The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (36 page)

‘Wasn’t it?’ I was even more mystified.

‘What they took was the property of Pradosh C. Mitter. And what it contained were three torn vests, five threadbare handkerchiefs, several pieces of rag and a few old newspapers, torn to shreds. I rang telephone enquiries when you went to change. They told me there was no telephone at 4/2 Pretoria Street. But, of course, I didn’t know that even the address was a fake one.’

My heart started pounding once more. Something told me the visit to Simla was now imperative.

We rang Dinanath Babu as soon as we got home. He was completely nonplussed. ‘Goodness me!’ he exclaimed, ‘I had no idea a thing like this could happen! One possible explanation is, of course, that those two men were just ordinary thieves without any particular motive to steal Dhameeja’s attaché case. But even so, the fact remains that both this man called Puri and the address he gave, were totally fictitious. That means Mr Dhameeja never really went to the railway reservation office. Who, then, made the phone call?’

‘If we knew that, there would be no need for further investigations, Mr Lahiri.’

‘But tell me, what made you suspicious in the first place?’

The fact that the man rang you so late in the night. Mr Dhameeja went back yesterday. So why didn’t Mr Puri give you a call yesterday or during the day today?’

‘I see. Well, it looks as though we have to go back to our original plan of sending you to Simla. But considering the turn this whole business is taking, frankly I am now scared to send you anywhere.’

Feluda laughed, ‘Don’t worry, Mr Lahiri. I can’t call your case
tame and insipid any more. It’s definitely got a taste of excitement. And I am glad, for I would have felt ashamed to take your money otherwise. Anyway, I would now like you to do something for me, please.’

‘Yes?’

‘Let me have a list of the contents of your case. It would make it easier for me to check when Dhameeja returns it.’

‘That’s easy since there wasn’t anything much, anyway. But I’ll let you have the list when I send you your tickets.’

Feluda left home early the next morning. His whole demeanour had changed in just a few hours. I could tell by the way he kept cracking his knuckles that he was feeling restless and disturbed. Like me, he had not been able to work out why anyone should try to steal a case that contained nothing of value. He had examined each item carefully once more, going so far as squeezing some of the toothpaste out and feeling the shaving cream by pressing the tube gently. He even took out the blades from their container and unfolded the newspapers. Still, he found nothing suspicious. Feluda left at about 8 a.m. ‘I will return at eleven,’ he said before leaving. ‘If anyone rings the calling bell in the next three hours, don’t open the door yourself. Get Srinath to do it.’

I resigned myself to wait patiently for his return. Baba had gone out of town. So I wrote a letter for him, explaining why Feluda and I had to go to Simla before he got back. Having done this, I settled down on the settee in the living-room with a book. But I could not read. The more I thought about Feluda’s new case, the more confused I felt. Dinanath Babu, his nephew who acted in films, the irascible Mr Pakrashi, Mr Dhameeja of Simla, the moneylender called Brijmohan . . . everyone seemed unreal, as though each was wearing a mask. Even the contents of the Air-India case seemed false. And, on top of everything else, was last night’s frightening experience . . .

No, I must stop thinking. I picked up a magazine. It was a film magazine called
Sparkling Stars
. Ah yes, here was the photograph of Amar Kumar I had seen before. ‘The newcomer, Amar Kumar, in the latest film being made by Sri Guru Pictures’, said the caption. Amar Kumar was staring straight into the camera, wearing a cap very much in the style of Dev Anand in
Jewel Thief
, a scarf around his
throat, a cruel smile under a pencil-thin moustache. There was a pistol in his hand, very obviously a fake, possibly made of wood.

Something made me suddenly jump up and turn to the telephone directory. Here it was—Sri Guru Pictures, 53 Bentinck Street. 24554.

I dialled the number quickly. It rang several times before someone answered at the other end.

‘Hello.’

‘Is that Sri Guru Pictures?’

My voice had recently started to break. So I was sure whoever I was speaking to would never guess I was really no more than fifteen-and-a-half.

‘Yes, this is Sri Guru Pictures.’

‘This is about Amar Kumar, you know . . . the newcomer in your latest film—’

‘Please speak to Mr Mallik.’ The telephone was passed to another man.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Mallik?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Is there someone called Amar Kumar working in your latest film?
The Ghost
, I think it’s called?’

‘Amar Kumar has been dropped.’

‘Dropped?’

‘Who am I speaking to, please?’

‘I . . . well, I . . .’

Like a fool, I could think of nothing to say and put the receiver down hurriedly.

So Amar Kumar was no longer in the cast! It must have been because of his voice. How unfair, though, to reject him after his picture had been published in a magazine. But didn’t the man know, or did he simply pretend to us that he was still acting in the film?

I was lost in thought when the telephone rang, startling me considerably.

‘Hello!’ I gasped.

There was no response for a few seconds. Then I heard a faint click. Oh, I knew. Someone was calling from a public pay phone.

‘Hello?’ I said again. This time, I heard a voice, soft but distinct. ‘Going to Simla, are you?’

This was the last thing I’d have expected to hear from a strange
voice. Rendered speechless, I could only swallow in silence.

The voice spoke again. It sounded harsh and the words it uttered chilled my blood. ‘Danger. Do you hear? You are both going to be in great danger if you go to Simla.’ This was followed by another click. The line was disconnected. But I didn’t need to hear any more. Those few words were enough. Like the Nepali Rana in Uncle Sidhu’s story, whose hand shook while shooting at a tiger, I replaced the receiver with a trembling hand.

Then I flopped down on a chair and sat very still. About half an hour later, I heard another ring. This nearly made me fall off the chair, but this time I realized it was the door bell, not the telephone. It was past eleven, so I opened the door myself and Feluda walked in. The huge packets in his hands meant that he had been to the laundry to collect our warm clothes.

Feluda gave me a sidelong glance and said, ‘Why are you licking your lips? Has there been a strange phone call?’

‘How did you guess?’ I asked, astonished.

‘From the way you’ve kept the receiver. Besides, the whole thing’s become so complicated that I’d have been surprised if we didn’t get a few weird calls. Who was it? What did he say?’

‘Don’t know who it was. He said going to Simla meant danger for both of us.’

Feluda pushed the regulator of the fan to its maximum speed and sat casually down on the divan.

‘What did you say to him?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Idiot! You should have said going to Simla cannot possibly be more dangerous than going out in the street in Calcutta. A regular battlefield is probably the only place that can claim to be more full of danger than the streets in this city.’

Feluda’s nonchalance calmed my nerves. I decided to change the subject.

‘Where did you go?’ I asked. ‘Apart from the laundry, I mean.’

‘To the office of S. M. Kedia.’

‘Did you learn anything new?’

‘Brijmohan seemed a friendly enough fellow. His family has lived in Calcutta for three generations. And yes, he knows Mr Pakrashi. I got the impression that Pakrashi still owes him some money. Brijmohan, too, had eaten the apple Dhameeja had offered him. But no, he doesn’t have a blue Air-India attaché case; and he had spent
most of his time on the train either sleeping or just lying with his eyes closed.’

I told Feluda about Amar Kumar.

‘If he knows he has been dropped but is pretending he isn’t,’ remarked Feluda, ‘then the man is truly a fine actor.’

We finished our packing in the late afternoon. Since we were going for less than a week, I didn’t take too many clothes. At six-thirty in the evening, Jatayu rang us.

‘I am taking a new weapon,’ he informed us. ‘I’ll show it to you when we get to Delhi.’

We knew he was interested in collecting weapons of various kind. He had taken a Nepali dagger on our journey through Rajasthan, although he did not get the chance to use it.

‘I have bought my ticket,’ he added. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the airport.’

Our tickets arrived a couple of hours later, together with a note from Dinanath Babu. It said:

Dear Mr Mitter,

I am enclosing your air tickets to Delhi and train tickets to Simla. I have made reservations for you for a day in Delhi at the Janpath Hotel; and you are booked at the Clarkes in Simla for four days. I have just received a reply from Mr Dhameeja. He says he has my attaché case safe. He expects you to call on him the day after tomorrow at 4 p.m. You have got his address, so I will not repeat it here. I have not made a list of the items in my case because, thinking things over, it struck me that there is only one thing in it that is of any value to me. It is a bottle of enterovioform tablets. These are made in England and definitely more effective than those produced here. I should be happy simply to get these back. I hope you have a safe and successful visit.

Yours sincerely,
Dinanath Lahiri

We were planning to have an early night and go to bed by ten o’ clock, but at a quarter to ten, the door bell rang. Who could it be at this hour? I opened the door and was immediately struck dumb to find a man who I never dreamt would ever pay us a visit. If Feluda was similarly surprised, he did not show it.

‘Good evening, Mr Pakrashi,’ he said coolly, ‘please come in.’ Mr Pakrashi came in, a slightly embarrassed look on his face, a smile hovering on his lips. His ill-tempered air was gone. What had happened in a day to bring about this miraculous change? And what had he come to tell us so late in the evening?

He sat down on a chair and said, ‘Sorry to trouble you. I know it’s late. I did try to ring you, but couldn’t get through. So I thought it was best to call personally. Please don’t mind.’

‘We don’t. Do tell us what brings you here.’

‘I have come to make a request. It is a very special request. In fact, it may strike you as positively strange.’

‘Really?’

‘You said something about a manuscript in Dinanath Lahiri’s attaché case. Was it . . . something written by Shambhucharan Bose? You know, the same man who wrote about the Terai?’

‘Yes, indeed. An account of his visit to Tibet.’

‘My God!’

Feluda did not say anything. Naresh Pakrashi, too, was quiet for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Are you aware that my collection of travelogues is the largest and the best in Calcutta?’

‘I am fully prepared to believe that. I did happen to glance at those almirahs in your room; and I caught the names of quite a few very well-known travel writers.’

‘Your powers of observation must be very good.’

‘That is what I live by, Mr Pakrashi.’

Mr Pakrashi now took the pipe out of his mouth, looked straight at Feluda and said, ‘You are going to Simla, aren’t you.’

It was Feluda’s turn to be surprised. He did not actually ask, ‘How do you know.’ But his eyes held a quizzical look.

Mr Pakrashi smiled. ‘A clever man like you,’ he said, ‘would naturally not find it too difficult to discover that Dinu Lahiri’s attaché case had got exchanged with Dhameeja’s. I had seen Dhameeja’s name written on his suitcase. He did, in fact, take out his shaving things from the blue Air-India case, so I knew it was his.’

‘Why didn’t you say so yesterday?’

‘Isn’t it a greater joy to have worked things out for yourself? It is your case, after all. You will work on it and get paid for your pains. Why should I voluntarily offer any help?’

Feluda appeared to be in agreement. All he said was, ‘But you haven’t yet told me what your strange request is.’

‘I am coming to that. You will—no doubt—manage to retrieve Dinanath’s case. And the manuscript with it. I would request you not to give it back to him.’

‘What!’ This time Feluda could not conceal his surprise. Nor could I.

‘I suggest you pass the manuscript to me.’

‘To you?’ Feluda raised his voice.

‘I told you it would sound odd. But you must listen to me,’ Mr Pakrashi continued, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘Dinanath Lahiri cannot appreciate the value of that book. Did you see a single good book in his house? No, I know you did not. Besides, don’t think I’m not going to compensate you for this. I have got—’

Here he stopped and took out a long blue envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he opened it and offered it to Feluda. It was stuffed with new, crisp, sweet-smelling hundred-rupee notes. ‘I have two thousand here,’ he said, ‘and this is only an advance payment. I will give you another two thousand when you hand over the manuscript to me.’

Feluda did not even glance at the envelope. He took out a cigarette from his pocket, lit it casually and said, ‘I don’t think it’s of any relevance whether Dinanath Lahiri appreciates the value of the manuscript or not. I have promised to collect his case from Dhameeja in Simla and return it to him, with all its contents intact. And that is what I am going to do.’

Mr Pakrashi appeared to be at a loss to find a suitable answer to this. After a few moments, he simply said, ‘All right. Let’s forget about your payment. All I am asking you to do is give me the manuscript. Tell Lahiri it was missing. Say Dhameeja said he didn’t see it.’

‘How,’ asked Feluda, ‘can I put Mr Dhameeja in a position like that? Can you think of the consequences? You can’t seriously expect me to tell lies about a totally innocent man? No, Mr Pakrashi, I cannot do as you ask.’

Feluda rose and added, perfectly civilly, ‘Good-night, Mr Pakrashi. I hope you will not misunderstand me.’

Mr Pakrashi continued to sit, staring into space. Then he replaced the envelope into his pocket, stood up, gave Feluda a dry smile and went out without a word. It was impossible to tell from his face whether he felt angry, disappointed or humiliated.

Would any other sleuth have been able to resist such temptation and behave the way Feluda had done? Perhaps not.