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

“Oh yes, sahib. He had damn well seen all right. And I also had seen, I had seen he was not once ever going to forget this face.”

Well, I thought, as a face it’s not exactly prepossessing. But with those two great big pointy ears, you’re right, my friend, it’s certainly memorable.

“Yes, I suppose you must have felt you were in a pretty tight corner. Did you manage to do anything about it? Or are you still trying to dodge — what did you call him? — Thakur Dada?”

“Oh no, sahib. Altogether okay now. I was telling, it is my first murder.”

“You mean you murdered him? This top smuggler? Feared by the police even? But didn’t he have a gang? Bodyguards? What do you call them? Goondas.”

“Yes, yes. He was having. Many-many tough-tough goondas. That was why I was needing to act damn quick. I was just only lucky the gentleman was in state of undress itself.”

“Yes, I suppose he could hardly chase you out into the street.”

“Correct, correct. But I tell you, he was into a trouser and out of that hotel room even before I had run down each and every stair.”

“He chased you then? Was he armed at all?”

“Oh yes, sahib. A gentleman like Thakur Dada is always carrying a gun. He was waving and waving same as he ran after me along lane going towards Colaba Causeway.”

“But I suppose he couldn’t fire at you? Not in a lane crowded with people?”

“Oh, sahib, such would not have stopped Thakur Dada. If he had been able, he would have put bullets three-four into myself, and walk off laughing only.”

“But wouldn’t the passersby have set on him? Held him until the police came?”

“Sahib, it was Thakur Dada there.”

“Really? He has that much power, does he?”

I was beginning to wonder if, after all, I might be learning something to put into some future book. To show your hero in a really good light you need a villain of real stature.

“Oh, sahib. Thakur Dada cannot be touched.”

“Cannot? So he’s still there? After you?”

“No, no, sahib. I should have been saying He could not be touched.”

“Then it was him that you— Who was the— The victim of your first murder?”

“Ji haan, sahib.”

It was clear only his own language would do to make that claim. Ji haan: Yes, indeed.

“But how? How did you manage to — to murder a man like that?”

“Sahib, I will tell you. But you only. Because I have such respect for notable British author.”

“That— That’s very kind. Well, thank you. Thank you.”

“Sahib, this is what was happening. Truly. There I was, running and running, and thinking with each and every step Thakur Dada is there. He would wipe me out just only like I would slap one mosquito. And he is big-big and I am small-small itself. In two-three minutes I will be feeling his big-big hands round my throat. What to do? What to do?”

“What did you do?”

My heart had begun to pound almost as thumpingly as my friend’s must have done.

“Oh, sahib, at that moment, just as I was coming into Colaba Causeway itself. Sahib, just outside here, going straight-straight from Prince of Wales Museum to utmost tip of Bombay.”

“Yes, yes. I’ve been here before. Very crowded. Traffic hooting and honking everywhere.”

“Very good, sahib. Well, just as I reached, I was seeing a fellow with a handcart selling mangoes. Hundred percent rotten fruit. Cheap, cheap. And idea, was coming to me that if I was taking one of those baskets and tipping same on ground, perhaps Thakur Dada would be slipping and sliding and falling down to his very face.”

“Good thinking. And it came off? You got away?”

Could I use that trick in a Ghote story? There were times when I had him chased by goondas and outnumbered. But this seemed a little too good to be true.

As it turned out to be.

“Sahib, I was not so clever as that. And also if I had got away that time, how long would it be before one dark night I was meeting four-five goondas and coming to my very end?”

“So, what happened?”

“What was happening was that this mangowalla was not at all liking some passing individual seizing his basket, however much of rotten were his fruits.”

“So...?”

“And colliding also with Thakur Dada.”

“So that put an end to the chase, I suppose. But surely it can’t have been what saved you?”

“No, no, sahib. But, you see, this mangowalla was coming out fast, impact was sending Thakur Dada, who was dancing here and there so as not to slide on those fruits, falling-sprawling right into roadway.”

“Yes?”

“And, sahib, bus was passing. Number One Limited, very much of nonstop.”

I admit I felt a tumbling sense of anticlimax. So this first murder was no murder at all. I suppose I should have been glad to find I was not sitting opposite a killer — he had just drained his second falooda, every bit as noisily — but somehow at that moment I felt distinctly cheated.

“And then you ran off?” I said.

“Sahib, no, no, no. What good would be there? If the fellows of Thakur Dada’s gang were finding out who had caused death of their hero, then once more I would be in big-big soup.”

“I suppose you would be. So you didn’t run off? Is that it?”