Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

My First Murder by H. R. F. Keating

“Keating’s most remarkable skill,” said William L. DeAndrea in his Encyclopedia Mysteriosa, “lies in his ability to induce in the most provincial reader an interest in, and sympathy for, characters facing mystery in unusual environments. The best known of these environments is the Bombay of Keating’s best-known creation, Inspector Ganesh Ghote.” Mr. Keating takes us to Ghote’s Bombay in this new story, but with himself instead of Ghote as a central character...

I hadn’t gone very far from my hotel, walking slowly in the fizzling Bombay heat, when someone came sidling up beside me.

“It is the notable British author?” he said, half a question, half a statement.

He’d got it right. Or, at least, he’d identified me as the person the paper I’d been interviewed in the day before, with picture, had headlined with that typically Indian English phrase.

“Yes?” I answered cautiously.

More than a little cautiously, in fact. There was something about this fellow that set doubts hopping in my mind. More than doubts. Plain distrust. No sooner had he put his question than his glance had flicked away, as if he preferred no one to look at him too closely. Nor was his whole appearance any more reassuring. Check shirt, faintly greasy at neck and cuffs. Cotton khaki trousers with a long dark smear down one thigh. Shoes, rather than sandals, on his sockless feet, their black leather cracked and dry from lack of polish. The only sign of respectability about him, apart from his reasonably good English, was the briefcase he carried. And that was suspiciously thin and empty looking.

But now he turned to me again, two enormous pointy ears poking forward, and flashed me a wide, white-toothed smile.

Too quick a smile?

“You will be very much wanting to know what I am able to tell,” he said.

“Oh yes?”

Was money hopefully going to change hands? That what this was all about?

“Yes, yes. You see, I am private eye itself. Junior Investigator. Star of Hind Detective Agency. Soon-soon becoming Senior. Hike of salary also. Star of Hind Agency is full member A.I.S.O.I.”

He slid one of a pack of large business cards out of his shirt pocket, thrust it out to me. I took it unwillingly, oily all round the edges as it was with sweaty handling. But before I put it into my own pocket — I could hardly get rid of it at once — I saw at least that it looked like the genuine article.

“But what is this A.I.S. — whatever?” I asked, before realising I had given this unsavoury fellow a new toehold.

“It is Association of Investigators and Security Organisation of India. Sahib, I am very much surprised you are not knowing a name of such all-India fame.”

Another inch gained in keeping my acquaintance. Hadn’t I been put in the position now of having to explain myself? Even apologise?

“Well, you know, I haven’t been in India very long. And, writing about my Inspector Ghote, I’m really more interested in the police than... er... private investigators.”

I should have left it at that. But, stupidly, I tried for a final brush-off.

“Readers of my books expect rather more than catching out naughty husbands.”

“Then, sahib, I must be telling you about time I was committing my first murder.”

I gulped.

A murderer? And— And didn’t a first imply a second? Even a third? Maybe not a serial killer but, private eye though he might be, someone ready to end a life in the course of robbery? Had he got it into his head that an author from the affluent West was bound to have some huge amount on his person? Under that dirty shirt there could well be a. knife. The work of an instant to slip it out, strike, snatch a wallet, melt into the crowd.

I thought fast. Even furiously.

“Er— Yes. Yes, I’d be very interested to hear about— About that. Very. But I imagine you’ll want to be paid for such information. Such good information. And, as it so happens, I’ve left my wallet— Yes, in my hotel.”

I began to turn back.

“Oh, sahib, no, no, no. What I am wishing to tell is out of respect only. Respect for one notable author visiting India.”

Was that likely?

Well, the fellow’s face seemed now to be shining with sincerity. Perhaps I had misjudged him. And it wouldn’t be easy to get away without being brutally impolite.

“That’s very kind of you. Most kind.”

“Oh, very good, sahib. Very good. Here is one damn fine cold-drinks place. We should go in.”

I allowed myself to be led into the place — it was called the Edward VIII Juice Nook — and we sat down on either side of one of the narrow tables.

But as my new acquaintance leant forward to lower himself onto his plastic-covered bench, his grease-edged shirt, flopped open a little and I saw what could only be the top of a sheath for a knife.

Was I after all going to be one in the series that had begun with that first murder?

No, surely not. A sudden stabbing and a quick grab out in the street was a possibility, but surely not inside here. Surely?

And he might really have a story to tell. Good material.

Once we had been brought our drinks, a Mangola for me, something long, brightly coloured, and sticky-looking called a falooda for my friend, he began his tale. Innocently enough. If you could be innocent telling how, apparently, you had committed a murder. Your first.

“Sahib,” he said, bringing those huge pointy ears of his to focus directly at me, “before I am recounting whole damn thing I will make one matter very-very clear. I am altogether good at my job. First class only. Let me give you example.”

Could I stop that? Say Get on to this first murder of yours, that’s what I want to hear about. But no, I couldn’t. He had me trapped.

“Sahib, I was once given task by our boss of tracing one girl who had been working for five-six years in prostitution line. She had auntie who had married a foreigner, and that fellow had died, leaving said auntie in possession of one lakh rupees. That is a big sum for us, you know.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Auntie was wishing to make her one and only living relative as heir to all her wealths. But one condition only. She was to give up prostitution racket, even if it was high-class itself.”

“Okay, I understand, I understand. So what happened?”

“I was finding and locating that prostitute. Not too hard to do. Ask and ask and before too long you are learning. But question was: Would this prostitute be scared to be found out by hundred-percent-respectable auntie? So what was I doing? Oh, sahib, very-very clever. Under disguise of customer I was booking this girl for night at five-star hotel. I tell you also, sahib, I was very much wishing to do some side-business with her, isn’t it?”

Eyes in the ratty face opposite rolled and rolled.

“But I was not at all attempting same. Payment in advance was company money. What would I be able to say in my report? So duty was calling and I was just only chit-chatting that girl. I gave out I was one damn-good fortuneteller. Then straightaway she was asking me to read her palm. And I was telling her her own history, which I was all the time damn well knowing from what Auntie had told. You have just only one female relative not seen for many-many years, I told. Correct, correct, she was answering. Next I was saying her palm told this auntie was rich, rich lady. Good, good, she was replying. So at last I was asking what would feelings be if fate brought her to meet this lady. Very fine, very fine, was her answer.”

My friend leant back and burst into loud brays of laughter. I looked round in embarrassment. But no one in the little place seemed to be taking much notice.

“You know what was happening when Auntie was saying she would give and bequeath to this prostitute one lakh rupees?” my acquaintance plunged on when at last he had brought himself to stop laughing. “No? You are not at all able to guess. But I will tell. Prostitute was saying: In one night I am making rupees fifteen-hundred, half to my boss, but still more in one year than you are offering as total, Auntie. So goodbye and back to foreign.”

More brays of raucous laughter.

“But you were going to tell me about a murder,” I broke in exasperatedly. “Your first murder.”

He leant across the narrow table towards me. A strong whiff of mingled falooda sweetness and sheer bad breath.

“Yes, yes. Well, I had thought that day was going to be a good day for me itself. When I was reporting for duty I was finding I had not been assigned some hard-work, no-fun job. What we are calling market survey. Number Two product being sold under false tiptop trademark. Keeping one close watch on shop until you are seeing supplier come, and then follow-following until you are able to track down entire organisation. No, no. That day it was erring-wife job.” Across the table I was given an appalling leer.

“Such I am always liking best. When it is matter of seeing with own eyes moment of hanky-panky itself. So I was setting off with what we are calling keyhole camera in briefcase. No bugging apparatus, you understand, because such is illegal under Indian Wireless and Telegraphic Act, nineteen thirty-three.”

“Very commendable, but—”

“Yes, yes. So I was watching until lady in question would come out of husband’s posh flat, Malabar Hill. After some time I saw their driver take car from garage and sit waiting for memsahib. At once I was securing taxi to be hundred percent ready to follow. In five-ten minutes Madam was coming. Then I in my taxi was trailing-trailing until we were reaching building at Marine Lines. There, as previously ascertained by my co-colleague, was staying Madam’s good friend known by the name of Laxmi. But what colleague had not at all considered was the block was having side exit also. But I in my taxi went, quick-quick, round corner, and in one minute, yes, please, Madam was coming out and waving-waving for taxi herself.”

Hands rubbed vigorously together in delight.

I began to think I had wasted the price of a Mangola and a falooda.

“To Colaba, Madam was going, just only where we are now. Myself following, promise-promising money to my taxiwalla. Here in Colaba, Madam was hurry-scurrying down some lane and into one Class-Two hotel. Five-ten minutes I was giving her, and then I was going in there also. Rupees five to fellow at Reception, and he was telling which room she had gone to and that also Mister was there in advance. Very good, very good.”

He tapped his tall glass sharply on the table. I was already aware it had been drained to the last dreg. The prolonged sucking sound had not been very agreeable.

Ah, well, I thought, might as well hear the end of the story. One more falooda won’t break the bank.

A long sticky swallow of the new tall glass and he was off again.

“Oh, you would have liked to see what I was seeing, sahib, when I was putting eye to keyhole. By twisting-twisting I was able to see bed itself. Lady’s sari hanging down from end. Madam one hundred percent invisible. Underneath big-big gentleman. Big-big bottom up and down, up and down. Like pile driver only. By God, I was so damn interested I was nearly forgetting my bounden duty.”

Yes, yes, you squitty little horror. Get on with it. Your sordid details are never going to form part of an Inspector Ghote investigation. But this murder... your first.

“You are liking-liking this story, yes? Then I am telling Part Two. At last, you understand, I was remembering keyhole camera. You know, what you must be getting in my line always is photographic evidence. Damn fool husbands never willing to believe naughty-naughty lady’s doings without evidence of own blasted eyes.”

“I dare say.”

“But then— Oh, sahib, sahib, damn-damn shame.”

“No film in your camera?”

Not a very nice thing to say, but I felt I was owed it.

“No, no, sahib. Not at all, not at all. I was telling, isn’t it, I am damn good operator. Always check-checking.”

“I’m sure you are. It was just that you said something was a shame.”

“Yes, yes. Two hundred percent shame. You must be knowing keyhole camera is able to take shot just only directly in front. And that bed with the up-down bottom going and going was not in exact straight line with door. I myself was able to see funny goings-on. Yes, yes. But I was able somewhat to wriggle round. Camera, no.”

He took a long swallow at his second falooda. Perhaps for consolation.

“But this murder...” I prompted.

Once more I could not help glancing at the tip of the leather sheath under my friend’s shirt.

“Yes, yes, I am coming to murder only. But it is important-important you should first be acquainted with each and every detail of beforehand. Or you would not be understanding whole damn affair.”

“No? Well, go on then.”

“So after looking and looking through what they are calling viewfinder— You are knowing viewfinder?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, at last I was having very-very quietly, you understand, to open door two-three inches and try for shot from changed angle. Perhaps better. Face of Madam now visible. One expression, utmost delight.”

“Yes, yes. But what happened?”

“Oh, sahib, bloody disaster. You see, at that moment Mister Big-Behind was turning face in that direction also. And, even if Madam was so enjoying she was having no eyes for door opening just only one crack, Mister was different kettle-fish to one hundred percent.”

I began to hope my peeping friend had got the thumping he deserved. But when was this first murder of his coming in?

“Yes, I can see you were in big trouble,” I said, by way of urging him on.

“Oh, sahib, you are not at all knowing how much of troubles I was in.”

“No?”

“No, no, sahib. You see, when I was observing whole of that man, just only as he was jumping off the bed, off lady also, I was at once seeing who it was. And, sahib, then I was knowing real-real disaster was there.”

“Why was that?”

“Sahib, perhaps, coming from foreign, you are not even knowing name of Bombay Number One top smuggler. Sahib, it is Munna Thakur. Thakur Dada, we are calling him. Famous-famous. Name in papers each and every day. Police very much respecting. And bad also. Bad-bad-bad.”

“And he had seen you? Is that it?”

“Oh yes, sahib. He had damn well seen all right. And I also had seen, I had seen he was not once ever going to forget this face.”

Well, I thought, as a face it’s not exactly prepossessing. But with those two great big pointy ears, you’re right, my friend, it’s certainly memorable.

“Yes, I suppose you must have felt you were in a pretty tight corner. Did you manage to do anything about it? Or are you still trying to dodge — what did you call him? — Thakur Dada?”

“Oh no, sahib. Altogether okay now. I was telling, it is my first murder.”

“You mean you murdered him? This top smuggler? Feared by the police even? But didn’t he have a gang? Bodyguards? What do you call them? Goondas.”

“Yes, yes. He was having. Many-many tough-tough goondas. That was why I was needing to act damn quick. I was just only lucky the gentleman was in state of undress itself.”

“Yes, I suppose he could hardly chase you out into the street.”

“Correct, correct. But I tell you, he was into a trouser and out of that hotel room even before I had run down each and every stair.”

“He chased you then? Was he armed at all?”

“Oh yes, sahib. A gentleman like Thakur Dada is always carrying a gun. He was waving and waving same as he ran after me along lane going towards Colaba Causeway.”

“But I suppose he couldn’t fire at you? Not in a lane crowded with people?”

“Oh, sahib, such would not have stopped Thakur Dada. If he had been able, he would have put bullets three-four into myself, and walk off laughing only.”

“But wouldn’t the passersby have set on him? Held him until the police came?”

“Sahib, it was Thakur Dada there.”

“Really? He has that much power, does he?”

I was beginning to wonder if, after all, I might be learning something to put into some future book. To show your hero in a really good light you need a villain of real stature.

“Oh, sahib. Thakur Dada cannot be touched.”

“Cannot? So he’s still there? After you?”

“No, no, sahib. I should have been saying He could not be touched.”

“Then it was him that you— Who was the— The victim of your first murder?”

“Ji haan, sahib.”

It was clear only his own language would do to make that claim. Ji haan: Yes, indeed.

“But how? How did you manage to — to murder a man like that?”

“Sahib, I will tell you. But you only. Because I have such respect for notable British author.”

“That— That’s very kind. Well, thank you. Thank you.”

“Sahib, this is what was happening. Truly. There I was, running and running, and thinking with each and every step Thakur Dada is there. He would wipe me out just only like I would slap one mosquito. And he is big-big and I am small-small itself. In two-three minutes I will be feeling his big-big hands round my throat. What to do? What to do?”

“What did you do?”

My heart had begun to pound almost as thumpingly as my friend’s must have done.

“Oh, sahib, at that moment, just as I was coming into Colaba Causeway itself. Sahib, just outside here, going straight-straight from Prince of Wales Museum to utmost tip of Bombay.”

“Yes, yes. I’ve been here before. Very crowded. Traffic hooting and honking everywhere.”

“Very good, sahib. Well, just as I reached, I was seeing a fellow with a handcart selling mangoes. Hundred percent rotten fruit. Cheap, cheap. And idea, was coming to me that if I was taking one of those baskets and tipping same on ground, perhaps Thakur Dada would be slipping and sliding and falling down to his very face.”

“Good thinking. And it came off? You got away?”

Could I use that trick in a Ghote story? There were times when I had him chased by goondas and outnumbered. But this seemed a little too good to be true.

As it turned out to be.

“Sahib, I was not so clever as that. And also if I had got away that time, how long would it be before one dark night I was meeting four-five goondas and coming to my very end?”

“So, what happened?”

“What was happening was that this mangowalla was not at all liking some passing individual seizing his basket, however much of rotten were his fruits.”

“So...?”

“And colliding also with Thakur Dada.”

“So that put an end to the chase, I suppose. But surely it can’t have been what saved you?”

“No, no, sahib. But, you see, this mangowalla was coming out fast, impact was sending Thakur Dada, who was dancing here and there so as not to slide on those fruits, falling-sprawling right into roadway.”

“Yes?”

“And, sahib, bus was passing. Number One Limited, very much of nonstop.”

I admit I felt a tumbling sense of anticlimax. So this first murder was no murder at all. I suppose I should have been glad to find I was not sitting opposite a killer — he had just drained his second falooda, every bit as noisily — but somehow at that moment I felt distinctly cheated.

“And then you ran off?” I said.

“Sahib, no, no, no. What good would be there? If the fellows of Thakur Dada’s gang were finding out who had caused death of their hero, then once more I would be in big-big soup.”

“I suppose you would be. So you didn’t run off? Is that it?”

My big-eared friend sat up straighter and gave me a look of terribly greasy cockiness.

“No problem, sahib, no problem.”

“I would have thought—”

“Sahib, I was seeing out of corner of eye what had happened. So at once, quick-quick, I was running back. I was taking out this knife I have.” He flicked open his shirt, and I saw to my surprise that his long leather sheath actually contained nothing. “Sahib, you must be knowing that private eye is sometimes needing one weapon only. And, sahib, I was at once kneeling down and plunging same deep-deep into body of Thakur Dada and leaving there.”

“But why did you do that? Wasn’t he dead? Or what?”

“Oh, sahib, yes. Dead-dead. But that knife was having on it my name. So in not much of time entire Bombay was knowing who had disposed of Thakur Dada. Who had the daring to do it. So now no one will do anything against me. They are damn well knowing, if so, they are facing Murder Number Two.”

I looked at my friend.

No, I thought, no. I don’t really believe Inspector Ghote is ever going to have to solve the case of the serial-killer private eye.