William Bankier - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 92, No. 3. Whole No. 547, September 1988

Moses Lightcastle had volunteered to Seward the fact of his meeting on Sunday in La Jolla with Betty/Dannelle. Why would he want to incriminate himself? Who would have known? Was he making points for himself in case some bellhop or barkeep should turn up later to incriminate him? His hatred for Bingham was thick enough to cut with an overripe zucchini, although the trim gentleman did his utmost to conceal it. Another massive ego. But so badly bruised it had moved the self-composed executive assistant to sudden murder?

Then there was this bundle of energy with the quick smile and sparse blond hair, David Bixby. He had brought Dannelle to Bingham — and had been fingered by at least three others in the group as the lover, or at least former lover, of the deceased. However, during his private interrogation of Bixby, Seward discovered that had nothing to do with the price of eggs. Dannelle had been the child bride of Bixby. The alimony payments had been crushing him for years now and they had, Seward learned, come to an agreement: if Bixby could sell her to Bingham, she’d cancel all future payments due and wipe clean the past-due slate as well. Had she reneged on her promise? And had Bixby overreacted?

A pounding on the oak door roused Seward from his notes.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked, as one of his men pushed open the door.

“Excuse me, Inspector,” the sergeant said, “but this guard here wonders if you’re finished with him now?”

All eyes were on the door to Miss Kathy’s office.

“I believe I am,” Seward said.

“Thank you.” The guard who had discovered the body appeared briefly in the door frame. He looked tired but pleased. He was on triple time. He nodded to the Inspector and turned to leave.

“But that’s Jeff Johnson—” David Bixby started. “He used to be Dannelle’s agent.”

“I still am!” Johnson cried, trying to wrench himself free of the sergeant’s sudden grasp. “I got a signed contract!”

“Better bring him in here,” Seward said quietly.

“I’ve got my rights!” the ex-agent shouted. “She was dealing herself! Dealing me out! That isn’t done! I have my rights!”

“And now,” Seward said, “you have some more. Read them to him, Sergeant.”

© 1988 by Janet Blair Dominick.

© 1988 by H. R. F. Keating.

“No this, no that,” complained the Assistant Commissioner crossly. “What good are your nos and woes to me, Inspector? It is results I am wanting. A most valuable statue of Goddess Parvati was stolen in broad daylight, and numerous artefacts also.”

“Artefacts, sir?” Ghote blurted the question out before he had time to see it would be a mistake to display ignorance of exactly what the English word meant.

“Yes, man, artefacts. Artefacts. Whatsoever they are.”

A story in Harry Keating’s enduring series that will make you laugh out loud. Would that Peter Sellers were alive to play any or all of the characters, excepting Marik but including Professor Mrs. or Miss Prunella Partington...

The Assistant Commissioner was angry. Inspector Ghote could be in no doubt of it. That voice, he thought, so loud it must be heard through entire Bombay.

The A.C.P. had thumped the glass-topped surface of his desk, too.

“It is not good enough. Not good enough by one damn long chalk.”

“No, sir. No, A.C.P. sahib.”

“The clear-up rate for Crime Branch has fallen almost to zero.”

Ghote thought of stating the exact figure, which, if it was somewhat down on the year before, was still well above that zero. But he realized that doing so would hardly calm the A.C.P.’s wrath. In fact, it might have the very opposite effect.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“And you, Ghote, are as much responsible as any. More even. More.”

Again Ghote was aware of a lack of precise factuality in the A.C.P.’s charge. But this time he did not even produce a word in acknowledgment.

“Look at the business of the Gudalpore Temple theft,” the A.C.P. stormed on, as unappeased by silence as he had been by sycophantic agreement. “How long is it since we were receiving that tipoff that the loot was held in Bombay for inspection by some damn unscrupulous foreign buyers? Two months? Three months? Four?”

Once more Ghote decided that silence was best. But it was not.

“How long? I am asking you, Inspector. How long? Three months, four?”

“It is seven weeks, three days, A.C.P. sahib.”

“Exactly. Seven weeks, eight, and what results have you succeeded to get?”

“Sir, it is not at all easy. We have had no more than that one tipoff itself. No hint even of where the loot may be hidden. No reports of any suspicious foreigners coming to camp in Bombay.”

“No this, no that. What good are your nos and woes to me, Inspector? It is results I am wanting. A most valuable statue of Goddess Parvati was stolen in broad daylight, and numerous artefacts also.”

“Artefacts, sir?”

Ghote blurted the question out before he had had time to see it would be a mistake to display ignorance of what exactly the English word meant.

“Yes, man, artefacts. Artefacts. Whatsoever they are.”

The A.C.P. snatched the metal paperweight inscribed with his initials off a formidable pile of documents to one side of his desk and began a scrabbling hunt through them. At last he produced a long list, badly reproduced on mauvish paper, and slammed the paperweight back before the breeze from the big fan behind him could play havoc with the pile.

He began reading aloud.

“One Goddess Parvati, Tenth-Twelfth Century, sandstone, height one hundred and forty-seven centimeters, seated upon a representation of a tipai in the semi-lotus position with the left arm resting upon the knee and the right in an attitude of blessing. Plus four God Ganeshas, terracotta, height twenty-two centimeters, twenty-three centimeters, twenty-five centimeters, and twenty-eight centimeters respectively. Plus one Goddess Sarasvati, bronze, twelve centimeters, tail of peacock partly missing. Plus two Krishnas, fluting, no heights stated. Plus eighteen other artefacts, various.”

He looked up.

“Eighteen artefacts, Ghote, and you have not been able to locate even one.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it is not good—”

The A.C.P.’s observations were interrupted by the shrilling of one of the three telephones on his wide-spreading desk. He picked it up.

“Haan?”

An urgent voice squeaked out.

“No,” the A.C.P. barked back. “No, I am not able to see. Every damn foreigner coming here has some letter of introduction from a Minister and thinks they can bother me with their every least wish. I have appointment. Lions Club luncheon. One hundred percent important.”

He slammed the phone down.

“Ghote,” he said, his voice much less furious than it had been a minute earlier, “there is some Professor Something-or-other wanting to make some complaint or protest or demand. Deal with it, yes?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, A.C.P. sahib. Right away, sir.” Ghote clicked heels smartly and left, buoyed up with relief at the unforeseen rescue.

Fate, it soon began to seem, was to be yet kinder to him. The foreign professor — who turned out to his surprise to be not the venerable man he had envisaged but an English lady, stout of person, red of face, bristly of eyebrow, and clad in skirt and jacket of some tough pale-brown material resembling the sail of a harbor dhow — had no sooner announced herself as “Professor Prunella Partington, good day to you” than she stated in a ringingly British voice that she had just seen in Bombay “a Parvati statue that ought quite certainly to be in its proper place in the temple at Gudalpore.”