Inspector Ghote Goes by Train by H. R. F. Keating

Author:H. R. F. Keating [H. R. F. Keating]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2020-02-28T00:00:00+00:00

NINE

At last they came to the final stages of their long journey. The view from the windows ceased to be of fields and villages and instead there reigned a grimmer industrial landscape, grey acres of hovels interspersed with the dark bulk of factories, their heavy chimneys pointing implacably skywards. From time to time now it was just possible about half a mile away on their left to get glimpses of the Hooghly River which runs through Calcutta itself, glints of sun-struck water with the tall black bulks of mills strung along it.

Suddenly Mr Banerjee closed his book with a joyful snap, and buried the volume instantly—now I shall never know, Ghote thought—in his old, fine leather suitcase with those disturbing initials just visible on it.

‘My friends,’ the Bengali said, ‘allow a seasoned traveller to remind you that before arriving in Calcutta one has to adjust one’s watch. Calcutta Time is twenty-four minutes ahead of Railway Time.’

Ghote fumed. The remark could have been directed only at him. Mr Ramaswamy was as ‘seasoned’ a railway traveller as could be and neither of the two hippies, much less the guru, bothered with anything as everyday and necessary as a watch, although Mary Jane at this hint did begin to collect up their possessions—the useless cameras, the Kleenex box—preparatory to packing them.

But nevertheless in Calcutta, Ghote realized, he would need to know the correct time. Dutifully he pulled the winding-knob of his watch and twirled it round till the minute-hand had advanced by exactly twenty-four minutes.

He was suddenly smitten with sadness at the thought that it was Railway Time he was parting with. Railway Time: it was as if it was something set apart. And now he was going to have to emerge from its cocoon and face, unprotected, the pricks and batterings that a not particularly high-ranking policeman might expect in carrying out a minor task in someone else’s territory.

If only he had still been fetching A. K. Bhattacharya. If only looming, brass-faced Mr Banerjee had turned out to be A. K. Bhattacharya, arrestable A. K. Bhattacharya, after all.

But Mr Banerjee, who had got to his feet to make the solemn adjustment of his own watch, worn so smartly on the inside of his wrist, was now favouring them all with another white-teethed smile.

‘Madam and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we are within a short time of the end of our period of companionship, so let me tell you all, with complete sincerity, that I think I have never enjoyed a journey more.’

His glance travelled over his odd assortment of companions with a smile of proprietorial joy. It passed over the simple and almost always silent guru, who yet had furnished him with some extraordinary comparisons for his hero figure, A. K. Bhattacharya. His eyes halted too for a few seconds on Mr Ramaswamy, perhaps remembering that moment, which surely the frog-like Madrasi hoped no one would ever again recall, when all the decencies had been flouted and a perfectly innocent traveller had been accused of being in disguise the most notorious confidence-trickster of the age.

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