Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

“Keating’s most remarkable skill,” said William L. DeAndrea in his Encyclopedia Mysteriosa, “lies in his ability to induce in the most provincial reader an interest in, and sympathy for, characters facing mystery in unusual environments. The best known of these environments is the Bombay of Keating’s best-known creation, Inspector Ganesh Ghote.” Mr. Keating takes us to Ghote’s Bombay in this new story, but with himself instead of Ghote as a central character...

* * *

I hadn’t gone very far from my hotel, walking slowly in the fizzling Bombay heat, when someone came sidling up beside me.

“It is the notable British author?” he said, half a question, half a statement.

He’d got it right. Or, at least, he’d identified me as the person the paper I’d been interviewed in the day before, with picture, had headlined with that typically Indian English phrase.

“Yes?” I answered cautiously.

More than a little cautiously, in fact. There was something about this fellow that set doubts hopping in my mind. More than doubts. Plain distrust. No sooner had he put his question than his glance had flicked away, as if he preferred no one to look at him too closely. Nor was his whole appearance any more reassuring. Check shirt, faintly greasy at neck and cuffs. Cotton khaki trousers with a long dark smear down one thigh. Shoes, rather than sandals, on his sockless feet, their black leather cracked and dry from lack of polish. The only sign of respectability about him, apart from his reasonably good English, was the briefcase he carried. And that was suspiciously thin and empty looking.

But now he turned to me again, two enormous pointy ears poking forward, and flashed me a wide, white-toothed smile.

Too quick a smile?

“You will be very much wanting to know what I am able to tell,” he said.

“Oh yes?”

Was money hopefully going to change hands? That what this was all about?

“Yes, yes. You see, I am private eye itself. Junior Investigator. Star of Hind Detective Agency. Soon-soon becoming Senior. Hike of salary also. Star of Hind Agency is full member A.I.S.O.I.”

He slid one of a pack of large business cards out of his shirt pocket, thrust it out to me. I took it unwillingly, oily all round the edges as it was with sweaty handling. But before I put it into my own pocket — I could hardly get rid of it at once — I saw at least that it looked like the genuine article.

“But what is this A.I.S. — whatever?” I asked, before realising I had given this unsavoury fellow a new toehold.

“It is Association of Investigators and Security Organisation of India. Sahib, I am very much surprised you are not knowing a name of such all-India fame.”

Another inch gained in keeping my acquaintance. Hadn’t I been put in the position now of having to explain myself? Even apologise?

“Well, you know, I haven’t been in India very long. And, writing about my Inspector Ghote, I’m really more interested in the police than... er... private investigators.”

I should have left it at that. But, stupidly, I tried for a final brush-off.

“Readers of my books expect rather more than catching out naughty husbands.”

“Then, sahib, I must be telling you about time I was committing my first murder.”

I gulped.

A murderer? And— And didn’t a first imply a second? Even a third? Maybe not a serial killer but, private eye though he might be, someone ready to end a life in the course of robbery? Had he got it into his head that an author from the affluent West was bound to have some huge amount on his person? Under that dirty shirt there could well be a. knife. The work of an instant to slip it out, strike, snatch a wallet, melt into the crowd.

I thought fast. Even furiously.

“Er— Yes. Yes, I’d be very interested to hear about— About that. Very. But I imagine you’ll want to be paid for such information. Such good information. And, as it so happens, I’ve left my wallet— Yes, in my hotel.”

I began to turn back.

“Oh, sahib, no, no, no. What I am wishing to tell is out of respect only. Respect for one notable author visiting India.”

Was that likely?

Well, the fellow’s face seemed now to be shining with sincerity. Perhaps I had misjudged him. And it wouldn’t be easy to get away without being brutally impolite.

“That’s very kind of you. Most kind.”

“Oh, very good, sahib. Very good. Here is one damn fine cold-drinks place. We should go in.”

I allowed myself to be led into the place — it was called the Edward VIII Juice Nook — and we sat down on either side of one of the narrow tables.