The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (67 page)

I was so taken aback by the sign that, for a few moments, I could not speak at all. ‘This is Telepathy with a capital T!’ Lalmohan babu exclaimed.

Feluda did not say anything. He wasn’t just looking at the building, but was darting sharp glances all around. To the left were a number of similar tall buildings, each with at least twenty floors. The buildings to the right were older and lower in height. Through the gaps between some of those buildings, the sea was visible.

Our driver was looking at us with a puzzled air. Feluda told him to wait and went through the gate. Lalmohan babu and I stood outside, feeling a little foolish.

Feluda returned in about three minutes. ‘Now let’s go to Shalimar Hotel’, he said to the driver.

We started another journey. Feluda lit a cigarette and said, ‘It is very likely that your packet went to the seventeenth floor.’

‘Oh my God, are you a magician? You managed to find out, in just three minutes, where that fellow went with the packet?’ Lalmohan babu asked.

‘There was no need to climb to the seventeenth floor to guess where he might have gone. There was a board over the lift on the ground floor. By the time I got there, it had already started climbing up. The board was flashing the numbers where it stopped. The last number that came on was seventeen. Now do you understand?’

Lalmohan babu sighed. ‘Yes. What I don’t understand is why I can’t think of simple explanations.’

It took us only five minutes to reach our hotel. Feluda and I were given a double room on the fifth floor. Lalmohan babu’s room—a single—was opposite ours. Our room overlooked the street below. Every time I looked out of the window, I could see an endless stream of traffic. Facing the window were two high-rises, through which I could catch glimpses of the sea. It was easy to tell what a lively, thriving city Bombay was even without stepping out of the room.

We were all feeling very hungry. So, after a quick wash, we went to the restaurant called Gulmarg on the second floor. As soon as our order was placed, Lalmohan babu asked the question that must have been trembling on his lips.

‘So you, too, can smell an adventure, Felu babu?’

Feluda did not answer that question. Instead, he asked another. ‘Did you notice what that man did after collecting the book from you?’

‘Did? He just walked away, didn’t he?’

‘No. You saw him go, but didn’t notice the finer details. He walked away from you, then stopped and fished out a few coins from his pocket.’

‘Telephone!’ I exclaimed.

‘Well done, Topshe. I believe he then used a public telephone and rang someone in the city. I saw him again when we were waiting for our luggage.’

‘Where did you see him?’

‘Do you remember a car park just outside the terminal building? Visible from where we were standing?’

‘Yes, yes!’ I shouted. Lalmohan babu said nothing.

‘That man got into a blue Ambassador. There was a driver. He tried to start the car, but even after five minutes, nothing happened. The
man got out and shouted at the driver. I could not hear him, but could tell by the expression on his face and his gestures that he was most displeased. Eventually, he gave up and walked away from the car.’

‘To get a taxi!’ Lalmohan babu spoke this time.

‘Exactly. So what does that tell you?’

‘The man was in a hurry.’

‘Good. Eyes and your brain—you need to keep these open. If you do, you’ll find that it’s possible to deduce certain facts really quite easily. So, you see, if I was trying to follow that taxi, it was for a reason.’

‘Yes, but what exactly is on your mind?’ Lalmohan babu asked, sitting up straight and placing his elbows on the table.

‘Nothing. Nothing specific. I only have a doubt . . . a little doubt about something.’

After that, we began talking of other things and did not refer to the matter again.

Lalmohan babu joined us in our room at around five o’clock, after a short rest. We ordered tea, and were in the process of drinking it, when there was a knock on our door. The man who entered was most definitely no more than thirty-five but his thick, wavy hair had already turned amazingly grey.

‘Hello, Laluda! How are you? Everything all right?’ he asked. Laluda! It had simply not occurred to me that anyone could possibly call Lalmohan babu ‘Laluda’. So this was Pulak Ghoshal. Feluda had warned Lalmohan babu not to reveal his profession, so he was introduced merely as his friend. Mr Ghoshal looked at Feluda and suddenly shook his head most regretfully. ‘You are Laluda’s friend, one of our very own—and look, here we are, struggling to find a suitable hero. Mr Mitter, can you speak Hindi?’

Feluda grinned. ‘No, sir. I cannot speak Hindi, and what is worse, I cannot act. But why are you still looking for a hero? I thought you’d found Arjun Mehrotra.’

‘Yes, but Arjun has changed a lot, he’s not the same person any more. Now he’s learnt to make endless demands. I don’t call these actors heroes, you know. They are all villains under the surface; never mind if they play heroes on the screen. The producers have spoilt them rotten. Anyway, I am here to invite you to the first day’s shooting the day after tomorrow. The spot is about seventy miles from here. Your driver knows the place. Try to leave as early as you can. Mr Gore—my producer, I mean—isn’t here. He’s out visiting Delhi,
Calcutta and Madras to sell this film. But he told me to make sure you were well looked after.’

‘Where is this spot?’

‘Between Khandala and Lonavala. We’ll shoot inside a train. If there aren’t enough passengers, I’ll ask you to sit in the compartment.’

‘Oh, by the way,’ said Lalmohan babu, ‘We’ve seen Shivaji Castle.’

His words brought a frown on Mr Ghoshal’s face immediately. ‘Really? When?’

‘On our way from the airport. Say, around two.’

‘I see. That means it happened after two o’clock.’

‘What happened?’

‘A murder.’

‘Wha-at!’ All of us exclaimed, almost simultaneously. There is something so sinister about the word ‘murder’ that it made me shiver involuntarily.

‘I learnt about it only half an hour ago,’ Mr Ghoshal told us, ‘I am a regular visitor to that building. That’s where Mr Gore lives, on the twelfth floor. Now do you see why we had to change that name? But Mr Gore himself is a very nice man. Did you go inside?’

‘I did,’ Feluda said, ‘only up to the lift. I didn’t get into it.’

‘Good heavens! The murder took place inside that lift. The body has not yet been identified. I believe he looks like a hooligan. A man called Tyagarajan lives on the third floor. Around three o’clock he pressed the button for the lift. It came down from upstairs. So Tyagarajan then tried getting into it, and saw what had happened. The fellow was stabbed in the stomach. Horrible affair!’

‘Wasn’t anyone else seen getting in and out of the lift around that time?’ Feluda asked.

‘No, there was no one out in the passage near the lift. But two drivers were waiting outside, they saw five or six people go into the building. One of them was wearing a red shirt, another one had a shoulder bag and was wearing a brown . . .’

Feluda raised a hand and stopped him. ‘That second man was me. No need for further details.’

My heart skipped a beat. Was Feluda now going to get involved in a murder case?

‘Anyway,’ said Mr Ghoshal reassuringly, ‘please don’t worry about it. You, too, Laluda. So what if you’ve written in your story that a smuggler lives in Shivaji Castle? There’s no apartment house in Bombay that doesn’t have one or two smugglers living in it. All they’ve
done so far is peel the top—it’ll be a long time before they can get to the core. The entire city is run by smugglers.’

Feluda was looking rather grim. But his expression changed as we were joined by another man. When we heard another knock on the door, Mr Ghoshal rose from his chair saying ‘That must be Victor’, and opened the door. A man of medium height walked in. He had a body as lean and supple as a whip.

‘Let me introduce you. Laluda, this is Victor Perumal, the kung-fu expert, trained in Hong Kong!’

Mr Perumal smiled and shook hands with everyone.

‘He can speak a certain amount of English,’ Mr Ghoshal added, ‘and, of course, he can speak Hindi, though he comes from southern India. He doesn’t just teach kung-fu, he’s a marvellous stuntman. In fact, he’s going to handle that scene where the hero’s brother has to jump off a horse and into a moving train. Victor’s going to be made up to look like the actor who plays the brother.’

There was something so frank and disarming about Victor’s smile that I began to warm to him instantly. Besides, I have a lot of respect for stuntmen. Heroes get all the acclaim for performances given by proxy, but it is these stuntmen who risk their lives every day, for very little money. One has to admire them.

Victor Perumal said, ‘Yes, I know kung-fu, and also mokka-iri.’

Mokka-iri? What was that? Even Feluda said he didn’t know. It was useless asking Lalmohan babu as he reads chiefly what he writes himself, and little else.

Victor explained. Mokka-iri, he said, was a form of combat in which one had to balance one’s body on one’s hands and walk on them, with one’s legs raised in the air. Apparently, it had been introduced in Hong Kong only six months earlier. Japan was its place of origin.

‘Will your film include this mokka-iri?’ asked Lalmohan babu, sounding a little apprehensive. Mr Ghoshal smiled and shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘Kung-fu is difficult enough to manage. Since early November we’ve been holding training sessions for eleven men, morning and evening. You only wrote about it, but we have to deal with the practical problems, Laluda. But the scene you’ll see tomorrow won’t have any kung-fu in it. It will have some dramatic stuff from stuntmen, though. We’ll make a super film from your story, Laluda, don’t you worry.’

After Victor and Mr Ghoshal had gone, Feluda went and opened all the windows. At once, our room was filled with the sound of
traffic, although it wasn’t loud enough on the fifth floor to be really disturbing. None of us was used to an airconditioner, so we didn’t wish to have it on and keep the windows closed. The noise didn’t matter. After all, it wasn’t just the noise that was coming in through the open windows; so was fresh air.

Feluda returned to the sofa and said somewhat seriously, ‘Lalmohan babu, that smell of adventure you were talking about is getting too strong for comfort. You shouldn’t have agreed to deliver that packet. If I was with you at the time, I’d have told you not to.’

Lalmohan babu looked a bit crestfallen. ‘What could I do? The fellow said he was still interested in my stories. He told me to reserve the next one for him. How could I refuse after that?’

‘Usually,’ Feluda said, ‘if a passenger happens to be carrying a packet, the security officials at the airport open it and look inside. You must have struck them as completely harmless, so they didn’t bother. If they had, God knows what they might have found. Who knows whether or not there is a link between that packet and the murder?’

Lalmohan babu cleared his throat. ‘Yes, but how can a book . . .?’ he began.

‘Suppose it wasn’t a book? Or something more than a book? In Mughal times kings sometimes carried poison in their rings. Surely you’ve heard about that? Now, if a ring was filled with poison, would you still call it just a ring? It would then also be a repository for poison, wouldn’t it? Anyway, you’ve done your duty, so I don’t think
you
are in any danger.’

‘You think so?’ A smile appeared on Lalmohan babu’s face at last. ‘Certainly. And, in any case, if you are in danger, so are we. We’re tied together by the same thread, aren’t we? If anyone pulls that thread, they’ll get all three of us!’

Lalmohan babu sprang to his feet, kicked his left leg high in the air in the style of a kung-fu fighter, and said, ‘Three cheers for the Three Musketeers! Hip-hip!’

Feluda and I joined in. ‘Hurrah!’ we said.

We left the hotel at around six o’clock. All of us believed that unless one explored a city on foot, one couldn’t get to know it at all. We
had roamed similarly in Jodhpur, Varanasi, Delhi and Gangtok. Why shouldn’t we do so in Bombay?

A little way away, to the right, was Kemp’s Corner. We found an impressive flyover there. It was like a bridge, supported by massive pillars. Traffic ran both on it, and under it. We crossed the road under the bridge and went down Gibbs Road. Feluda pointed at a road on our right and said it went to the Hanging Gardens. The hill where these gardens were built was called Malabar Hill.

We had to walk another mile before we could reach the sea. We crossed the road, managing to avoid the rush hour traffic, and found ourselves standing by a stone wall. The top of the wall came up to my waist. Behind that wall roared the sea, its waves crashing against it.

The road on our left ran to the east, then curved and went towards the south, ending where rows of skyscrapers stood hazily in the setting sun. The arc that we could see was called Marine Drive.

‘Never mind if there are smugglers here,’ Lalmohan babu proclaimed, ‘Look at that sea, and the hills . . . I must say Bombay is a champion city!’

We began walking by the stone wall towards Marine Drive. Cars were moving down the road to our left, looking like rows of ants. After a few minutes, Lalmohan babu made another remark.

‘I suppose the Metropolitan Development Authority isn’t quite so active here, is it? They don’t keep digging up streets all the time?’ he asked.

‘Why? Are you saying that because there are no potholes?’

‘Yes. I noticed it as soon as we left the airport. There I was, travelling in a car, but there were no jerks, no bumps. Amazing!’

I had spotted a crowded area by the sea. It looked a bit like the area around Shaheed Minar in Calcutta, on a Sunday. As we got closer, Feluda told me it was called Chowpatty. Apparently, it was always crowded. There were rows of stalls. Perhaps they were selling snacks like bhelpuri, chaat and ice-cream.

My guess turned out to be quite correct. It looked as if a huge mela was being held. Half the city of Bombay appeared to have turned up. Lalmohan babu offered to buy us bhelpuri. We agreed readily enough, as he was about to come into a lot of money, and could therefore well afford to pay. When packets of bhelpuri were handed to us, we left the crowded spot and moved away to sit on the beach. It was a quarter to seven according to my watch, but the sky was still glowing pink. Like us, several others were relaxing on the beach. Lalmohan
babu finished eating, waved his hand in the air, began chanting a Sanskrit shloka, then stopped abruptly. A sheet of newspaper had escaped—possibly from one of the groups sitting nearby—and come flying towards him. Now it was stuck to his face, gagging him momentarily.

He pulled it free, looked at it briefly and had just said,
‘Evening News
’, when Feluda snatched it from his hand.

‘You saw the name of the paper, but didn’t you see the headline?’ Feluda asked.

All of us bent over the paper. ‘Murder in Apartment Lift,’ announced the headline. Below it was a photo of the murdered man. No, it was not the man in the red shirt.

According to the report, the murder took place between two and two-thirty. The murderer was still at large, but the police had begun their investigation. The murder victim was called Mangalram Sethi. He had been involved with the black market and smugglers for quite some time, and was wanted by the police. Signs of a struggle had been found inside the lift. And the only clue that had been found was a piece of paper, lying by the body. It had a name written on it. The name was . . .

‘Arr-r-rr-r-ghh!’

A strange groan escaped from Lalmohan babu’s throat. I flung my arms around him quickly, in case he fainted. There was plenty of reason to do so. The report ended by saying that the piece of paper found in the lift said, ‘Mr Ganguli, dark, short, bald, moustache.’

As soon as he’d finished reading the report, Lalmohan babu grabbed the paper, whisked it away from Feluda’s hand, tore it into several pieces and let the wind carry them away.

‘Look what you’ve done! You’ve filled this wonderful, clean beach with garbage,’ Feluda complained.

Lalmohan babu was still unable to speak. Now Feluda had to be stern. ‘Do you seriously believe that the whole city can figure out from that description that it’s talking about
you
?’

Lalmohan babu continued to look worried. Then he swallowed hard and finally found his tongue. ‘But. . . but . . . you can see what it means, can’t you? You can guess who’s the murderer?’

Feluda stared fixedly at him for a few seconds, before saying slowly, ‘Laluda, you have spent four years in my company. Even so, you haven’t learnt to think calmly and rationally, have you?’

‘Why, why—that red shirt—?’

‘What about it? Even if we assume that it was the fellow in the red
shirt who dropped that piece of paper, what does it prove? Who says that
he
is the murderer? Just think for a minute. Once he had met you and taken that packet from you, he had no further need to keep that piece of paper. So, when he found it in his pocket as he got into the lift, he threw it away, then and there. That’s a perfectly logical and simple explanation. Is that so hard to believe?’

Lalmohan babu refused to be reassured. ‘Never mind all that Felu babu,’ he muttered, ‘If my name and description have been found lying next to a corpse, I am most definitely going to be harassed. I can see it all happening. There is only one way out for me. Naturally, I cannot grow hair on my bald head. My height won’t change; nor will my complexion. That only leaves my moustache. I am going to get rid of it tomorrow.’

‘I see. And what do you think the people in our hotel are going to think? Do you suppose none of them reads the
Evening News
? Most people—ninety per cent of them—will read any report that mentions a murder. That’s human nature. If you suddenly shave your moustache off, everyone’s eyes—and suspicion—will fall on you!’

By this time, the red sky had turned purple. When that faded to grey, and the evening star appeared through a chink in the clouds in the western sky, blinking alone in a brave attempt to vie with the thousands of glittering lights on Marine Drive, we rose from the sandy beach, dusted ourselves down and made our way back to the crowded stalls in Chowpatty. Then we walked over to the main road and caught a taxi back to the hotel.

We had to stop at the reception desk to collect our keys. I noticed that when he stretched his hand to take the key from the receptionist, Lalmohan babu kept his face firmly averted. But that did not help. Opposite the desk, seated in the lobby were seven people, some of them foreigners. Three of them were reading the
Evening Standard.
Its front page carried a report about the same murder, together with a picture of the victim. It seemed highly unlikely that the report in the
Standard
would make no mention of the short, bald, dark and moustachioed Mr Ganguli.