the litter of tent poles beside the body. There was not the least sign either that, somehow, the well-pegged edges of the canvas had been prised up enough for Vasubhai to have thrust the legs outside, or even any knife he might have had.
Close inspection will be necessary fully to confirm that. But, peer as I may at the pegs and the grass beside them, I am damn sure I will find no signs of disturbance.
He took another good look at Vasubhai, still standing just inside the entrance. One thing was patently evident: the fellow was certainly not holding two such bloody objects as those legs. Nor, after rushing out of the dressing-room, had he had any opportunity whatsoever to have hurled them one after another anywhere out of sight. And nowhere in that brick-red safari suit could he possibly have concealed anything as bulky as two human legs, however short in stature their owner.
Wait. That suitcase. But surely it must be altogether too small?
He strode across to where it had been put on the bare table and flicked it open. And there was the gorgeous Kanchivaram sari, just as he had seen it before. He even plunged his hand in, for all that logic told him it was a ridiculous act, to see if the legs were inside, shallow though the case was. But, if there were no legs, there was something else. There was a long-bladed knife.
But it was, as far as a single hard look told, unstained by any blood. And, of course, it could have been in there untouched the whole time.
Ghote cursed himself. Why didn’t I make a thorough search of this case when I was first been shown its contents? But there was no reason why I should have done. I was not at all knowing there was a body inside the room here, or that somebody was going to cut off that anonymous fellow’s legs? If they had? If Vasubhai has? But, if, if, if he did, where are the legs? Where?
All right, make one final, final check.
Calling to one of the constables by the entrance gate, Ghote quietly told him to keep a strict watch on the waiting ganglord. Then a quick race round the whole exterior of the shamiana.
But it served only to confirm beyond any possibility of doubt that the dead man’s legs had not been somehow pushed out into the open.
Ghote gave a great sigh.
Only one thing to do now. From his back trouser pocket he pulled his mobile and swiftly tapped out a number.
“Deputy Commissioner sahib? Ghote here, sir. At the music festival. And, sir, there has been a murder. Sir, with one most hard to explain circumstance. Sir, you must come.”
The Deputy Commissioner came. But not alone. When over the air Ghote had answered all his questions he had plainly come to the conclusion that the extraordinary circumstances required extraordinary measures. So, there was the Crime Branch-trained search team, and the Branch dogs, Akbar, Moti and Caesar, with their handlers. There was Sergeant Moos, in charge of Headquarters Fingerprint Section. There was even someone Ghote had seen only once before, the Deputy Commissioner’s wife’s favourite guru, Swami Mayananda, believed to have mystic powers far beyond the everyday.
Snapping out commands, the Deputy Commissioner rapidly put everyone to work. Each square inch of the grass floor of the dressing-room was examined by the hands-and-knees searchers. The carpet outside was equally subjected to a comprehensive patting examination. Akbar, Moti and Caesar were set to tugging their handlers here, there and everywhere, sniffing and sniffing. At the entrance gate the handful of early arrivals were each subjected to questioning, even though Ghote had assured the Deputy Commissioner that none of them had penetrated the fenced-off audience area. The musicians were body-searched from head to foot, although they, too, had never come beyond the surrounding fence. Sergeant Moos, crouching and kneeling, stretching and peering, spread clouds of his dark and light dusting powders over every surface he could find, likely and unlikely. Everywhere there was buzzing activity. Only the swami, who ignoring the Deputy Commissioner, had sat himself down cross-legged beside the neglected body of the nondescript victim and had entered into a trance, provided a small aura of stillness.
But no results of any sort emerged.
“Damn it,” the Deputy Commissioner shouted eventually. “That man’s legs are somewhere. Somewhere. Find them, find them. The damn things can’t have just walked.”
Then he realized the dreadful pun his fury had caused him to perpetrate, and, for want of a better person to vent his rage upon, directed a glare of unrestrained ferocity towards Ghote, who, after having on the Deputy Commissioner’s own orders escorted the Beauteous Bhakti’s father to wait in his car, had placed himself on one of the audience chairs in the back row. Solitary and ignored, he had sat there waiting, feeling all he could do was to keep an eye on the two constables keeping their eyes on the brick-suited ganglord.
At last Vasubhai rolled down a window in the big Contessa, its engine softly running in order to operate the air-conditioner; driver and bodyguard two stone-still presences in the front seats.
“Deputy Commissioner sahib,” he called out. “My daughter would be coming at any minute. She is late already. What to do?”
The Deputy Commissioner shot him a glance, still sparking with fury.
“Oh, take her back home, man,” he shouted. “Take her back home. You are not thinking she will be giving her recital now, are you?”
“No, no, Deputy Commissioner. Out of question, a singer of my Bhakti’s status. So I will be saying goodbye itself.”
A tap on the shoulder of the Contessa’s driver and the engine was revved up.
And then Ghote jumped from his chair. With a wildly launched leap he vaulted the fence behind him. And, as the ganglord’s big car began to move off, he flung himself into its path.
“Stop,” he shouted. “Stop. Police orders.”
From inside the car Vasubhai yelled to his driver “Go on, man, go on.”
But Ghote stood his ground. And, with the car’s gleaming chrome bumper actually touching his legs, the driver brought it to a halt.
The Deputy Commissioner came striding up.
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
“Sir,” Ghote said. “Sir, I have just only realized how the legs of the murdered man were coming to disappear.”
“Nonsense, man, nonsense. Legs cannot just disappear. They are here somewhere, I tell you. They are somewhere inside that shamiana. They must be.”
Ghote drew in a breath.
“Sir, no,” he said.
“What the hell do you mean
“Sir, it is simple. Sir, I am believing this is where we were going wrong. Not looking, sir, for one obvious answer.”
Rapidly he corrected himself.
“Sir, it is where I myself was going wrong when I was telephoning yourself, sir.”
“You were going wrong? That I can believe. So, how was it you were making the mistake of calling out the whole of Crime Branch?” Eh, man? How? How?”
“Sir, as I was saying, sir. It is altogether most simple. Sir, I am realizing now who that fellow dead inside there must be. Sir, he would be someone Vasubhai here was planting in the gang of his rival, Gulshan Singh. A spy, sir. A jasoos. And, sir, Gulshan Singh must have discovered same. That is why he was sending some message to yourself, sir, saying there was something at this festival now that would interest police. He was wanting us, and whole world also, to see what happens to anyone who tries and attempts to infiltrate his gang.”
“Ha. Well, I dare say you could be right there, Inspector. I thought something on
