H. R. F. Keating.

THE MOST POPULAR CHARACTER CREATED BY H. R. F. KEATING was Inspector Ganesh Ghote of the Bombay Criminal Investigation Division, a protagonist he invented in an effort to find an American publisher. It is the same type of convoluted notion that Keating brought to his humorous novels, in which strange events befall odd people in peculiar situations. In addition to winning numerous awards for mystery fiction, Keating was also acknowledged as a great scholar of crime fiction, being the reviewer for The Times (London) for fifteen years and the author of books about Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes, and many others. "A Present for Santa Sahib" was first collected in Inspector Ghote, His Life and Crimes (London, Hutchinson, 1989).

A Present for Santa Sahib.

H. R. F. KEATING.

INSPECTOR GHOTE PUT A HAND TO his hip pocket and made sure it was firmly b.u.t.toned up. Ahead of him, where he stood in the entrance doorway to one of Bombay's biggest department stores, the crowds were dense just two days before the festival of Christmas. It was not only the Christians who celebrated the day by buying presents and good things to eat in the huge cosmopolitan city. People of every religion were always happy to share in the high days and holidays in each other's calendars. When Hindus honoured Bombay's favourite G.o.d, elephant-headed Ganesh, by taking huge statues of him to be immersed in the sea, Moslems, Parsis, and Christians delighted to join the enormous throngs watching them go by. Everyone had a day off too, and enjoyed it to the full for the Moslem Idd holiday.

But the crowds that gathered in the days before any such celebration brought always trouble as well as joy, Ghote thought to himself with a sigh. When people came in their thousands to buy sweets and fireworks for Diwali or to acquire stocks of coloured powders to throw and squirt in the springtime excitement of Holi, they made a very nice golden opportunity for the pickpockets.

He had, in fact, caught a glimpse just as he had entered the shop of a certain Ram Prasad, a well-known jackal stalking easy prey if ever there was. It equally had been the sight of the fellow, spotting him himself and turning rapidly back, that had made him check that his wallet was secure. It would look altogether bad if an Inspector of Crime Branch had to go back minus one wallet and empty-handed to the wife who had as usual commissioned him to buy a present for her Christian friend, Mrs. D'Cruz, in return for the one they had received at Diwali.

And he had another little obligation, too, on this trip to the store. Not only was there a gift to get for Mrs. D'Cruz but there was a visit to pay to Santa Claus as he sat-voluminously wrapped in shiny red coat, a silky red cap trimmed in fluffy white on his head, puffy cottonwool beard descending from his chin, sack of presents tucked away beside him-in his special place in the store.

Ghote was not actually going to line up with the children waiting to be given, in exchange for a rupee surrept.i.tiously handed over by a hovering mother, a bar of chocolate or a packet of sweets from the big sack. Santa was an old friend who merited a word or two of greeting. Or, if not exactly a friend, he was at least someone known for a good long time.

In fact Santa-his actual name was Moti Popatkar-was a small-fry con-man. There was no getting past that. For all save the ten days each year leading up to Christmas, he made a dubious living from a variety of minor anti-social activities. There was the fine story he had for any British holidaymaker he happened upon-his English was unusually good, fruit of a mission school education long ago-about how he had been batman to an Army officer still living in retirement in India and how he needed just the rail fare to go back and look after Colonel Sahib again. Or he would offer himself as a guide to any lone European tourist he could spot, and sooner or later cajole them into buying him potent country liquor at some illicit drinking den.

It was at one such that Ghote had first met him. A visiting German businessman had complained to the police that, on top of being persuaded into handing over to his guide a much bigger tip than he had meant to give, he had also been induced to fork out some fifty rupees for drinks at a place tucked away inside a rabbit-warren building in Nagandas Master Road called the Beauty Bar.

There was not much that could be done about the complaint, but since the businessman had had a letter of introduction to a junior Minister in the State Government, Ghote had been detailed to investigate. He had dutifully gone along to the Beauty Bar, which proved to be very much as he had expected, a single room with a shabby counter in one corner, its walls painted blue and peeling, half a dozen plastic-topped tables set about. Where sat a handful of men, white-capped office messengers, a khaki-uniformed postman delaying on his round, a red-turbaned ear-cleaner with his little aluminium case beside him, an itinerant coldwaterman who had left his barrel pushcart outside. All hunched over smeary gla.s.ses of clear fluid.

But one of the drinkers seemed to answer to the description the German businessman had given of his guide. And, at the first sharp question, the fellow had cheerfully admitted that he was Moti Popatkar and that, yes, he had brought a German visitor to the place the day before.

"Exciting for him, no?" he had said. "Seeing one d.a.m.n fine Indian den of vice?"

Ghote had looked at the peeling walls, at a boy lackadaisically swiping at one of the table tops with a sodden heap of darkly grey cloth, at the two pictures hanging askew opposite him, one of an English maiden from some time in the past showing most of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the other of the late Mrs. Gandhi looking severe.

"Well, do not let me be catching you bringing any visitor from foreign to such a fourth cla.s.s place again," he said.

"Oh, Inspectorji, I would not. In nineten days only I would be Santa Claus."

So then it had come out what job Moti Popatkar had every year in the run-up to Christmas.

"And I am keeping same," he had ended up. "When I was first beginning, too many years past, the son of Owner, who is himself Ownerji now, was very much liking me when his mother was bringing him to tell his wishings to old Santa. So now Manager Sahib cannot be giving me one boot, however much he is wanting."

There had been then something in Moti Popatkar's cheerful disregard of the proper respect due to a police inspector, even of the cringing most of his like would have adopted before any policewalla, that had appealed to a side of Ghote which he generally felt he ought to keep well hidden. He felt a trickle of liking for this fellow, however much he knew he should disapprove of anyone who led visitors to India into such disgraceful places, and however wrong it seemed that such a good-for-nothing should wear the robe, even for a short period, of a figure who was after all a Christian saint, to be revered equally with Hindu holy man or Muslim pir.

So, visiting Santa's store a few days later to get Mrs. D'Cruz her present, he had gone out of his way to have a look at Moti Popatkar, happy-go-lucky specimen of Bombay's riff-raffs, impersonating Santa Claus, Christian holy man of bygone days.

There had been a lull in the stream of children coming to collect chocolate bars and breathily whisper wishes into Santa's spreading cottonwool beard at the time, so he had stayed to chat with the red-robed fellow for a few minutes. And every successive year since he had found himself doing the same thing, for all that he still felt he ought to disapprove of the man behind the soft white whiskers. The truth was he somehow liked his irresponsible impudent approach to life and to his present task in particular.

Only last year Father Christmas had had a particularly comical tale to tell.

"Oh, Inspectorji, you have nearly seen me in much, much trouble."

"How is that, you Number One scallywag?"

Moti Popatkar grinned through his big white beard, already looking slightly grimy.

"Well, you know, Inspector, I am half the time making the baba log believe they will be getting what for they are wishing, and half the time also I am taking one d.a.m.n fine good look at the mothers, if they are being in any way pretty. Well, just only ten minutes past, a real beauty was coming, Anglo-Indian, short skirt an' all. Jolly spicy. And-oh, forgive, forgive G.o.d above-I was so much distracted I was giving her little girl not just only one bar of chocolate but a half-kilo cake of same. And then-then who should come jumping out from behind but Manager Sahib himself? What for are you giving away so much of Store property, he is demanding and denouncing. Then-oh, Inspector, I am a wicked, wicked fellow. You know what I am saying?"

"No?"

"I am saying, quick only as one flash of lightning, 'But, Manager sahib, that little girl has come with her governess. She is grand-daughter of multi-millionaire Tata, you are knowing.' "

Ghote had laughed aloud. He could not help himself. Besides, the Manager, whom he had once had dealings with, was a very self-satisfied individual.

"But then, Inspectorji, what is Manager sahib saying to me?"

"Well, tell."

"He is saying, 'd.a.m.n fool, you should have given whole kilo cake.' "

And Ghote had felt then his Christmas was all the merrier. Mrs. D'Cruz had got a better present than usual, too.

So now he decided to pay his visit to Santa Claus before he went present-buying. But when he came to the raised platform on which Father Christmas was installed, his fat sack of little gifts on the floor beside him, he found the scene was by no means one of goodwill to all men.

Moti Popatkar was sitting in state as usual on his throne-like chair, his bright red shiny robe as ever gathered round him, his floppy red hat with the white tr.i.m.m.i.n.g on his head. But he was not bending forward to catch the spit-laden whisperings of the children. Nor was he rocking back and issuing some Ho, ho, hos. Instead he was looking decidedly shifty under his cottonwool beard, and in front of him there was standing the Store Manager, both enraged and triumphant.

A lady dressed in a silk sari that must have cost several thousand rupees was standing just behind the Manager holding the hand of a little girl, evidently her daughter, plainly bewildered and on the verge of tears.

"You are hearing what this lady is stating," the Manager was shouting as Ghote came up. "When she was bringing this sweet little girl to visit Santa Claus there was in her handbag one note-case containing many, many hundred-rupee notes. But, just after leaving you, she was noticing the handbag itself was wide open and she was shutting same-click-and then when she was wanting to pay for purchase made at Knick-knacks and a.s.sorted counter, what was she finding? That note-case had gone."

Instinctively, Ghote felt at his hip again. But thik hai, no pocket-maar had been light-fingered with his wallet.

"But, no, Manager sahib. No, no. I was not taking any note-case. Honest to G.o.d, no."

Yet Moti Popatkar's protestations had about them-there could be no doubting it-a ring of desperation.

"I am going to search you, here and now only," the Manager stormed.

"No!"

"Yes, I am saying."

And the Manager darted a hand into each of the big, sagging pockets of the shiny red robe one after the other. Only to withdraw from the second holding nothing more incriminating than a fluff-covered paan which Santa Claus had had no opportunity to pop into his mouth and chew.

"Open up robe," the Manager demanded.

Ghote stood watching, a feeling of grey sadness creeping over him, as Moti Popatkar, now dulled into apathy, allowed Santa's robe to be tugged open and eager fingers to dip into shirt pocket and trouser pockets beneath.

But they found nothing more in the way of evidence than the fluff-fuzzed paan already brought to light.

The Manager, furiously baffled, took a step back. Moti Popatkar behind his spreading white beard-distinctly pulled apart during the search-had still not regained anything of his customary good spirits.

The Manager turned to offer explanations to the complaining customer.

Ghote gave a deep sigh.

"Look into Santa's sack, Manager sahib," he said.

"Ah! Yes. Yes, yes."

The big sack was jerked wide. The Manager plunged to his knees.

"Wait," Ghote shouted suddenly.

The Manager turned and looked up.

"You should let a police officer handle this," Ghote said.

He stepped up on to the platform and knelt in his turn beside the gaping sack. Then, very carefully, he felt about inside it, easing his fingers past bars of chocolate, little bags of sweets.

At last he rose to his feet.

Between the tip of the forefinger of his right hand and its thumb he was holding a crocodile-skin note-case frothed at the rim with big blue one-hundred rupee notes.

"Mine," exclaimed the watching lady customer.

Beside her, her daughter burst into tears.

"Inspector," the Manager said, "kindly charge-sheet this fellow."

"Well, Manager sahib," Ghote replied, "I am thinking I should not do that until I have evidences. Fingerprint evidences."

"But ... but we have caught him red-handed only."

"Are you sure, Manager sahib? Were you actually observing this Santa placing the note-case inside his sack? And, more, did you not observe his manner when you were accusing? He was not at all his usual chirpy self. Now, if he was thinking that by hiding himself this note-case in his sack he would altogether trick you because you would not look there, I am believing he would have found something cheeky to be saying. It was because he was not that I was suddenly realising what must have happened."

"And what was that, Inspector?" the rich customer demanded.

"Oh, madam, you could not be knowing, but just only as I was entering this store I was catching sight of one Ram Prasad, notorious pickpocket. And he also was catching sight of myself, and ek dum he was turning round and making his way more into the store. It was soon after, I am thinking, that he was dropping the note-case he had already lifted from your open handbag into this sack. This Santa must have spotted him doing that, but been unable to prevent, and Ram Prasad will have had the intention of removing his loot when he had seen that I myself had left the store. I do not have much of doubt that it will be his fingerprints, which we have had tentwelve years upon the file, that will be found on his very nice shiny crocodile-skin surface."

And it was then that, behind the bedraggled cottonwool of his beard, Santa sahib gave a wide, wide smile.

"Ho, ho, ho," he chuckled.

THE CHRISTMAS TRAIN.

Will Scott.

LARGELY FORGOTTEN TODAY, Will Scott wrote more than two thousand stories in his career, beginning with short humorous tales for various British periodicals before turning to crime. Among his most interesting characters are the oddly named Giglamps, a combination hobo, detective, and rogue; Disher, an egregiously fat and pompous detective who once (and maybe more than once!) said, "It is the most boring thing in all the world, of course, but I am always right"; and Jeremiah Jones, also known as the Laughing Crook, who, in a long series of stories, consistently gets the better of Scotland Yard Inspector Beecham. "The Christmas Train" was first published in the December 23, 1933, issue of Pa.s.sing Show.

The Christmas Train.

WILL SCOTT.

"YOU'RE SURE OF YOUR FACTS, MAXWELL?" Mr. Jeremiah Jones inquired.

"Positive, sir," replied the sober Maxwell. "Mr. Hadlow Cribb landed this morning at Southampton. He has the jewels with him. Forty thousand pounds' worth. The trouble is, you can't get that lot through the Customs without somebody getting to know. And I got to know. It cost a bit!"

"Luxuries," reflected Mr. Jones, with a grin, "are always expensive. But go on."

"Mr. Hadlow Cribb leaves Liverpool Street tonight for his country home at Friars Topliss where he intends to spend Christmas," Maxwell proceeded. "The jewels, of course, go with him. The train is due out at fourteen minutes past six."

"Four hours," murmured Mr. Jones, with a glance at his watch. "Busy train. It won't be too easy. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I wish I'd had a little experience of this kind of work."

"I ought to add," Maxwell resumed, "that Mr. Hadlow Cribb was accompanied up from Southampton by Marks."

"Marks?" Mr. Jeremiah Jones's eyebrows lifted quickly. "The new fellow in Beecham's office?"

"Exactly," said Maxwell with a sigh.

"Scotland Yard protection! No, it isn't going to be too easy," Mr. Jones repeated. "Can you get word to Dawlish?" he added as he reached for the telephone.

"Dawlish?"

Mr. Jones nodded.

"You mean-as it were-put him wise?"

"Very wise, in a tactful way."

"I might," said Maxwell doubtfully.

"Aren't you sure?"

"I'm positive," said Maxwell.

"Right. Then go and do it. Meet me here at five-thirty. Have everything ready-most important-mind you've got a bag that's as near as blow it to the one Mr. Hadlow Cribb will carry his jewels in."

"It shall be done," Maxwell promised. And away he went.

Mr. Jones unhooked the receiver.

"That Scotland Yard?" he was saying presently. "Inspector Beecham? Say Mr. Jones-an old friend!"

A minute pa.s.sed and then a sly smile spread across Mr. Jones's cheerful face.

"That you, Beecham? How are you? Merry Christmas! Well, why not? Peace on earth, goodwill to all men, and that kind of thing.