella he don’t know there’s nothing there.’
‘Smart guy,’ Ghote said. ‘You gonna say what this fella did?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Fill you full o’ lead if you don’t.’
He bunched his fist into a gun shape again and crouched over it menacingly.
‘Okay, okay. I talk.’
‘Go ahead, buddy, and make it good.’
‘This guy he visit dispensary,’ Edward G. said.
‘Sounds a kinda clever guy get in there without a key.’
‘This is a double clever kinda guy. He got a key.’
‘Mister,’ said Ghote, ‘you kinda making things up. Only one key to that hut.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Edward G. with a professional shrug. ‘And this guy got that key off the guy that keeps it.’
‘Off Sonny Carstairs?’
‘Off that two-timer. Just like we got the other key off him.’
‘The one you threw under a tram?’ Ghote asked.
The boy’s eyes went bright with delight.
‘Guess he told you,’ he said. ‘He ain’t gonna forget that in a hurry.’
Ghote’s mind was cramming in the facts and assimilating them like a high-powered vacuum-cleaner.
‘Okay, buddy,’he said, ‘so who was this guy you saw go in the hut?’
But however American the question sounded, and Ghote fondly believed it might have been concocted in Hollywood itself, it was one too much for Edward G.
Ghote saw the sparkle die out of the boy’s eyes. The lips in the thickly wrinkled face closed hard. He shook his head.
‘No dice?’ Ghote said.
‘No dice, mister.’
Ghote began making his fist gun again, but the boy shook his head before the forefinger had had time to point.
Ghote thought rapidly.
He had to know who had managed to get hold of that key at just the critical time. But obviously the limit of cajolery had been reached. And now a tough line was not going to help. The boy would deny everything. He could always be taken down to the station and handed over to a certain sergeant. But, although he would probably talk fast enough then, there was no knowing how much truth he would tell.
There must be some other way.
A bribe? Ghote’s hand went to his pocket. He could not be sure. The boy would take the money all right. But would he –?
Then he relaxed.
‘Say,’ he said, still in his best American, ‘you wanna come for a ride in the police wagon?’
There were two seconds while the success of his stratagem was in doubt. Ghote looked into the eyes in the crinkled face and tried to read what was going on there. A tiny upward flicker, as if seeking escape, indicated fear. But then there came a sparkle. Pure joy.
‘Sure,’ said Edward G., ‘I could take a ride.’
He jerked a nod in the direction of Tarzan, still perched on the wall. Just.
‘Can he come too?’
‘All of you. So long as you spill the beans, and fast.’
There came a movement from the top of the wall. Ghote risked another glance. But Tarzan still lingered. The bait was powerful.
‘Okay,’ Edward G. said lazily. ‘I’ll tell, mister. You know who I saw? I saw a big-time guy called Amrit Singh.’
Ghote’s heart thundered in triumph. He had done it. He had got witnesses who had actually seen the big Sikh thug
enter the place where the poison had been kept. And he had done it without in any way suggesting that this was what he wanted to hear.
Well, he thought, there are after all other ways of doing a policeman’s job than twisting arms and landing out with kicks.
He looked down at Edward G. again.
‘You ever work for Amrit Singh?’ he asked with great casualness.
With too much casualness. He entirely forgot the Hollywood note and at once the gang in front of him froze into blankness.
He stood looking at the row of distant, incurious eyes and cursed himself. He had done it again. He had stopped to luxuriate in thoughts of his own cleverness, and he had lost touch at once.
He thought hard. And an idea came to him about what the boys’ link with Amrit Singh might quite possibly be.
‘Listen, fellas,’ he said, back in his broadest American, ‘so you helped that guy out with something. A bit of smuggling maybe?’
He caught an instant of calculation in the wary eyes in front of him and hurried on.
‘So what? Who cares? Smuggling’s something the Customs guys can take care of. Smuggling never meant a thing to me.’
Edward G. grinned.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you win, I guess. That guy Amrit’s working a big racket in gold. Could be we help him out sometimes.’
‘Like last night?’ Ghote said.
He held his breath.
‘That’s what he was here for,’ Edward G. said. ‘Heard some of his gold had been pick up. By Frank Masters. Came to look. Pronto.’
Ghote felt himself getting nearer and nearer the heart of the matter with every word he heard. Frank Masters. Here was the beginning of finding out how the good American was linked with the Bombay bad man.
‘Amrit Singh was looking for gold?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Sure. The big boss locked the gold he found in the dispensary hut. Best place to lock anything. Is one place we can’t get in. We tried, but we can’t.’
Inwardly Ghote recorded with pleasure the advanced state his relatiops with the gang had reached. When Edward G. could happily admit to attempted theft in this way, things had certainly improved.
‘So Amrit Singh was coming to get the gold back?’ he asked.
‘Guess so.’
‘How did he hear it was there?’ Ghote asked. ‘From one of you? Who passed on a message? Was it you?’
Inspector Ghote's Good Crusade Page 6
