The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (74 page)

‘God, just look at my face!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed, peering into his shaving mirror. Our faces looked just the same. We were all covered with mosquito bites.

‘I should have warned you,’ Tulsi Babu remarked. ‘Mosquitoes are a big menace here. In fact, they are the only drawback of Gosaipur.’

‘No,’ Lalmohan Babu said, ‘not the whole village, surely? I would say it’s just that garden the Malliks own. That’s where most of the
mosquitoes breed, that’s where they are the most vicious.’

We were back in our room after lunch. The police had arrived and started their investigation. Feluda had lapsed into silence once more. Perhaps Jeevanlal’s murder was so totally unexpected that it had thrown all his calculations haywire. If Jeevanlal had been killed by burglars, the police were in a far better position to track them down. Feluda could hardly do anything on his own.

The inspector in charge—a man called Sudhakar Pramanik—had already talked to him. He had heard of Feluda, but did not seem to have a great deal of regard for him. He was particularly cross about the disappearance of the body.

‘You amateur detectives simply do not believe in systems and methods, do you?’ he said irritably ‘I know your sort, I have had to work with private detectives before. If you had to leave the body, why didn’t you get someone to guard it? Now we have to dredge the pond at the back. If that doesn’t work, then we have to do the same to all the other ponds and lakes here . . . and there are eleven of them. It’s all your fault, Mr Mitter. You really shouldn’t have rushed off, leaving the body unattended.’

Feluda heard him in silence, without saying a word to defend himself. What he did say after a while irritated the inspector even more. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ Feluda asked. Inspector Pramanik stared at him, then shook his head and said, ‘I had heard you took your work seriously. Now it’s obvious that is not the case.’

‘I had to ask you,’ Feluda explained, ‘because if you cannot catch the killer, I have to turn to Mr Bhattacharya. Perhaps he can contact Jeevanlal Mallik’s spirit? Surely the spirit of the dead man will be able to reveal the truth?’

‘Do you admit defeat, Mr Mitter? Are you giving up?’

‘No. I cannot continue with my investigation . . . yes, I admit that . . . but if Mr Bhattacharya helps me, I can bring the culprit to justice. Of that I am certain.’

‘Can you tell the difference between a dead man and a live one?’

‘Mr Pramanik, I don’t think I need answer all your questions, especially since I have no wish to join the police force. If I am talking of ghosts and spirits, it’s only because my methods are quite different from yours.’

‘Oh? Have you no reason to suspect Bholanath?’

‘My only suspicion—no, my fear—is that you will arrest him immediately simply because you have heard his family history and
you think he had a motive. If you do that, Inspector, you will be making a big mistake.’

The inspector laughed and stood up. ‘Do you know what your problem is?’ he said, clicking his tongue with annoyance. ‘You see complications when there are none. This is a very simple case. Just think for a moment. Isn’t it obvious whoever opened that chest knew where the key was kept? Had it been an ordinary burglar, surely he’d have broken it open? Bholanath took the money and was running away with it, when Jeevanlal caught up with him. Bholanath might not have planned to kill him, but was obliged to. Then he went off to call you, so that suspicion did not fall on him. He says he, too, was tied up, and Jeevanlal came and untied him. But can he prove it? How do we know he is not lying through his teeth?’

‘Very well. But where did all that money go? What did Bholanath do with it?’

‘We have to look for it, Mr Mitter. Once we find the body, we’ll arrest Bholanath. He’ll talk . . . oh yes, he’ll tell us everything, never fear.’

I did not like to think of Bholanath Babu as the culprit, but what the inspector said made sense to me. What I could not understand was why Feluda was brushing it off. Just as the inspector began climbing down the stairs, he called after him, ‘Jeevanlal’s spirit will talk tonight in Mr Bhattacharya’s house. You may learn a thing or two, if you come!’

Tulsi Babu was the only one who appeared more concerned with the reception the next day than with Jeevanlal’s spirit. If the killer was not caught by then, the reception would have to be cancelled. Naturally, no one would be in the right mood for songs and speeches. Lalmohan Babu had accepted this, and was heard saying, ‘I don’t mind at all. After all, I sell murder mysteries, don’t I? Here I’ve got a real murder, and a real mystery. If I can’t have a reception, who cares?’

He said this, but couldn’t get the idea of a reception out of his mind. I caught him, more than once, muttering lines from his speech and then quickly checking himself.

‘Could you please tell Mr Bhattacharya that we’d be calling on him this evening?’ Feluda said to Tulsi Babu. ‘Tell him we cannot wait in a queue with his other clients. He must give us top priority.’

This time, Tulsi Babu realized that Feluda was absolutely serious about consulting Mr Bhattacharya. He looked very surprised.

‘I have done all I could,’ Feluda told him. ‘Now I cannot proceed without Mr Bhattacharya’s help.’

I thought again about what he had told me about keeping an open mind. There were dozens of occurrences every day, all over the world, that could not be explained by scientists. That did not necessarily mean they were all hoaxes. Only recently, I had read about a man called Uri Geller who could stare at steel forks and spoons and bend them simply through his will power. Well-known scientists had watched him, yet no one knew how he had done it. Perhaps Mriganka Bhattacharya was a man like Geller?

Tulsi Babu looked at his watch. ‘It’s half past five now,’ he said. ‘I think you and I should go together and make our request.’

‘Very well,’ Feluda said, getting to his feet. ‘Why don’t you two go for a walk?’

This struck me as a very good idea. Lalmohan Babu had mentioned how pleasant an October evening in Gosaipur could be, and I wanted to stretch my legs. So we left as soon as Feluda and Tulsi Babu went off to speak to Mr Bhattacharya.

Two days ago, the village had seemed a totally different place. Today, I felt strangely tense as we began walking away from the house. I simply could not stop thinking of the missing corpse. It could well be lying behind any of the bushes and shrubs we passed . . . no, no, I must not dwell on it, I told myself firmly.

We found the bamboo grove and turned into it. It was appreciably darker here, and the creepy feeling I was trying to overcome grew stronger. But at this moment, I saw the mime artist, Benimadhav, walking towards us. The sight of a third person helped me pull myself together. ‘Hey, where are you off to?’ he asked genially. ‘I was going to your house. Didn’t I tell you I’d come and show you my acting on Friday?’

‘I know,’ Lalmohan Babu replied, ‘but after what happened, none of us are in the mood to watch a performance. I mean, who knew such an awful thing was going to happen? We’re all worried and upset. You do understand, don’t you?’

‘Of course, of course. You’re not going back to Calcutta immediately, are you?’

‘No, we should be here for another three days.’

‘Good. So where are you going now?’

‘Nowhere in particular. Is there something we should see? You should be able to tell us!’

‘Have you seen the Bat-kali temple? It was built in the seventeenth century. It’s full of bats, but the outside walls still have some carvings left. Come with me, I’ll show you.’

I did not tell him I had seen the temple this morning. At that moment, of course, I had not had the time to look at wall carvings.

We reached it in three minutes. I began to get goose pimples again. It would have been far better to have come here during the day. There was a banyan tree next to the temple. Its roots had grasped the roof, making it crack and crumble.

‘This is where they used to have sacrifices, sir,’ Benimadhav said, pointing at a spot near the trunk of the banyan tree.

‘S-sacrifice?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, his voice hushed.

‘Yes, sir. Human sacrifices. Haven’t you heard of Nedo
dakaat,
the famous bandit of Gosaipur? He used to worship Kali and hold sacrifices here. Why, you could write a whole book on him! Would you like to go inside? Have you got a torch?’

‘In-inside? No, I don’t think so. Didn’t you say it was full of bats? Besides, we didn’t bring a torch.’

‘No, the bats will have gone out now, on their evening excursion . . . heh heh. If you wish to see them you’ll have to come back—’

‘No! We have no wish to see them, thank you.’

‘All right. Look, I’ve lit a match. May I smoke a beedi?’

‘Yes, certainly. Smoke as many as you like.’

Benimadhav lit his beedi, then held the match near the broken door. What I saw in its flickering light made my heart skip a beat. Lalmohan Babu had seen it, too.

‘J-j-jee-jee-jee—’ he stammered.

It was Jeevanlal’s dead body. There could be no mistake. His blue shirt and white pyjamas were peeping out from behind a pillar inside the temple. I even caught a glimpse of his left arm. He had been wearing a watch this morning. Now the watch was gone.

‘Look, someone left their clothes here!’ exclaimed Benimadhav, and began to stride forward to retrieve the clothes, possibly with a view to returning them to their owner.

‘D-don’t!’ Lalmohan Babu pulled him back urgently. ‘Th-that’s a dead body. We sh-should tell the p-police!’

At these words, the mime artist turned totally mute. Then he showed us just how gifted he was. We saw, in a flash, the expression on his face change from amazement to horror, in one single step; then he turned around and legged it, in absolute silence. We, too, decided not to spend another moment there, and came back home immediately, walking as fast as we could.

Feluda had already returned. He glanced at me briefly and said, ‘Why do you look so pale? Get ready quickly. We have to be back in Mr Bhattacharya’s house in fifteen minutes.’

Lalmohan Babu, I noticed, had regained his composure on seeing Feluda.

‘Felu Babu,’ he announced calmly, ‘we made an important discovery. Jeevanlal’s body is lying inside that old Kali temple. Are you going to tell the police, or will you let them go on looking for it?’

Lalmohan Babu had taken an instant dislike to the inspector. So he seemed all in favour of not doing anything to make it easier for him.

‘Did you actually go into the temple?’ Feluda asked.

‘No; nor did we touch the body. But there can be no doubt about what we saw.’

‘OK. I met the inspector just now. He’ll probably be coming to Mr Bhattacharya’s house. We can tell him when we see him.’

We left in ten minutes. Tulsi Babu said he’d have to go and see Mr Chakladar, just to warn him that the function he was supposed to preside over the next day might well be cancelled.

‘You carry on, I’ll join you later,’ he said.

On our way to Mr Bhattacharya’s house, Feluda told us how eager he had seemed to get in touch with Jeevanlal’s spirit. He had offered to do this first, even though it meant making three other clients wait outside.

This evening, his room had a table instead of the divan. Five chairs had been arranged around it. On the table was an oil lamp. Mr Bhattacharya was sitting on one of the chairs. On his right was a writing pad and a pencil. Behind the table were two small stools and a bench. Nityanand was seated on the bench.

We took three chairs. The fourth remained empty for Tulsi Babu.

‘Should we wait for Tulsicharan?’ Mr Bhattacharya asked.

‘Let’s give him five minutes,’ Feluda replied.

‘Very well. I knew . . . you’d have to come to me,’ Mr Bhattacharya’s deep voice boomed out. ‘I realized it that day, when I
first set my eyes on you. I could tell you would not scoff at this highly specialized branch of science, for that’s what it is. Only the ignorant, only those who know nothing about the different ways through which one may arrive at the truth, mock and laugh at my methods. A true believer in science—such as yourself—keeps an open mind. He does not ridicule.’

I began to feel a bit bored with all this talk of science and truth. Why didn’t he start?

‘You have all met Jeevanlal, and he has only just died,’ he went on. ‘For these two reasons, I expect today’s session to be a success. His soul has not yet had the time to lose all its earthly bonds and escape into the other world. It is still lingering near us, waiting for our call. It knows it cannot refuse our invitation. I know we simply have to say the word, and it will be with us. It is immortal, and it is aware of not just the past and the present, but also the future. It will speak through me, it will reveal the truth on this sheet of paper, just as we . . .’

Feluda interrupted him. I failed to see how he could speak, for my own throat had started to feel parched, and I suspect Lalmohan Babu was feeling the same. There was a hypnotic quality in Mr Bhattacharya’s voice that inspired awe.

‘Everyone will want to see what you write,’ Feluda said, ‘but with the exception of myself, everybody is sitting opposite you. Will you mind if I read out what you write?’

‘No, not at all. What do you want to ask the spirit?’

‘Three things—who burgled the house, who killed Jeevanlal, and when he was killed.’

‘Very well. You shall soon have the answers,’ said Mr Bhattacharya.

Five minutes passed, but there was no sign of Tulsi Babu. Mr Bhattacharya decided to get to work.

‘Please place your hands—palm downward—on the table. Your little fingers should touch those of your neighbour’s.’

We placed our hands as instructed. A tapping noise started at once, caused by Lalmohan Babu’s trembling fingers. He might have been playing a tabla. I saw him grit his teeth to steady his hands.

Mr Bhattacharya’s eyes were closed, but his lips moved. He was reciting a Sanskrit
shloka.
A minute later, he stopped. There was a deathly silence in the room. The lamp flickered. Around its flame three insects hovered. Our shadows, large and trembling, fell on the walls, nearly touching the ceiling. I gave Feluda a sidelong glance. His jaw was set, and he was staring steadily at Mr Bhattacharya with a totally expressionless face. Mr Bhattacharya himself was sitting still as a statue. He had picked up the pencil, which was now poised over the blank sheet of paper.

Then his lips started to tremble. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Lalmohan Babu began playing the tabla again, perfectly involuntarily. I could see why. The atmosphere in the room was decidedly eerie. My heart beat as fast as Lalmohan Babu’s fingers shook.

‘Jeevanlal . . . Jeevanlal . . . Jeevanlal!’ Mr Bhattacharya called softly. His lips barely moved.

‘Are you there? Have you come?’

This time, to our amazement, the questions were spoken by a voice behind us. It was Nityanand. Now I realized what his role was. He spoke on behalf of his uncle. Perhaps Mr Bhattacharya found it impossible to speak at a time like this.

‘Yes,’ said Feluda. The word had been scribbled on the pad by Mr Bhattacharya. His eyes were still closed. I watched his hands carefully.

‘Where are you?’ asked Nityanand.

‘Here, very close,’ wrote Mr Bhattacharya. Feluda read the words out.

‘We’d like to ask you a few questions. Can you answer them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who stole the money from your father’s chest?’

‘I did.’

‘Did you see your murderer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you recognize him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was it?’

‘My father.’

But we didn’t get to hear when the murder was committed, for Feluda stood up abruptly and said, ‘That’ll do.’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘Topshe, go and get that lantern from the passage
outside. I can hardly see anything.’ Considerably startled, I got up and fetched the lantern.

Feluda picked up the piece of paper Mr Bhattacharya had scribbled on, ran his eyes over the few words written and said, ‘Mr Bhattacharya, your spirit may have left the earth, but it hasn’t yet learnt the truth. There are discrepancies in his answers.’

Mr Bhattacharya glared at Feluda, looking as if he wanted to reduce him to a handful of dust, but Feluda remained quite unmoved. ‘For instance,’ he continued, ‘he is being asked who opened the chest and took the money. He says, “I did”, meaning Jeevanlal. But that chest was empty, Mr Bhattacharya. There was no money in it.’

As if by magic, the fury faded from Mr Bhattacharya’s face. He began to look rather uncertain. Feluda went on, ‘I can say this with some confidence because it was not Jeevanlal Mallik who opened that chest, but Pradosh Chander Mitter. Jeevanlal helped me do it by opening the front door for me in the middle of the night and telling me where the key was kept. He also helped me to tie up his father and Bholanath Babu. Anyway, instead of any money, what we found in the chest was this.’ He slipped a hand into his pocket and brought out another piece of paper.

‘The old Mr Mallik had refused to show it to me. But I needed it urgently as I had serious doubts about Mriganka Bhattacharya’s intentions. My suspicions were aroused the minute I met him. He pretended to have guessed my name and profession by some supernatural means. The truth is that Tulsi Babu had already told him who I was and what I did. Am I right, Tulsi Babu?’

I realized with a start that Tulsi Babu had joined us, though I had not seen him arrive. He looked profoundly embarrassed and tried to explain: ‘Y-yes, I am afraid . . . you see . . . I wanted you to get a good impression, so I . . .’

Feluda raised a hand to stop him. ‘I don’t blame you, Tulsi Babu. You don’t pretend to be something you are not. But this man does. Anyway, when I realized Mr Bhattacharya was simply putting on an act to impress me, I was determined to get hold of the paper that Shyamlal Mallik wanted no one to see. There were a few doubts in my mind about Shyamlal, too, which I thought this piece of paper would help clarify.’

Mr Bhattacharya was now sweating profusely. Feluda held the paper closer to the lamp and said, ‘Durlabh Singh’s departed soul
was supposed to have answered some questions. The questions were spoken, but it isn’t difficult to guess what was asked. The written answers are good indicators. I shall now read out to you all the questions and the answers given. If I get any of it wrong, I hope Mr Bhattacharya will correct me.’

Mr Bhattacharya was breathing so fast that the flame flickered strongly. Feluda began reading, ‘The first question was: “Who is my enemy?” Answer: “He is in your house.” “Does he want me dead?” “No.” “Then what does he want?” “Money.” “How can I save my money from him?” “Don’t keep it in your chest.” “Where should I kept it?” “Bury it under the ground.” Where?” “In your garden.” “Where in the garden?” “At the far end—under the last mango tree—by the gap in the wall.”’

Feluda put the paper back into his pocket. ‘The traces of mud on his feet and the mosquito bites on his face had suggested that Shyamlal Mallik had spent some time out in the garden. Now I know why he had done that. He simply followed the instructions Mr Bhattacharya gave him, except that he thought they were given by his dead father. Mr Bhattacharya knew about the money Shyamlal possessed and had been planning to steal it for quite some time. But he knew it was impossible as long as the old and trusted Bholanath remained with his master. At first he tried to poison Shyamlal’s mind against Bholanath. Sadly, that did not work. Then, miraculously, Mr Bhattacharya found a new opportunity. Shyamlal himself called him to his house and asked him to contact a spirit. Mr Bhattacharya seized this chance to kill two birds with one stone. He got Shyamlal to believe that someone in his own house had become his enemy, and he managed to get the money removed from the chest and placed at a spot which would be accessible to him. Shyamlal raised no objection to burying his money in the garden, for this was an ancient method of keeping things safe, which was perfectly acceptable to him, as Mr Bhattacharya knew it would be. So he put everything in a separate box and buried it under the last mango tree. Yesterday—

A sudden noise made him stop. Nityanand had suddenly sprung to his feet and leapt out of the door. But he could not get very far. A pair of strong arms caught him neatly and pushed him back into the room. Then their owner stepped in himself. It was Inspector Pramanik.

‘We found the box, Mr Mitter,’ he said, ‘with everything intact. He had hidden it under some clothes in an old trunk. Constable!’

A constable stepped forward and placed a fairly large steel box on the table.

‘Why, the lid’s been broken!’ Feluda exclaimed. Then he lifted it. The box was crammed with bundles of hundred-rupee notes. Never in my life had I seen so much cash.

‘But . . . but . . . what about the murder?’ Mr Bhattacharya cried desperately. ‘I did not kill Jeevanlal!’

‘No, I know you didn’t,’ Feluda spoke scathingly. ‘I did. The murder was also my idea. What I did manage to kill and destroy, Mr Bhattacharya, was your greed, your deception and your cunning. Your career in fraud is over, for everyone in this village will soon learn what you achieved today. Tell me, have you ever heard of anyone speaking to the soul of the living? Come in, Jeevan Babu!’

As a collective gasp went up, Jeevanlal entered the room through the front door. A piercing scream tore through Mr Bhattacharya’s lips, and he scrambled to his feet. The constable quickly put handcuffs on him.

Inspector Pramanik had only one complaint to make. ‘Why did you make us dredge two lakes, Mr Mitter? We wasted such a lot of time!’

‘No, no, please don’t say that. It was necessary to pretend that Jeevanlal had really been killed, and that we were looking for his body. How else could we have exposed Bhattacharya so completely?’

It turned out that Feluda had planned the whole thing to the last detail. When he and I left the ‘body’ and Bholanath and Lalmohan Babu went back to the house, Jeevanlal had got up and slipped into an old store room in the house. His grandmother had seen him, but Feluda had managed to cover it up quickly. In the evening, he had stolen out to make his way to Mr Bhattacharya’s house, so that he could hide among the bushes and come out at the right time; but, rather unfortunately, we were walking through the bamboo grove at the same time, which made him dive into the old temple and pretend to be a corpse once again.

After dinner that night, Tulsi Babu came up to Feluda and said a little ruefully, ‘Are you cross with me, Mr Mitter?’

‘Cross? Of course not. If anything, Tulsi Babu, I am most grateful to you. If you hadn’t told that man my name, he wouldn’t have dared to make up a puzzle about my initials, and I would have had no
reason to wonder if his powers were genuine. You helped me a great deal.’

Jeevanlal Mallik turned up a few minutes later. ‘My father is speaking to me again!’ he said, beaming.

‘What did he say?’

‘When I went and touched his feet this evening, he spoke to me with an affection he hasn’t shown for years. He even asked me how our business was doing, and seemed really interested. I could scarcely believe it!’

Lalmohan Babu was busy dealing with the head of a fish. Now he finished chewing and opened his mouth.

‘Then . . . er . . . tomorrow? . . .’ he asked tentatively, looking at Tulsi Babu.

‘Oh yes. It’s definitely going ahead. Everything’s ready.’

‘Very good. My speech is ready, too. Felu Babu, will you please cast an eye over it?’