The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (42 page)

‘Sublime!’ said Lalmohan Babu. I had never heard him use this word earlier. But before I could say anything, he added, ‘Heavenly, unique, glorious, magnificent, indescribable—oh, just out of this world!’

The reason for this burst of excitement was simple. He had risen in the morning, and had seen Kanchenjunga from his window. It had just started to glow pink in the early morning sun. Unable to contain himself, Lalmohan Babu made me join him in his room. ‘One can’t really enjoy such a thing unless the joy is shared, you see,’ he explained. This remark was then followed by a stream of superlatives.

Feluda had seen it, too, but not from our room. He had finished doing yoga and left the hotel long before I woke up. He returned after a walk from the Mall to the Observatory Hill, just in time for our first cup of tea. ‘Each time I see Kanchenjunga,’ he declared, ‘I seem to grow younger. Thank goodness the new buildings that have cropped up in most places have made no difference to the road to and from the Observatory Hill.’

‘I feel just the same, Felu Babu. Life seems worth living, now that I’ve seen Kanchenjunga.’

‘Good. I’m very glad to hear that, for it shows you have still retained a few finer feelings, in spite of all the nonsense you write.’

Lalmohan Babu let that pass. ‘What are we going to do today?’ he asked.

We were in the dining hall, having breakfast. Feluda tore off a piece of omelette and put it in his mouth. ‘I’d like to visit Mr Majumdar today. His house is going to be very crowded from tomorrow. Today is probably the only day we can have a quiet and peaceful meeting in his house. I consider it my duty to cultivate a man like him.’

‘Very well, just as you say.’

We left at half past eight. We had to go down the Mall, past Das Studio and Keventer’s, and walk for three-quarters of a mile to get to Mount Everest Hotel. The road to Mr Majumdar’s house began after that. As it happened, we had no difficulty in finding it. It was a sprawling old bungalow, made of wood, with a red tiled roof. A well-kept garden surrounded it. Behind it stood a pine forest and, beyond that, a steep hill. The mali working in the garden came
forward on seeing us.

‘Is Mr Majumdar at home?’ Feluda asked.

‘Yes. Who shall I say—?’

‘Just tell him the people he met yesterday are here to see him.’ The mali disappeared inside the house. While we waited outside, I kept looking at the house and admiring its surroundings. Kanchenjunga was clearly visible in the north, now a shimmering silver. Whoever had chosen this spot to build a house clearly had good sense as well as good taste.

Mr Majumdar and the mali came out together.

‘Good morning! Do come in,’ Mr Majumdar invited. We went through a white wooden gate with ‘Nayanpur Villa’ written on it, and joined our host. He must have been very good-looking once, I thought. Even now, he certainly didn’t look as though he might be ailing. Another gentleman had come out with him. He was introduced as Rajat Bose, his secretary. A man of medium height and a clear complexion, Mr Bose was wearing a dark blue polo neck sweater over brown trousers.

We were taken to the drawing room. There was glass case in one corner, crammed with silver trophies of various shapes and sizes. These had obviously been won by Mr Majumdar in sports competitions. A leopard skin was spread on the floor, and on the wall hung the heads of two deer and a bison. We sat on two sofas.

‘My son, Samiran, is coming this evening,’ Mr Majumdar told us. ‘I don’t think you’ll find any similarities between him and me. He is a businessman, very involved with the share market.’

‘Is he coming on holiday, or is it strictly business?’

‘He said he had taken a week off. But he’s very restless, just not the type to sit at home and relax, even for a few days. He’s almost thirty, but is showing no signs of getting married. God knows when he’ll settle down. But never mind about my son. Tell me about yourselves.’

‘We came here to hear about you,’ Feluda said.

‘Then I hope you’ve got all day,’ Mr Majumdar laughed. ‘I have led a very colourful life. Until I was about forty, there was very little that I didn’t do—sports, both indoor and outdoor, shikar, just name it. But afterwards, I was put in charge of a bank, which meant handling enormous responsibilities. So I had to cut down on most other activities, and concentrate on my job.’

‘But you still had your favourite hobby?’

‘You mean collecting press cuttings? Oh yes. I never gave that up. Rajat can show you a sample.’ He nodded at Mr Bose, who got up and went into the next room. He returned with a fat scrapbook, and handed it to Feluda. Lalmohan Babu and I moved from where we were sitting to get a closer look.

It was a remarkable object, undoubtedly.

‘I can see that you’ve got cuttings from a London newspaper as well,’ Feluda remarked.

‘Yes. A friend of mine is a doctor in London. He has my instructions to send me copies of any sensational news he gets to read.’

‘Murder, robbery, accidents, fires, suicide . . . you’ve got them all, haven’t you?’

‘Yes that’s right.’

‘But what were you telling me about a criminal case that hasn’t yet been solved?’

‘Yes, there is such a case. I can show you the relevant report. There is one more case like that, though you won’t see a cutting, for the press didn’t get to hear about it.’

‘What happened?’

‘No, please don’t ask me to explain. I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you anything more. Go, Rajat, please get the 1969 volume.’

Mr Bose came back with another scrapbook.

‘This particular report appeared sometime in June, in the
Statesman
. The headline, as far as I can remember, said, “Embezzler Untraced”.’

‘Here, I’ve got it,’ said Feluda, quickly turning the pages. He read the first few lines, then looked up and exclaimed, ‘Why this is about your own bank!’

‘That is why I cannot forget it. A young man called V. Balaporia used to work in our accounts department. One day, he disappeared with 150,000 rupees. The police did their best, but couldn’t catch him. I was then the Deputy General Manager of the bank.’

‘I seem to remember the case vaguely,’ Feluda said slowly. ‘You see, before I became a full-time investigator, I used to read a lot about real life crime. This one happened such a long time ago that I can’t now recall all the details.’

By this time, Lalmohan Babu and I had read the report.

‘Even at that time, I had wished we could get hold of someone like Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot,’ Mr Majumdar shook his head
sadly. ‘A private detective might have been able to do something. Frankly, I haven’t got a lot of faith in the police.’

Feluda turned a few more pages, glanced briefly through some of the other cuttings, then returned it to Mr Bose with a polite ‘Thank you’.

A bearer came in with coffee on a tray. I was faintly surprised to see him. He had such a bright and polished air about him that it would’ve been quite difficult to guess he was a servant. We picked up our cups from the tray.

‘We saw your horse outside,’ Feluda said, ‘is that what you normally use to go around?’

‘I stay at home all day, going out only once in the evening. My habits are quite different from others. In fact, my daily routine has become decidedly strange since my retirement. I told you I suffer from insomnia, didn’t I? Do you know what I do? I sleep in the afternoon—but that, too, after taking a pill with a glass of milk. I set the alarm for 5 p.m., after which I have a cup of tea, and then I go out. I spend my nights reading.’

‘Don’t you sleep at night at all?’ Feluda asked, surprised.

‘No, not even a wink. I believe my grandfather had a similar habit. He was a powerful zamindar. At night, he used to go through his papers, check his accounts and do whatever else was required to look after his land and property. During the day, he used to take opium and sleep the whole afternoon. By the way, if you wish to smoke, please do so. I wouldn’t mind.’

‘Thank you,’ Feluda said, lighting a Charminar. I looked at Mr Majumdar again. He was nearly sixty, but he neither looked nor behaved like it.

‘The shooting starts here tomorrow, doesn’t it? It may mean a lot of stress and strain for you.’

‘Oh no, I don’t mind in the least. I’ll be in one end of the house, on the northern side. The shooting will take place at the opposite end. That director struck me as a very nice chap, so I couldn’t refuse.’

Before anyone else could say anything, a jeep came and stopped outside. Some members of the film unit got out of it. Pulak Ghoshal crossed the garden and knocked on the door.

‘Come in, sir!’ Mr Majumdar called out. Pulak Babu came in, followed by Raina and Mahadev Verma.

‘We are on our way for some outdoor shooting,’ Pulak Babu said. ‘We thought we’d just drop by and say hello. You haven’t met these
actors, have you? This is Rajen Raina and that’s Mahadev Verma. One is the hero and the other’s the villain.’

‘Very pleased to meet you. Why don’t you stay for coffee?’

‘No, thank you, Mr Majumdar. We haven’t got the time today. Besides, from tomorrow we’ll be spending almost the whole day in your house. Oh, incidentally, your secretary said you normally sleep in the afternoon. We’ll have to have a generator working near this house. I hope that won’t disturb you?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I always shut my door and all the windows, and draw the curtains. No noise from outside can reach me.’

I noticed Mr Majumdar casting piercing looks in the direction of Raina and Verma. After a brief pause, he added, ‘I can now tell people I’ve met two film stars. I hadn’t had the good fortune before.’

Pulak Babu turned to Lalmohan Babu. ‘Laluda,’ he said, ‘I have a request.’

‘Yes?’

‘I have a fairly sharp memory, Laluda. I distinctly remember you playing a role in a play we had organized in the Gorpar Friends’ Club, way back in 1970.’

‘Heavens, Pulak, I haven’t forgotten it, either. It wasn’t a very easy role, was it? My first and last performance as an actor!’

‘No, no, not your last performance.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Yes, I’m coming to that. You see, the local Bengali Club had promised to provide a couple of men for small roles. But now they’re saying most of their people have gone on holiday to Calcutta. I feel very let down. There is one particular role, you know, of the villain’s right-hand man—’

‘Who? Aghorchand Batlivala?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he appears only in two scenes.’

‘I know. That’s why I need your help. I’ll get someone to go and give you your lines this evening. Please don’t say no. I know you can do it. You’ll have to work with me for just three days.’

‘But. . . but . . . I don’t look like a villain’s right-hand man, do I? Besides, we came to Darjeeling just for ten days!’

‘That’s plenty of time, I don’t need more than a few days, I told you. With full make-up, a short beard and a wig, you’ll most definitely look the part. Tell me Mahadev, haven’t I made the right choice?’

‘Sure. Absolutely!’ Mahadev Verma grinned.

‘Have you ever smoked a cigar, Laluda?’

‘I used to smoke, but I gave up cigarettes ten years ago,’ Lalmohan Babu replied.

‘Never mind. You must have a cigar in your hand. And wear dark glasses.’

Lalmohan Babu’s eyes began glinting. I could tell he wasn’t going to need much persuasion.

‘OK, Pulak, since you’re in a spot, I must try and help you out, mustn’t I? Besides, a guest appearance in my own story might be quite a good idea, come to think of it. But I must insist on one thing.’

‘What is it?’

‘There must be an “am” after my name in the credits. I refuse to be known as a professional actor. People must know I am only an amateur. All right?’

‘OK, sir.’

I seized this opportunity to put in my own request. ‘May I please come and watch the shooting?’ I asked. ‘Of course, dear boy, of course!’ said Pulak Ghoshal.

Pulak Ghoshal and his team left. We had finished our coffee, so Feluda rose to his feet. ‘We ought to leave now, I think,’ he said. ‘I hope we shall soon meet again.’

‘Pardon?’ said Mr Majumdar, sounding as though he was miles away. But then he pulled himself together, and said quite naturally, ‘Oh, all right. Yes, I hope so, too.’ We came out of Nayanpur Villa and began walking back to our hotel.

Feluda didn’t say a word on the way back. For some reason, he also seemed rather preoccupied. But, over lunch, he turned to Lalmohan Babu and said, ‘Why, Mr Ganguli, you are a dark horse! We’ve known you for years, and yet you didn’t tell us about your acting career! You played a difficult role in a play, did you?’

Lalmohan Babu transferred a piece of a fish-fry into his mouth, and said, ‘Well, to be honest, Felu Babu, there are loads of things about myself that I have never mentioned. I was the North Calcutta Carrom Champion in 1959, did you know this? I have many records in endurance cycling. Then I won a medal in a recitation
competition—not once, mind you, but three times. This is not the first time I’ve had an offer to act in a film. Even twenty years ago, I had received such an offer. This bald dome that you now see was then covered by thick, curly hair. Can you imagine that? but I didn’t accept that offer. No, sir. My mind was already made up. I wanted to become a professional writer, just to see if it was possible to earn enough simply by writing. An astrologer had told me it would work. “There’s magic in your pen, you must write,” he had said. He was right. But I never thought so much success would come my way.’

‘I see. There is one little thing I must point out, Lalmohan Babu.’

‘What?’

‘You said you gave up smoking ten years ago. Now if you are made to smoke a cigar, the result may well be disastrous.’

‘Hey, you’re quite right. What do you think I should do?’

‘I suggest you buy some cigars and start practising. Don’t inhale the smoke. If you do, you’re bound to start coughing and that will mean the end of every shot.’

‘Yes, thank you for the advice, sir.’

We had a little rest in the afternoon, then we left for a walk at four o’clock. We wanted to walk to the Observatory Hill. There was a wonderful view of Kanchenjunga one could get from the northern side of the hill.

Lalmohan Babu bought a packet of “cigars from the first tobacconist he could find. The first drag very nearly resulted in disaster, but he managed to avoid it somehow. I noticed a cigar in his hand had brought about a change in his whole personality. He seemed a lot more sure of himself, striding ahead with great confidence, looking around with a slight smile on his lips. He had clearly started to play the role of Aghorchand Batlivala.

The next left turn brought Kanchenjunga into view. The last rays of the sun were shining directly on it, making it glow like a column of gold. Lalmohan Babu opened his mouth, but refrained from bursting into adjectives. By the time we returned to the Mall after going round the hill, it was past five and the sun had disappeared behind the hill. A small crowd had gathered near the horse-stand. A closer look revealed the film crew, who were returning after a day’s shooting, followed by a large number of onlookers. But the people seemed pretty civilized, so I didn’t think they would create any disturbances. Raina and Verma both had to stop a few times to sign autographs. Then the whole group turned left into Nehru Road and
went in the direction of their hotel. ‘Good evening!’ called a voice.

It was Birupaksha Majumdar, riding his horse. He climbed down as we got closer.

‘I forgot to tell you something this morning,’ he continued, lowering his voice. ‘I heard this from my mali, so I couldn’t tell you how reliable his information is.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘Apparently, over the last few days, a man has been seen lurking outside our gate, keeping an eye on the house.’

‘You don’t say!’

‘My mali has been with me for years; I don’t really have any reason not to believe him.’

‘Has he been able to describe this man?’

‘Yes, but not very well. All he’s told me is that the man is of medium height and is unshaven. He disappears behind a tree each time the mali tries to get a closer look. But he smokes, for the mali has seen some smoke rising from behind the tree.’

‘Can you think of a reason why anyone should want to keep an eye on your house?’

‘Yes. There is a valuable object in my house. It is a statue of Krishna, made of
ashtadhatu
. It used to be in a temple in Nayanpur. Many people here have seen it, and many others might know that I have it with me.’

‘Where do you keep it?’

‘On a shelf in my bedroom.’

‘Don’t you keep it under lock and key?’

‘I stay awake all night, and I always have my revolver close at hand. So I don’t think a burglar would get very far, even if he broke into my house.’

‘Might there be some other reason why anyone would wish to attack your house?’

‘All I can tell you is that there is every possibility someone may wish to harm me. Please don’t ask me to explain—I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you more. If something untoward does happen, Mr Mitter, can I count on your support?’

‘Of course. That goes without saying.’

‘Thank you. I feel a lot better now.’

At this moment, a man of about thirty was seen walking towards us.

‘Come here, Samiran, let me introduce you to my friends,’ said Mr Majumdar. ‘This is my son, Samiran, And this is Mr Pradosh Mitter, and Mr Lalchand—no, sorry, Lalmohan . . . Ganguli, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And this is Tapesh, Pradosh Mitter’s cousin.’

We exchanged greetings. Samiran Majumdar was a smart looking man, and was dressed just as smartly in a red jerkin. ‘You are a famous detective, aren’t you?’ he said to Feluda.

‘I don’t know about being famous, but detection is certainly my profession.’

‘I love reading fiction. I’d like to have a long chat with you one day.’

‘Certainly. I’ll look forward to it.’

But you’ll have to excuse me today. I’m out shopping, you see.’ Samiran Majumdar left. His father got back on his horse. ‘I should make a move, too. See you soon.’

‘Yes. Don’t hesitate to call me, if need be. We’re staying at Hotel Kanchenjunga.’

While we were talking, a man had appeared and thrust a piece of paper into Lalmohan Babu’s hand. It turned out that he had been sent by Pulak Ghoshal, and the paper contained his lines for tomorrow. ‘They wrote out my Hindi dialogue in the Bengali script,’ he said. ‘Very thoughtful of them, I must say. I cannot read Hindi very well.’

‘How many lines have you got?’

‘Er . . . three and a half.’

‘Very well, bring them to my room later. We must have a rehearsal and make sure you speak Hindi better than you can read it.’

We went back to Keventer’s for a cup of hot chocolate. It was quite nippy outside, especially as the sky was clear this evening. Quite a few stars were out already, and even the Milky Way was faintly visible.

‘May I join you?’

All of us were startled to find an elderly gentleman standing behind an empty chair at our table, smiling slightly. He must have been in his early sixties, wore glasses and had salt-and-pepper hair.

‘Yes, certainly,’ Feluda invited.

‘I know who you are,’ the gentleman looked at Feluda. ‘I read an interview with you in a magazine about a year ago. It included your photograph.’

‘Yes, I remember that.’

‘You must forgive me for barging in like this. You see, I live next to Mr Majumdar’s house. I saw you go in there this morning. My house is called The Retreat, and I am Harinarayan Mukherjee.’

‘Namaskar. This is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli; and here’s my cousin, Tapesh.’

‘Namaskar. Have you come here to work on a case?’

‘No, I’m here purely on holiday.’

‘I see. I just wondered . . . I mean, if you see a detective going into Mr Majumdar’s house . . .’

‘Why, is he in trouble?’

‘Well, one hears lots of rumours about him.’

‘Ah. No, I don’t think he’s in trouble of any kind; neither do I think one should pay any attention to rumours.’

‘Yes, yes, you’re quite right.’

It seemed to me that Feluda deliberately avoided mentioning our last conversation with Mr Majumdar. After all, we didn’t know this man. Besides, he had barged in, uninvited.

It was quite dark by this time, and the restaurant wasn’t particularly well lit. But, even in that dim light, I could see Lalmohan Babu studying his lines, speaking the words softly.

‘I’ll take my leave now, Mr Mitter. Very pleased to have met you,’ Mr Mukherjee said, rising. He was gone a second later.

‘I think he’s lived here for a long time,’ Feluda remarked.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He’s used to the cold. Didn’t you see he was wearing only a woollen shawl over a cotton shirt? He wasn’t even wearing socks. I’d like to get to know him a little better.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of what he implied today. He may have some information. Who knows?’

I sipped my chocolate, thinking of the people we had met since our arrival, and all that they’d told us. If this went on, there could well be an explosion.

I had no idea it would come so soon.