Читать книгу Breaking and Entering - H. R. F Keating - Страница 9

Ghote had promised, against his better judgment, that he would join Axel Svensson for lunch at the Taj’s daily buffet. He would have much preferred to have gone straight to the next person on his list of Yeshwant’s victims. He had hoped, having seen Mrs Latika Patel, that this would be to a ninth-floor flat in a block called Green Apartments at Worli Seaface. But when he had telephoned to make sure Yeshwant’s victim, a Mrs Gulabchand, would be there he had been told that she was ‘out at family shack, Peace and Quiet, at Juhu Beach’. But, of course, she had a mobile phone with her.

He had called her then and arranged a meeting.

So, however much he would have preferred to be going alone on his scooter in the heat to Juhu than to be sitting in the cool of the Taj, he knew he could do nothing else. But the wave of concern he had felt when it was borne in on him that the big Swede was a wretched and lonely man had made him promise to join him. He must stick to that.

From the moment, however, that they had each collected a plateful from the long tables and found themselves chairs, before either of them had taken so much as a mouthful, he discovered his concern was going to be ill-rewarded.

‘Ganesh. Ganesh, my old friend, I must tell you something terrible.’

Ghote’s spirits, fragile at best, tumbled. Why did this have to happen to him? One moment contentedly on a case that required only steady work and some decent luck. Then a shout from the door of a Rajah Super Airbus and a sharp complication entering his life. Almost at once to be followed by that lancing appeal to his sense of compassion. And now, a sudden multiplication by two, those words something terrible. What could it be that, within twenty-four hours of Axel Svensson’s arrival in India, had been terrible?

‘But tell me what it is,’ he said resignedly. ‘I am sure whatsoever has happened may be put right.’

‘Ah, it is not what has happened to me. It is what might happen. Or it is like a foretaste of what may happen to me, or to anyone here in India. You know, I came here with such hopes. At home everything seemed gloomy and miserable. With us, winter is a long wearing time, at its worst almost without any daylight, and cold, bitterly cold. I thought, with all the sadness I had, I could not endure the winter that is just about to begin back there. So India seemed such a hope, such a joy for me ahead.’

‘Yes, yes. A winter like that must be terrible. As terrible as our summer, when it is at last getting so hot you cannot move or even think. But what it is that has made you feel India is no longer having what you were hoping would chase out your sadness?’

‘It is a thing I heard.’

‘Heard? Heard only?’

‘Yes. Yes, I thought, as you were not able to let me come with you this morning, I would take a stroll to see how much I could remember of Bombay. No, of Mumbai. I have got it now. Mumbai.’

‘Yes, a good thing to do surely?’

‘It might have been. Yes, it might have been. But I had not long left the hotel when up beside me there came a man, not very well shaved, wearing just a shirt, not too clean, some no-colour cotton trousers, and on his feet a flapping pair of rubber sandals. What is it you call them?’

‘Chappals, chappals.’

‘Yes, chappals. So this individual came up beside me and at once he began to talk. He had very good English, which was excellent for me. You know sometimes I am hardly able to understand the English some Indians speak. Not you, my dear fellow. Not you. But with some people I have asked questions.’

Served you right for going up to people and breaking in on them with your questions-pestions, Ghote thought. But he kept his face intent.

‘He was most kind, this man. And most interesting. He saw I was a foreigner and he took it on himself to tell me all about his city.’

Yes, Ghote thought. One of the many idlers who hang about the Taj, offering their services as guides. If not worse. If not as sellers of all sorts of doubtful substances, or of rupees for dollars, with cheating also.

But again he said nothing.

‘So we walked a lot in the streets, the two of us. It was hot. But it was so interesting, so full of life, that I didn’t mind that at all. I saw a man sitting on the kerb having his underarms shaved. I saw a small boy earning his living by hiring out a weighing scales. I saw a man in a big orange turban – from Rajasthan, my friend said – sitting playing a sort of fiddle and singing and singing all to himself. I saw so many things, women in beautiful saris in every colour under the sun, bandsmen in uniforms even more fantastic than the ones South American generals used to have. And then my friend took me to a juice bar. I don’t remember just where, but it was next to somewhere called the Ever New Hairdressing Hall. I remember that. I think I shall never forget it.’

‘Yes, yes. But what was happening?’

‘Well, first we had some excellent cold drinks.’

Which you paid for.

‘And then my friend was telling me this story, this horrible story. And all the pleasure of the day was taken from it.’

‘So, what was this story?’

‘Listen, this is what he told me had happened. He was swearing to me it was hundred per cent true.’

‘Yes?’

‘There was this man. He met up with some others and they went drinking somewhere. Just as they might have done in Sweden. And then something was put in this man’s drink and after a while he fell into a deep sleep. Well, that also might have happened in Sweden. Not everybody there is a saint. But in Sweden that man would have been robbed and nothing more. Here … Here it was different. It was worse, worse.’

‘But what it was? Axel, you must tell me.’

‘It was this. In the morning when he woke up he felt the most appalling pain in his back. He lay there in agony for a long while, and then at last he dared to feel behind himself. And he found— He found a piece of cloth. A piece of cloth, thick with encrusted blood. He called for help and at last was taken to a hospital. There they told him that, while he had been drugged into unconsciousness, he had been cut open and— And one of his kidneys had been taken.’

‘A kidney removed? But had he, this fellow, been carried off to one of those doctors who pay the poors to give a kidney, more or less legally, to someone who is badly needing transplant? I was having some experience of that once.’

‘No, no. That perhaps is rather bad. But this was much, much more terrible. The people who did this thing were not doctors at all. They were thieves. Plain and simple thieves. I suppose they sold the kidney afterwards to some unscrupulous surgeon. But it is terrible. Ganesh, there are people in this city who will dig into your very body and steal your kidney. This is a terrible place. It is terrible, your Mumbai.’

‘But, no. No, Axel, my friend. Very well, I am admitting that this account you have given shows an altogether black side. But think. Howsoever much this fellow you were talking to was swearing and swearing his story was true, it does not have to be so. A fellow like that— Tell me, were you giving him money?’

‘Well, yes. Yes, of course, he was giving me so much of his time that it was only right I should give him something in exchange.’

‘How much?’

‘Well, I was taking a fifty-rupee note from my wallet, and he was actually seeing that I had some one-hundreds there, so …’

‘Yes. Exactly. You see, he would be wanting to push into your mind he had done you some maha favour. So that in the end you would be happy to hand over whatsoever he was asking. He was wanting to set that there in your head.’

‘No, no. What he said must be true. He was swearing it was.’

‘But I am telling you it is more likely it was some made-up thing. Yes, something like it may have occurred. But, if it was less of horrible, he would not have been able to make you feel you were owing him so much because he had told you about it.’

‘Well, I suppose it may be like that.’

He saw the Swede making a visible effort to accept the likelier account. But he had more than a few doubts that he would ever agree completely. His mind had been too cunningly attacked.

‘Come,’ he said briskly. ‘Eat that good food you have put on your plate. Eat it up, and then we will be off to find if we can, this very afternoon, one fine clue to Mr Yeshwant’s whereabouts.’

So, instead of riding out to Juhu Beach, Ghote had the Taj’s tall colourfully turbaned Sikh doorman summon over his booming loudspeaker the next taxi in the line waiting at a respectful distance.

For some while as their journey unwound Axel Svensson remained silent, lost in thought. Yet, glancing at him from time to time, Ghote saw those thoughts were not the sort of vaguely pleasant ones he himself had managed eventually to fill his head with while he had gone to Mrs Patel perched high in her apartment at Landsend. No doubt the firinghi was mulling over and over the blackness of life that had been thrust into him in a way he had not at all expected beneath the Indian sun.

And Axel Svensson’s fear was to be reinforced before they were halfway to their destination. They were halted at a red signal near Byculla Station. Suddenly on the Swede’s side of the cab there came a soft, dull tapping on the glass as insistent as the thumps Axel Svensson had delivered to the window of the Rajah Super Airbus to gain the attention of his friend of years past, rapt in that cricketing reverie.

It was, of course, a beggar tapping. But it was not with an ordinary beggar’s dirt-encrusted, claw-like hand. It was the stump of the man’s amputated arm that was being softly banged in a steady, demanding rhythm on the window, through which no doubt he had spotted the Swede’s white face.

‘Take no notice,’ Ghote said quietly. ‘You should not allow such a fellow as this to trouble you.’

‘But no,’ Axel Svensson replied. ‘No, the poor man has lost his arm. No, look. Look, he has lost both arms. He must be unable to do any sort of work. I must give him something.’

He rummaged in the inside pocket of his suit for his wallet.

‘Give him just only a coin, if you must give,’ Ghote said. ‘You know, the fellow is actually working. Begging is his work. That is part of life in Bombay that has always been here. You must accept same, and not be letting such people break in on your peaceful feelings.’

‘Well, if you say so.’

But Axel Svensson, digging into his trouser pocket, produced a good handful of silvery coins, wound down the cranky window – and found it impossible to put his gift into non-existent hands.

The beggar, however, skilled in his trade, contrived quickly to swing forward the little leather bag he had tied round his neck. The coins went in. And, to Ghote’s relief, the light ahead turned to green and their taxi shot away.

At least, he thought to himself, the beggar was not one of those women who go round with a dead baby, hired by the day. What would my soft-hearted friend have mistakenly done about one like her?

Happily the rest of the journey went without incident, and by the time they had passed Juhu’s Sun ’n’ Sand Hotel, haunt of film stars, and come in sight of the beach, with its scurrying children, its predatory fortune-tellers, its depressed-looking riding camels, its monkeywallas and acrobats, Axel Svensson was beginning to show signs of enthusiasm about the interview ahead.

‘Perhaps, my friend,’ he said, ‘before much longer you will actually be hot on the trail of Yeshwant.’

‘Perhaps.’

They had no difficulty in finding the Gulabchand shack, boldly labelled Peace and Quiet. Standing in the doorway of the comfortably substantial beach-side house was a person who could be none other than Mrs Gulabchand herself. Tall and imposing in a plain blue cotton printed sari, if one that was gold-bordered, she was imperiously supervising a sweeper with his stick-bundle broom swishing at the sand on the fenced-off wooden deck in front of the house.

‘No, no. You have left some there. There. Yes, there. Brush it away. I must have the place clean. Brush it. Brush. Whatever dirt and filth there may be on the beach, I am not having it brought on to my property. Not by so much as one sand-grain. Sweep. Sweep.’

Ghote went over and introduced himself, adding in a slightly shame-faced patter, ‘And this is Mr Svensson, from Sweden, he has written many reports for UNESCO on Indian policing methods.’

Mrs Gulabchand appeared to accept the Swede’s intrusion placidly enough.

‘Shall we go inside?’ she said. ‘I must apologize for this little place. It is not like my home itself. But I have to come out here when I can. Otherwise the pressures of my social engagements become altogether too great.’

‘Madam,’ Ghote said, ‘I quite understand.’

His sympathy, however much contrived, earned them immediately a servant bringing tea. When they were settled with it, in a great deal more comfort than Mrs Gulabchand’s apologies had warranted, Ghote gave a little cough and began.

‘I am well knowing, madam, you may have been asked all this before. But I am having to admit we are becoming altogether desperate to get even one clue that would lead us to the man they have named as Yeshwant.’

‘You should be desperate, Inspector,’ Mrs Gulabchand proclaimed. ‘That badmash was climbing right up to our apartment. On ninth floor itself. He was entering by one of the windows in— In our bedroom. Our bedroom, Inspector. How he was having the daring to do it I cannot imagine.’

‘And when were you realizing that he had made away with’ – Ghote consulted his notebook – ‘with one pearl choker necklace, valued at two lakhs of rupees.’

‘No, no, Inspector. That choker was worth much more than that. A great deal more.’

‘I regret, madam. I was quoting only the description given by Pappubhai Chimanlal and Co., from whom you were purchasing same only three weeks before the theft itself.’

‘Very well. Let us say two lakhs. It is not important.’

‘No, madam. But I was asking when you were realizing choker was not there.’

‘It was first thing in the morning, Inspector. I am always up early. I like to take down a tray of food for a cow that an old woman brings to the front of the building each day. I have a nice silver tray I keep especially for the purpose. I would not like it to be used for anything else when the cow has licked it, even after thorough washing. The woman comes always at seven, so if I am to be there before other people I have to be up in time to have my bath and get decently dressed. I would like even for the woman to be earlier, but the man she rents the cow from will not give it at the right hour. You can expect no more of such people these days, Inspector, I am sure you will agree.’

‘Yes, madam, yes. And that is bringing me to the question of your servants. Madam, do you believe any one of them may have somehow told this Yeshwant you had just bought your pearl choker?’

Mrs Gulabchand thought. Ghote could almost see her servants lined up in front of her as she pitilessly probed into each humbly bent head. But at last her face brightened.

‘No, Inspector, no,’ she said. ‘I am sure that such a thing was not happening. You see, I am always altogether most careful to keep all my jewelleries in the safe. The servants would not be knowing all I have got. It would be wrong if they did so.’

‘Wrong, yes, madam. But on the night that Yeshwant climbed up to your apartment you had left your choker out of the safe, yes?’

‘Yes. Yes, Inspector, I had. You see my husband had just been made president of his local Lions Club, a great honour. A great charity organization. So … So there had been a party. And, Inspector, when we were getting home, at two a.m. itself, I was altogether exhausted. There had been so many people to see, to talk to. And so, just that once – I promise you, just that once – I did not open up the safe.’

‘I see, madam.’ Ghote sighed, if hardly accepting the just that once. ‘I suppose Yeshwant had been watching your apartment and had seen you returning so late, and then when at last the light in your bedroom was shut he was climbing up. It must have been something like that.’

‘And it was wrong that it should be, Inspector. Wrong.’

‘Yes, madam. But you were telling how and when you saw that choker had gone next day.’

‘Yes. Yes, it was not until I had got back from feeding the cow.’

Axel Svensson, who had been showing signs of restiveness, leant forward sharply now.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘why is it you feed a cow? And from a tray of silver? Why is that?’

Ghote could have kicked him. But, happily, Mrs Gulabchand seemed pleased enough to instruct a firinghi.

‘The cow is sacred in India, sir,’ she said. ‘One gains great merit by feeding her. And all the more so if the food is properly served. In conditions of utmost cleanliness. The people you see buying bundles of dirty grass from women leading cows in the streets will not get their prayers very well answered in that way. I can assure you.’

‘But does the cow—’

Ghote jumped in before more harm was done.

‘Mrs Gulabchand,’ he said, ‘I am sorry to be questioning and questioning. But you may have noticed some small thing at the time of discovering the theft that would give us in the police just the line we are looking for. So, may I ask please, whether you were seeing anything out of place near where your choker was when this Yeshwant was lifting same?’

‘You are asking if there were dirty footmarks or something, Inspector? Let me assure you that my house is always in a state of full cleanliness. Whatever may be outside my door, I can promise you that inside everything is perfect. Perfect.’

‘But, madam, Yeshwant may have left his footmarks just only two-three hours before you were getting up to feed your cow. You could have seen same.’

‘Impossible, Inspector. Impossible. No one would dare leave dirt on my bedroom floor.’

For a moment Ghote wondered if he could point out the illogicality of what she had said. And then he saw that Axel Svensson was about to do just that. Quickly he decided that, however little he had learnt, he was unlikely from as self-regarding a person as Mrs Gulabchand to learn more.

‘Madam,’ he said. ‘You have been most kind. But what I now need is to inspect scene-of-crime itself. When will you be back at your so wonderful and perfect home?’

‘You may come tomorrow, Inspector. Or, no, that may not be a good time to have the police coming into my apartment. So, say, next day. Or soon. Soon. Telephone me.’