Читать книгу Inspector Ghote, His Life and Crimes - H. R. F Keating - Страница 10

Deputy Superintendent Samant looked at Inspector Ghote with a starkly obvious effort to keep under control the terrier sharpness of his usual manner.

‘I think I have only to say to you,’ he uttered, almost pushing the words back down his own throat, ‘to say one name, that of Dr P. R. Kumaramangalam.’

Total blankness abruptly occupied the whole of Ghote’s mind. Above him in the Deputy Superintendent’s office in Bombay CID Headquarters the big ceiling fan whirred with an insistent drone that seemed to blot out every coherent thought.

At last he forced himself to reply, licking his parched lips.

‘Dr P. R. Kumaramangalam, DSP sahib?’

With audible relief the DSP allowed a quick spurt of rage to escape him.

‘Yes, yes, man, Dr P. R. Kumaramangalam. Are you going to tell me you have never heard of him? The newly-appointed head of the All-India College of Surgeons? Inspector, do you never read books? Do you never browse even through the pages of Times of India Who’s Who?’

‘Yes—. No, sir. Not the Who’s Who, sir.’

With joy, DSP Samant let loose a single cutting blast of sarcasm.

‘Then you can take it from me, Inspector, the day will never come when you feature in those pages. Never. Never in one hundred years.’

‘No, sir.’

It was a comfort to be able to agree without reservation. Even the DSP seemed to lose some of his bottled impatience. He leant back in his heavy wooden armchair and surveyed Ghote across his desk with something like calm.

‘Dr Kumaramangalam, Inspector,’ he said, ‘besides being the head of the All-India College is also a close personal friend of the Commissioner.’

His voice rose to an incisive peak on those last two words and Ghote irradiated his face with a look of proper awe.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘And the Commissioner, Inspector, has asked me, me personally, to undertake a certain assignment on behalf of Dr Kumaramangalam. An assignment not strictly official, Inspector, and one requiring the utmost discretion.’

The pouncing sharpness was building up again under the effort to speak of the matter with a calm equal to the discretion it required. The DSP’s hands were holding hard on to the arms of his chair.

‘The utmost bloody discretion, man,’ he repeated.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Ghote.

Deep down a little flicker of delight began to play inside him. A matter requiring utmost discretion, and he had been summoned by the DSP to be told about it. No doubt to take part in whatever inquiries were necessary.

‘It seems, Inspector,’ the DSP said, once more making an effort to regain a fitting calm, ‘that some weeks ago our friends the Customswallahs were chasing some gold smugglers in a boat up the mouth of a certain river not a hundred miles from Bombay, and in the course of the chase they came upon an aged Englishman living, all on his own and in conditions of considerable destitution, on a tiny island in the river mouth.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Ghote put in with caution.

‘Yes, Inspector. Now, in the course of inquiries the Customswallahs heard mention in connection with this individual – generally known to the fisherfolk in the vicinity only as the River Man – of another name.’

The DSP paused.

Another name, thought Ghote. And he had already betrayed a lamentable ignorance over Dr Kumaramangalam. Please, oh please, let him get this one right.

‘The name Valsingham Doctor, Inspector.’

‘Valsingham Doctor. But, DSP … But, sir, that name is known to me. It—’

‘Of course it is known to you, man. Have I not heard it from your own lips? And more than once. Much more than once. For what other reason did you think I was requiring your assistance, Inspector? Because you are renowned for your ability to handle a matter requiring discretion?’

DSP Samant laughed. Long and loudly. He enjoyed himself.

‘Yes, Inspector,’ he continued at last. ‘You and your precious Dr James Walsingham. You and your precious eye-surgeon who cured the whole of your village, was it, when you were a boy? Your hero, Inspector. On an island, Inspector. Somewhere in a river nobody ever goes to, Inspector. The River Man, Inspector, your Dr James Walsingham.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Ghote said.

Could it be true? Surely Dr Walsingham, that benefactor, must be dead? Yet he had not heard that he was, and if he had been he would certainly have known. A man who had meant so much to him as a boy. Someone he had – how could he have done? – even mentioned so often to DSP Samant that he had been marked down for it? But it was certainly possible Dr Walsingham was still alive. After all, he had looked hale and hearty in newspaper pictures, with that neat beard no more than grey, some twenty years ago. So he could well be alive. A man of perhaps eighty or more. Alive and well.

Or not well …

‘Sir, you have said destitute, sir. Is he not well, sir? Sir, a man like Dr Walsingham – oh, sir, a public benefactor, not too much to say a saint, sir – ought not to be left alone and ill.’

‘Precisely, Inspector. The point, of course, that Dr Kumaramangalam made to his friend the Commissioner. And that the Commissioner made to me. Only …’

‘Only, DSP sahib?’

‘Only this man, this River Man, is he truly Dr James Walsingham, Inspector? Because he certainly appears to take pains not to own to that name, to any name. And that is creating a certain difficulty.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Ghote said.

Later that day Ghote, propelling forward with difficulty a commandeered fisherman’s boat, little more than a hollowed-out log, felt himself becoming more and more perturbed by the problem that the identity of the River Man presented. He had seen him already, a figure that could have been no one else, prowling haggardly about the tiny island out in the wide river mouth. With DSP Samant he had watched him through binoculars for some considerable time. But the gaunt, long-bearded emaciated old man he had seen at that distance was nothing at all like the trim Dr Walsingham he had followed through the village when he had come there to carry out eye operations on the afflicted brought from miles around.

He looked mad, the old River Man. There could be no doubt about it. They had seen him through the glasses muttering to himself. While ‘Valsingham Doctor’ – as the non-English speakers among the poor always called him – had been far from mad. A dynamo of concentrated energy, selfless, tireless, working all the hours of light and falling asleep exhausted almost as soon as darkness had come. A powerhouse of good-doing, giving everything, asking nothing.

Except for Garibaldi biscuits.

Ghote glanced down at his feet. There on the rough-hacked bottom of their lumbering boat was a super-smart shiny packet of Garibaldi biscuits. DSP Samant had ordered him to get them – and a fearful chase he had had to find any – because he had remembered that once Ghote had mentioned the great healer’s touching liking for just this sweet, currant-filled biscuit. A gift of this kind would perhaps ensure their welcome in what might be extremely difficult circumstances.

‘There. Make for that tree.’

The DSP pointed. Ghote plunged his crude paddle into the swirling brown water and pushed with all his might. Their heavy craft swayed alarmingly and Ghote almost hurled the paddle at the water on the other side. The boat, which hitherto had moved no faster than a buffalo watering in some pond, suddenly surged forward and plunged suckingly on to a submerged bank of mud two full yards clear of the slimey-rooted tree.

‘Idiot,’ said the DSP. Ghote back-paddled desperately, sweat pouring down him. The log-like boat remained exactly where it was.

‘Damn it,’ the DSP shouted. ‘I cannot remain here all afternoon.’

He stood up, eyed the firm platform of the tree’s exposed roots and jumped.

The force of his departure did what Ghote’s paddling had been unable to do. The heavy boat slid sharply off the mud bank. Deprived at the last instant of a firm footing, the DSP landed with a splash and a long slow squelch about half-way between boat and bank.

He forced his way to dry land in terrible silence, then turned.

‘Get that boat to where I ordered,’ he exploded. ‘Get it there. And then come to join me. And do not come barging in when I am talking. This is a matter that requires discretion. Discretion, Ghote. Discretion.’

He marched off. His trousers, till now immaculate and wonderfully smart, were up to the knees black as sin.

For ten dispiriting minutes Ghote manoeuvred his intractable craft in and out, splashing and cursing, sweating from head to foot and sometimes feeling near to tears. But at last he got it right up to the tree the DSP had indicated and tied the sopping rope at its prow to one of the roots. He got himself carefully ashore and set off cautiously across the little island towards the sole building on it, a tumbledown hut of palm leaves.

He had hardly set out, however, when he heard the DSP’s voice. And as he neared the wretched hovel the words came more and more clearly to his ears.

‘… cannot go on saying nothing, man. What is your name? Come on, you must have a name. You must. Now, answer up. Answer up.’

The voice rang all about the tiny, densely overgrown island.

Discretion, Ghote thought. Oh, DSP sahib.

But the fury apparently produced no answer. After a little, the DSP began again.

‘Very well, I will go over the whole thing once more. Just once. Yes? Yes?’

Again he seemed to receive no answer. Ghote stood where he was in the shade of a stubby banana palm. Insects hummed and whined in his ears. In a moment he heard the DSP’s voice once more.

‘Oh, very well then. But listen to me. Acting on information received, I came to this disgraceful shack on this island in the middle of nowhere and I find one inhabitant, aged approximately eighty years, apparently of European extraction, not in a good state of health or of cleanliness, wearing a pair of old khaki shorts only, lying upon a charpoy which is in a state of disintegration. I put it to this individual “You are Dr James Walsingham?” And what does he do? He refuses to make answer.’

The DSP’s voice paused … and then resumed on a note of rising indignation.

‘I put a perfectly polite question. Are you or are you not Dr James Walsingham? It is perfectly easy to answer. Yes, I am. Or no, I am not. Whichever applies. But you refuse to answer. Why is that? What in God’s name, man, can there be in such a question that you refuse altogether to make any answer whatsoever?’

Another pause. Shorter this time. Then again.

‘The days of the British Raj are over. The Angrezi Sarkar is no more. I am an officer of police duly authorised to question. I am DSP Samant, Bombay CID. And you are committing an offence. Under Section 179 Indian Penal Code. So answer up. Answer up.’

The voice rang and rang, but not the faintest murmur of reply followed. Silence stretched. Ghote heard, down in the river, the heavy plop of a fish rising.

‘Oh, very well then,’ the DSP’s voice had a note of familiar sarcasm in it now. ‘Oh, very well. But I am not finished yet. I have something still that you have not at all thought about.’

And then with total abruptness the voice changed.

‘Ghote. Ghote. Inspector Ghote.’

The shouts rang out.

‘Yes, DSP. Coming, DSP. Here, DSP sahib.’

Ghote ran towards the sagging palm-leaf hut. He tripped over the root of a tree, staggered, righted himself and arrived, panting, at the dark entrance.

‘Yes, DSP? Can I be of assistance, sir?’

It was yet darker in the hut and he could make out little beyond the DSP who was standing just inside. Only down near ground level the glint of what must be two eyes, like the glaring eyes of some animal.

‘Now then, Mr River Man,’ the DSP said. ‘Here is something you were not expecting. Ghote, what was it at the age of six years or seven you were privileged to witness? Hm? Eh? What?’

Ghote swallowed.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘DSP, I take it that you are requesting me to refer to the time when our village was visited by the great Dr James Walsingham?’

‘Exactly, man,’ the DSP snapped. ‘And at that time you saw a good deal of Dr Walsingham? Eh? Eh? You followed him round like a faithful dog only, yes?’

‘Yes, sir. Yes, I did.’

‘Good. Fine. Excellent. And now, tell me, who is that individual you can see lying on that charpoy there?’

Ghote took a step forward and looked down. He was quickly able to see a good deal more, the spreading tangled beard of the man he had watched through the binoculars, his bare and ribby chest, the torn khaki shorts. Soon all that remained of the face as it emerged from its frame of matted hair was fully visible.

‘Sir, it is difficult,’ he said.

‘Nonsense, man, nonsense,’ DSP Samant snapped. ‘Go nearer. Take a damn good look.’

Ghote obeyed. He did not feel altogether happy to do so, but nevertheless he put his face close to that of the man on the charpoy and peered hard. Two red-rimmed eyes looked back at him, blankly and ferociously.