The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (35 page)

‘Kaka has gone out. He’ll return around seven,’ we were told.

So this was Dinanath Babu’s nephew. We had come straight from the Grand Hotel to Dinanath Babu’s house to report our progress, stopping on our way only to buy some meetha paan from a shop outside the New Empire.

Lined on one side of the gate of Mr Lahiri’s house were four garages. Three of these were empty. The fourth contained an old, strange looking car. ‘Italian,’ said Feluda. ‘It’s a Lagonda.’

The chowkidar took our card in, but, instead of Dinanath Babu, a younger man emerged from the house. He couldn’t have been more than thirty. Of medium height, he had fair skin like his uncle; his hair was long and tousled; and running down from his ears were broad sideburns, the kind that seemed to be all the rage among fashionable men. The man was staring hard at Feluda.

‘Could we please wait until he returns?’ asked Feluda. ‘We have something rather important to discuss, you see.’

‘Please come this way.’

We were taken into the living-room. The walls and the floor were littered with tiger and bear skins; a huge head of a buffalo graced the
wall over the main door. Perhaps Dinanath Babu’s uncle had been a shikari, too. May be that was why he and Shambhucharan had been so close?

‘My uncle goes out for a walk every evening. He’ll be back soon.’ Dinanath Babu’s nephew had an exceptionally thin voice. I wondered if it was he who had been given Mr Dhameeja’s attaché case.

‘Are you,’ he asked, ‘the same Felu Mitter who solved the mystery of the Golden Fortress?’

‘Yes,’ said Feluda briefly, and leant back in his chair, crossing his legs, perfectly relaxed.

I kept looking at the other man. His face seemed familiar. Where had I seen him before? Then something seemed to jog my memory.

‘Have you ever acted in a film?’ I asked.

The man cleared his throat.

‘Yes, in
The Ghost.
It’s a thriller. I play the villain. But it hasn’t yet been released.’

‘Your name . . . ?’

‘My real name is Prabeer Lahiri. But my screen name is Amar Kumar.’

‘Oh yes, now I remember. I have seen your photograph in a film magazine.’

Heavens, what kind of a villain would he make with a voice like that?

‘Are you a professional actor?’ asked Feluda. For some strange reason, Prabeer Babu was still standing.

‘I have to help my uncle in his business,’ he replied, ‘which means going to his plastic factory. But my real interest is in acting.’

‘What does your uncle think?’

‘Uncle isn’t . . . very enthusiastic about it.’

‘Why not?’

‘That’s the way he is.’

Amar Kumar’s face grew grave. Clearly, he had had arguments with his uncle over his career in films.

‘I have to ask you something,’ Feluda said politely, possibly because Amar Kumar was beginning to look belligerent.

‘I don’t mind answering your questions,’ he said. ‘What I can’t stand is my uncle’s constant digs at my—’

‘Did your uncle recently give you an Air-India attaché case?’

‘Yes, but someone pinched it. We’ve got a new servant, you
see . . .’

Feluda raised a reassuring hand and smiled.

‘No, no one stole that case, I assure you. It’s with me.’

‘With you?’ Prabeer Babu seemed perfectly taken aback.

‘Yes. Your uncle decided to return the case to its owner. He hired me for this purpose. What I want to know is whether you removed anything from it.’

‘I did, naturally. Here it is.’

Prabeer Babu took out a ballpoint pen from his pocket. ‘I wanted to use the blades and the shaving cream,’ he added, ‘but of course I never got the chance.’

‘You do realize, don’t you, that the case must go back to the owner with every item intact?’

‘Yes, yes, naturally.’

He handed the pen over to Feluda. But he was obviously still greatly annoyed with his uncle. ‘At least,’ he muttered, ‘I should have been told the case was going back. After all, he did give . . .’

He couldn’t finish his sentence. Dinanath Babu’s car sounded its horn at this moment, thereby causing the film villain to beat a quick retreat.

‘Oh no, have you been waiting long?’ Dinanath Babu walked into the room, looking slightly rueful, his hands folded in a namaskar. We stood up to greet him. ‘No, no, please sit down,’ he said hurriedly. ‘You wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, would you?’

His servant appeared almost immediately and left with an order to bring us tea. Dinanath Babu sat down on the settee next to ours.

‘So . . . tell me . . . ?’ he invited.

‘Your case got exchanged with the man who gave you the apple. His name is G. C. Dhameeja.’

Dinanath Babu grew round-eyed. ‘You found that out in just a day? What is this—magic?’

Feluda gave his famous lopsided smile and continued, ‘He lives in Simla and I’ve got his address. He was supposed to spend three days at the Grand, but he left a day early.’

‘Has he left already?’ Dinanath Babu asked, a little regretfully. ‘Yes. He left the hotel, but we don’t know whether he returned to Simla. One telegram to his house in Simla, and you shall get an answer to that.’

Dinanath Babu seemed to ponder for a few moments. Then he said, ‘All right. I will send a cable today. But if I discover he has
indeed gone back to Simla, I still have to return his case to him, don’t I?’

‘Yes, of course. And yours has to come back to you. I am quite curious about that travelogue.’

‘Very good. Allow me to make a proposal, Mr Mitter. Why don’t you go to Simla with your cousin? I shall, of course, pay all your expenses. It’s snowing in Simla, I hear. Have you ever seen it snow, Khoka?’

At any other time, I would have been affronted at being called a child. But now it did not seem to matter at all. Go to Simla? Oh, how exciting! My heart started to race faster.

But Feluda’s next words were most annoying. ‘You must think this one through, Mr Lahiri,’ he said. ‘It’s just a matter of taking an attaché case to Simla, and bringing one back, isn’t it? So anyone can do the job. It doesn’t necessarily have to be me.’

‘No, no, no,’ Dinanath Babu protested rather vehemently, ‘where will I find anyone as reliable as you? And since you began the investigation, I think you should end it.’

‘Why, you have a nephew, don’t you?’

A shadow passed over Dinanath Babu’s face.

‘He is no good, really. I’m afraid my nephew’s sense of responsibility is virtually nonexistent. Do you know what he has done? He’s gone into films! No, I cannot rely on him at all. I’d rather the two of you went. I’ll tell my travel agents to make all arrangements. You can fly up to Delhi and then catch a train. When you’ve done your job, you can even have a holiday in Simla for a few days. It would give me a lot of pleasure to be of service to a man like you. What you’ve done in just a few hours is truly remarkable!’

The tea arrived, together with cakes and sandwiches. Feluda picked up a piece of chocolate cake and said, ‘Thank you. There is one little thing I am still feeling curious about. The Nepali box in which you found the manuscript. Is it possible to see it?’

‘Of course. That’s not a problem at all. I’ll get my bearer to bring it.’

The box appeared in a few moments. About two feet in length and ten inches in height, its wooden surface was covered by a sheet of copper. Red, blue and yellow stones were set on the lid. The smell that greeted my nostrils as soon as the lid was lifted was the same as that in Naresh Pakrashi’s study. Dust-covered old furniture and threadbare curtains gave out the same musty smell.

Dinanath Babu said, ‘As you can see, there are two compartments in the box. The manuscript was in the first one, wrapped in a Nepali newspaper.’

‘Good heavens, it’s stuffed with so many different things!’ exclaimed Feluda.

‘Yes,’ Dinanath Babu smiled. ‘You might call it a mini curio shop. But it’s so filthy I haven’t felt tempted to handle anything.’

It turned out that the compartments could be removed. Feluda brought out the second one and inspected the objects it contained. There were stone necklaces, little engraved discs made of copper and brass, two candles, a small bell, a couple of little bowls, a bone of some unknown animal, a few dried herbs and flowers, reduced to dust—truly a little junk shop.

‘Did this box belong to your uncle?’

‘It came with him, so I assume it did.’

‘When did he return from Kathmandu?’

‘In 1923. He died the same year. I was seven.’

‘Very interesting,’ said Feluda. Then he took a last sip from his cup and stood up. ‘I accept your proposal, Mr Lahiri,’ he said, ‘but we cannot leave tomorrow. We’ll have to collect our warm clothes from the dry-cleaner’s. The day after tomorrow might be a better idea. And please don’t forget to cable Dhameeja.’

We returned home at around half-past-eight to find Jatayu waiting for us in the living-room, a brown parcel on his lap.

‘Have you been to the pictures?’ he asked with a smile.

Jatayu was the pseudonym of Lalmohan Ganguli, the famous writer of best-selling crime thrillers. We had first met him on our way to the golden fortress in Rajasthan. There are some men who appear strangely comical without any apparent reason. Lalmohan Babu was one of them. He was short—the top of his head barely reached Feluda’s shoulder; he wore size five shoes, was painfully thin, and yet would occasionally fold one of his arms absentmindedly and feel his biceps with the other. The next instant, he would give a violent start if anyone so much as sneezed loudly in the next room.

‘I brought my latest book for you and Tapesh,’ he said, offering the brown parcel to Feluda. He had started coming to our house
fairly regularly ever since our adventure in Rajasthan.

‘Which country did you choose this time?’ Feluda asked, unwrapping the parcel. The spine-chilling escapades of Lalmohan Babu’s hero involved moving through different countries.

‘Oh, I have covered practically the whole world this time,’ Lalmohan Babu replied proudly, ‘from the Nilgiris to the North Pole.’

‘I hope there are no factual errors this time?’ Feluda said quizzically, passing the book to me. Feluda had had to correct a mistake in his last book,
The Sahara Shivers,
regarding a camel’s water supply.

‘No, sir,’ Lalmohan Babu grinned. ‘One of my neighbours has a full set of the “Encyclopaedia Britannia”. I checked every detail.’

‘I’d have felt more reassured, Lalmohan Babu, if you had consulted the Britannica rather than the Britannia.’

But Jatayu ignored this remark and went on, ‘The climax comes— you’ve got to read it—with my hero, Prakhar Rudra, having a fight with a hippopotamus.’

‘A hippo?’

‘Yes, it’s really a thrilling affair.’

‘Where does this fight take place?’

‘Why, in the North Pole, of course. A hippo, didn’t I say?’

‘A hippopotamus in the North Pole?’

‘Yes, yes. Haven’t you seen pictures of this animal? It has whiskers like the bristles of a garden broom, fangs that stick out like a pair of white radishes, it pads softly on the snow . . .’

‘That’s a walrus, surely? A hippopotamus lives in Africa!’ Jatayu turned a deep shade of pink and bit his lip in profound embarrassment. ‘Eh heh heh heh!’ he said. ‘Bad mistake, that! Tell you what, from now on I’ll show you my manuscript before giving it to the publisher.’

Feluda made no reply to this. ‘Excuse me,’ he said and disappeared into his room.

‘Your cousin appears a little quiet,’ Lalmohan Babu said to me. ‘Has he got a new case?’

‘No, it’s nothing important,’ I told him. ‘But we have to go to Simla in the next couple of days.’

‘A long tour?’

‘No, just about four days.’

‘Hmm . . . I’ve never been to that part of the country . . .’
Lalmohan Babu grew preoccupied. But he began to show signs of animation the minute Feluda returned.

‘Tapesh tells me you’re going to Simla. Is it something to do with an investigation?’

‘No, not exactly. It’s just that Tom’s case has got exchanged with Dick’s. So we have to return Dick’s case to him and collect Tom’s.’

‘Good lord, the mystery of the missing case? Or, simply, a mysterious case?’

‘Look, I have no idea if there is any real mystery involved. But one or two things make me wonder . . . just a little . . .’

‘Felu Babu,’ Jatayu interrupted, ‘I have come to know you pretty well in these few months. I’m convinced you wouldn’t have taken the case unless you felt there was . . . well, something in it. Do tell me what it is.’

I could sense Feluda was reluctant to reveal too much at this stage. ‘It’s difficult to say anything,’ he said guardedly, ‘without knowing for sure who is telling lies, and who is telling the truth, or who is simply trying to conceal the truth. All I know is that there is something wrong somewhere.’

‘All right, that’s enough!’ Jatayu’s eyes began to shine. ‘Just say the word, and I’ll tag along with you.’

‘Can you bear the cold?’

‘Cold? I went to Darjeeling last year.’

‘When?’

‘In May.’

‘It’s snowing in Simla now.’

‘What!’ Lalmohan Babu rose from his chair in excitement. ‘Snow? You don’t say! It was the desert the last time and now it’s going to be snow? From the frying pan into the frigidaire? Oh, I can’t imagine it!’

‘It’s going to be an expensive business.’

I knew Feluda was trying gently to discourage him, but Jatayu paid no attention to his words.

‘I am not afraid of expenses,’ he retorted, laughing like a film villain. ‘I have published twenty-one thrillers, each one of which has seen at least five editions. I have bought three houses in Calcutta, by the grace of God. It’s in my own interest that I travel as much as possible. The more places I see, the easier it is to think up new plots. And not everyone is clever like you, so most people can’t see the difference between a walrus and a hippo, anyway. They’ll happily
swallow what I dish out, and that simply means that the cash keeps rolling in. Oh no, I am not bothered about the expenses. But if you give me a straight “no”,’ then obviously it’s a different matter.’

Feluda gave in. Before taking his leave, Jatayu took the details of when and how we’d be leaving and for how long, jotted these down in his notebook and said, ‘Woollen vests, a couple of pullovers, a woollen jacket and an overcoat . . . surely that should be enough even for Simla?’

‘Yes,’ said Feluda gravely, ‘but only if you add to it a pair of gloves, a Balaclava helmet, a pair of galoshes, woollen socks and something to fight frostbite. Then you may relax.’

I hate exams and tests in school, but I love the kind of tests Feluda sets for me. These are fun and they help clear my mind.

Feluda told me to come to his room after dinner. There he lay on his bed, flat on his stomach, and began throwing questions at me. The first was, ‘Name all the people we’ve got to know who are related to this case.’

‘Dinanath Lahiri.’

‘OK. What sort of a man do you think he is?’

‘All right, I guess. But he doesn’t know much about books and writers. And I’m slightly doubtful about the way he is spending such a lot of money to send us to Simla.’

‘A man who can maintain a couple of cars like that doesn’t have to worry about money. Besides, you mustn’t forget that employing Felu Mitter is a matter of prestige.’

‘Well, in that case there is nothing to be doubtful about. The second person we met was Naresh Chandra Pakrashi. Very ill-tempered.’

‘But plain spoken. That’s good. Not many have that quality.’

‘But does he always tell the truth? I mean, how do we know that Dinanath Lahiri really used to go to the races?’

‘Perhaps he still does. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s a crook.’

‘Then we met Prabeer Lahiri, alias Amar Kumar. Didn’t seem to like his uncle.’

‘That’s perfectly natural. His uncle is a stumbling block in his way forward in films, he gives him an attaché case full of things one day, and then takes it back without telling him . . . so obviously he’s
annoyed with his uncle.’

‘Prabeer Babu seemed pretty well built.’

‘Yes, he has strong and broad wrists. Perhaps that’s why his voice sounds so odd. It doesn’t match his manly figure at all. Now tell me the names of the other passengers who travelled with Dinanath Lahiri.’

‘One of them was Brijmohan. And his surname was . . . let me see . . .’

‘Kedia. Marwari.’

‘Yes. He’s a moneylender. Nothing remarkable in his appearance, apparently. Knew Mr Pakrashi.’

‘He really does have an office in Lenin Sarani. I looked it up in the telephone directory.’

‘I see. Well, the other was G. C. Dhameeja. He lives in Simla. Has an orchard.’

‘So he said. We don’t know that for sure.’

‘But it is his attaché case that got exchanged with Mr Lahiri’s. Surely there is no doubt about that?’

The case in question was lying open next to Feluda’s bed. He stared absentmindedly at its contents and muttered, ‘Hm . . . yes, that is perhaps the only thing one can be . . .’ He broke off and picked up the two English newspapers that were in the case and glanced at them. ‘These,’ he continued to mutter, ‘are the only things that . . . you know . . . make me feel doubtful. They don’t fit in somehow.’

At this point, he had to stop muttering for the phone rang. Feluda had had an extension put in his own room.

‘Hello.’

‘Is that you, Mr Mitter?’

I could hear the words spoken from the other side, possibly because it was quiet outside.

‘Yes, Mr Lahiri.’

‘Listen, I have just received a message from Dhameeja.’

‘You mean he’s replied to your telegram? Already?’

‘No, no. I don’t think I’ll get a reply before tomorrow. I am talking about a phone call. Apparently, Dhameeja had gone to the railway reservation office and got my name and address from them. But because he had to leave very suddenly, he could not contact me himself. He left my attaché case with a friend here in Calcutta. It was this friend who rang me. He’ll return my case to me if I bring
Dhameeja’s. So, you see . . .’

‘Did you ask him if the manuscript was still there?’

‘Oh yes. Everything’s fine.’

‘That’s good news then. Your problem’s solved.’

‘Yes, most unexpectedly. I’m leaving in five minutes. I’ll collect Dhameeja’s case from you and then go to Pretoria Street.’

‘May I make a request?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Why should you take the trouble of going out? We were going to go all the way to Simla, weren’t we? So we’d quite happily go to Pretoria Street and collect your case for you. If you let me keep it tonight, I can skim through Shambhucharan’s tale of Tibet. You may treat that as my fee. Tomorrow morning I shall return both the case and the manuscript to you.’

‘Very well. I have no objection to that at all. The man who rang me is a Mr Puri and his address is 4/2 Pretoria Street.’

‘Thank you. All’s well that ends well.’

Feluda replaced the receiver and sat frowning. I, too, sat silently, fighting a wave of disappointment. I did so want to go to Simla and see it snow. Now I had missed the chance and would have to rot in Calcutta where it was already uncomfortably hot, even in March. Well, I suppose I ought to be with Feluda in this last chapter of the story.

‘Let me go and get changed, Feluda,’ I said. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

‘All right. Hurry up.’

Twenty minutes later, we were in a taxi, cruising up and down Pretoria Street. It was a quiet street and, it being nearly half past eleven at night, not a soul was to be seen. We drove from one end of the street to the other, but it was impossible to see the numbers on the houses from the car. ‘Please wait here, Sardarji,’ Feluda said to the driver. ‘We’ll find the house and come back. We simply have to drop this case. It won’t take long.’

An amiable man, the driver agreed to wait. We got out of the taxi at one end of the road and began walking. Beyond the wall on our left stood the tall and silent Birla building, dwarfing every other building in its vicinity with all its twenty-two floors. I had often heard Feluda remark that the creepiest things in a city after nightfall were its skyscrapers. ‘Have you ever seen a corpse standing up?’ he had asked me once. ‘These buildings are just that in the dark—just a body without life or soul!’

A few minutes later, we found a house with ‘4’ written on its gate. The next house, which was at some distance, turned out to be number 5. So 4/2 was probably in the little lane that ran between numbers 4 and 5. It was very difficult to see anything clearly. The few dim streetlights did nothing to help. We stepped into the lane, walking cautiously. How quiet it was!

Here was another gate. This must be 4/1. Where was 4/2? Somewhere further down, hidden in the dark? There didn’t seem to be another house in the lane and, even if there was, it certainly did not have a light on. There were walls on both sides of the lane. Overgrown branches of trees on the other side hung over these. A very faint noise of traffic came from the main road. A clock struck in the distance. It must be the clock in St Paul’s Church. It was now exactly half past eleven. But these noises did nothing to improve the eerie silence in Pretoria Street. A dog barked nearby. And, in that instant—

‘Taxi! Sardarji, Sardarji!’ I screamed, quite involuntarily.

A man had jumped over the wall on our right and fallen over Feluda. He was followed by another. The attaché case Feluda was carrying was no longer in his hand. He had dropped it on the ground and was trying to tackle the first man. I could feel the two men struggling with each other, but could see nothing. The blue case was lying on the road, right in front of me. I stretched my hand to pick it up, but the second man turned around at this moment and knocked me aside. Then he snatched the case and rushed to the entrance of the lane, through which we had just stepped. On my left, Feluda and the other man were still grappling with each other, but I could not figure out what the problem was. Feluda, by this time, should have been able to overpower his opponent.

‘God!’

This exclamation came from our driver. He had heard me scream and rushed out to help. But the man who was making off with the case knocked him down and vanished. I could see the poor driver lying flat on the ground under a streetlight. In the meantime, the first man managed to wriggle free from Feluda’s grasp and climbed over the wall.

Feluda took out his handkerchief and began wiping his hands. ‘That man,’ he observed, ‘had oiled himself rather well. Must have rubbed at least a kilo of mustard oil on his body, making him slippery as an eel. I believe it’s an old trick with thieves.’

True. I had smelt the oil as soon as the two men arrived, but had not been able to guess where it was coming from.

‘Thank God!’

For the life of me, I could not understand why Feluda said this. How could he, even after such a disaster? ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, puzzled. Feluda did not reply at once. He helped the driver, who appeared unhurt, to his feet. Then he said, as the three of us began walking towards the taxi, ‘You don’t think what those scoundrels got away with was Dhameeja’s property, do you?’