The Body in the Billiard Room - H. R. f. Keating An Inspector Ghote Mystery

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Ghote thought, at least I have put myself on good terms with the fellow. With this suspect. But so far he has in no way betrayed himself as any sort of murderer. So what next? What more to say?

      ‘Any family?’ he shot out at last, aware that too long a pause had already occurred. ‘That is—That is, you are having your family members here with you in Ooty also?’

      ‘Oh, no, no, my dear sir. I had children. Yes. Three. Perhaps four. Let us say four sons. But they went their ways. To tell the truth, I found the duties of a father somewhat too much. After long days striving to regulate the comings and goings of the altogether unregulatable passengers of Indian Railways I was not able to face regulating the comings and goings of my sons. So they went. Yes, they went. I do not know where.’

      Ghote felt more than a little puzzled. Could any father be so lacking in responsibility? Was Mr Habibullah really so? Or was this some blown-about fantastical joke? And again he wondered how, how, could a conversation which had taken such a turn be continued?

      He swallowed.

      ‘And Habibullah Begum?’ he inquired. ‘She is here?’

      ‘No, no, my good friend. A wife who insisted endlessly in the house on a place for everything and everything in its place? No, no. Once I was freed of my chains in the railways I stood before her and pronounced Talaq, talaq, talaq.’

      ‘Divorce? Moslem divorce?’ Ghote stammered out, wondering more and more whether what he was hearing could be true.

      ‘My dear sir, the only possible course. Away with all cares. Away with all chains. And then, Ooty. Magical, unreal Ooty. Oh, you cannot tell how greatly I enjoy my life here.’

      Enjoyments of Ooty, enjoyments of Ooty, Ghote thought. What to say about them? Golf. There was golf. And tennis? Walking also? And was there not a big, big Flower Show? And horse racing in the season? What was there to ask about the enjoyments of Ooty?

      But he need not have racked his brains.

      With a sudden doubly beaming smile the big Moslem had somehow stepped aside and was now propelling himself out of the room with his heavy, silver-topped stick.

      Ghote gave an anxious glance at his Watson and here in Ooty, his boss. But he was spared criticism of his performance as a Poirot.

      ‘Always the same,’ His Excellency said with a shrug. ‘Start talking to the fellow about something really interesting, detective stories or something, and what happens? Bang in the middle he just drifts off. Extraordinary. Extraordinary.’

      Extraordinary enough, Ghote thought. Perhaps altogether too extraordinary. So, was what the fellow had been saying – his mind began to race – was it all a show? Had it been done to convey a feeling to all and sundry of complete irresponsibility, just in order to conceal the committing of a well-planned deadly act?

      Perhaps, after all, he himself was not such a bad Poirot. Only there were four more such conversations awaiting him.

      FOUR

      It soon proved, however, that the time for further Hercule Poirot conversations had not yet come. While Ghote was working apprehensively through a large plate of creamy rice kheer and His Excellency was putting away a noble piece of apple crumble a youngish man dressed in a neat, tight-buttoned European suit, complete with tie, his face with its trim moustache partly concealed by a pair of large dartingly shiny spectacles, came into the room.

      ‘Ah, Iyer,’ His Excellency at once barked out. ‘Word with you, if you please.’

      He leant confidentially towards Ghote.

      ‘The Efficient Baxter,’ he said. ‘Ooty version.’

      ‘Please?’

      ‘Ha, don’t know your P. G. Wodehouse any more than your Agatha Christie, eh? We shall have to see to your education. Efficient Baxter, secretary fellow in the great man’s works. Iyer’s just like him, always poking his nose in everywhere. Club nearly lost a damn good cook once because of him totting up supplies in the kitchens.’

      ‘Ah, yes, I am understanding,’ Ghote said.

      And then the Efficient Baxter was with them, gleaming spectacles brightly inquiring, hands washing and washing themselves in an overwhelming desire to see something done down to the last detail plus a little extra.

      ‘Iyer,’ His Excellency said, ‘my friend, Mr Ghote here, would like to become a temporary Member. He’s up in Ooty for a few days. On holiday. On holiday, you understand. Nerves a bit out of order. Taking a break. Recommendation, as you might say, of Dr Moore Agar, of Harley Street.’

      He turned to Ghote with a covert wink.

      ‘I make no doubt you at least know your Sherlock Holmes,’ he murmured. ‘Adventure of the Devil’s Foot, if I’m not mistaken. Holmes sent off to Cornwall to avoid a complete breakdown from overwork.’

      Ghote smiled, palely.

      ‘Ah, yes, yes, Temporary Member,’ Mr Iyer said, redoubling the speed with which he was washing his hands. ‘I will fetch the necessary form immediately, and see it posted up on the notice-board for full scrutiny by existing Members before tomorrow dawns. Yes, yes, before tomorrow is in any way dawning.’

      And he darted away.

      Ghote turned to His Excellency.

      ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I am noting that you are telling all and sundry I am here as a person recovering from illness only. But, sir, if I am to investigate into the murder of the man Pichu I do not at all want that.’

      ‘Eh? Not want it? But it won’t do to let the murderer know the Great Detective is on his track. Or her track.’

      ‘Oh, but, yes, sir. In so far as I am this person it would be altogether better if the miscreant is knowing there is someone besides Inspector Meenakshisundaram investigating. Then he would no longer be laughing in his sleeves all the time but would perhaps make some move that would show him up for what he is.’

      ‘By Jove, you’re right, of course,’ His Excellency said, looking, to Ghote’s secret pleasure, somewhat abashed. ‘Damn silly of me. Exactly what Poirot said in the Mrs McGinty case. Flush the murderer out, eh? But then you and Poirot are two of a kind, aren’t you?’

      Ghote’s secret pleasure evaporated.

      But he was saved from pursuing the subject by the speedy return of Mr Iyer, flourishing a Form of Application for Temporary Membership.

      It took some time to get it filled in, largely because of Mr Iyer’s excess of zeal.

      But the long-drawn-out business gave Ghote the opportunity of making a quiet assessment of the Club’s assistant secretary. He was, he thought, a type he knew: the painfully over-conscientious type, which would possibly make him an extremely useful witnesss.

      So when at last the form was complete down to the last comma he put out a hand and detained him.

      ‘One moment,’ he said. ‘His Excellency has referred to Mr Sherlock Holmes and the matter of a devil’s foot, a story in which that most notable detective was sent off to recover from some sort of nervous illness. I suppose, however, that this was a case he was also investigating into and solving with uttermost brilliance.’

      ‘It was indeed,’ His Excellency put in.

      Ghote looked steadily at the Efficient Baxter, waiting to see if his point had sunk in.

      ‘So perhaps,’ he added, ‘it would not be much of surprise to you if I myself am asking questions about the murder of one Pichu, billiards marker at this Club.’

      But it did seem to surprise Mr Iyer, despite Ghote’s carefully planted warning.

      He started back from the table as if he had dropped the soap from his ever-washing hands and it had landed on his toe.

      ‘But—’

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