Inspector Ghote Trusts the Heart

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘Mr Desai? It is Inspector Ghote, sir. I am ringing to –’

  ‘Inspector Ghote. Inspector Ghote. Thank God.’

  The totally unexpected urgent joy in the voice sent Ghote into a stunned silence.

  ‘Inspector, you are there?’

  ‘Yes, sahib.’

  ‘So many hours without news of that boy, Inspector. And the father is here, and I have seen him. And, listen, Inspector, after all I wish to pay. That boy must be got back.’

  The words were an unstoppable gabble.

  ‘Sir. Sir. It is all right. Sir. Sir. He is safe. Safe.’

  At last Ghote’s increasingly frantic interruptions got home.

  ‘You say he is safe? Little Pidku? He is found? It is true?’

  ‘Yes, sahib. Yes, Mr Desai. Only a few minutes ago he was found. He is alive. He is, at least, alive.’

  ‘Then I will tell the tailor. At once. Now. It is marvellous, wonderful.’

  Evidently the note of doubt in those last words of his had not penetrated Manibhai Desai’s golden glow.

  ‘Sir. Mr Desai.’

  ‘Yes, yes, what is it?’

  ‘Can you bring Pidku’s father here now? I am near the place where he was found. Superintendent Karandikar wishes Pidku to go to hospital for a thorough check-up. But if you drive down here straightaway you would most probably catch him before he goes.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will do that. Ek dum, ek dum. What is the address?’

  Ghote told him and laid down the telephone receiver, feeling already happier than he had thought he could in all the messiness that the affair seemed to be ending in. He hurried back to the paan-shop.

  And, when he had shoved his way through the crowd, which showed no signs of lessening, he found that, down in the dark safe corner where he had put him, Pidku was actually softly and gently playing with the string of the red balloon.

  But hardly had he got to his knees in front of him and tried to get from him the hint of an answering smile as he himself grinned and grinned than a sharp voice behind him caused him to scramble awkwardly to his feet.

  It was the Commissioner. In the street the crowd had at last dispersed and in their place stood that magnificent, polished car that had appeared equally quietly on the morning it had all begun, at the moment Ghote had slid that daily pay-out of his into the hand of the beggar boy with the withered, no-account stump of a leg.

  Then the Commissioner had proved a figure of unexpected warmth. But now things seemed to be different.

  ‘Superintendent Karandikar?’ the Commissioner asked brusquely. ‘Where is he, man?’

  ‘There – there, sir,’ Ghote stammered, pointing like a fool.

  Without a word the Commissioner strode into the back of the shop.

  Ghote remained standing waiting for him to come out again, not thinking there was anything he would be wanted for but feeling somehow obliged to show himself as being on the alert.

  The Commissioner was in with Superintendent Karandikar for a considerable time, and Ghote had opportunities to steal quick glances at Pidku beside him on the floor and to observe that he was at least still minutely jigging the string of the red balloon. But then at last the voices inside grew louder and a moment later the Commissioner came out closely followed by Superintendent Karandikar.

  In the shop the Commissioner turned and gave the superintendent what was evidently the last of many handshakes.

  ‘Once again my congratulations,’ he said. ‘A magnificently planned operation from start to finish and, above all, a magnificently executed piece of pure detection.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Superintendent Karandikar.

  The Commissioner turned and hurried out to his waiting, gleaming car. He brushed by Inspector Ghote, standing rigidly to attention, but appeared not to notice him.

  But as the car drew away Superintendent Karandikar turned from watching it.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Inspector,’ he said sharply to Ghote. ‘I was wanting a word with you.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Ghote said.

  ‘Yes. Well, I have only this to say. As soon as I get back to my desk I am filling in the appropriate notification to you that you are to appear before a Disciplinary Board. Nobody, Inspector, nobody slides out of obeying orders I give him and then goes off on his own sticking his dirty little fingers into my case. Let me tell you now, I am very much inclined to think that your final piece of insubordination in coming here ahead of the proper search party might very well have resulted in the death of that boy. So you and I will meet again shortly, in different circumstances.’

  He turned on his heel and re-entered the back of the shop.

  Ghote stood letting grey and sullen waves of gloom sweep over him. He hardly noticed any longer the tiny jerky movements that were Pidku playing bit by bit more confidently with the red balloon. He hardly noticed either when the police ambulance arrived outside to be followed almost immediately by Manibhai Desai’s familiar big Buick.

  He watched with apathy as the ambulance driver bustled through and reported, as ordered, to Superintendent Karandikar.

  ‘Where is the child? Where the devil is the child?’ the superintendent demanded, poking his head out again.

  ‘He is here, sir,’ Ghote said, turning and lifting Pidku.

  ‘Right, right. Well, you take him off and make sure he gets the examination I ordered straightaway.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Superintendent,’ the driver said clicking his heels in a thunderous salute.

  He took Ghote’s mute burden from him with stiff precision, turned and walked smartly out into the street, the red balloon still clutched in Pidku’s uninjured hand bobbing and bouncing absurdly above him.

  Outside, the proprietor of Trust-X stood with the old tailor, the richly-suited, tall figure and the lean-shanked, singlet-darned one side by side. As the ambulance driver waited for his companion to open the back door of their vehicle, Ghote saw the tailor put out a tentative hand to his son and gently touch him.

  And then at last Pidku smiled.

  It was no great grin, but the small wrinkling round the eyes in that dirt-smeared face was unmistakable. An unfreezing.

  Ghote felt his lethargic gloom sliding away like great, stiff cakes of dust under the first rain of the monsoon. The Disciplinary Board lay ahead. It might sentence him to be dismissed from the force, or to be relegated to Traffic Branch. Or, if he put his side of the affair well, he might escape with only a reprimand. But, whatever the outcome, it did not deep-down matter.

  What mattered was that Pidku was back where he belonged, in every way. The case had been brought to a conclusion that was satisfactory.