Inspector Ghote Caught in Meshes, page 7
“And you do not know where he is?”
Ghote stood in front of the elegant, evasive Parsee and put his question with force.
“I cannot help you,” she replied, her eyes flicking into the background.
Ghote turned away. He felt furious. He ought to have made arrangements to keep in touch with the professor. He might be gone for hours now and there would be no chance of making any progress with his distasteful task and perhaps getting back to his proper work.
He stood disconsolately beside one of the five potted palms islanded in the cold sea of the foyer.
Suddenly a voice whispered from the other side of the dusty, drooping spines of leaves.
“Excuse, sahib.”
Ghote swung round.
Standing discreetly behind the palm so as to be almost invisible from the reception desk was one of the hotel bearers, an elderly man with sad eyes wearing a much-darned white uniform. When Ghote looked at him he salaamed deeply.
“Sahib, you ask for Strongbow sahib?” the man said.
“Yes,” Ghote said. “Yes, yes, I did.”
“I am Strongbow sahib’s room bearer, sahib.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, sahib.”
“Then what—?”
“But, sahib, he ask me if he shall take coat to wait for friend out in Marine Drive. And, sahib, I told most definitely coat would be necessary. I told immense great waves at this time of year. Sahib might get very badly wetted to the skin. Most definitely coat, I told.”
“Quite right, quite right,” Ghote said heartily. “But did Strongbow sahib say where in Marine Drive he was going to wait for his friend?”
“Oh, no, sahib. If Strongbow sahib want to wait there, I would not be asking anything about that. Only telling coat is most definitely necessary.”
“Yes, yes. A coat would be very necessary,” Ghote agreed, cursing inwardly that the bearer’s devotion did not extend beyond recommending appropriate clothing for the prevailing weather.
He gave the man a small tip and hurried out.
What he had learnt was disquieting. Why should a respectable American visitor choose to meet someone in the open air on a night like this? The wind was whipping across the broad span of Marine Drive outside and down in the sea the waves were crashing and thundering against the sea-wall.
Going down the sweeping marble steps of the old hotel he could not prevent himself breaking into a trot, though it was hardly the dignified behaviour the police force might expect from one of its officers. Luckily, his driver had not deserted the truck. He had its bonnet-flap back and was wiping the top of the engine with a small piece of greasy rag.
“Good man,” Ghote said. “Now listen, I want to see if I can find someone waiting somewhere along Marine Drive. He should not be too hard to spot, a tall American. He would be wearing a coat.”
The driver gave his engine one more careful wipe.
“Yes,” he said, “he would need coat. Along there waves have been breaking right across road.”
He pointed into the middle distance like a conscientious guide showing a visitor a cherished view.
“Hurry, man, hurry,” Ghote snapped. “We will not find him by standing here talking about waves.”
“Very good, very good, Inspector sahib,” the driver replied patiently.
He gave one final, obsessional flick at his engine with the rag, clamped down the bonnet and climbed into his seat.
“Which way, Inspector? Left towards Colaba first?”
He nosed the truck to the edge of the long sweep of the boulevard and waited.
“No,” Ghote said perversely, “go the other way, right, up towards Chaupati.”
The driver shrugged and swung out into the broad road.
It had begun to rain and there was scarcely anybody about. Away ahead of them an earnest citizen was marching along with an umbrella held almost horizontally to one side in an effort to keep at least a quarter of himself dry. As they drew up to him a sharp cross-gust turned the umbrella almost instantaneously inside-out. Ghote saw him gather the spiky remains together and stride away bare-headed and resigned.
But this was the only sign of life. Hard though Ghote peered into the squally darkness, he could not see the least trace of a tall, coated American waiting in this unlikely place for an unknown friend. Certainly the sea side of the road was totally bare. No one in their senses would walk there, exposed to the wild swirls of spray that were flung at intervals over the protecting wall as the great waves hurled themselves against it.
Even such traffic as there was went at speed. Driving slowly along on the sea side as they made their way up to Chaupati, it was easy to understand why everyone else was hurrying. The biggest of the waves looked as if they were bound to crash over the narrow top of the sea-wall, and each looked powerful enough to catch the truck up and sweep it into the wind-tossed hedge dividing the two carriageways.
“Switch on the headlights,” Ghote said.
The alternate glare and shadow from the big blocks of flats made peering into the darkness doubly difficult.
The driver obeyed, and with this help it was more possible to be sure that even on the far side of the road, in the comparative shelter, no one was lingering about.
They reached the tall statue of Lokmanya Tilak presiding forlornly over the deserted stretch of Chaupati Beach where in less happy times he had exhorted great crowds to rebellion. And still there was not the least sign of the big American.
“We had better go the other way,” Ghote said grumpily.
He realised that it would have been much more sensible to have taken that direction first. A rendezvous was plainly more likely down near the busy streets of the Fort than up at this end of Marine Drive, with its respectable, pastel-coloured blocks of expensive flats.
“Get a move on,” he muttered half to himself as the truck swung across the road in a wide U-turn.
“Better not go too fast, Inspector sahib,” the driver said. “It is hard to see, and we may have missed him already.”
In deference to the fact that the man had been right about which direction they ought to have taken in the first place Ghote let this pass in silence.
The truck headed back along the wide sweep of the bay, its headlights picking out every now and again a heavy plume of white spray whirling far across the road.
“My wife’s cousin’s son was drowned just here four or five years ago,” the driver said. “He was out playing just at the end of the monsoon like this, and a wave swept him right over the wall. In one second he was gone.”
Ghote refused to let himself take this remark at more than its face value. But he edged forward on the worn seat of the truck and peered even harder into the tricky darkness surrounding them.
FIVE
The headlights of the slowly moving police truck picked out the high, looming walls of the Brabourne Stadium nearly at the far end of the long sweep of Marine Drive. Inspector Ghote sighed.
“If Professor Strongbow was ever here at all,” he said, “we have certainly missed—”
His driver must have caught sight of what had stopped him in mid-sentence at the same instant as he had. Jammed-hard brakes sent the truck skewing wildly round on the wave-wetted surface of the wide road. Before it had come to rest Ghote was out and running forward with every ounce of his strength.
“Stop,” he shouted. “Stop. Police.”
His cry must have reached the group of struggling figures on the far side of the road close up against the low top of the sea-wall. Three of them turned for an instant and looked over in his direction. But it was for an instant only. Then they swung back to the fourth figure, the tall man in the light coat already down on the ground. With one concerted heave they raised him like a log above their shoulder level.
“Stop,” Ghote shouted again.
But he knew it was useless. Long before he could reach them the three attackers with a last lunge would send the prone figure in the flapping coat swinging over the low top of the sea-wall. And with the great waves hurling themselves eagerly forward he would have no chance after that.
The three dark shapes ducked a little as they gathered themselves for the throw.
And with total suddenness there came the huge roar of a giant wave swinging high over the top of the wall. The solid block of water hit the struggling group and swept all four figures tumbling before it.
Ghote stopped and stood with staring eyes.
Several moments passed before he was able at all to make out what had happened. But when he did so he saw the scene with extraordinary clarity. The huge wave had collapsed into a mere sheet of swirling water as it spread across the wide road, and behind it the four figures it had tumbled down were outlined like statues. The three attackers, having been on their feet, had been hurled farther into the roadway than their victim. As Ghote watched they crouched or knelt in the rushing sea-water, their faces still turned towards the point where they had intended to hurl their victim to his death.
It was clear that they must have dropped Gregory Strongbow the moment the wave hit them. He was a good deal nearer the low sea-wall, already on his feet and staring wildly round as if looking for some new danger.
After the screaming roar of the wave at its highest there was now by comparison almost complete silence. In this point of lull even the swirling water on the road seemed still.
And then Ghote heard something new.
He swung round towards the sea. A second wave, out-topping the first, like a full-grown brother overshadowing the stripling, was progressing towards them with a silent speed that belied its size.
The three attackers must have seen the mass of dark water at the same moment. They put their heads down into their arms and braced themselves for the impact. The American, looking in their direction, had not yet realised what was happening.
Ghote put his head down and pelted forward.
He reached the American before the water hit the sea-wall beneath them. He seized him round the chest and actually lifted him off his feet with the force of his dash forward.
Then the water came over the wall. For a long minute everything was chaos. Breath-crushing, choking salt sea was everywhere, first hurling itself forward, then whirling back in an undertow almost as powerful.
And, after what seemed a time too long to measure, at last there came something approaching peace.
From the foot of the inner side of the sea-wall where he had calculated that a narrow strip of safety might lie Ganesh Ghote struggled to his feet. Beside him the big American groaned loudly in the darkness. Ghote reached out to him.
“Can you run?” he said.
“Yes. Yes, I can.”
“This way.”
He took the American by the hand and together they dashed across the wide area of the road in the direction of the police truck. Water, inches deep still, tugged at their feet.
But it seemed that there was to be no third wave. The sequence had altered. Away in the distance Ghote heard a comparatively puny mass of water break harmlessly to pieces against the protective concrete blocks in the darkness below. And equally, it appeared, the human danger had vanished. Hardly had they reached the truck when the driver hurried up.
“Inspector, you are okay?”
“Yes, yes. We managed to get into the shelter of the top of the wall.”
“The others have gone, Inspector. When the water had gone I saw them running. I tried to chase. But it was no good.”
“All right,” Ghote said. “It does not matter. But we must take Professor Strongbow back to his hotel. He is soaked to the skin at least.”
He was no drier himself. The two of them sat in the back of the truck with the cold sea water seeping down on to the floor all round.
After a little Ghote put a question.
“What happened, Professor, please?”
The American lifted his head.
“I got a call at the hotel,” he said. “It was someone who said they could tell me more about Hector if I met them on my own. He said to wait on Marine Drive by this Brabourne Stadium. Is that the name?”
“Yes, yes. But who was this person?”
The American groaned a little.
“He wouldn’t give his name,” he answered. “Or at least that’s what Shakuntala said. She took the call.”
“I see. Then you went to the place indicated?”
“Yeah. I waited around a while, and then these guys came up. I expected there would be only one, but it didn’t seem to matter. They seemed to want me to go over to the far side of the street with them. I thought it was to go where there was no one around. So we crossed over. And then they went for me. I did what I could, but it was three against one.”
He looked out into the darkness as the truck hummed its way steadily along the wide sweep of the boulevard. The waves were beating rhythmically against the masonry of the sea-wall sending high towers of spray flaunting into night air. He shivered and turned to Ghote as if for reassurance.
But Ghote was lost in thought. And for all the rest of the short trip back to the hotel he remained silent. Silent and worried.
The American put no questions. It seemed he too had plenty to think about.
Ghote had stayed in Gregory Strongbow’s suite at the hotel only long enough to make sure he was comfortable and to extract a promise from him not to go out again in any circumstances. Then, wet and cold though he was, he had hurried down to the hotel foyer where he remembered having seen a public telephone.
Quickly he slid the heavy door of the booth to behind him and rang the number Colonel Mehta had given him. It was supposed to reach him at any hour of the day or night. Listening to the sound of ringing at the far end, Ghote hoped that for once one of the colonel’s arrangements might have broken down.
But abruptly the ringing ceased and a voice he recognised at once as Colonel Mehta’s asked sharply who was calling. Briefly Ghote gave him the bare facts about the attack on Gregory Strongbow.
“I suppose you didn’t catch any of the damned fellows.”
Ghote felt obliged to defend himself. After all, for a mere policeman he had done well enough.
“No, Colonel, we did not catch. My driver gave chase but they had too much start. Otherwise we might have got it out of one of them who ordered this attack.”
What reply Colonel Mehta made to this counter-thrust Ghote never knew. His voice suddenly receded so far into the distance that it was impossible to make out even one word.
“Colonel. I am sorry, Colonel, but you have gone very faint.”
At the far end Ghote could make out that the colonel was shouting.
“Something seems to have gone wrong with the line, Colonel,” he said.
“Listen, man, listen.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Ghote listened with fierce intentness. He saw that his damp clothes were making a small puddle on the floor of the telephone booth.
“You will not get far along those lines, Inspector.”
“You believe this attack was not connected with the killing of Mr. Hector Strongbow?” Ghote asked.
“Don’t shout, man, don’t shout. I can hear you perfectly well. And of course our friends are out to get the professor now. But they’re too bloody clever to let you catch them through one of their strong-arm men. Chaps like that just work for money and no questions asked.”
“Yes, Colonel, but—”
The far, far, tinny voice at the other end broke in. Ghote stopped and strained to hear.
“No, Inspector, what you forget is that you’re up against some very good chaps. Don’t you believe all this nonsense about the Indian inability to carry out any plan with a modicum of simple efficiency. It just isn’t bloody well true. I know. I knew it in the Army. We didn’t stand for inefficiency there, I can tell you.”
In Ghote’s right ear, sensitised now to a high point, picking out the faint crackle of this lecture, there came suddenly a single click. The noise was as effective as a pistol shot.
Ghote involuntarily jerked the receiver away from his head. When he gingerly listened again the colonel was still talking, but his voice had returned to normal strength. Ghote decided to pretend he had missed nothing.
“The finest fighting force in the world,” the colonel was saying. “You can’t beat the simple Indian jaiwan as a fighting man, Inspector, and don’t you forget it. It may have pleased certain people at certain times to make out that nothing Indian was any good. But that doesn’t accord with the bloody facts. Who was the first man to discover the laws of gravity, eh?”
Ghote realised with a hot flush of embarrassment that this was a question he was expected to answer. An enamel-bright recollection of himself at the age of eleven sitting in a long desk cramped against half a dozen school mates came into his mind. He could see, as if it was this moment, Mr. Merrywether, their implacable Anglo-Indian teacher, standing in front of the dusty whitish blackboard and rapping out the story of Newton and the apple.
But he knew that, of all the answers to give, the name Isaac Newton would be the least acceptable.
“I don’t know his name,” Colonel Mehta snapped out at the other end of the line. “But I can tell you this much, man. He was an Indian, an Indian. And atomic theory. What about that? All buttoned up by Indian sages hundreds of years ago. And we even had a perfectly adequate flying machine in those days, so they tell me. And cotton cloth. Where was the earliest known sample in the world found? In the Sind Desert, man. In the Sind Desert.”
Ghote’s eyes focused on a short message some vandal had scratched on the sacred dark wood of one of the panels at the back of the booth. “I love Gracie,” it stated. He wondered how long ago the desecration had taken place. No doubt the lover had long since transferred his affections to some other Betty, Milly or Rosie.
With a start he realised that the voice at the far end of the line had ceased to speak.
“Yes, sir,” he said hastily. “But this is what I have been wondering, sir. Can I now cease attempts to find out what the professor heard from his brother? It seems India First has decided he learnt something, does it not, sir?”
