Go west, Inspector Ghote [antikvár]

GO WEST, INSPECTOR GHOTE He turnéd his head so that his ear was as near as he could get it to the crack at the edge of the door. Could he hear anything? Was there anything to hear? No. No, he was certain. There was nothing. Not even the faintest söund of breathing. He decided suddenly to risk it. If Swami was there inside he could pretend that he had come to see him, that he was seeking guidance even, that he did not know the fellow was supposed to be elsewhere. For a few extra seconds he continued to listen at the door-crack. But there was nothing. Not the slightest of moans, not a sigh. He thrust the heavy door wide. The Swami Without A Name, at once vogi and cunning cheat, was lying fiat on his back in the centre of the large, almost bare room. His throat was cut írom ear to ear.