The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (38 page)

I had seen snow-capped mountains before—Kanchenjunga in Darjeeling and the top of Annapurna from a plane; and certainly I had seen snow in films. But nothing had startled me as much as what I saw in Simla. If it wasn’t for other Indians strolling on the streets, I could have sworn we were in a foreign country.

‘This town was built by the British, like Darjeeling,’ Feluda told me, ‘so it does have the appearance of a foreign city. One Lt. Ross built a wooden cottage here in 1819 for himself. That was the beginning. Soon, the British turned this into their summer capital, since in the summer months life on the plains became pretty uncomfortable.’

We had taken a metre gauge train at Kalka to reach Simla. Nothing remarkable happened on the way, although I noticed that the old man with the earplugs travelled on the same train and checked in at the Clarkes just like us. Since the main season had not yet started, there were plenty of rooms available and Lalmohan Babu, too, found one at the Clarkes without any problem.

Feluda went looking for a post office soon after checking in. I offered to go with him, but he said someone should stay behind to guard the new attaché case; so Lalmohan Babu and I remained at the hotel. Feluda hadn’t made a single remark on the snow or the beautiful town. Lalmohan Babu, on the other hand, appeared to be totally overwhelmed. Everything he saw struck him as ‘fanastatic’. When I pointed out that the word was ‘fantastic’, he said airily that the speed with which he read English was so remarkable that not often did he find the time to look at the words carefully. Besides, there were a number of other questions he wanted answered—was it
possible to find polar bears in Simla, did the Aurora Borealis appear here, did the Eskimos use the same snow to build their ilgoos (at which point I had to correct him again and say that it was igloos the Eskimos built, not ilgoos). The man was unstoppable.

The Clarkes Hotel stood on a slope. A veranda ran by the side of its second floor, which led to the street. The manager’s room, the lounge, as well as our own rooms, were all on the second floor. Wooden stairs ran down to the first floor where there were more rooms and the dining-hall.

Feluda got delayed on his way back, so it was past 2 p.m. by the time we finished our lunch. A band was playing in one corner of the dining-hall. Lalmohan Babu called it a concert. The old man with the earplugs was also having lunch in the same room, as were three foreigners—two men and a woman. I had seen a man with dark glasses and a pointed beard leave the room when we came in. It did not appear as though there was anyone else in the hotel apart from these people and ourselves.

‘We are going to see Mr Dhameeja today, aren’t we?’ I asked, slowly sipping the hot soup.

‘Yes, at four o’clock. We needn’t leave before three,’ Feluda replied.

‘Where exactly does he live?’

‘The Wildflower Hall is on the way to Kufri. Eight miles from here.’

‘Why should it take an hour to get there?’

‘Most of the way is snowed under. The car might skid if we try to do anything other than crawl.’ Then Feluda said to Lalmohan Babu, ‘Wear all your warm clothes. This place we’re going to is a thousand feet higher than Simla. The snow there is a lot worse.’

Lalmohan Babu put a spoonful of soup into his mouth, slurping noisily, and asked, ‘Is a sherpa going to accompany us?’

I nearly burst out laughing, but Feluda kept a straight face. ‘No,’ he said seriously, ‘there is actually a road that leads up there. We’ll be going in a car.’

We finished our soup and were waiting for the next course, when Feluda spoke again. ‘What happened to your weapon?’ he asked Lalmohan Babu.

‘I have it with me,’ Lalmohan Babu replied, chewing a bread stick, ‘haven’t had the chance to show it to you, have I?’

‘What is it?’

‘A boomerang.’

Ah, that made sense. I had been wondering why he had shouted ‘boomerang!’ in his sleep.

‘Where did you get a thing like that?’

‘An Australian was selling some of his stuff. He had put an advertisement in the paper. There were many other interesting things, but I couldn’t resist this one. I have heard that if you can throw it correctly, it would hit your target and return to you.’

‘No, that’s not quite true. It would come back to you only if it misses the target, not if it hits it.’

‘Well yes, you may be right. But let me tell you one thing. It’s damn difficult to throw it. I tried from my terrace, and it went and broke a flower pot on the balcony of the house opposite. Thank goodness, those people knew me and were kind enough to return my weapon without making a fuss about their flower pot.’

‘Please don’t forget to take it with you today.’

Lalmohan Babu’s eyes began to shine with excitement.

‘Are you expecting trouble?’

‘Well, I can’t guarantee anything, can I? After all, whoever has been trying to steal that diamond hasn’t yet got it, has he?’ Feluda spoke lightly, but I could see he was not totally easy in his mind.

At five to three, a blue Ambassador drove up and stopped before the main entrance. ‘Here’s our taxi,’ said Feluda and stood up. Lalmohan Babu and I followed suit. The driver was a local man, young and well built. Feluda joined him on the front seat, clutching Mr Dhameeja’s (fake) attaché case. Jatayu and I sat at the back. The boomerang was hidden inside Jatayu’s voluminous overcoat. I had taken a good look at it. It was made of wood and looked a bit like the bottom half of a hockey stick, although it was a lot thinner and smoother.

The sky had started to turn grey and the temperature dropped appreciably. But the clouds were not very heavy, so it did not seem as though it might rain. We left for the Wildflower Hall on the dot of 3 p.m.

Our hotel was in the main town. We hadn’t had the chance to go out of the hotel since our arrival. The true spirit of the cold, sombre, snow-covered mountains struck me only when our car left the town and began its journey along a quiet, narrow path.

The mountains rose on one side, on the other was a deep ravine. The road was wide enough to allow another car to squeeze past, but that was just about all it could do. A thick pine forest grew on the mountains.

The first four miles were covered at a reasonable speed since the snow on the road was almost negligible. Through the pine trees, I could catch glimpses of heavier snow on the mountains at a distance; but, soon, the snow on the road we were on grew very much thicker. Feluda was right.

We had to reduce our speed and crawl carefully, following the tyre marks of cars that had preceded us. The ground was so slippery that, at times, the car failed to move forward, its wheels spinning furiously.

The tip of my nose and my ears began to feel icy. Lalmohan Babu told me at one point that his ears were ringing. Five minutes later he said he had a blocked nose. I paid little attention. The last thing I was worried about was how my body would cope with the cold. All I could do was look around me and wonder at this remarkable place. Did man indeed live here? Wasn’t this a corner nature had created only for animals and birds and insects that lived in snowy mountains? Shouldn’t this stay unspoilt and untouched by the human hand? But no, the road we were travelling on had been built by man, other cars had driven on the same road and, no doubt, others would follow. In fact, if this wonderful place had not already been discovered by man, I would not be here today.

The unmarred strange whiteness ended abruptly about twenty minutes later, with a black wooden board by the side of the road that proclaimed in white letters: Wildflower Hall. I had not expected our journey to end so peacefully.

A little later we came upon a gate with The Nook written on it. Our car turned right and drove through this gate. A long driveway led to a large, old-fashioned bungalow, very obviously built during British times. Its roof and parapets were covered with a thick layer of snow. Its occupant had to be a pukka sahib, or he wouldn’t live in a place like this.

Our taxi drew up under the portico. A man in a uniform came out and took Feluda’s card. A minute later, the owner of the house came out himself with an outstretched arm.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Mitter. I must say I am most impressed by your punctuality. Do come in, please.’

Mr Dhameeja might have been an Englishman. His diction was flawless. His appearance fitted Mr Lahiri’s description. Feluda introduced me and Lalmohan Babu, and then we all went in. The floor was wooden, as were the walls of the huge drawing-room. A fire crackled in the fireplace.

Feluda handed over the blue attaché case before he sat down. The smile on Mr Dhameeja’s face did not falter. Our attempt at deception was thus rewarded with complete success.

‘Thank you so much. I’ve got Mr Lahiri’s case and kept it handy.’

‘Please check the contents in your case,’ said Feluda with a slight smile.

‘If you say so,’ replied Mr Dhameeja, laughing, and opened the case. Then he ran his eyes over the items we had so carefully placed in it and said, ‘Yes, everything’s fine, except that these newspapers are not mine.’

‘Not yours?’ asked Feluda, retrieving the two English dailies. ‘No, and neither is this.’

Mr Dhameeja returned the box of betel-nuts, which had been filled at the Kalka railway station. ‘Oh, I see,’ said Feluda. ‘Those must have got there by mistake.’

Well, at least it proved that Mr Dhameeja knew nothing about the diamond. But, in that case, how did the box get inside the attaché case?

‘And here is Mr Lahiri’s case,’ said Mr Dhameeja, picking up an identical attaché case from a side table and handing it over to Feluda. ‘May I,’ he added, ‘make the same request? Please check its contents.’

‘There’s really only one thing Mr Lahiri is interested in. A bottle of enterovioform tablets.’

‘Yes, it’s there.’

‘ . . . And, a manuscript?’

‘Manuscript?’

Feluda had opened the case. A brief glance even from a distance told me that there was not even a scrap of paper in it, let alone a whole manuscript.

Feluda was frowning deeply, staring into the open attaché. ‘What manuscript are you talking about?’ asked Mr Dhameeja.

Feluda said nothing. I could see what a difficult position he was in; either Mr Dhameeja had to be accused of stealing, or we had to take our leave politely, without Shambhucharan’s tale of Tibet.

Mercifully, Mr Dhameeja continued to speak. ‘I am very sorry, Mr Mitter, but that attaché case now contains exactly what I found in it when I opened it in my room in the Grand Hotel. I searched it thoroughly in the hope of finding its owner’s address. But there was nothing, and certainly not a manuscript. On my return to Simla, I kept it locked in my own cupboard. Not for a second did anyone else touch it. I can guarantee that.’

After a speech like that, there was very little that Feluda could do. He rose to his feet and said with a slightly embarrassed air, ‘It must be my mistake, then. Please don’t mind, Mr Dhameeja. Thank you very much for your help. We should perhaps now be making a move.’

‘Why? Allow me at least to offer you a cup of tea. Or would you prefer coffee?’

‘No, no, nothing, thank you. It’s getting late. We really ought to go. Good-bye.’

We came out of the bungalow and got into our taxi. I was feeling even more confused. Where could the manuscript have disappeared? Naresh Pakrashi had told us that he didn’t see Mr Lahiri read on the train. Was that the truth?

Had Dinanath Lahiri simply told us a pack of lies?

It grew darker soon after we left. But it was only 4.25 p.m. Surely the sun wasn’t setting already? I looked at the sky, and found the reason. The light grey clouds had turned into heavy, black ones. Please God, don’t let it rain. The road was already slippery. Since we were now going to go downhill, the chances of skidding were greater. The only good thing was that traffic was virtually nonexistent, so there was no fear of crashing into another car.

Feluda was sitting next to the driver. I couldn’t see his face, but could tell that he was still frowning. And I also knew what he was thinking. Either Dinanath Babu or Mr Dhameeja had lied to us. Mr Dhameeja’s living-room had been full of books. Perhaps he knew the name of Shambhucharan. An account of a visit to Tibet fifty years ago—and that, too, written in English—might well have been a temptation. It was not totally impossible, was it? But if the manuscript was with Mr Dhameeja, how on earth would Feluda ever retrieve it?

Clearly, there were two mysteries now. One involved the diamond, and the other the missing manuscript. What if such a terrible tangle proved too much to unravel, even for Feluda?

The temperature had dropped further. I could see my breath condensing all the time. Lalmohan Babu undid the top button of his overcoat, slipped his hand in and said, ‘Even the boomerang feels stone cold. It comes from a warm country, doesn’t it? I hope it’ll work here in this climate.’ I opened my mouth to tell him there were places in Australia where it snowed, but had to shut it. Our car had come to a complete halt. And the reason was simple. A black Ambassador blocked our way. About a hundred yards away, diagonally across the road, stood this other car, making it impossible for us to proceed.

When the loud blowing of our horn did not help, it became obvious that something was wrong. The driver of the other car was nowhere in sight.

Feluda placed a hand on the steering wheel and quietly told the driver to move his car to one side, closer to the hill. The driver did this without a word. Then all four of us got out and stepped on to the slushy path.

Everything was very quiet. Not even the twitter of a bird broke the eerie silence. What was most puzzling was that there was neither a driver nor a passenger in the black car. Who would place a car across the road like that and then abandon it totally?

We were making our way very cautiously along the tyre marks on the snow, when a sudden splashing noise made Lalmohan Babu give a violent start, stumble and go sprawling on the snow. He landed flat on his face. I knew the noise had been caused by a chunk of thawing ice that had dislodged itself from a branch. In the total silence of the surroundings, it did sound as loud as a pistol shot. Feluda and I pulled Lalmohan Babu up to his feet and we resumed walking.

A few yards later, I realized I had been wrong. There was indeed a figure sitting in the car, in the driver’s seat. ‘I know this man,’ said our driver, Harbilas, peering carefully, ‘he is a taxi driver like me. And this taxi is his own. He’s called Arvind. But . . . but . . . I think he’s unconscious, or perhaps . . . dead?’

Feluda’s right hand automatically made its way to his pocket. I knew he was clutching his revolver.

Splash!

Another chunk of ice fell, a lot closer this time. Lalmohan Babu
started again, but managed to stop himself from stumbling. In the next instant, however, a completely unexpected ear-splitting noise made him lose control and he went rolling on the snow once more. This time, it was a pistol shot.

The bullet hit the ground less than ten yards ahead of us, making the snow spray up in the air. Feluda had pulled me aside the moment the shot was fired, and we had both thrown ourselves on the ground. Lalmohan Babu came rolling half a second later. The driver, too, had jumped behind the car. Although young and strong, clearly he had never had to cope with such a situation before.

The sound of the shot echoed among the hills. Someone hiding in the pine forest had fired at us. Presumably, he couldn’t see us any more for we were shielded by the black Ambassador.

Lying prostrate on the ground, I tried to come to terms with this new development. Something cold and wet was tickling the back of my neck. I turned my head a few degrees and realized what it was. A fine white curtain of snow had been thrown down from the sky. Even in such a moment of danger, I couldn’t help staring— fascinated—at the little flakes that fell like cotton fluff. For the first time in my life, I discovered falling snow made no noise at all. Lalmohan Babu looked as though he was about to make a remark, but one gesture from Feluda made him change his mind.

At this precise moment, the silence was shattered once more, but not by a pistol shot, or a chunk of ice, or the sound of wheels turning in the slippery snow. This time, we heard the voice of a man.

‘Mr Mitter!’

Who was this? Why did the voice sound vaguely familiar? ‘Listen carefully, Mr Mitter,’ it went on. ‘You must have realized by now that I have got you where I want you. So don’t try any clever tricks. It’s not going to work and, in fact, your lives may be in danger.’

It was some time before the final echo of the words died down. Then the man spoke again.

‘I want only one thing from you, Mr Mitter.’

‘What is it?’ Feluda shouted back.

‘Come out from where you’re hiding. I would like to see you, although you couldn’t see me even if you tried. I will answer your question when you come out.’

For a few minutes, I had been aware of a strange noise in my immediate vicinity. At first I thought it was coming from inside the
car. Now I turned my head and realized it was simply the sound of Lalmohan Babu’s chattering teeth.

Feluda rose to his feet and slowly walked over to the other side of the car, without uttering a word. Perhaps he knew under the circumstances, it was best to do as he was told. Never before had I seen him grapple with such a difficult situation.

‘I hope,’ said the voice, ‘that your three companions realize that a single move from them would simply spell disaster.’

‘Kindly tell me what you want,’ said Feluda.

I could see him standing from behind one of the wheels. He was looking up at the mountain. In front of him lay a wide expanse of snow. The pine forest started at some distance.

‘Take out your revolver,’ commanded the voice. Feluda obeyed. ‘Throw it across on the slope.’ Feluda did.

‘Do you have the Kodak container?’

‘Yes.’

‘Show it to me.’

Feluda took out the yellow container from his pocket and raised it.

‘Now show me the stone you found in it.’

Feluda slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket. Then he brought it out and held it high once more, holding a small object between his thumb and forefinger.

No one spoke for a few seconds. No doubt the man was trying to take a good look at the diamond. Did he have binoculars, I wondered.

‘All right,’ the voice came back. ‘Now put that stone back into its container and place it on that large grey boulder by the side of the road. Then you must return straight to Simla. If you think . . .’

Feluda cut him short.

‘You really want this stone, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘For God’s sake, do I have to spell it out?’ the voice retorted sharply.

‘Well then, here it is!’

Feluda swung his arm and threw the stone in the direction of the forest. This was followed by a breath-taking sequence of events.

Our invisible adversary threw himself out of his hiding place in an attempt to catch the diamond, but fell on a slab of half-frozen snow. In the next instant, he lost his foothold and was rolling down the hill like a giant snowball. He finally came to rest near the snow-covered
nullah that ran alongside the road. By this time, the pistol and binoculars had dropped from his hands. A pair of dark glasses and a pointed beard lay not far from these.

There was no point in our hiding any more. The three of us leapt to our feet and ran forward to join Feluda. I had expected the other man to be at least unconscious, if not dead. He had slipped from a considerable height at enormous speed. But, to my surprise, I found him lying flat on his back, glaring malevolently at Feluda and breathing deeply.

It was easy enough now to understand why his voice had sounded familiar. The figure stretched out on the snow was none other than the unsuccessful film star, Amar Kumar, alias Prabeer Lahiri, Dinanath Babu’s nephew.

Feluda spoke with ice in his voice. ‘You do realize, don’t you, that the tables have turned? So stop playing this game and let’s hear what you have to say.’

Prabeer Lahiri did not reply. He continued to lie on his back, snow drifting down on his upturned face, gazing steadily at Feluda.

Nothing was as yet clear to me, but I hoped Prabeer Babu would throw some light on the mystery. But still he said nothing.

‘Very well,’ said Feluda, ‘if you will not open your mouth, allow me to do the talking. Pray tell me if I get anything wrong. You had got the diamond from that Nepali box, hadn’t you? It was possibly the same jewel that the Rana of Nepal had given to Shambhucharan as a token of his gratitude. That box, in fact, must have been Shambhucharan’s property; and he must have left it before his death with his friend, Satinath Lahiri. Satinath brought it back to India with him, but was unable to tell anyone about the diamond, presumably because by the time he returned, he was seriously ill. You found it only a few days ago purely by chance. Then you painted it brown and kept it together with chopped betel-nuts in that empty film container. When your uncle gave you the Air India attaché case, you thought it would be perfectly safe to hide your diamond in it. But what you didn’t foresee was that only a day later, the case would make its way from your room to mine. You eavesdropped, didn’t you, when your uncle was talking to us that evening in your house? So you decided to steal it from me. When the telephone call from a fictitious Mr Puri and the efforts of your hired hooligans failed, you chased us to Delhi. But even that didn’t work, did it? You took a very great risk by breaking into our room in the
hotel, but the diamond still eluded your grasp. There was really only one thing you could do after that. You followed us to Simla and planned this magnificent fiasco.’

Feluda stopped. We were all standing round, staring at him, totally fascinated.

‘Tell me, Mr Lahiri, is any of this untrue?’

The look in Prabeer Lahiri’s eyes underwent a swift change. His eyes glittered and his lips spread in a cunning smile. ‘What are you talking about, Mr Mitter?’ he asked almost gleefully. ‘What diamond? I know nothing about this!’

My heart missed a beat. The diamond was lost in the snow. Perhaps forever. How could Feluda prove—?

‘Why, Mr Lahiri,’ Feluda said softly, ‘are you not acquainted with this little gem?’

We started again. Feluda had slipped his hand into a different pocket and brought out another stone. Even in the fading light from the overcast sky, it winked merrily.

‘That little stone that’s buried in the snow was something I bought this morning at the Miller Gem Company in Simla. Do you know how much I spent on it? Five rupees. This one is the real . . .’

He couldn’t finish. Prabeer Lahiri sprang up like a tiger and jumped on Feluda, snatching the diamond from his hand.

Clang!

This time, Feluda, too, gave a start. This unexpected noise was simply the result of Lalmohan Babu’s boomerang hitting Prabeer Lahiri’s head. He sank down on the snow again, unconscious. The diamond returned to Feluda.

‘Thank you, Lalmohan Babu.’

But it was doubtful whether Lalmohan Babu heard the words for he was staring, dumbfounded, at the boomerang that had shot out in the air from his own right hand and found its mark so accurately.