The Body in the Billiard Room. H. R. f. Keating
duty, Inspector. Ooty. Ooty. Ootacamund. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Ooty.’
‘No, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, I am very much hearing of Ooty. Hill station, sir. South India. Very high up in Nilgiri Hills. Most popular resort, sir.’
All the same, could he have heard the ACP correctly? Was it possible he was to be sent to a place as far away as Ooty? Damn it, it was more than a thousand kilometres from Bombay, right down in Tamil Nadu. It came under a different state force altogether.
At the other end of the line the Assistant Commissioner coughed sharply.
‘It seems, Ghote,’ he said, ‘that you have an excessively high reputation. In certain quarters.’
A high reputation? Ghote felt his heart give a lamb-joyous leap.
‘It appears you once made an arrest in a theft and murder affair in which some British novelist fellow had an interest, and he afterwards went about singing your damn praises.’
‘Yes, sir?’
Quiet caution seemed the only possible response. What could this be about?
‘Well, all that tamasha eventually came to the ears of a very influential gentleman long resident in Ooty, and there’s been a Section 302 business down there.’
‘Murder, sir?’
‘Yes, man. Murder. Murder. And this gentleman, one Mr Surinder Mehta MC, considers you, Ghote, are the only person capable of finding the perpetrator.’
Ghote felt another waft of rosy pleasure rise up in him. But there was a tiny thorn among the roses.
‘Please, sir. MC? You were saying after Shri Mehta’s name the letters MC, no?’
‘Yes, yes. They stand for some sort of British medal, a Military Cross or something. The gentleman – he’s pretty old – won it in the Second World War. I gather he likes the letters put after his name whenever he’s written to, etcetera. And there is one other thing.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You had better call him Your Excellency. He became an ambassador after Independence, Indian ambassador to some damn place in Europe. I don’t know whether he’s still properly entitled to be excellencied, but he likes it, I’m told. And you’d better do it.’
‘Yes, sir. Your Excellence. I would remember, sir.’
‘Your Excellency, Ghote. Excellency. Get it right.’
‘Yes, sir. Excellency. Excellency. But, sir, what exactly is this gentleman wanting?’
‘He is wanting you to present yourself in Ooty and solve his damn murder for him. The body on the billiard table. That’s where the victim was found. On the billiard table in the Ooty Club. Very famous place. I think he sees it all as a kind of sacrilege, and wants the very best man there is to deal with it.’
Ghote felt himself swallow. Was he really the very best man there was? By the sound of it the murder was not some simple killing during the course of a quarrel or anything like that. There must be some special circumstances about it for this ambassador to have used his influence to call someone all the way from Bombay.
To call him himself. As the very best man. And he was not truly that. Oh, yes, he had had his successes. There was the business that had brought him kudos from the British author. But he was not, in fact, the very best man there was. No.
‘Sir,’ he said tentatively. ‘Sir, are you one hundred per cent certain it is right for me to be going? I mean, sir, for one thing only, what about the local fellows? They would resent an officer from another force coming into their territory, isn’t it?’
‘Ghote, you have been asked for. By name. I am not going to refuse to send you, whatever I may think. And in any case you are to go in a private capacity. There will be no question of treading on any toes. Besides, I expect the Tamil Nadu wallahs will have it all wrapped up even before you get there.’
‘Yes, sir. But if I am to be in a private capacity, sir, what kind of powers will I be having? Sir, it would be most difficult.’
‘Not at all, Ghote, not at all. Damn it, there are private detectives, aren’t there? They clear up cases sometimes. Or I suppose they must. Well, you will be a private detective down in Ooty. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Yes, sir. But—But, sir, what about my present workload?’
‘You can pick up whatever you’re doing when you get back. As I said, no doubt you’ll find the whole thing’s been dealt with before you even arrive.’
‘Sir, but—’
‘Damn it, Ghote, you’re being offered a stay in one of India’s finest hill stations. Right out of the heat. Bloody fine climate. Top-class holiday place. And you’re making every sort of damn difficulty.’
‘Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.’
Yet, Ghote could not help reflecting, January in Bombay was the coolest and pleasantest month of the year. Now, if he had been offered a trip to Ooty in May or October …
‘Right then, there’s a plane that leaves for Coimbatore Airport at twelve noon exactly. I’m having you booked on to it. See that you’re there.’
‘But—’
*
The Ooty bus, when Ghote came to board it stiff-limbed after the flight to Coimbatore, looked as if its every seat was occupied in advance of his arrival. Already having to fight back a feeling of muzzy disorientation at finding himself at such short notice in a place where even the voices around him were jabbering all the time in barely comprehensible Tamil, he shook his head in blank bewilderment.
How was it that, when the flight had been scrupulously on time, the bus taking passengers onwards was already jammed full?
It was just part of the illogicality of everything, he supposed. That feeling, from the sheer strangeness of his surroundings, was invading his mind more and more with each passing moment.
Why could things not be simple? Why did life never go to plan?
Except with this last Indian Airlines flight?
Sharply he pulled himself together, swung up on to the entrance-step of the bus and from there made out that there was a small gap right at the back between two ample ladies dressed in rich silky South Indian saris. He took a last look at his hastily packed suitcase waiting to be stowed in the baggage compartment and pushed his way forward along the packages-crammed aisle. Somewhat to his surprise the two ladies, without a pause in the clackingly loud conversation they were having in mysterious Tamil, shifted apart just enough to allow him to sit.
He had barely wriggled himself into place when the bus abruptly set off. Within minutes they were speeding with slewing recklessness through the bare countryside, its monotony broken only by the repeated clusters of villages where dogs and children scattered squealing or barking at their approach.
Inside, at least, it all ought to have been peaceful. Things were now going to plan again. There was nothing to do but sit and be delivered to Ooty some fifty kilometres away up among the distant blue Nilgiri Hills, occasionally to be glimpsed beyond the driver’s impassive head.
But Ghote could not bring any peace to his thoughts. The prospect that awaited him up in the resort ahead, which he had read about over the years here and there but never expected to see, was too full of unknown hazards. What sort of a person would this Mr Surinder Mehta MC be, someone with so much influence he could summon at no notice an inspector of the Bombay CID? And, more, what was the exact nature of the crime – the murder – he had been hurried all this way to solve?
He knew almost nothing about it. The Assistant Commissioner had given him hardly a single detail. Except that there was a body. A body on a billiard table. What was he actually expected to do in Ooty? And where, where, would he get boarding and lodging when at last he