‘Tell me.’
‘The other day in his car he was running down some student, a girl. Hospital matter. I think I was mentioning before. Well, it should all have been okay. Five hundred, a thousand chips to the parents, and no more heard of matter. But the father is being difficult. He is a schoolmaster, not altogether one of the poors, and he has some bee in bonnet that if his daughter is knocked down driver should be prosecuted.’
‘Quite right. There are too many such hooligans and hoodlums driving cars.’
‘Even if the hooligan is your grandson?’
He drew himself up.
‘Yes. Justice must be done. Whether it is Vikram or some other young man with more of money than sense. He has done wrong: he should take his medicine.’
‘And you, Pitaji. What if you have done wrong?’
‘What— What is this?’
‘I have been talking with Vikki. He was telling me he was flying you to Bombay one night.’
So it is known . . . But, no, all may not be lost yet.
‘Well, what of that? I had some business there. Confidential. With Jagmohan Nagpal.’
‘With Jagmohanji, when he was seeing you itself here two-three days later? No, Pitaji, I am able to put two and two together, even if that know-nothing Vikki was not. He flew you to Bombay in secret the night Mrs Shoba Popatkar was murdered.’
He felt suddenly hollow. As if whatever was inside his body – stomach, lungs, everything – had in an instant been replaced with air. Anything could blow him away, a scrap of dirty paper caught up in the wind before the monsoons.
Krishnakanta knows. He knows something. And, if Krishnakanta, who else?
‘What— What it is you are saying?’
‘Altogether simple, Pitaji. Vikki is knowing now, when I have explained, why you must have needed to get to that woman Shoba Popatkar before she was opening her mouth. Hundred per cent truth-teller. It is all over Delhi she succeeded to read KK’s Recollections. Something there you would not at all like to become public, yes?’
He knows almost all. What will he do? Will he . . . No, he cannot.
‘But, of course, Pitaji, if any police inquiries are made Vikki would not let you down. How could he? You are his grandfather.’
Then what . . . What does Krishnakanta want? He is wanting something. It is there in every inch of his face.
‘And Vikki is your grandson also. He is hoping— He is knowing-knowing you would not let him down.’
‘What must I do?’
No point in pretending. Vikki is holding a gun to my head. Whatever Krishnakanta – my own son, my own son – wants to be done for Vikki, I will have to do it.
‘Not too much of difficulty. You see, we are needing to show Vikki is too young to be prosecuted in a full court. Sixteen years of age only. Then it is a juvenile offence matter. No possibility to go to jail. Fine only. No problem to pay.’
‘But— But— The boy is eighteen, nineteen even.’
‘Yes, Pitaji, we are all knowing that. But what we must have is signed and sealed statement he is sixteen itself.’
‘But I cannot— Will anyone believe it?’
‘Oh yes, when it is coming from someone as much respected as H. K. Verma. It has been done before, you know. People are willing to turn one blind eye without daring to investigate further when an influential man is making statement. And I have made somewhat more sure. I have told the Gandiva you will shortly be taken into Government.’
‘But— But—’
‘Oh yes, Pitaji, I am knowing damn well it is not so. Half Delhi knows also. But for some days Banarasis will believe you are truly a man of influence. Soon to be a Minister. That is all we are needing. Write that statement. We will produce it. All will be okay.’
H. K. Verma sighed, deep as the Serpent Well itself.
14
So, Ghote thought, Rick was right to this extent at least. H. K. Verma has a grandson, by the name of Vikram, known as Vikki, aged eighteen-nineteen. And this Vikki is a flying club member. He could have flown H. K. Verma to Bombay and assisted him even to kill Mrs Popatkar. After all, the boy has been in troubles many times already. Court case just coming also. Some girl badly injured by his car.
All kudos to Mishra for knowing so much about holy Banares and its foremost citizens.
His autorickshaw came to a halt.
‘You are here, sahib.’
Yes, there on the gate-post was a painted board Mr K. P Verma – K. P. Verma (Private) Ltd.
He paid the man, took a long look at the house.
Mr K. P. Verma, very well-off. Big place. Surrounding wall freshly whitewashed. Garden inside altogether well looked after. Two-car garage at the side, doors open, one car gone, one car left. Open top, heavy dent in wing.
So Mr K. P. Verma at office at this time of morning, and the owner of the imported sports car at home. Young Vikki Verma, accessory to murder perhaps.
Go altogether carefully.
He pushed open the close-railed iron gate, went up to the wide door of the house, rang at the bell beside it.
A servant.
‘I am wishing to see Mr Vikram Verma.’
‘Sahib, too soon.’
‘Too soon? Too soon? What is this?’
‘Chota sahib still sleeping, sahib.’
‘Sleeping? At this hour? Wake him now only. It is police. Inspector Ghote, Bombay CID.’
The servant scuttled away.
Ghote sat himself on an ornate bench in the hallway. He looked around.
Wide wooden staircase, shining with polish. On the walls brightly decorated tribal masks. Well-watered palms growing lushly in big brass pots. Glittering chandelier, red and white glass. Directly behind, when he twisted round to look, a very large framed photo. Of some posh-looking new factory.
Time passed.
Was the boy never coming? Or . . . Or has he gone by some back way?
Well, all right. If he is truly absconding, it will make plain his guilt. Then I can call for the full help of the Senior Superintendent. Even Central Bureau of Investigation can be brought in from Delhi itself. The fellow will be found quickly enough.
The sound of steps from above.
Coming down the stairs a young man wearing blue jeans, very clean-looking, a shirt bright with red stripes gold-edged, heavy gold chain at its open neck. Air of idleness, betrayed as forced by the rigid way he holds his head. Beside him a dog, a German Shepherd, restrained by a hand loosely gripping its collar, looking at this intruder with no air of idleness whatsoever.
‘You must be the chap.’
Obliged to look up to the boy on the stairs, he gave him a hard-faced glare.
‘If you are meaning I am Inspector Ghote from Crime Branch in Bombay, then yes, I am. And you are Mr Vikram Verma?’
‘Yes. Well, yes.’
Already a little subdued. Fine.
‘So, what can I do for you, Inspector?’ Then a little perking up. ‘I haven’t much time. Must be on my way.’
‘First of all, you can come down so that I can see.’
‘Oh. Oh, very well. Though perhaps I should warn you, though, Demon here is not always friendly.’
Clattering descent of the last few stairs. Demon padding after. Defiant stand at their foot by man and dog. Murderer and attacker?
‘Well, what now?’
‘Some questions only.’
‘And— And if I won’t answer?’
Aha, you have given yourself away now, young man. You have been half-expecting a Bombay police officer to come. You did go there then.
But what did you do? You and your grandfather?
‘If you do not reply, I can arrest under Section 179 of Indian Penal Code, refusing to answer a public servant authorized to question.’
Momentary battle of wills.
Demon, sensing his master’s hostility, gave a low growl. Hackles rising.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake then, ask your damn questions.’
The hairs on Demon’s n
eck ceasing to bristle.
‘Thank you. Number One, are you in possession of a licence to fly aircraft?’
‘Good God, have you come all the way from Bombay to check on whether I have a licence to fly?’
Demon allowed, or encouraged, to growl again.
But the boy’s answer tells something. He is to some extent confident. So . . .? So, surely, he cannot be wondering if I am in possession of evidences that he was strangling Mrs Popatkar. Or even was abiding and abetting. No, he has something to hide. But it is looking as if it is not that.
But it is near it. Give him the full fist-blow.
‘No, I have not come to check on any licences. I am here to investigate murder in Bombay of one Mrs Shoba Popatkar.’
Plain to see. The quiver of the boy’s right eyelid.
‘Afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
Oh, yes, you do.
‘No? Yet Mrs Popatkar is a famous lady in the history of Independence struggle.’
Heavy sigh. Not a little of filmi in it. Too much of filmi.
‘I dare say she was a tremendous heroine and all that, Inspector. And I dare say it all means a lot to you. But to me it’s past history. Very exciting, very noble. But nothing to do with me.’
He resisted the temptation to give a lesson in history.
‘Nevertheless, I must ask if you flew in an aircraft belonging to your flying club from Banares to Bombay on the evening of October the sixth last, the night Mrs Popatkar was murdered.’
‘Have you been out to the club, asking your damn questions?’
The boy gave Demon’s collar a quick tap. The dog lurched forward where he stood and gave another growl.
‘It was my bounden duty.’
Or, it will be my duty unless I am getting plenty of good answers here and now.
‘Well, what if I did fly down there? Nothing criminal in that.’
Ah, young man. Backing down somewhat. You are not so tough as you would like.
‘No, that is not at all criminal. In itself. But now I must ask: what did you do in the time that you were in Bombay. Some hours only, yes?’
What reply will I get? If the boy at least went with H. K. Verma to Dadar, he will lie and lie. But perhaps he was doing no more than fly him down. All the same he is knowing what happened there. I have seen and heard enough now to be sure of same.
‘In Bombay? Very simple, Inspector. I visited a friend. The film star, Miss Dainty Daruvalla, as a matter of fact.’
One sudden lift of confidence. No doubt I would find this Miss Dainty – never heard of her, some junior only – will confirm his story, even with witnesses.
So Vikram here did not go to Dadar with his grandfather. If his grandfather did go there. But he flew him to Bombay. That I know now, as if the boy had taken the dust from my feet and confessed to it word for word.
‘Very well. Now, who was the passenger who was flying with you?’
‘Passenger, Inspector?’
Too much of a look of blank not understanding.
But now something else. Quarter-smile of insolent pleasure. Very much like what I have sometimes had from some anti-social in the slums thinking he has found some clever way out of his troubles.
‘Well, I suppose, Inspector, you could say my passenger’s name was Demon.’
The boy smiled, delighted with the smart answer.
‘Very well, you took this dog with you to Bombay. Now, who else were you taking?’
‘Why, no one, Inspector. No one at all. I can’t believe they told you at the club I had a passenger with me. They can’t have seen anybody. Absolutely not.’
H. K. Verma had not gone back down to his petitioners after his son had left. Instead he had told Raman to send them away.
‘They may come tomorrow. Or not at all. Not at all.’
He thumped down into his chair. The interlaced bamboo strands of its seat and back creaking out in protest.
So that idler Vikram has been told at last why I was asking him to fly to Bombay. So he knows what I have done. Krishnakanta also.
Oh, they would not betray me. I have paid even to make sure of that. Paid with my good name. When at the Civil Court they are looking at this statement I have just signed for Krishnakanta they will smile to themselves, damn well knowing it is lies and lies only. Yes, they will accept. They will not think it worthwhile to get into a battle with H. K. Verma. But in their eyes I will begin to sink down. Down to being one of those who pay to get nomination to a seat, Legislative Assembly in Lucknow or Lok Sabha in Delhi itself, for whatsoever they can make in bribes after.
And I am not such. I was not such. I disdained to take bribes. Even the Gandiva once was calling me as ‘our Banares Mr Clean’. And I was. I was. Perhaps not altogether perfect. Who is in this world? But I was a good man. A good man.
And now I am not. Now, very soon, they will be whispering in the Banares Officers’ Club, in the PNU Club, in the Kashi Club, that HKV is no better than anybody else. And I am not, now. I am a liar. One who would do anything disgraceful to squeeze and squirm out of his troubles.
But what they do not know is how much worse than that I am. Worse, worse, worse. I am – say the word, if in my head only – I am a murderer.
And it will not be in just only my head that ‘murderer’ will be said. It will be said, if in altogether hushed voices, within the family. By Krishnakanta, my son I have so often rebuked. By Vikram, that idle good-for-nothing. And soon enough he will be whispering it as a fine secret to his good friends. A boy like that can hardly be trusted to keep such a thing locked away and locked away inside his head.
So will they get to me through him? Oh, not just now. Just now, if that Bombay mongoose should somehow reach to Vikram, the boy will keep to his side of the bargain. He will say nothing and nothing. And then that Ghote inspector will have to give up.
So am I safe? Safe for some time?
Time. Time is all I am wanting. Time to think. Time to decide. Time to look at myself and see where I could go.
Bhagwan, grant me some time only.
I could escape. Go abroad. The Gulf. America. But what should I do in America? How should I live my life there? Oh, yes, I could have enough of money. Krishnakanta at least would see to that. But what would I do? I cannot sit idle. All my life I have been active. Active in doing good. Yes, in doing good so far as I was able. I cannot go to any such place, America, Gulf, and sit in the sun only.
And then I would be outside Banares. Outside Holy Kashi. If I died in such a place, in my next life my crime would take me to be the lowliest of the low. To one of the 84,000 lower forms. A rat. A snake. A mosquito.
No, I must stay here inside Kashi itself. I will never leave. I will resign from Lok Sabha, and nevermore go to Delhi. I will at least live out my days in this holy city.
Or should I give myself up also? That idea has been before me. I have not always wriggled and run. I could seek out this Ghote, and just only make one clean breast of all.
I might do that. I have wanted to do it. I want to do it. The right thing. But . . .
But could I bring myself to do it? To go to that man, to anyone, and admit. Oh, yes, some damn goonda could glory in such an act. But I could not. I have been a good man. Some wrestler from the pits could laugh and say he had killed dozens with his own hands. One of the ones I saw there. How many like that are there? Many? All? A few only? Men who care for nothing. One of the ones I was nearly using.
Oh God, God, what have I done?
Wait. I could do what I was almost doing before, when I went to Collector Swami. Take sannyas. As KK was doing after he had set down that retraction in his Recollections. He was altogether another man after sannyas. Without his former name, without his caste. Without his sins. Yes. Yes, I, too, could do that. Leave this world. Lose my name. Renounce everything. Cut away each and every tie. See my symbolic body, a little wheat-flour image on its leaf, crackling to nothing from the flames of the nest of sticks under it. I could b
e as if reborn. Krishnakanta no longer my son. Vikram forgotten.
But I cannot decide now. Time. I must have time. I must keep them off just only long enough.
A knocking at the door.
It must have been going on and on. Tap. Tap, tap. In the back of my mind I was hearing something. It must be Raman, knocking and knocking. And he is not daring to come in. He knows what a shelling he would get.
Leave him to knock till he is tired?
No, it must be something important-important. He would not come up unless he could not help it. Cowardly scoundrel.
But must I answer?
I must. Life must go on a little more. I must try to go about in the usual way. For no one to suspect. While I have a little time.
‘Yes? What it is? What it is? Come in, damn you.’
Raman’s one-eyed face poking in. Looking altogether scared.
‘Sir, it is Bombay inspector. Sir, he is just here only.’
15
Ghote stepped into the now familiar big room in the old house under the shadow of the Golden Temple. Once again he took in the blue-painted walls, the red rexine-covered sofas, the table with the telephone and the television set under its embroidered dust-cover, the curious patches of red, green and violet light thrown by the coloured panes of the narrow ventilators up near the ceiling. And he wished he could have found any other way ahead besides questioning H. K. Verma.
But he had got no further with Vikki Verma, for all that he kept pressing and pressing him for almost an hour. The boy simply repeated, time and again, that he had taken no one with him on his flight to Bombay.
Leaving him at last, he had gone straight out to the Flying Club. But, however much he interrogated everybody he could find there, he discovered nothing to contradict Vikki Verma’s claim. Yes, a plane had been fuelled for him that evening. Yes, he had had his dog with him. Yes, he was qualified to fly solo. Yes, a flight plan for Bombay had been filed. But, no, no one had seen any other passenger.
Yet he was still convinced H. K. Verma had been in the plane. Rick, there in the darkness of the Manikarnika Ghat, his arm jerked painfully upwards, had no reason to squeal out anything but the truth. Even if he had wanted to produce some fantastic lie there was nothing to have made him hit on just that story. No, H. K. Verma had been flown to Bombay by his grandson. Vikki’s blank-faced hostility had made it all the more certain. He had flown his grandfather to Bombay and left him to go to Dadar while he himself had seized the opportunity to visit the film star, Dainty Daruvalla.
Doing Wrong (Inspector Ghote) Page 13
