Inspector Ghote, His Life and Crimes. H. R. f. Keating

swallowed.

      ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘DSP, I take it that you are requesting me to refer to the time when our village was visited by the great Dr James Walsingham?’

      ‘Exactly, man,’ the DSP snapped. ‘And at that time you saw a good deal of Dr Walsingham? Eh? Eh? You followed him round like a faithful dog only, yes?’

      ‘Yes, sir. Yes, I did.’

      ‘Good. Fine. Excellent. And now, tell me, who is that individual you can see lying on that charpoy there?’

      Ghote took a step forward and looked down. He was quickly able to see a good deal more, the spreading tangled beard of the man he had watched through the binoculars, his bare and ribby chest, the torn khaki shorts. Soon all that remained of the face as it emerged from its frame of matted hair was fully visible.

      ‘Sir, it is difficult,’ he said.

      ‘Nonsense, man, nonsense,’ DSP Samant snapped. ‘Go nearer. Take a damn good look.’

      Ghote obeyed. He did not feel altogether happy to do so, but nevertheless he put his face close to that of the man on the charpoy and peered hard. Two red-rimmed eyes looked back at him, blankly and ferociously.