Cheating Death by H. R. F. Keating

Author:H. R. F. Keating [H. R. F. Keating]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2020-07-16T16:00:00+00:00

THIRTEEN

Again the look of haunted fear came into Victor Furtado’s eyes. But there was no deciding whether it was the active fear of a misdeed being found out or the more general fear of a man who seemed to go through life prey to every sort of anxiety.

‘But, why, Inspector, why?’ he bleated now. ‘What are you going to find in the room that I have?’

‘That we shall see,’ Ghote replied. ‘Kindly take me there.’

He marched Furtado half a pace ahead of him towards the entrance hall, deliberately keeping a grim silence in the face of the few pathetic attempts at speech the fellow made. But in the hall he encountered a check. Amar Nath was standing there, feet apart, hands behind his back, massive moustache curling, looking loftily at such students as were hurrying past. But at the sight of Ghote he had burst into life.

‘Inspector, Inspector, I have important-important message.’

What the hell . .?

He went over.

‘Yes? What it is?’

Amar Nath felt in one of the pockets of his green uniform and produced an envelope, already battered and crushed.

‘From hot-pant Cooper Mrs,’ he said. ‘Love letter, I am thinking.’

He was still laughing away when Ghote had finished reading the short note. Station House Officer Dadar P.S. rang to say box in question cast on to dust heap.

Inwardly Ghote cursed. A piece of hard evidence, something that could not but have impressed the Additional Commissioner. And in the time since he had visited Bala Chambhar’s mother she had chosen to get rid of this reminder of her son at the point of death.

Well, he had better find some Somnomax Five with one or other of his suspects. Nothing less would convince the Additional Commissioner that the crime under investigation now was not the theft of one question-paper but murder itself. And Victor Furtado was still perhaps as good a bet as any as that would-be murderer.

Coming out of the college gate with him, Ghote was surprised to see the Goan turn unhesitatingly to the right and not the left. Surely Dean Potdar, in giving him his directions, had said he should turn left? He had said it twice even.

Was Victor Furtado planning flight?

He moved a little closer, ready to grab.

But his suspect showed no sign of taking to his heels, and before long they came to a side-road down which he turned as unhesitatingly as he had turned out of the college gate.

Ghote decided that either Dean Potdar in his effort to explain clearly to a thick-head police officer, had contrived to muddle himself, or that he, in his effort to appear a thick-head police officer, had got it wrong. Or had the Dean deliberately given him wrong directions as a malicious little joke? It was possible. Definitely possible.

The notion was confirmed less than two minutes later when Victor Furtado pointed to a tall water-stained barrack some two hundred yards ahead.

‘It is there I am staying,’ he said, with a glance half of fear, half of dim defiance.

‘Very good,’ Ghote answered tersely.

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