Читать книгу Go West, Inspector Ghote - H. R. F Keating - Страница 8

Uneasily Ghote looked at the jutting-bellied private eye grasping the wheel of his monster car. The fellow ought to be simply a help to him. Ranjee Shahani must be paying him two thousand rupees a day still to be exactly that. Yet his attitude so far had not really been at all helpful. He seemed to be an obstacle in the way, making things difficult, refusing to answer questions. He was yet one more hard hill to climb in a whole series of mountain ridges he felt lying between him and Ranjee Shahani’s daughter.

Why was the fellow behaving like this?

But the thumping muzziness in his head would not let him work his way to any clear answer. Perhaps, after all, it was no more than the fact that the fellow was so American, so Californian. There was this huge car of his. There was his enormous well-fed frame. There was his aggressiveness and that seemingly unshakable confidence in the kind of life he was living. Yes, perhaps it was just that the fellow summed up in himself this whole rich, different land.

And now another of those great, tumbling speeches was beginning.

“We’re now climbing.” Not that this was not perfectly evident, even though the huge car apparently needed no shifting of its gears to tackle the steep rise in the road ahead. “These are the Santa Monica Mountains. You’ll notice that even in this unhospitable terrain the citizens of Los Angeles have established their homes, trying to rise above the smog that stifles the city at sea-level. Now, look to your left. There on the hillside you’ll see a magnificent residence built on steel stilts to conform to the slope. Note that even at this distance from other homes the house is fully equipped with electrical power and is connected by pipeline to the city water supply.”

Ghote looked to the left. Yes, the stark white house on the hillside was raised up on stilts.

“Who is the owner of such a fine establishment?” he asked, at once breaking his just-imposed rule about asking questions.

“In a few moments,” Fred Hoskins replied, massively ignoring his question, “I will tell you to turn your eyes to the right. By that time we’ll have ascended the full height of the mountains and on the far side you’ll have a view of the famed San Fernando Valley. I will not at this time sing the song of that name.”

A spasm of anger shook Ghote from the base of his spine to the top of his ever more heavily thudding head.

“Mr. Hoskins,” he said, “kindly tell me. In the course of your inquiries on behalf of Mr. Ranjee Shahani did you interview the Swami With No Name himself?”

But again the hulking private eye ignored his question, leaving instead a massive silence in the big car.

Ghote, his anger yet more fuelled, would not have let him get away with it. Except that at that moment there came into view round a bend in the twisting road ahead an extraordinary sight.

It was a man. A man coming towards them close to the edge of the road, a road here as elsewhere without any sidewalk. He was running, thumping along at a steady even pace. And he was dressed in the smallest imaginable pair of bright red, shiny satin shorts topped by a white T-shirt with a printed message on it in red letters so big that Ghote had taken them in at his first single glance. FIGHT THE FAT. On the runner’s feet were bright red-and-white shoes, and round his head were what could only be headphones, a pair of huge headphones like two black dishes clamped over either ear.

Fred Hoskins, who since Ghote’s question had been concentrating ferociously on the wheel in front of him, appeared not even to have noticed the sight.

“That—that person,” Ghote said, as the big car moved past the runner, “what—what is he?”

“What person, Gan? Can’t you see I’m concentrating on the road?”

“There was a man in the road. Someone running. You would see him still in your mirror.”

Fred Hoskins jabbed a glance at the mirror.

“Jogger,” he said.

“Please, what is a jogger?”

“Jeez, Gan boy, where’d you come from? A jogger’s a guy who needs to cut down on the flab. So he gets out there and buys himself a pair of running-shoes and some shorts from one of the stores especially for joggers, and then he hits the road and pounds that extra flesh into the ground.”

“I see,” Ghote said.

He thought of asking whether it would not be better not to eat so much in the first place. But he felt that in his present jet-confused state he could not trust himself to put the question in a properly polite manner.

“And was that a pair of headphones he was wearing also?” he asked. “Please, what is the purpose of those?”

“Music on the move, Gan. From radio stations strategically placed so no American needs to be without music at any time of the night or day. Rock music, country music, sweet music, pop music—all or any of these are there for him at the touch of a button.”

“In India also—”

But they had arrived at the crest of the hill.

“Look, Gan, look. For Christ’s sake, look, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes. I am looking.”

Fred Hoskins brought his enormous car to a halt just off the road, its wide front pointing at the valley spread below.

“Gan boy,” he demanded, “is that or is that not the best view you’ve ever seen?”

It was certainly a huge extent of country that lay spread out before them. And behind as well it was possible to see for as far as twenty miles or more, though there the scene was for the most part obscured by the smog. In front, however, everything was clear. Far below, tiny, thin roads crossed and re-crossed in a huge grid pattern, with little bright beads of colour moving along them everywhere, sometimes in long necklaces, elsewhere as miniscule individual beetles. Above, against a purely blue sky, planes by the dozen buzzed to and fro like so many purposeful bees.

Ghote turned to the private eye.

“Yes, Fred,” he said. “A truly marvellous sight. But, tell me please, were you at any time having an interview with the Swami With No Name?”

The private eye yanked furiously at his car’s starter key, slammed at a lever and shot the machine suddenly backwards on to the road again. Then, as poundingly, he hurled the car into forward and plunged off down the hill in front of them.

“Mr. Hoskins,” Ghote said adamantly, “did you see the swami?”

“There just wasn’t any need,” Fred Hoskins answered at last, peering through the wind-screen in front of him as if he was by no means the domineeringly confident driver he had shown himself to be up to now but some spinster lady setting out for her very first drive. “I saw the Shahaneye kid, didn’t I? I put her father’s heartfelt plea to her. I put it to her straight. And she just doesn’t want to go back home. Period. Finito. That’s it.”

“Yes,” Ghote said.

Mechanically he looked round him as they twisted down the sharp hill at a speed now he felt must surely be reckless. There were houses again though these were set yet farther back from the road because of the steepness of the slope. And then there were every now and again extraordinary squares of high walls, black, plastic and mysterious, set with what looked like portholes. What could they be? A sudden jump of the imagination gave it to him. They were tennis-courts. Yes, tennis-courts surrounded by high mesh walls. And practically every other house had one.

What a country, what a tremendous, rich-to-bursting country. It was not just a land where time was money: it was a land where money was play.

And it was supporting—in some way, he felt, as the topmost jewel on a pyramid of richly gleaming gems—the Swami With No Name. The man that Fred Hoskins, despite his two thousand rupees a day plus expenses, had not succeeded in obtaining an interview with.

Well, at least the fellow had ceased that incessant yammering.

Ghote shut his eyes and hoped that in the quiet the steady thudding in his head would gradually calm down. The big car had soon entered the freeway—for a few moments Ghote had dazedly regarded the great sweep of the eight-lane road in front of him, but soon he had fallen back into his doze—and for minute after minute now they zoomed along with only the muted booming of the car’s powerful engine breaking the silence.

Resolutely Ghote refused to let himself think anymore about the ashram that lay at the end of this journey. It was no use, he decided, trying to guess what the situation there would be like. Worrying about it would only worsen his headache.

But, whatever efforts he made to drop completely into a healing sleep, he was unable to shake off the malaise that afflicted him. There was a slight feeling of sickness in the pit of his stomach. His limbs still seemed to be elsewhere. His temples thudded.

So from time to time he cautiously opened his eyes.

The sights he saw did nothing to bring to an end the pervasive feeling of unreality. Even before they had got on to the endless stretch of the freeway he had had his first shock.

There had been an alteration in the big car’s speed. He had glanced out. And there ahead, just off the road to his right, he had seen, soaring up into the sky, an enormous double arch of pure gold.

The ashram, he had thought at once. We are there. I must have been sound asleep. The ashram. Oh, my God.

“Please, please. We have arrived?”

“What the heck?”

“But that”—he had jerked his head in the direction of the pure shining arch—“it is the ashram?”

“Gan, boy, that is a McDonald’s. That’s the sign of a McDonald’s. The fast-food chain. Don’t you have those in India?”

The tone of disparagement was so crushing that all he had been able to do was to murmur some apology, something about being asleep and dreaming, and shut his eyes tight once again—and then had done his best to blot out everything. But in vain.

His inner uneasiness woke him to find himself looking straight at a huge thundering truck made in the form of a great bread-roll with an enormous sausage stuck between its two halves, oozing with bright yellow plaster mustard some five or six inches thick. A hot-dog. At least he knew enough about the American way-of-life to recognise that. But such a gigantic advertisement, and whamming along the freeway at—it must be—seventy miles an hour.

Fred Hoskins’ car purred past the extraordinary sight, and Ghote shut his eyes again to open them once more to see the sweeping road in front of them splitting into two quite different sections as they climbed a mountain range and on the far section, some fifty feet above them on the hillside, a whole procession of cars was descending at speed, each one of them topped by a bright-coloured shape fastened to its roof which, as he closed his eyes firmly once again, he realised were surfboards.

All those people, going all that way, at such a speed, to take those hugely expensive-looking pieces of shaped wood to play with at the ocean side. The land where money was play. And where, surely, one whole group of these huge, confident people were playing at being a swami’s disciples.

But, no, no, no. He must not think about that.

Peace and calm. That was what would get rid of this pounding in his head, this detachedness in his limbs.

In another glimpse he saw a house being swept along on a trailer, down on the far side of the mountains now. A house? Certainly half a house, a wooden house complete with curtains at its windows, flapping like sails in a stiff breeze, and wallpaper to be glimpsed in the interior.

Then, not on the unending road itself but down beside a farmstead some fifty yards from it, casually left as if it was a battered old lorry, there was a plane. A plane in a farmyard. It must be a dream. It was not.

He made himself then keep his eyes open for a little, taking care to hold himself so that Fred Hoskins could not see that he was awake. Another word-battering from the jackal-fur-crowned private eye and his throbbing head would split.

From the twisted angle he was looking down on to the road he began to notice what lay on the verge just beside it. For yard on yard it was littered by rubbish. There were bright drink cans of every colour, some crumpled, others intact and rolling a little to and fro in the wind of the passing speeding vehicles. There were bottles, glinting in the sun intact or broken into a thousand glittering fragments. There were, sparkling white and indestructible, dozens and dozens and dozens of little beakers made out of some substance so light that they drifted back and forwards in the slightest puff of air. Throwaway cups. But unlike the clay cups of India they seemed obstinately to resist going back into their native element. And there were, too, cardboard boxes, hundreds of them, brightly coloured, which he surmised must have contained things to eat, those hot-dogs or whatever it was you got at that Mc—yes, McDonald’s.

How stupid he had been over that. What an advantage he had given to Two Thousand Rupees a Day, Plus Expenses. To the Californian.

He shut his eyes once more to blot out the thought.

But he could not keep them closed for long.

Suddenly, however, the lulling tempo of the big speeding car was checked. Ghote sat up, shaking his head and looking all around him. He had slept. He must have done. Because they had left the freeway and were going at a much reduced speed along a quite narrow blacktop road.

“Just about one mile to go, Gan boy,” Fred Hoskins said, his hammer voice bringing home to Ghote that sleep had done nothing to cure his thudding head. “I estimate our journey time at one hour and thirty-eight minutes. Some driving.”

“Oh, yes. Good. Very good. Fred.”

Ghote felt a sudden hollow in the pit of his stomach. In just a few minutes’ time he might find himself confronting the Swami With No Name. And what would he say to him? How would he be able, in these strange, upsetting surroundings, to decide whether or not he was talking to a true swami, a yogi, a person who had acquired powers that could be at their highest nothing short of miraculous? Or, if the man was not a yogi, would he even be able, feeling wretched as he did, to catch him out in his fraud? Because, no doubt about it, if he was a fraudster he would be a devilishly cunning one.

And which of those two alternatives would it be preferable to find?

He wriggled on the broad leather seat of the monster car.

Perhaps, after all, he would be lucky and be prevented from meeting this adversary straight away. Perhaps it would be only Nirmala Shahani that he would have to tackle. A mere girl, whose obstinacy surely would not be too difficult to overcome, even if it took some days of persuasive talk.

And the ashram, what would that be like? Would it be a familiar Indian place, even though that sort of establishment was one he ordinarily fought shy of? A cluster of huts, with the swami’s a little bigger than the rest? A tree to give some shade? A kitchen with sharp-smelling cowdung smoke rising up from it? Disciples in orange robes or orange saris sitting cross-legged on the ground listening to the long, sweet discourse of their guru, with a goat or two and some chickens wandering in among them?

Or would it be an American ashram? Something hard indeed to picture, but full of the great, tall creatures he had seen, confident, swift-moving, dealing with religion in just the same way as they dealt with the business of leaving the airport or the play of jogging or of tennis?

Would such people stand like guards keeping Nirmala away from him? Would they call in the cops when he tried to approach her? Accuse him of attempted abduction?

Or would they leave the swami to deal with him? Either by powers there could be no resisting, or by some double-dealing that, here alone, he would find hard to counter?

Fred Hoskins had brought the car almost to a halt. There was a gateway set a little back in the fence bordering the road and beside it a large white signboard with painted on it in rose-pink letters the single word ASHRAM.

Ghote swallowed, dry-mouthed, His head gave a series of pain-darting thumps.

They turned in through the open gate and went slowly along a dirt track. Soon, just before they entered the shade of the tall, dark green redwood trees that rose all the way up the ridge in front of them, they saw a low, circular, log-walled hut. Fred Hoskins brought the car to a halt in front of it.

“We have now arrived at the ashram Visitors’ Centre,” he announced, his voice booming even more loudly in the surrounding quiet. “This was the site of my interview with the Shahaneye girl. An interview, as you will recall, during which she informed me clearly that she never wished to return to Bombay, India. I came to the conclusion at that time, thanks to my training as a member of the L.A.P.D., that the witness was speaking the entire truth.”

“Yes,” Ghote said. “But, of course, I must see her also. And the swami too.”

“It’s what you’re here for, Gan. I suggest you now proceed into the Visitors’ Centre and start your inquiries. I’ll stay here as your back-up. Are you packing anything?”

Ghote, half-way out of the huge car, turned back.

“My suitcase, is it?” he asked, more than a little fazed. “You think I should take it with me?”

“A piece, Gan. A piece. I asked if you’re packing a piece.”

A feeling of total bewilderment descended on Ghote.

“Please,” he asked, “a piece of what?”

The look of pained dismay that he had seen on the towering private eye’s great beef-red face when they had first met reappeared and was even more explicit.

“A piece, Gan. Are you carrying a gun?”

“No,” Ghote said. “No, I am not. But why should I? I cannot take the girl away from here at gunpoint only. I am a policeman, not one of your gangster fellows.”

“A police officer,” Fred Hoskins said, his booming voice incredulous. “A cop without a piece?” He heaved a tremendous sigh. “Well, it’s your case, I guess, Inspector Goat.”

Ghote turned away and stepped clear of the car.

Yes, it was his case. Whatever way it had been thrust on to him, it was his case. If Nirmala Shahani was being detained at this place wrongfully, whether through some mystical power or by means of trickery, then he was going to find out exactly what had been done to her and take her away with him back to her rightful home. Ranjee Shahani had been certain his daughter was an unwilling victim, and even though influence had been used to secure altogether special attention, it was still right that there should be an investigation.

And investigation was his job. He would do it. Here in this extraordinary, burstingly wealthy land, just as he would do it in the familiar heights and depths of dusty Bombay.

He marched across towards the Visitors’ Centre.

When he got to within a few yards of the building he saw that its double doors were standing wide open. Ridiculously, the fact at once disturbed him. He saw himself as confronted by some jungle monkey-trap. The moment curiosity had lured him inside, he felt, those doors would come flapping closed behind him and he would be, not shipped off to some money-splurging research establishment across the other side of the world, but certainly somehow prevented from carrying out the task he had come here to do.

He gave his steadily thudding head a little angry shake. What absurdities entered in when the mind was disoriented.

A few brisk steps took him inside the little building. To his surprise there was no one there. He looked round. The walls were largely hidden by clothes racks on which hung loose orangey-coloured garments, each marked with a prominent price-tag. A pair of large glass-fronted cupboards also contained various labelled items for sale. ELECTRONIC MEDITATION TIMER, he read. SHANTI BOARD GAME (NON-COMPETITIVE), YOGA PANTS (GUARANTEED MADE IN INDIA)—the price asked for those simple garments made him raise his eyebrows—MEDITATION EARPLUGS (NATURAL WAX), FOLDING MEDITATION BENCH (CUSHION EXTRA)”

The middle of the hut was occupied by an eight-sided table on which various brightly-coloured pamphlets had been spread in neat piles. Up against one of the piles, he saw, there was a piece of card with something written on it in scrawled letters. He bent forward more closely and read.

SWAMI IS GIVING A DISCOURSE IN THE MEDITATION HALL THIS AFTERNOON. ALL VISITORS WELCOME. FOLLOW THE PATH UP THE HILL.

He felt a jet of pleasure. The Swami With No Name giving a discourse. It would provide a first-class opportunity to take a good, long look at the fellow while he himself was unobserved. Just what he wanted.

And—suddenly things were going his way—there behind one of the racks of floppy orange garments was a little back door to the hut. If he could slip out through that he might be able to leave Fred Hoskins sitting in his monster car in—what was it he had said?—a back-up situation. With his piece, yes, his piece at the ready. To be free of that looming, noisy presence while making some quiet observations, what could be better?

The little door proved to be unlocked. Ghote stepped carefully out and began to make his way through the tall redwood trees up the hill, carefully keeping the bulk of the Visitors’ Centre between himself and Fred Hoskins’ car.

Soon after he had safely rejoined the dirt track he began to see through the trees the shapes of bright-coloured tents and the occasional wooden hut. He guessed that these were where the disciples of the ashram slept. Perhaps in one of them Nirmala Shahani would be found.

After a while the broad path, criss-crossed with tyre-tracks, divided, one branch continuing straight up the hill and the other, marked with a neat signpost saying ASHRAM, leading off to the right. A few yards distant from the fork a curious little structure caught his eye. It looked like a square metal cupboard standing all alone, half-hidden by the thick trunk of a soaring redwood. It was painted a bright blue and had some white lettering on it.

He wondered if it might be some sort of information kiosk, somewhere with pamphlets about the ashram and perhaps some bio-data on the Swami With No Name. He ought to have taken whatever was available at the Visitors’ Centre, but the prospect of slipping away and seeing the swami quietly for himself had made him forget. This might be his chance.

He went quickly through the trees towards the upright little metal box, and when he got near was able to see that the lettering on it spelt out JOHNNY ALL ALONE. What could that mean?

Cautiously he pulled open the door at the front.

A lavatory, western-style, confronted him, smelling abundantly of some artificial floweriness, very like that he had encountered in the men’s room at the airport. An American smell. The disappointment and surprise affected him with altogether disproportionate force. Abruptly he was aware how very far away he was from India. Poor, distant India where for the most part the open ground, though perhaps it should not do so, served the purpose of this bright blue box, so efficient, so functional and so private.

At a much slower pace he made his way along the path leading to the ashram’s Meditation Hall and the Swami With No Name.

He did not have far to go before he saw through the trees a circle of large log-built huts with, rising above them two odd and different buildings. One, on the farther side of the circle, was a big, pure white dome looking to his eyes a cross between a futuristic, solidly material structure reminiscent in a way of the spider-like control tower at Los Angeles airport and something airily light and flyaway like the intangible spiritual claims of an ashram.

But the second, nearer structure was perhaps even odder. At its base, he saw as he advanced, it was a log-cabin much like the Visitors’ Centre though somewhat larger, square in shape and apparently without windows. Above this base, however, there rose, twice as high, into the unbroken deep blue of the sky a tall spiral apparently made out of translucent orange plastic. What could such a place be?

He would have to find out later. The opportunity of observing the swami awaited him urgently now.

He went forward until he had reached the edge of the wide clearing in which the circle of buildings stood. There could be little doubt that the big white dome was the Meditation Hall and, squaring his shoulders, he set off towards it passing through the gap between the extraordinary orange-roofed building and a large plain one which, to judge by the faint odour of food coming from it, would be the ashram’s communal dining hall.

Against its wall, just as he emerged into the centre circle, a bicycle was propped in a state of half-repair, the tyre of its front wheel off and the soft rubber inner tube loosely dangling. It was a machine of much the same old standard pattern as the thousands he saw every day on the streets in Bombay, markedly different from the one or two low-slung, heavily-geared affairs he had noticed at the start of his trip out to the ashram. The sight of this old machine reversed in an instant the depression he had been plunged into by his encounter with the Johnny-All-Alone box. Here at last was something that did not work, and someone who, clearly, had lost heart half-way through trying to put it to rights.

Perhaps, here under the Californian sun, he was after all in a sort of India.

So he marched, careless now of his still thud-thudding head, straight across the centre circle over to the pure whiteness of the domed Meditation Hall. Its double doors, like those of the Visitors’ Centre, stood invitingly open. But this time he did not hesitate, mounted the two or three wooden steps confidently and entered.

He found himself in a lobby whose floor was covered with a huge variety of footwear, sandals, shoes, boots, runner’s shoes like the pair he had seen on the jogger and great clumsy rubber boots, all discarded in obedience to a stark notice on the wall saying ABANDON SHOES AND LOGIC ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

But he was not going to abandon logic. Certainly not. He was going to enter and observe and quietly deduce. He was going to be what Dr. Hans Gross called in his mildew-stained masterwork Criminal Investigation, which he had not succeeded in snatching before his departure from his cabin at C.I.D. Headquarters, “a careful weigher of facts.”

His shoes, however, he would abandon. He did not want in any way to be conspicuous inside the hall.

He slipped them off—they were his better pair, worn in honour and fear of setting foot in America—put them where he could slide into them again quickly and easily and then turned to the inner pair of double doors leading into the hall itself.

Very quietly he pushed back one leaf and stepped inside.

The sight that met his eyes was as reassuring as the half-repaired bicycle had been. Under its white dome the building looked not all that unlike a temple in India. It was a good deal more filled with light, but the whole floor area was cluttered with worshippers, most of them sitting cross-legged. Many wore clothes, either orange in colour or white, that might have been seen in any temple, though here and there some unashamed Westerners were dressed in T-shirts. On the far wall in huge Devanagri script was the mystic word AUM together with paintings that plainly represented swamis of a past era, men who had never left their native India, copiously white-bearded sages whose eyes glowed with tender thoughts. And they were garlanded, too.

The air was heavy as well with the scent of agarbati, the drifting smoke from the little burning sticks visible here and there. And there was sitar music, rolling and tinkling out. Evidently the swami had yet to begin his discourse.

All the better.

He dropped into a sitting position on the floor by the doors.

The sitar-player, when he had located him at the left-hand front corner of the raised platform at the far side of the hall, gave him a new jab of uneasiness. Although dressed in the ochre garb of a holy man and although his playing gave every evidence of familiarity with his instrument, he was unmistakably a Westerner. His shaven head, all but a tuft at the back, was white-skinned and pale and his deep-set eyes were a piercingly bright blue.

The steady thudding of his headache obtruded itself again and he was once more aware of the weariness deep in every limb.

And then suddenly his eyes were caught by the man he had come to observe, and had a little dreaded seeing. The Swami With No Name. At the opposite side of the platform to the white sitar-player he had quietly risen to his feet. But, smooth and apparently unobtrusive though the movement had been, somehow it had at once attracted the gaze of every person down on the floor of the big domed building.

Perhaps, Ghote told himself sharply, this was simply because there had come the moment in a regular order of events when the swami’s discourse always began. So his hungry audience would have been expecting him to get to his feet. Perhaps no more than that was needed to explain the mass magnetic movement down on the floor. Or perhaps not.

The swami stood looking silently down on the sea of upturned faces. At the other side of the platform the sitar music faded away into nothingness.

Ghote had to acknowledge that the man, true yogi or clever confidence trickster, was an impressive figure. Heavy curling locks of black hair fell tumbling on either side of a clean-shaven, full face that gave out a sweetness and benevolence which radiated to the very farthest points of the big domed building. He was tall, too. Tall and upstanding with broad, easily-held shoulders. He wore clothes of the same orange as most of the people sitting at his feet. But, it was plain to see even at a distance, that where they were dressed in cotton he was clad from head to foot in silk. A loose top-garment, loose trousers and a wide shawl across his broad shoulders in a shade of orange that was almost red.

Yes, no getting away from it, an impressive figure.

And now, after a long, long pause, he was raising his curl-framed head to speak.

What would he say? Would he produce a stream of honeyed comfort such as the swamis on Chowpatty Beach back in Bombay poured out to their attentive hearers on the dry sand in front of them? Or would he produce something different? Something somehow American?

The words the swami uttered as he began were neither of those. And they astonished Ghote.

“There is someone here in pain,” he said. “Someone who has come and is not happy. His head is paining him. He needs help. You there, at the back by the doors, come here to me.”