He tried once again to think of the tip of his nose.
But, almost imperceptibly, another change was manifesting itself. Ghote felt it first as a gradual lightening of the spirit. He then realized what the cause must be. They had climbed into coolness. The heat of the turbid plains, trapped in the bus, was at last yielding to the clear air outside.
That he had read of. It was the great thing about Ooty. The wonderfully cool and fresh air.
Perhaps, after all, he would get on well enough there. Damn it, he was a Bombay CID officer, and was not Bombay hailed as ‘India’s capital of crime’? Its CID was the best. They had to be. He himself might not be the very best that that fool of a British writer had made him out to be, but he was not altogether inefficient. Perhaps it would turn out that the case ahead was simply one that the police in Ooty could not cope up to, but which he, with all he had learnt over the years about ways of criminal humanity, would be able to see his way through to the end easily enough.
The snoozers on either side woke and began at once to clack out their incomprehensible conversation. Ghote eased his trapped arm free and rubbed his hands briskly together.
Soon the long climb began to level out. The jungle melted away and above the sky was clear and blue.
To either side of the road, now running straight there was extraordinary countryside. The famous Ooty countryside that was said to look so like distant England. Miles of sweet shorn grass, rising up in little rolling hills with the swelling lines of darker woodland here and there nestling among them.
So this was it. Ooty. Had someone not called it paradise? Well, he was in paradise then. Even if it was a paradise with one snake in it.
But he was here to find that snake. To catch it by the tail, twist and turn how it might. And he would do it. He was a thoroughly experienced police officer, and he would do it.
Then, abruptly turning a corner, there was a brightly painted signboard. Welcome to Ooty Queen of Hill Stations.
And welcome, he thought, to the body in the billiard room.
Out of the window to his right he caught a glimpse of the statue of a familiar figure, the stooped, emaciated, radiantly benevolent form of Gandhiji himself. Somehow it disconcerted him. Was the Queen of Hill Stations then not as regally separate as they said from the cares and troubles of the world? Had everything that Gandhiji stood for, the fight for Independence, the uplifting of the downtrodden Untouchables, the healing of the clash between Moslem and Hindu, had all that, still by no means fully achieved, penetrated up the 7,000 feet or more from the everyday, turbulent plains to this paradise after all?
No time, however, to ponder the riddle.
‘Charing Cross, Charing Cross,’ the driver sang out. The thrum of the bus engine died away and they came to a halt.
Already the more experienced Ooty-goers had risen to their feet and were pushing and shoving their way along to the exit at the front.
Ghote decided to sit where he was until the crush had worked itself out. There was still the question of boarding and lodging. He would have to make inquiries. Better to wait till the first arrivals had dispersed.
The ample ladies on either side of him heaved themselves up as one. He shivered as the soft warmth that had penned him in for so long was withdrawn.
Now the way was clear for him to get out.
He pushed himself upright and made his way, awkwardlegged, along the length of the exhausted bus. As he stepped down on to the ground, he was at once overcome by a fit of trembling as the cold air struck his thin cotton shirt and hardly less thin cotton trousers.
Then a tall figure detached itself from the crowd around the bus, a distinguished-looking elderly man, face leathery behind a neatly trimmed white moustache, dressed in a suit of fine tweed, its elbows patched with leather, gleamingly polished brogues on his feet.
‘At last’, he exclaimed, coming straight up to Ghote. ‘The Great Detective steps on to the scene.’
2
The Great Detective. Ghote felt the confidence which had blossomed inside him with the first exhilarating whiff of cool Ooty air go spiralling sharply away.
He was not any sort of a Great Detective. He was, he hoped, a good police officer. A competent detective. But it seemed to be just as he had feared when over the telephone back in Bombay he had heard the Assistant Commissioner say that the influential figure in Ooty considered him ‘the best there is’. He had been puffed up by that bloody British author into something far beyond his true status.
A Great Detective. What was a Great Detective? Some super-best character like Sherlock Holmes? Someone who— his mind scrabbled among dimly remembered stories read as a boy - had solved, sucking at a pipe, mysteries baffling all Scotland Yard. Someone who with a lofty ‘Elementary, my dear Watson’ had casually made clear utterly inexplicable events.
Could he at once tell this Mr Surinder Mehta, ex-ambassador, one-time distinguished soldier in the British ranks, that he was no such thing as a Great Detective?
He looked more closely at the tall figure confronting him with such easy assurance. In the lean, leathery face, immaculately shaved even at this late hour of the day, he saw a pair of disconcertingly fierce eyes. He was aware too that, though perhaps into his eighties, the former soldier’s bearing was still awesomely erect and commanding.
‘Well, but Your Excellency,’ he began. ‘That is, Your Excellence. Your Excellency, I am not . . .’
He came to a halt.
What had this influential person made of his stutterings?
He appeared hardly to have heard them. The cool eyes in the lean face were looking at him still with an expression of simple expectancy. Waiting for the first pronouncement of the Great Detective.
Ghote swallowed hard.
‘But, Your Excellence,’ he said, in lame substitution for the declaration he had found it not quite possible to make. ‘Your Excellency, I am not at all sure where I am to find boarding and lodging in Ooty. In Ootacamund, that is.’
‘Oh, all taken care of, my dear fellow. You’ll put up at the Club, of course. Only possible place really. I mean, you must be on the spot, mustn’t you? You remember how Poirot had to stay at that dreadful guest-house in Mrs McGinty’s Dead?'
‘Poirot?’ Ghote asked, repeating two unfamiliar syllables, completely baffled.
‘Hercule Poirot, old chap. Your distinguished predecessor, as it were. You’re India’s answer to Hercule Poirot, and to Lord Peter Wimsey and the others. Brilliant piece of work that double murder case you solved.’
Then a sudden quick, almost suspicious look.
‘You have read your Agatha Christie, haven’t you?’
‘No,’ said Inspector Ghote.
‘No? No? Not read Agatha Christie? My dear chap, you don’t know what you’ve been missing. We’ll have to remedy that. We’ll have to remedy that. Why, when I was in the UK - I was Ambassador to Yuroglavia, you know, just after Independence, never actually got out to that pretty forsaken spot, just had an office in India House in London - well, when I was there, I tell you, I acquired such a liking for those books. Liking? No, such a love for them, it’s lasted me the rest of my life.’
‘But, yes,’ Ghote answered, feeling himself beginning to be swept away on this flood of warm reminiscence, ‘I am remembering now. I was once as a young man going through a book by that lady. It was called - It was called
- Yes, The Murder of Robert Ockrent, I think. But, I am ashamed to say, I was altogether failing to discover who had committed that murder. And so, as one about to enter the police service, I did not attempt any more of those books.’
‘Well, I should imagine Roger Ackroyd would baffle even you, my dear chap. Especially if you were only a novice then. But you must battle it out with Dame Agatha again now. We’ll see to that. I can lend you a dozen at any time. Or there are plenty in the Nilgiri Library.’
‘Well, that is most kind. But if I am to be engaged in the investigation of a murder, I am doubting whether I would have muc
h of time for light reading.’
‘Oh, but you mustn’t say that. Light reading? Agatha Christie and the others are much more than that. Those books, you know, show you the world as it ought to be. My dear fellow, when I read them first in England, I felt as if I was seeing things straight for the first time in my life. A world where the evil man, or the evil woman, by Jove, is always brought to justice in the end. That’s as things should be, you know. As things should be. Not like our wretched India today, I can assure you.’
‘Well, but—’
‘No, my dear chap. Those books are just marvellous. The worst of crimes uncovered by the best of men, Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter, Mr Albert Campion, Hercule Poirot. Heroes every one.’
‘But,’ Ghote managed to break in, seeing a tiny chance of putting the objection he had wanted to make when he had first been hailed as the Great Detective. ‘But, Your Excellence—’
He came to a stop. At the word Excellence he had seen the ex-ambassador stiffen minutely.
So he had got it wrong. It was a black mark. But, come what may, he must say what he had to say.
‘Your Excellency,’ he began once more, with heavy emphasis. ‘Please, life is not at all as it is seeming to be for Mr Poirot and those others in books. What I am meaning is this: things are not always at all ordered in the life which we are living. You see, in that case of mine you were mentioning, I—’
‘But that’s just my point, old boy,’ His Excellency interrupted. ‘From everything I heard, you brought the bad hat to justice there in absolutely classical style. And I warn you you’re up against just such a diabolically ingenious opponent here, too. A diabolically ingenious murderer.’
The aged, erect, imperious figure turned away.
‘But, come along, my dear chap. Mustn’t stand here gassing all night. We’ll walk up to the Club, it’s only a step, and I’ll send a servant for your baggage. Then I can put you properly in the picture.’
‘Thank you,’ Ghote said, acknowledging to himself defeat but resolving that it would be only temporary.
They set off in silence through the rapidly gathering dusk. There was a school, called Bucks, on the left, very British in style with its roof, made out of corrugated iron, mounting to a peak. On the right there was some sort of a Christian church, and there was another with a squat tower further on at a little distance up a turning behind double gates. There was also, as a noticeboard outside proclaimed, the Collector’s Office, arcaded and much hung with balconies. It was all very much Ooty, Ooty as he had read of it. A quiet English town in the middle of teeming India.
Soon His Excellency directed him into the turning of a lane.
‘The Club,’ he said.
And there at the crest of a small hill it lay, the scene of the crime. In the fast-fading light Ghote could still see the long, low white building, distinguished by four tall, very British pillars rising up at its centre from a flight of wide steps. Away to either side ran fine lawns, their expanse broken here and there by huge old trees.
Then he noticed close at hand an inconspicuous sign reading Private - Members Only. It was, he felt, all the more of a barrier for its very lack of threat. It was enough for the members of this awesome institution just to give the briefest message to outsiders that this was forbidden territory.
Territory which he, simply because one of those members had taken it into his head that Inspector Ghote of Bombay was another Sherlock Holmes, was about to be introduced into.
And then, just behind the sign, he saw something else. A yogi was sitting on the ground there, sitting so still in meditation as to be almost invisible, streamingly white-locked and white-bearded, bare of chest, impervious to the sharp chill of the evening air.
A holy man in a state of dhyana, Ghote thought in sudden envy. One whole step beyond the dharana he himself had such difficulty in getting near. With every impurity of thought banished. Or the stock-still figure might even be in samadhi, all consciousness of self obliterated.
‘Come on, old chap,’ His Excellency said. ‘Wrant to have our chat before they sound the dinner gong.’
‘Yes, yes.’
He hurried after the ex-ambassador up along a tree-lined drive. And, before he had time fully to prepare himself, they were mounting the ancient steps, passing between the white pillars, through the portico, where a huge gong waited to be struck, and were inside the Club itself.
It appeared to be altogether deserted. There were dark-wood painted rolls of honour on the walls, deep sofas covered in blue and white linen and a pervasive smell of resin from the polished floor at their feet. But no bustle of activity. No members doing whatever it was that members of such a Club did within its sacred walls.
‘Koi hai?’ His Excellency called.
Silence.
Ghote looked about him more closely. Just near there was a green baize board for notices, the scraps of paper pinned to it mostly yellowing with age. He read one. Wanted- Good Home for Three Adorable Puppies Not Pedigree.
Well, he thought with a dart of irreverence, so even here nature can thrust aside the rules.
‘Koi hai?’ His Excellency called again.
And now there did come the patter of feet in soft chappals and a bearer, in cripsly starched blue uniform, appeared.
‘Sahib?’
‘Ah, Patiyar. Is there anyone about? Mr Iyer? Major Bell?’
His Excellency turned to Ghote.
‘Iyer’s our Assistant Secretary,’ he said. ‘Does the work, you know. Major Bell is Club Secretary, one of the last few Europeans in Ooty. We gave him the post two or three years ago, though of course he’s been a member for decades.’
He dropped his voice.
‘Otherwise he would have ended up among the flotsam of the Friend in Need Society, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Sad thing when a fellow’s been part of Ooty life so long, sidesman at the church and all that.’
‘Please,’ the bearer said, ‘Mr Iyer is at own residence and Major Sahib is taking Dasher for customary evening walk.’
‘Ah, well, never mind. Just wanted to get Mr Ghote here booked in as a Temporary Member. But it’ll wait. It’ll wait.’
His Excellency turned again to Ghote, who had been wondering whether he could ask what a sidesman at a church was and had decided he had better let it pass.
‘We’ll go into the Reading Room. If Ringer Bell’s out with that desperate old dog of his - fellow knows it’s high time the beast was put down - then he won’t be having a snooze in there. And no one else will disturb us.’
‘Very good,’ Ghote said.
He began preparing in his mind a few phrases for the declaration he felt he must make before he got embroiled any further in the ex-ambassador’s detective-story scheming. ‘A police officer is working very much by knowledge of locale’ and ‘almost to one hundred per cent murder cases are altogether simple affairs not requiring much of detection, only routine inquiries’; even ‘there is no room for amateur effort in dealing with whatsoever sorts and kinds of crimes’.
His Excellency ushered him into a large echoing room. Clusters of leather armchairs were drawn up here and there, the seat of one near the door showing a wide white split. Writing tables marched down the length of the room at well spaced intervals, each with a neat pile of pale green notepaper at its exact centre. On the deep shelves along one wall there was a line of tall green books. Ghote glimpsed the title of one of them, embossed in gold, Ootacamund Hunt -Hounds Breeding Records - 1920-25. And away at the far end there was actually an open fire, quietly glowing in a wide fireplace.
Yes, this was truly Ooty. The unchanging order. The keen, clear air of paradise warmed by the cheerful glint of burning wood.
‘Damned fire,’ His Excellency said. ‘Thing’s half out. Trouble is you can’t get the logs nowadays. Too many people in the place, always scrounging for firewood. You know what they did to old Ringer Bell one night?’
‘No, Your Excellency.’
‘Crept into his garden and du
g up a whole damn cherry tree. There when he went to bed. Gone in the morning.
Still, I didn’t bring you in here to talk about how Ooty’s going downhill.’
Now would be the moment. Jump in at the start and tell the old man, however influential he might be, that he had not summoned any sort of a Great Detective, that this was not the way murder cases were cleared up. That—
‘Right. Well, you know, of course, that the Club billiards marker, fellow by the name of Pichu, was found dead first thing yesterday morning, sprawled out bang in the middle of the billiard table?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ghote put in quickly, seeing a way of making his case with the ex-ambassador from a sympathetic angle. ‘It was altogether sacrilege, isn’t it?’
‘Sacrilege? Don’t know about that. Point is, old Pichu was definitely murdered. Stabbed to the heart. No weapon nearby. Clear case.’
‘Yes. Yes, Your Excellency. But if it is being such a clear case, why cannot Ootacamund police deal with same?’
‘Ah, you’ve put your finger on it. Right on it. Expected as much from you. And, of course, that’s it. The police here have bungled the business. Always do, the local chaps, don’t they? Have done ever since the days of Inspector Lestrade.’
‘Inspector Lestrade?’
Who on earth was he? An officer from British days?
‘Chap Sherlock Holmes was always putting right, you know.’
‘Oh, yes, sir. Yes.’
‘Well, we’ve got a fellow here with some long damn Tamil name - Meenakshisundaram, that’s it - and all he could do, when he came up here hotfoot when the crime was discovered, was to say it must be a dacoity. Simple robbery, I ask you.’
‘But is that not—’
‘Well, of course, it can’t be anything of the sort. I mean, is it likely that a dacoit, intent on doing no more than lay hands on the Club’s silver trophies, would commit murder?’
‘Well, no, I—’
‘Exactly. Knew you’d cotton on to that at once. But Inspector Meenakshisundaram can’t see further than the end of his nose. Why, even when I pointed out to him that the body was absolutely in the centre of the billiard table, laid out flat on its back, he couldn’t see what that must mean.’
The Body in the Billiard Room Page 2
