Inspector Ghote's Good Crusade

by H. R. F. Keating

  The runaway’s brother looked at him solemnly.

  ‘The boy is bad,’ he pronounced. ‘He left us. We have to do the work. And we have so little money. Even this boat may be taken from us for the money we have borrowed. He should be locked up.’

  He tilted his chubby chin and looked away out to the far horizon. In the distance the faint blur of the smoke from the steamer Ghote had noticed before was still visible. The old man hauled in his line. A pomfret was jerking and wriggling on the end of it. He tugged it off the hook and flung it forward.

  ‘Or he should be well beaten,’ the young man added.

  Ghote found nothing more to say.

  For some while Tarzan’s brother sat where he was, evidently waiting for some further understanding comments on his lot from this heaven-sent professional sympathizer. Ghote let him wait.

  Eventually the youngster seemed to realize that the source had dried up. He gave Ghote a sudden glare and made his way, swaying slightly to the narrow boat’s motion, to throw out a second line beside his father’s in the stern.

  He put his head close to the old man’s and indulged in a long muttered tirade.

  The old man turned and looked at Ghote along the length of the frail boat. He seemed to be weighing him up.

  Ghote looked down at the sea slipping past the sides of the craft. A big patch of yellow, sun-bleached seaweed slid up, swept by a yard or two away and slowly disappeared.

  The choppy waves began to grow higher and the boat dipped and rose with an unpleasant, regular motion.

  The boy put his head near the old man’s again and added something to what he had been saying before. It was obviously a forceful plea. The old man shrugged his shoulders and seemed unable to make up his mind. He brought in another flopping, fat pomfret.

  The boy added one more sentence. And then brought his clenched first sharply upwards in an unmistakable punching gesture.

  Ghote was unable to prevent himself looking hastily all round. They were far out to sea now. The low coast was barely visible behind them. Beyond it the distant, jagged outline of the Western Ghats could be seen dark grey against the blue of the sky. Ahead and to each side the sea stretched blankly and ominously out, flecked here and there now by a white cap of a wave. Only on the far distant horizon was there a sign of human life, the last tiny smudge of smoke from the rapidly disappearing steamship.

  Ghote looked along the length of the skiff at the two fishermen squatting together in the stern. The boy was fattish, but hefty. His father, though lean, was wiry and had a decidedly ugly look to him. If it came to a struggle, the odds would be very much on their side. And even if he won, he would still be left with two prisoners to keep subdued, miles out to sea in a boat he had no notion how to sail. He felt sick.

  The son had caught a fish now. As soon as he had dealt with it and baited his line again he once more urged some action. The old man took another searching look at Ghote. The inspector felt very sick. The sweat rose up on his brow in spite of the salt spray which was coming more heavily off the bobbing waves with every moment that passed.

  Suddenly Ghote realized that he felt sick for a very good reason. The little boat was bouncing on the waves with altogether too much speed. Much though he wanted to outstare the two fishermen in the stern he had to let himself look downwards into the sea for a moment’s respite.

  A bladdery, iridescent Portuguese man-of-war sailed by right under his nose, its evil purple filaments trailing out behind. Ghote closed his eyes. But the image remained. He was sick.

  He forced himself up and glared down the boat at the two others.

  Only to see in the eye of the impassive old man a glint which was purely and unmistakably sardonic. He nudged the boy and said something terse. The boy looked down the skiff at Ghote. He burst out laughing. The old man said something more. Suddenly he leant his whole weight against the long steering oar. The little craft veered swoopingly. Ghote felt burning hot all over. The boy roared with laughter. His father swung the boat back to its former course.

  But only for a moment. For what seemed after this an eternity to Ghote he swung the tiny vessel to and fro so that it dipped and plunged like a wild thing. Soon Ghote had to lean over the side again and be even more sick. By the end of it he hardly knew or cared where or what he was. And all the while the old man went on impassively fishing, cynically, it seemed, tossing the gaping mouthed catch up the boat towards Ghote.

  He stared dully at their great, staring cold and horrid eyes. In the rigging of the slim mast the freshening wind whined and sang.

  Suddenly the boy grabbed his father’s arm and pointed away to his left. The old man stopped swinging the boat. He stared in the direction the boy had pointed, shading his eyes with a lean hand. The easing of the tossing motion revived Ghote a little. He looked at the two of them in the stern with the dispassionateness of an extremely distant observer.

  And then at the very back of his mind a tiny signal started up. This was what he was here for. Not simply to fight against the overwhelming sickness and misery that had invaded every part of him. But to pursue a police investigation.

  With an effort that brought the sweat back to his forehead in huge drops he forced himself round to follow the line of the old man’s concentrated gaze.

  At first he could see only the hateful dark sea with its ominous lacing of white crests. Then suddenly for a second’s glimpse he made out something else. A tiny orange speck.

  He let himself slump back on to the bottom of the boat again.

  Under his veil of misery he forced himself to think. There could be no doubt that the orange speck he had seen was what the two of them in the stern had been looking at. What would it be? The orange was the colour of rescue dinghies he had seen being used as swimming rafts up at Juhu Beach sometimes. The colour was one that could be seen from the maximum distance.

  And then he had it. The steamer he had noticed before. Someone on board had dropped the gold to be smuggled off it attached to a float in that bright orange. It was the task of the old man and his son to pick it up.

  No wonder the Customs people had not had much success rummaging ships when they had rounded Colaba Point to the south and come up into Bombay Harbour.

  Abruptly the little boat began to swing and swerve again. Ghote looked up. In the stern the two fishermen were looking at him intently. And he could not look back. He let his head sway forward and was terribly sick once more.

  It was about this time, he later worked out, that they had picked up the orange float. He had had a glimpse of it, in fact. Or had he imagined it? An oddly-shaped balloon of tough orange cloth, like a huge drop of liquid the wrong way up. He certainly had not simply imagined the length of thin cord and the quite small package tied to it. They had dropped the incriminating orange bag over the side and the sea had sucked it down, but the fine line they had kept. It would be useful for catching fish. And might have come from anywhere.

  What had happened to the package? He had not seen it being undone. Tacking their way shorewards again with the bobbing little craft dipping and swinging if anything even more wildly than before, he had done his utmost to watch this part of the process. But the odds were against him. He had to fight the drain on his strength. He had to see, if he was to see, without letting them realize that he had. It would still be quite easy for them to attack him in this state of weakness.

  So he had missed getting even a glimpse of the little bars of gold. He just had to assume their existence.

  As they neared the shore the wind backed and they got a good run in. In the little boat’s stern they seemed to have decided that Ghote was no longer a danger. They let him lie in the prow, looking backwards to the wide sky and the dark sea. They made no further attempt to swing and sway the boat.

  He began trying to work out how to catch the two of them red-handed. It was obvious that on his own like this he was not going to be able to impound the whole vessel when they touched the beach. He would have to rely simply on ke
eping his eyes wide open. But he reckoned that he had the advantage of surprise on his side. The fisherman and his son thought they had been too clever for him. Well, they would see.

  He sat trying to regain his strength.

  Above him the narrow white triangular sail was stretched taut to the wind. The boy got up and untwisted a rope. The sail quivered and a series of horizontal ruckles slid down it. Then, quite quickly, it collapsed into the boat. The momentum carried them smoothly forward. It was a neat piece of seamanship. The skiff came up to the low slope of the beach with its speed dying gently away and touched bottom as softly as a falling leaf reaches the ground.

  The boy jumped out. He caught hold of the worn wood of the bow beside Ghote and ran sharply forward. Underneath them the sand grated harshly. Then the skiff stuck fast. From the family hut the Paramour came waddling hastily to meet them, laughing contentedly to herself. On her head she carried a big, flat basket wider at the bottom than the top.

  ‘Did you like your trip to sea?’ she greeted Ghote as he scrambled out on to the warm, blessedly firm sand. ‘I am glad to see you back safely.’

  She dropped the basket on the sand and laughed with her head thrown back.

  Ghote looked at her angrily.

  ‘Oh, there are many whirlpools out there, and dangers,’ she said.

  Her stepson picked up the basket and held it in his outstretched arms just at the edge of the boat. His father caught hold of a couple of the fish lying in the bottom of the boat and lobbed them neatly by their tails one after the other into the basket. Ghote watched, his eyes darting from the man stooping down to pick up the fish to the boy standing holding the broad basket. One by one the fish swung gleaming through the air and landed with a smack on the others already in the basket. Not one seemed any different from the next.

  At last the old man straightened up. The boy put the basket on his head and set off across the sand with its litter of broken white shells, ribbons of seaweed and little humps of wormcasts. He was heading for the curing yard at the far end of the cluster of shacks that made up the village.

  Ghote watched him go.

  THIRTEEN

  When Tarzan’s unsympathetic brother had carried his flat basket of plump fish past the palisade of the curing yard and out of sight, Inspector Ghote swung round to the old man sitting impassively on the edge of his beached boat, beginning to gather up the stiff folds of the sail into neat coils.

  Ghote let him finish the task. Then he moved in confidently.

  ‘I would like to see the three fish still at the bottom of the boat,’ he said with quiet triumph.

  For a moment the old man crouched in front of the fish braced for combat. But Ghote knew he could not lose now.

  ‘They are my fish,’ the old man said.

  ‘I want to see them,’ Ghote replied implacably.

  ‘They are for us to eat only.’

  ‘You can eat them after I have seen them.’

  ‘Who are you that you should see my fish?’

  The stony-faced old man began looking up towards the huts as if he might summon his neighbours to help defend his private property. Ghote darted forward, dipped agilely into the boat and seized one of the fish.

  He squeezed it hard.

  And felt nothing.

  He pushed the old man back and grabbed the other two fish. He thrust his fingers down their gullets.

  Nothing.

  He stepped back. The old man took a short knife from his loincloth and in a single jerk ripped open the first fish from mouth to tail.

  Mockingly he presented the two pieces for Ghote’s inspection.

  Ghote hung his head. Cheated, and so easily. He looked over at the curing yard. Villagers were coming and going from it in a regular procession. Some carried bundles of dried fish on their heads. Others swung baskets by their sides. Tarzan’s brother strolled back to the family hut, empty-handed.

  He could always arrest them still. He could swear to having seen them behaving suspiciously at sea. But with no actual gold to prove his claims he would have a hard time getting a conviction, let alone being able to touch Amrit Singh. With such a doubtful case against them, the old man and his son would never even consider turning approvers and giving evidence against the big Sikh.

  He had failed. He would be unable to get the Sikh on a smuggling charge. His orders to arrest him for murder and work up the evidence afterwards stood.

  No, he thought obstinately, he would at least see Krishna Chatterjee once again. He would try his squeezing process at least once. He would give himself twenty-four hours more. Not a minute above that. And then he would go the whole hog, pull in Amrit Singh, bring every pressure to bear on the boys to say the right things in court. Be a complete D.S.P. Naik man.

  Ghote decided to play it tough.

  He had Krishna Chatterjee brought down to headquarters. After all, the social worker was no Amrit Singh. He would hardly stand up to rough treatment. The threat of it, or even the hint of it, might still change everything.

  Before his victim was due to arrive he set about making a few preparations. He pulled his squat, little spare chair out from its place against the wall and set it very carefully in front of his desk. He went round to the other side and sat down. He leant forward to judge the distance between himself and anybody sitting on the little chair.

  He came to the conclusion that the gap was a bit too wide and went round the desk to make a final adjustment.

  There was no harm in a policeman having finer feelings, he told himself, but that did not mean he had to be soft. Far from it. Real softness was as much going too far with witnesses as not going far enough. The right thing, the truly tough thing, was to judge the amount to a nicety. This was the real world where people acted. They did things. It was necessary to do things back to them to set the balance right again. But the whole art was to do just what was necessary and no more.

  He turned the heavy, squat chair a few degrees round so that it would be a strain on anyone sitting on it to look directly at the occupant of the desk.

  After all, if Krishna Chatterjee had indeed been driven by some inner urge to poison Frank Masters, then he had laid himself open to whatever sort of treatment he might get. He had put himself in the wrong. And if that meant being pretty tough to himself, it was the kindest thing in the end.

  A scutter of movement caught the inspector’s eye.

  He turned round. The little lizard had once again got itself caught in the glass-fronted bookcase. Ghote shrugged. Some creatures would never learn. He went round to his own side of the desk again, sat down, opened the bottom drawer and took out a wad of clean paper. He looked at the pencils in the enamelled brass tray in front of him. Some of them seemed a bit blunt. He took a little bright purple plastic pencil sharpener from the deepest corner of the bottom drawer, where he kept it to stop it being pinched, and set to work.

  A few minutes later he heard the tread of heavy boots on the corridor floor outside. A sharp but respectful knock sounded on the door.

  ‘In,’ he called.

  It was Krishna Chatterjee, escorted by two constables.

  ‘Wait outside,’ Ghote said to them briskly. ‘You may be needed.’

  The two big men with their shining brass buttons and heavy highly polished boots saluted smartly.

  Ghote watched them go and then turned back to his pencil sharpening. Krishna Chatterjee, round-faced, round-shouldered, stayed where he was by the door watching him. In the bookcase down in the corner the little lizard flung itself wildly at the unyielding glass.

  At last Ghote glanced up.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  Krishna Chatterjee came forward and sat on the heavy chair, having tried unsuccessfully to shift it slightly first.

  ‘Good after –’ he began.

  Seeing that Ghote was busy down behind his desk restoring the plastic pencil sharpener to its hiding place, he stopped. Ghote took a long time tucking the little purple object safely away.
It would do the talkative Bengali the world of good to have to sit for a little with no one to speak to.

  At last the inspector swung suddenly up.

  ‘Well,’ he barked, ‘have you thought better of this ridiculous nonsense?’

  Mr Chatterjee leant forward, twisting round uncomfortably.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘I very much regret, but I have nothing more to tell you. I admit that for reasons I thought good I entered the dispensary on the evening Frank Masters died. I admit I obtained the key from Mr Carstairs by using what amounted to threats. But I must insist on keeping the reasons for that visit strictly confidential.’

  ‘You must insist?’ Ghote said, leaning back so that Mr Chatterjee had to twist forward even more to keep his face in view, ‘you must insist, and what right have you to insist on anything at all?’

  Mr Chatterjee looked very pained. His big, almond-shaped brown eyes went liquid with hurt.

  ‘Inspector, I had hoped you would respect my decision. I assure you it is one that is totally inevitable. Totally.’

  ‘Nothing is inevitable when it gets in the way of a police inquiry,’ Ghote said. ‘We have ways of removing inevitabilities, Mr Chatterjee.’

  He glanced over the little Bengali’s head at the door of the office where he had ordered the two enormous constables to wait.

  Mr Chatterjee wriggled round in the heavy little chair to follow the direction of his glance. The big, brown eyes widened in fear.

  ‘Yes,’ Ghote said, ‘we have ways. So I suggest you think again, Mr Chatterjee. Do some very hard thinking. And very quick thinking.’

  He swung himself suddenly forward across the narrow, lined and ink-blotched desk, bringing the legs of his tilted chair down on to the floor with a jarring bang.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘when you took the poison from the jar what did you keep it in on your way up to the house?’

  Opposite him, not eighteen inches away, the round face of the little social worker went suddenly flabby.

  He stammered for an answer but could find nothing to say.