Читать книгу The Body in the Billiard Room - H. R. F Keating - Страница 8

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 much 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. ‘Want 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 dug 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.’

Ghote felt the challenge.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If the man had been killed in the course of a dacoity it is most unlikely his body would have landed up in such position. And also it may have been placed in that manner by way of making some sort of statement.’

‘Of course, my dear chap. Of course. But it takes a fellow of your stature to appreciate a point like that.’

Ghote cursed his impulsiveness.

‘But, sir,’ he said, hoping to regain lost ground, ‘it could have been mere chance only also.’

‘Well, suppose it could have been. … Perhaps. But you and I know better, don’t we? The Great Detective and his trusty Watson, eh? Or, as Poirot once said of Captain Hastings, the detective and his stooge. I hope you’re going to let me be your stooge, Ghote. I mean, go round with you as you investigate. Not sharing your thoughts, of course. But asking the odd question every now and again.’

‘Yes, sir—But, Your Excellency—’

‘Knew you’d see it that way. Good man. So let me tell you about the suspects.’

‘Suspects? There are suspects already?’

‘Well, yes, I haven’t been idle, you know. Made a few discreet inquiries in advance of your coming. And one thing’s quite clear.’

‘It is?’

‘Yes. Quite plainly, Pichu was murdered because he was blackmailing somebody. Only possible motive. And the fellow was a damn rogue, after all. Mustn’t speak ill of the dead and all that, and he had been a Club servant for half a century or more. But the truth is he was a nasty piece of work. Wouldn’t have put blackmail past him any day.’

‘If you are saying it.’

‘Yes, yes. Can’t be any doubt. But, and this is the thing, we can go one step further in narrowing it down. I mean, who would you point the finger at in the first place in a case like this?’

Ghote considered. Briefly.

‘In such cases we start by surmising on the servants,’ he said.

‘No, no, my dear chap. First rule of the game that. You know what Hercule Poirot says. In Dumb Witness, I think it is: “I eliminated the servants. Their mentality was obviously not adapted to such a crime.”’

‘But, Your Excellency, in the case you were giving me so much of credit for, it was a servant who was one of the murderers itself.’

‘Ah, different matter that. Different altogether. No, here in the Club you can take it there’s no question of a servant being involved. All neatly tucked away in their quarters, for one thing. Locked out. And that’s the point, you see, the place was properly snowbound.’

‘Snowbound? You are saying there was snow two days ago in Ooty? It is very, very cold, I am knowing, but I have seen no sign of snow.’

‘No, no, my dear fellow. I didn’t mean real snow. I meant what you might call metaphorical snow.’

‘Metaphorical?’

‘Yes. Just like in the books. The circumstances that make it clear that only a limited number of suspects could have committed the crime. I mean, in The Sittaford Mystery it was real snow. House on Dartmoor surrounded by snow, no footprints leading away, bound to be one of the people inside who’d done it. But just who was Dame Agatha’s secret, eh?’

‘It is an Agatha Christie story?’

‘You’ve got it in one, old man. Got it in one: the situation here is precisely that of a Christie story. You see, Pichu was killed some time during the night when all the doors were locked, and, since we’re certain that the missing Club trophies and the forced window in the billiard room were only intended to deceive—’

‘But, please,’ Ghote broke in.

‘No, no, let me finish. Since we’re certain of that, it follows the murder must have been committed by someone inside the building. And it’s out of season now, you know. I mean, if this had happened in Planters’ Week when every tea-estate manager for miles around comes flocking into the Club, it would have been a different matter altogether. But, you see, on the night of the murder there were just five people inside the locked premises.’

‘Five only?’

‘Yes, my dear fellow. Five. I mean, I know that in all the best detective stories there are six suspects, or seven. There’s a book actually called that, you know. Seven Suspects, by Michael Innes. But here we shall just have to put up with having only five.’

Ghote blinked.

‘And Inspector Meenakshisundaram has questioned each of these persons?’ he asked.

‘No, no. Of course not.’

‘Of course not? But why?’

‘Because he’s Inspector Lestrade. And what we want here is Sherlock Holmes. Or Hercule Poirot. You, in short, old chap.’

‘But, sir. But, Your Excellency—’

What Ghote might have managed to say at last he never knew. Because at that moment through the empty premises of the Club there came, booming and reverberating, the sound of a mighty gong stroke.

‘Dinner,’ said His Excellency, rising briskly to his feet. ‘Dinner, and with any luck all five of your suspects neatly lined up in the dining room for you.’