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it is a Member even?’

      ‘You are very much astonished at such a possibility?’

      ‘But no one is becoming even a Temporary Member without the recommendation of one who is already a Member.’

      Ghote put on a smile of heavy cynicism.

      ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘such is not invariable guarantee of always first-class behaviour?’

      Mr Iyer swallowed.

      ‘Perhaps you are correct, sir,’ he said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.

      A look of swift calculation came on to his face. Ghote imagined that his machine-like mind was running through the total list of the Ootacamund Club membership.

      ‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me, Mr Iyer, can you think of any circumstance whatsoever, that is in any way unusual, concerning any Club member who was sleeping in these premises during the night in which Pichu was killed?’

      The look of calculation on the assistant secretary’s face settled suddenly as if the whirring wheels in his head had locked together in one particular combination.

      ‘Well?’ Ghote said sharply.

      Mr Iyer bent forward even more over their table.

      ‘I was reading article in The Hindu newspaper about one year back,’ he said.

      ‘Yes?’

      Mr Iyer gave a strangulated cough.

      ‘Yes, Mr Iyer?’ Ghote said.

      ‘Well, I am not at all knowing if it is in any way relevant to the matter under discussion.’

      ‘You are bound to tell,’ Ghote said.

      Mr Iyer swallowed. Once.

      ‘It was a case of smuggling,’ he stuttered. ‘The smuggling of drugs. In Cochin. There was a consignment of catfish, most strongly smelling, as you no doubt know. But, thanks to an informer, the Cochin police were able to raid that place and discover rupees three crore worth of heroin concealed therein. Only …’

      He gave another strangulated cough.

      ‘Only the mastermind of the whole affair was absconding under the MISA,’ he said.

      ‘MISA?’ His Excellency interrupted. ‘Never can remember what that is. See it often enough in the damn newspapers.’

      ‘It is Maintenance of Internal Security Act,’ Ghote explained, furious at the loss of impetus in his questioning.

      ‘And the said absconder,’ Mr Iyer mercifully went on, ‘was described as being a Moslem gentleman of considerable size and weight.’

      His hands, which had twisted and turned as he had come out with his story, now dropped to his sides.

      ‘That is all?’ Ghote asked.

      ‘Yes. No.’

      ‘No? What more is there?’

      ‘It is that Pichu, the late Pichu, had always to my feeling too much of money for one in such lowly occupation. He was the possessor of one transistor radio of great power wherewith he was able to obtain Test match commentaries from foreign. And I myself was constrained to show him certain favours to be able to listen also.’

      ‘I see,’ Ghote said.

      So, he thought, perhaps His Excellency has more weight to his case than I was believing. It seems altogether likely now that Pichu’s behaviour is stinking of a blackmailer, and had been such for possibly many years.

      ‘There is one thing more,’ Mr Iyer whispered, bending yet closer.

      ‘Well, you are bound to state whatever you are knowing to fullest extent.’

      ‘It is drink. Pichu was frequently partaking of spirituous liquors. Perhaps from some illicit source in the Bazaar, perhaps even from one of the Club bars.’

      ‘Good God,’ said His Excellency.

      ‘I was never able to obtain one hundred per cent proof,’ Mr Iyer went on, ‘or otherwise it would have been a question of instant dismissal. But I had my most strong suspicions. Every night that I was in a position to do so I have smelt alcohol on that fellow’s lips when he was retiring to his sleeping place.’

      ‘That is finally all now?’ Ghote asked.

      ‘That is everything.’

      ‘Very good. You have done well to say what you were knowing. Very well.’

      The assistant secretary smiled, bowed, gave one last quick wash to his hands and left them.

      ‘Well,’ His Excellency said, ‘Habibullah arriving about a year ago; that drugs affair taking place at much the same time; the fellow, the mastermind, escaping; and Pichu here needing money for drink I suppose, and confirmed as a blackmailer. It all adds up, you know. It certainly all adds up.’

      He gave Ghote a look of quick admiration.

      ‘Had a small bet with myself,’ he said, ‘That you’d have the whole thing wrapped up within twenty-four hours, Ghote, but I never thought—’

      ‘But,’ Ghote broke in firmly, ‘a police officer is never proceeding on allegations only without checking the veracity of same.’

      ‘Quite right, my dear fellow. Quite right. And what steps do you propose by way of doing that?’

      ‘I shall talk with Inspector Meenakshisundaram in the morning,’ Ghote replied.

      His Excellency blinked.

      ‘Meenakshisundaram? That tomfool? My dear chap, I don’t think—’

      ‘But, yes, it is necessary. And, besides, it is my bounden duty when I am in his territory.’

      His Excellency pulled a long face.

      ‘Well, I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘So you won’t want to go talking to the others who were on the list now, will you?’

      ‘No,’ Ghote said, trying to contain his relief.

      And then, almost without willing it, he added something.

      ‘But what I would be liking to do,’ he said, ‘is to examine scene of the crime itself.’

      ‘The billiard room?’

      ‘Yes, the billiard room.’

      ‘The observance of trifles, eh?’ His Excellency said. ‘The final nails in the case? I look forward to seeing a Great Detective at work on that. Yes, indeed.’

      Ghote cursed his own over-conscientiousness. It had occurred to him that if Inspector Meenakshisundaram had really been completely fixed on the crime being the work of a dacoit, he might have overlooked some useful piece of confirmatory evidence in the billiard room. But he had not at all counted on having to give a demonstration of observing trifles, whatever that implied.

      Sullenly he followed His Excellency out. He had a fleeting impression of dark walls with animal heads hanging from them, of pictures everywhere, pale views of Ooty and group photographs of cheerfully grinning white faces, or of hunting scenes with Englishmen dressed in red coats happily falling off horses. And then they were at the door of the billiard room.

      There His Excellency paused.

      ‘Wait for the stroke,’ he said, repeating the words of a warning notice fixed to the wide door.

      He bent forward and peered through a small glass inset panel.

      ‘Yes, all right.’

      He opened the door and preceded Ghote into the room.

      It was totally unoccupied.

      There was just one table, its bare, once brilliant green baize noticeably faded under the light pouring down on it from a long

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