Bats Fly up for Inspector Ghote by Keating H. R. F

Author:Keating, H. R. F. [Keating, H. R. F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction - Crime, India
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Ghote stood, holding himself perfectly still and forcing himself to relax, behind the thick circular trunk of the tall leaning palm that rose above him high into the night air. Fifty yards away was the outline of the beach bungalow at fashionable Juhu which Inspector Nadkarni had eventually disclosed as being the target of their operation. A persistent cool breeze coming in from the sea made Ghote want to sneeze. He was glad he was wearing a jacket and one of his better, thicker pairs of trousers, one of the pairs that had become associated with his life in the high-flying Bats.

Below him he could hear the sea trickling monotonously in and out over the smooth sand. That and the tiny insistent noises of night insects were all that there was to be heard.

Certainly the others, presumably moving now into the final positions Inspector Nadkarni had allotted them, were making no sound of any sort. If they were going to find their man had gone, it would not be because of any clumsy stupidity now.

But had their man already left the so carefully surrounded house? It was possible. There could theoretically have been time to get a message to him between the moment Inspector Nadkarni had given them a name and the final setting of the trap. That, if they were to have as much information as they ought to have, had been unavoidable.

Was he gone? Or was he there still behind closely drawn curtains, having ‘a last peg’, leaning back in a luxurious armchair, glorying in his riches and never thinking that they had been obtained, every rupee, at the expense of his fellow citizens, the ones who did pay their taxes, did not seek to buy smuggled goods, kept shops that declared every item for sales tax? And there were many people like that. More, far more, than would ever be believed by the habitually cynical, the routine doubters of every healthy-looking exterior.

In the soft and velvet darkness Ghote peered at the luminous hands of his wrist-watch. One minute from midnight now. One minute to go.

He counted out the seconds. Then he began moving softly forward, his feet making no sound in the yielding sand. The details of the bungalow’s exterior loomed clearer with every step. Yes, there was the door at the back that was his particular pigeon. And, yes, this should be near enough.

He waited.

With a suddenness that, despite his expecting it, gave him a start of shock there came the thunder of knocking at the front door on the other side of the building.

And then silence.

Ghote strained every fibre to hear. Steps inside the house should be audible to him here. Would they be those of a servant roused up and going sleepily but confidently to answer this late-night visitor? Or would they be the furtive movements of a man preparing to leave by the back way in a hurry?

He braced himself.

Nothing. Then another tattoo of fiery knocking from the front. And now a voice.

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