CHAPTER
The man s office was enormous. Inspector Ghote; at the door， stood
stock still unable for a moment to take a step forward so overwhelm-
ing was the effect.
Even its occupant， at whose urgent request he was there， seemed
shrunk into insignificance behind his huge， carved table-desk at the
far end. Yes， even Mr. Ranjee Shahani， the croreyati， the \"magnate\"
as the English-language newspapers called him， the head of Shahani
Enterprises itself， was dwarfed here.
But why had this man， this magnate， requested the presence of a
simple inspector of the Bombay C.I.D.? And so urgently? And why
had it been that nothing could be told him about the reason for the
request?
Ghote drew in a breath， still without setting foot on the first of
two vast carpets that lay between him and the crorepati s huge table-
desk， and the very air he sucked in seemed a different substance
from the damp， sullen atmosphere of end-of-monsoon Bombay out-
side. It was air-conditioned to a chilliness that put him in mind of
the snow-crowned Himalayas.
\"Mr. Shahani? It is Inspector Ghote.\"
He wished violently that his voice had sounded less dry in the
back of his throat.
The magnate， the crorepati， there at the far end of the huge
room， lowered his head in slight acknowledgement.
~res，\" he said. \"It was Inspector Ghote.\"
Was? It was Inspector Ghote? Why， why \"was\" and not \"is\"?
\"Come， Inspector.\"
Ghote plunged onto the carpet in front of him， a softly shining
expanse of pale， marked-at-a-touch fawn with mysteriously contorted
bluish dragons disporting over it， fetched at some time long past
from Ancient China. Dimly， as he advanced， he was aware ，f the
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