LITMIR.BIZ

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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.’

      THREE

      With the sound of the great gong in the portico still humming in the air, Ghote rose up from the edge of the wide leather armchair where he had been sitting. He felt trapped, and he felt foolish. How could the Assistant Commissioner have agreed to him being sent here? To take part in what seemed to be some sort of a detective story? But then he knew the answer. He had been sent because a person of influence had asked for him.

      Yet, here in Ooty, paradise Ooty, hell Ooty, how had it come about that he had allowed himself to be engulfed in that influential figure’s unlikely theory? He thought he knew the answer to that, too. It was because he could not, when it came down to it, fly in the face of someone with so much influence and authority.

      And perhaps he had been sensible not to have done so. After all, if he had, word would soon enough have got back to whatever high-up old friend the former ambassador had gone to in the first place. It might be a Cabinet Minister even. Or the head of some huge industrial empire with contacts at the top. Or some very, very senior civil servant. And when they got to hear his career might be blighted for ever.

      No, it was best, in a way, to let this ridiculous business go on. And, besides, it might not be altogether ridiculous.

      There was just something in what His Excellency had said. The circumstances of the murder were not one hundred per cent consistent

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