“T. S., Inspector,” he said. “Tom Eliot’s initials were T. S.”
The icy hiss with which that final letter was pronounced finished it for Ghote. He found he was almost hoping Henry Reymond, despite the assurances of his two fellow poets, had been capable of murder and had attacked Professor Goswami. But he could not quite believe it.
So he went, not without internal trembling that owed nothing to the freezing smog, to see Delhi’s Head of Crime Branch, a yet more formidable figure than his own Assistant Commissioner Pradhan.
But before he had so much as uttered a single word of his report, he saw, prominently lying on the huge desk in front of him, what could be nothing else than the fatal copy of In the Footsteps of Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley, beautifully hand-bound in glowing red silk. He felt it was an omen. Of ill-success.
The first words he heard confirmed all his worst fears.
“Well, Inspector? My detectives have got it all wrong, is it? A Bombaywallah is going to put us right?”
“No, sir. That is— Sir, please to believe this. The two poets accompanying Mr. Henry Reymond, who are knowing him well, sir, both are one hundred percent certain he is a man not able to commit any murder.”
“And you, Inspector, are you going to tell me there is one single human being in this world incapable, given the right circumstances, of committing an offence under Section 302, Indian Penal Code?”
“No, sir, no. I am not saying such. I would never say anyone is not at worst capable of murder. But, sir, all the same, I also am believing Mr. Henry Reymond would commit such only under tiptop provocation.”
“And you think the prospect of getting his dirty thieving hands on this priceless poetical manuscript, now missing, is not provocation enough? Poets are always poor, Inspector. Always needing money for wine, women, song. Even you must be knowing that.”
“Sir, yes, that I am understanding. But, sir, kindly consider this. Mr. Henry Reymond is not just only poet. He is crime writer-cum-poet, sir. He is one very-very famous writer of detective stories. Mr. Peduncle series, sir. And, sir, he was telling me. From those books he was making so much money that, sir, he was able to take leave from that work and write one poem in verse, murder story in times of Raj only. So, sir, he is having no need whatsoever of stealing any manuscript.”
“No, Inspector. No. Damn it, there is evidence. This book. Found at the murder scene itself. First-class evidence.”
A ferocious hand slapped down on the red silk.
Ghote, as soon as the hand was lifted, ventured to pick the book up. Perhaps Mr. Henry Reymond’s name was not actually in it? Perhaps one of the other poets’ was?
But no. There on the title page was the inscription: To my fellow poet Mr. Henry Reymond. In admiration. Namita Rai.
Why had the fellow not paid attention to the book being returned to him at the Imperial Hotel just only because of that inscription? Why had he not had the simple sense to tear out that page? Probably because he had believed in his coldly high-and-mighty way that no one would ever find the book among all the others in Professor Goswami’s room. But he had failed to reckon with the efficiency of the police searchers. Even the Delhi searchers.
He flipped over the page and read the titles of the first few poems.
“Leave that alone, Inspector.”
Ghote hastily replaced the red-silk volume.
“And listen to me. Unless you have something better to tell me than all that nonsense about poets not needing money and this friend of yours not being capable of murder, I am going to charge-sheet him. Now.”
“Sir, no. Sir, kindly give me some more time. I will talk to him again. Find if he has some alibi.”
“Alibi? Oh, yes, and what alibi did he produce for us? Asleep in his room at the Imperial Hotel. And not even a woman beside him. What sort of a poet is that?”
“Sir, one altogether timid.”
“Eh? Timid? Timid, did you say? Well, I suppose you’ve got a point there, Inspector. Point of sorts. All right, I tell you what. I’ll give you till ten P.M. tonight. Come back to me then with some sort of decent evidence and I’ll give the matter more consideration. All right?”
“Yes, sir. Yes.”
Ghote left. Hurriedly.
But go over and over the circumstances with Henry Reymond though he might, he could not extract from the crime writer-cum-poet one single fact that might prove he had not sneaked out of the Imperial Hotel, gone slipping through the chill, blanketing smog of Delhi’s nighttime streets to Professor Goswami’s and, while seizing this poem by Mr. T. F. — no, T. S. — Eliot, been disturbed by the professor and in a struggle killed him.
So it was well before his deadline hour that, sadly, he left the prisoner to his fate.
He wandered out into the bone-chilling night, still convinced, nevertheless, that Henry Reymond had never murdered Professor Goswami. That red-silk-covered book In the Footsteps of Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley, what trouble it had caused. All because, in the warmth of fellow feeling for those visiting British poets, Namita Rai had made them the gift of those copies.
And how sad it was that the three of them, with cold-hearted Britishness, had tried to get rid of the books. Poor Mrs. Rai. If she ever got to know. And — then the thought struck him — she would get to know. When the papers described every detail of the trial for murder of a famous U.K. poet, it would come out that he, and his fellow poets, had all tried to dispose of Mrs. Namita Rai’s works.
No, he must tell her about it himself. He must tell her now. Break it to her gently. So that she would have not too much of suffering.
He hurried over to Police Headquarters, consulted a telephone directory, found that Mrs. Rai’s residence was not far away.
A quarter of an hour later he was closeted with the writer of Ode to the East Wind and Triumph of Death (Cancelled Opening).
And five minutes after that he was sitting in a glow of delight. He had obtained perfect proof that Mr. Henry Reymond had left his copy of Mrs. Rai’s book at Professor Goswami’s while that learned gentleman was still hale and hearty. Proof Mr. Henry Reymond had never taken that handwritten poem of Mr. T. S. — Yes, T. S. — Eliot so as to sell it for the huge sum it would fetch. No doubt the professor’s servant — Mr. Brian Quayne was right after all, the fellow must be “creepy” — had led some dacoit friends to this much vaunted valuable object and so brought about the professor’s death.
“But, Inspector,” Mrs. Rai had said, “I am well knowing what those disgraceful Englishmen were doing. Goswami Sahib himself was finding Mr. Reymond’s copy of my book pushed in among his shelves, and he was being so kind as to tell me what had happened in case I should hear of it from some less well-wishing friend.”
The Thirteenth Dancer
by Neil Jillett
© 1997 by Neil Jillett
Australian Neil Jillett is well qualified, to write about the dance world, for he was once the dance critic for a Melbourne newspaper and currently accepts freelance writing assignments to cover dance companies as far from each other geographically as Adelaide and Seattle. As in his previous work for EQMM, Mr. Jillett manages to weave his specialized knowledge into a crackerjack mystery plot.
He slid the carving set, in its velvet-lined, fake-walnut box, from the top drawer of the sideboard in the dining room.