Setting out for the Paris Hotel, Ghote found himself impelled to hurry and at the same time leadenly inclined to delay. He was all too conscious of the need to rescue tubby, heart-attack prone Dean Potdar with maximum speed. But he was equally very much aware that effecting a rescue single-handedly might well be a straight path to disaster.
Turning the corner into the entrance hall, he saw the lanky figure of Amar Nath. In a jump of decision he made up his mind to recruit him.
The fellow, for all his rough-and-ready approach, was quick enough to take in the situation.
‘By God,’ he said as soon as Ghote had outlined it, ‘they have dared to kidnap Potdar sahib, is it? Oh, I would like to be there when he is shelling those fellows. He would give them plenty mustard.’
He gave a roar of laughter.
‘Oh, yes,’ he went on. ‘So much of mustard, and then – Then, poof. You are knowing that little fatty has got one bad heart?’
‘Yes,’ Ghote said.
‘So we must be getting him back, one, two, three, no? If he is not already lying dead mutton at those fellows’ feet.’
‘So, chalo,’ Ghote said urgently.
Striding along beside the security man, it was all Ghote could do to keep up. And already he was beginning to suspect that taking the fellow along might not have been such a good idea.
‘Listen,’ he said, making an effort not to gasp a little from the speed of their progress across the compound. ‘Listen, when we are getting there it will be a matter of making one careful approach. I want to do this without any whiff of troubles. So take your time from me, no?’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Amar Nath responded. ‘Just what you like, Inspectorji.’
Although the words were an acknowledgement, Ghote felt that their cheerful tone hardly echoed it. But he had enlisted the fellow now, and in any case if he met any opposition he was likely to need every bit of muscle to be had.
Ought he to have risked the delay and waited till he had a squad of tough constables ready to go in? But the decision had been taken now. And – he thought of Amar Nath’s crude ‘poof’ – surely it was the right one.
They crossed the road towards the Paris Hotel. Amar Nath seemed determined to be first to get there. Ghote, without quite actually running, contrived just to outpace him.
Looking in from outside, the place seemed no different from the two other occasions he had been there, on that first morning with Amar Nath and when he had just poked his head inside as he had waited till Mohinder Singh Mann would get to the student canteen. Not the least sign of any unusual activity.
The oily proprietor was sitting just as he had been before, poring over his stained and spotted account book. The same out-of-date calendars hung at the same slight angles on the blue peeling walls. The same boy was mopping listlessly as ever at one of the tables. The smell of over-boiled tea still pervaded everywhere.
Was it ever made fresh?
But he had no time to attempt to work out an answer to that.
In the gloom at the back of the place he made out now four hefty young men clustered round a game of cards at a table just beside the doorway into the kitchen. None of them looked exactly unlike a student. But there was something about them, something in the insolent set of their shoulders, in the way their shirts were all unbuttoned to the waist, that, despite the glimpses to be had of well-off young men’s thick wristwatches, jewel-glinting rings and heavy gold neck chains, said to Ghote one word: goondas.
Yes, he thought, I have seen types much like these in the slums, hanging around the door of some crime boss, young men ready at his one command to beat up anyone he points at. Or anyone just only taking their fancy. These fellows here may be educated, but they are not one bit different from slum riff-raffs.
He had intended to take a seat at one of the far tables, casually order tea and, after a while when nobody was taking notice, slip into the kitchen. Leaving Amar Nath behind if possible, he would then see what he could find. But he realised now this was impossible. Although the group at the table seemed engrossed in their game of rummy, slapping the cards down with boasting shouts and roars of laughter, it was evident enough they were sitting where they were to make sure nobody except the tea boy went through the doorway beside them.
So what to do? Settle down at a table near the front of the place, order tea – no doubt Amar Nath would want toast, an omelet – and to see what would happen. That seemed best.
But before he had time to turn to the proprietor any decision was taken out of his hands.
With a single great battle shout, Amar Nath simply charged straight at the group at the far end.
He might have brought it off. They had barely turned from their game when he was on them. Their table crashed to the floor. Two of them fell with it. Ghote, standing momentarily transfixed, saw a third take a fearsome punch to the face that clearly put him out of things.
But the odds were such that even the tall Punjabi could not win at. In a moment the one he had not accounted for was hurling himself on to him. With a thunderous jar he fell to the floor. Now, the first two were up again and plunging forward. In the heap of struggling bodies – another table went spinning – fists rose and fell.
Ghote had darted forward, cursing Amar Nath for ruining what chance they had of getting the Dean out alive. Even with the two of them fighting full out there was now little hope of getting the better of these young brutes.
But then he had halted.
No knives were in evidence. Nor any other weapons. And, however overwhelmed Amar Nath was, his opponents were too closely pressed down on him for any of them, even the first fellow now hovering to plant kicks, to do serious damage.
So, taking a moment to mark out his path, he ran lightly forward, swerved past the tangle of threshing limbs, jumped clear over the body of the boy Amar Nath had knocked out and an instant later was through the doorway into the kitchen.
There he saw an elderly nut-faced man with one long protruding yellow tooth, bare to the waist, evidently the cook. No trouble from him. And, of course, no sign of Dean Potdar.
But there was a door at the far end, standing open for coolness.
He ran towards it, darted through and found he had come into a little cramped high-walled compound, cluttered with rubbish of all sorts, empty cold-drink crates, half-squashed cartons, plastic canisters. But in a corner there was a small shelter or large cupboard made out of thick, tar-spattered planks. It had a door, of sorts, with a big, grey padlock dangling down from it.
There. If Dean Potdar was anywhere he must be in there.
He looked furiously all round. And could see nothing he could use to lever the hasp of the padlock away.
Where would the key be? Easy answer. In the pocket of one of those young anti-socials even now thumping at Amar Nath. And before too long they would have finished with that idiot, and then they would realise where it was that he himself had gone. And would come for him.
In despair he went up to the shed door and tugged at the padlock with his bare hands.
It had not been snapped to. The whole thing slipped clear as if it had been a simple hook hanging from the hasp.
He hauled the thick door open.
They had tied Dean Potdar up. He was slumped in the dark in a corner of the narrow shelter, rope wound round and round his tubby frame. His pince-nez had disappeared. His chubby face was dark with suffused blood. His necktie had been taken off and jammed deeply into his mouth and knotted at the back of his head. But in the light from the opened door it was plain to see his little piggy eyes were glittering with life.
What to do for him? Without a knife, it would take minutes at the least to get rid of those ropes. And minutes, in all likelihood, were what he did not have.
He bent towards the bundled figure, put his arms round him and tugged him upright. Twirling and twisting him then like some sort of barrel, he managed to get him into the full daylight.
But there was no way out of the compound except back through the kitchen and the chaikhana itself.
From inside he could hear shouts. Of triumph? Of continuing battle?
He looked round distractedly.
No, there was only one thing for it. The wall at the back was high, but perhaps not too high. It would be dangerous to heave a man with a weak heart over it. But not as dangerous as to wait where they were.
He stooped, changed his grip on the bundle that the Dean was and lifted. The little fat man was almost too heavy for him, but he managed to stagger the few feet across to the wall.
And there, with one enormous effort, he lifted his burden up as high as he could and tumbled it, him, over.
He looked round again, grabbed two cold-drink crates, set one on top of the other, climbed on to them and, as they swayed and rocked, succeeded in flinging himself up on to the top of the wall. Lying flat there, he swung himself round on his stomach and let himself tumble down on the far side.
For a moment he lay breathless, sick and exhausted on the ground where he had fallen, just aware that beside him the Dean was also lying, a dusty and battered bale.
Then he stirred himself.
If he had been able to get over the wall, those young men, when they had finally dealt with Amar Nath, would not have much difficulty following. And they might well still think it worth their while.
He forced himself up on to his knees, swivelled round towards his former Dr Watson and began to tackle the ropes tightly binding him.
Luck seemed to be on his side. The first knot he tugged at yielded easily, and, with it loosened, all the rope fell clear. He heaved the Dean to his feet and stood for a moment looking at him. Though still gagged and too cramped to be able to do more than take a staggering step or two, the little man appeared not to be too much affected by his experiences. His eyes, indeed, were blazing like two tiny hot headlights.
‘Dean sahib,’ he said, ‘I think, if we can, we should get away from here ek dum. Those boys may think better of it now and run off altogether. But they may still think they can deal with us and somehow get away with it.
‘Let me see if I can just only get rid of that gag,’ Ghote said.
Feeling a little as if he was intruding on someone’s deepest privacy, he took hold of the Dean by both shoulders and turned him round. Then he set to work on the knot of the gag. It had been pulled together much more viciously than the rope, and for a while he thought he would have to leave the whole tie in place until they had got themselves to somewhere really safe. But at the last moment the tight twists of the knot began to give, and in a few seconds more the striped tie was clear of the Dean’s mouth. He tossed it away.
‘Well, Inspector,’ came the familiar precise voice, ‘you seem to have taken a dislike to that tie of mine. A pity. It is one of my favourites.’
Ghote actually turned away, stooped, retrieved the chewed and twisted piece of material and handed it back. He cursed himself as he did so, but he did it.
Then he looked round to see where they were. They seemed to be in a narrow dusty lane running along the backs of all the buildings opposite the college. Beside them lay a deep ditch, dry but for a few pools of black stagnant water, with a rusted fence of barbed wire on its far side.
But there should be access somewhere, he thought, back to the main road itself. Then in a few minutes they could be safe inside the college, and with the Dean seemingly no worse for all that had happened to him.
‘Dean sahib,’ he said, ‘kindly come with after me. You feel able to walk?’
‘Yes, Inspector. I have two legs. I can achieve locomotion.’
He made no answer. But he felt that the relationship between them was once again in full force, as galling as ever. Nor had he received a word of thanks for what he had done. What sort of a man was the fellow? And had he himself got to go back now to his role of stupid policeman? Well, perhaps that would be best after all. There might still be things to be learnt from this podgy intellectual, and, damn it, he was still far away from having an answer to report to the Centre.
He could not bring himself to look at the man he had rescued, the icy swine, other than in the most sideways manner as they both made their way along the rubbish-strewn dusty lane. But he was able to see that with every step he was walking more easily. There should be nothing wrong with him that a little massage and a cup of tea would not put right.
Before long they came to a gap between two of the buildings beside them, and Ghote led the way through.
It was not without a feeling of fizzy pleasure that he saw the big white slab of Oceanic College only some three hundred yards away.
Then, even more encouraging, ahead of them a tall figure came staggering out of the Paris Hotel and headed, limping badly but with evident determination, towards the tall gates of the college. Amar Nath. So those rich young goonda types had not succeeded in doing him any permanent damage.
And perhaps the bruises and wrenches he had received would teach him in future not to go rushing in when he had been told to be cautious.
Or perhaps not.
However, the fellow had done his share, as it had turned out, to rescue the Dean. So let him have credit.
‘Dean sahib,’ he said, remembering to produce to the full his bonehead police officer mode of speech, ‘are you seeing who is along there? It is Amar Nath, college security officer. You are very much in his debt for becoming a free man once more. He was fighting those fellows like a tiger only.’
But all the Dean said in reply was ‘Yes, Inspector, I do know the college has a security officer.’
Ghote did not explode at once. For a few moments he let the remark float in his mind like a single rich spongy gulab jamun all on its own in a wide bowl of syrup. So this was the sole response the man was going to make to being told, however lumpenly, that wretched rash Amar Nath had risked limb and perhaps life to rescue him. Not one single word of gratitude, any more than he had had himself. Only that contemptuous sneering. At a police officer who, however stupid he might seem, was there to protect such people as this fellow.
And then it came, a sudden unstoppable burning lava flow of sheer rage, spewing upwards.
He put out a hand, seized the Dean by the elbow and tugged him round.
‘Now,’ he barked. ‘You listen to me for once in your damn conceited life.’