The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (7 page)

Feluda had to miss breakfast that day.

Once Lalmohan Babu had recovered somewhat, we went to the Railway Hotel as it was closer and rang the police from there. Then we returned to our own hotel.

Feluda left us soon afterwards. ‘I have a few things to do, particularly in the Nulia colony, so I’ve got to go,’ he said. He had
already told us—even without touching the body—that Mr Bose had been killed with a blunt instrument, though there was no sign of the weapon. Who knew when Lalmohan Babu had called the broken old Bhujanga Niwas the ‘House of Death’, he was actually speaking the truth?

There was, however, a piece of good news. D.G. Sen and his son appeared to have got back together. While coming out of Bhujanga Niwas, I happened to glance at Sagarika and saw both father and son on the roof. Mahim Sen gave us a cheerful wave, so presumably all was well. How this sudden change in their relationship had occurred, I could not tell. It was most mystifying.

Feluda returned at a quarter to eleven. I suddenly remembered he had booked a call to Nepal. ‘Did your call come through?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I just finished speaking.’

‘Did you call Kathmandu?’

‘No, Patan. It’s an old town near Kathmandu, on the other side of the river Bagmati.’

‘Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu squeaked, ‘I can’t get over the shock. Look, I am still shivering.’

‘Do stop, Lalmohan Babu. At least, save some of it for tonight.’

‘Why—what is happening tonight?’

‘Tonight,’ Feluda replied calmly, ‘we’ll have to stand—not on one leg, mind you—but stand still and wait.’

‘Where?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘Why? What for?’

‘You’ll learn, by and by.’

Lalmohan Babu opened his mouth once more, then shut it, looking crestfallen. But then, like me, he wasn’t unfamiliar with the kind of mood Feluda was in. One could ask him a thousand questions, but he wouldn’t give a straight answer.

‘Dr Senapati is quite a smart young doctor,’ Feluda said, changing the subject.

‘Why, have you been to his clinic already?’ I asked.

‘Yes. He has been treating Mr D.G. Sen. He went to America last April. It was he who brought that medicine.’

‘Diapid?’ The name had got stuck in my memory for some reason. ‘Since you ask, I can tell you’ll never need to use it yourself,’ Feluda laughed. God knows what this cryptic remark meant. I didn’t dare ask.

Inspector Mahapatra rang an hour later. The police surgeon had finished his examination. According to him, Nishith Bose had been killed between 6 and 8 p.m. last evening, with a blunt instrument. There was still no sign of the weapon. But the police had found traces of blood under the sand below the veranda. Presumably, the murder took place near the front gate. Mr Bose’s body was then dragged inside.

A sudden idea flashed through my mind, but I chose not to say anything to Feluda. Could it be possible that whoever killed Mr Bose had attacked Feluda, using the same instrument? Perhaps that was why there was blood on his head, even without an open wound?

At around half past twelve, I began to feel hungry. Lalmohan Babu, too, started to comment on the heavenly smell emanating from the kitchen. But, at this moment, Bilas Majumdar turned up.

‘Would you like to go?’ he asked without any preamble.

‘Where to?’ Feluda asked, busily scribbling something in his notebook.

‘A place called Keonjhargarh, in an airconditioned limousine supplied by the tourist department. There’s room for six. But I found only one other person to go with me, an American called Steadman. He’s a wildlife enthusiast as well. You’ll find it interesting, I’m sure, if you come with us.’

‘When are you leaving?’

‘Straight after lunch.’

‘No, thank you. I’m afraid I’ve got some work this afternoon. In fact, if you could stay back for a few hours, I might be able to show you a sample of the wildlife in Puri!’

‘No, Mr Mitter, thank you very much.’ Mr Majumdar smiled and left.

A minute later, we heard a heavy American car start. Then it turned around and sped towards the north.

When was the last time I had been under such tense excitement? I couldn’t remember.

We had dinner at nine that evening. An hour later, Feluda announced it was time to go. ‘You’ll have to be suitably dressed,’ he told me. ‘Don’t wear kurta-pajamas, and don’t wear white. I don’t need to tell you what you must wear to hide in the dark, do I?’

No, there was no need to do that, I thought, my mind going back
to our experience in the graveyard in Park Street.

‘My instincts tell me something is going to happen tonight,’ Feluda added, ‘but there is no guarantee that it will. So prepare yourselves for possible disappointment.’

I looked at the sky as we went out, and saw that there were no stars. Lalmohan Babu, who had formed a habit of looking up at the sky every now and then (not in search of stars or the moon, but for signs of the skylab), quickly raised his head and said, ‘Had the wind been blowing in a different direction, the pieces might have fallen into the sea. Now . . . anything can happen.’

Although Bhujanga Niwas was surrounded by sand, the actual beach was about fifty yards away from it. There were a few makeshift shelters where the beach started, presumably for the guests in the Railway Hotel who came to bathe in the sea. Large reed mats had been fixed over bamboo poles to create these shelters. Feluda stopped beside one of these. Behind us was the sea, still roaring loudly, but now hardly visible in the dark. If anyone went walking past our shelter, we’d be able to see his figure, but we might not recognize him. There was no chance of being seen ourselves. Feluda could not have chosen a better spot in which to hide. It was still not clear why we were hiding, and I knew he wouldn’t tell me even if I asked. Annoyed with his habit of keeping things to himself, Lalmohan Babu had once said to him, ‘You, Felu Babu, should make suspense films. People would die holding their breath. Much better than even Hotchkick, that would be!’

I could see Mr Sen’s house from where we were standing. The light in his room on the second floor was still on. A light on the first floor had just gone out. Only one window on the ground floor was visible over the compound wall. A light was on, so perhaps Laxman Bhattacharya was still awake.

We were all sitting on the sand under the shelter, in absolute silence. Speaking would have been difficult, in any case, because of the noisy waves. By now my eyes had got used to the darkness and I could see a few things. On my left was Lalmohan Babu. The few remaining strands of hair around his bald head were blowing hard in the strong wind, rising like tufts of grass. Feluda sat on my right. I saw him raise his left hand and peer at his wrist. Then he slipped his hand into his shoulder bag and took out an object—his Japanese binoculars.

He placed it to his eyes. I knew what he was looking at. D.G. Sen
was standing near his open window. After a few moments, he moved aside and picked something up with his right hand.

What was it?

Oh, a glass tumbler. What was he drinking from it?

The light on the ground floor had gone out. Now Mr Sen switched off his own light. Immediately, the darkness around us seemed to grow more dense. However, I could still vaguely see my companions, especially if they made a movement.

Lalmohan Babu took out his torch from his pocket. I quickly leant over and whispered in his ear: ‘Don’t switch it on!’ In reply, he turned his head and muttered: ‘This is a blunt instrument. It may come in handy, even if I don’t switch it on.’ He moved his head away; and, at this moment, I saw something that made my heart fly into my mouth. On our right, about ten yards away, was another shelter. A man was standing next to it. God knows when he had appeared. Lalmohan Babu had seen him, too. He dropped the torch in astonishment.

And Feluda?

He hadn’t seen him. He was looking straight at Sagarika. I forced myself to look in the same direction, and spotted instantly what Feluda had already seen.

A man was walking out of Sagarika. Was he going to come towards us? No. He made his way to the broken and abandoned Bhujanga Niwas. He slowed down as he got closer to the building, then stopped near one of the pillars. What was he going to do?

It became clear in the next instant. A second man appeared from behind the house and joined the first. There were now two male figures standing before the gate. It was impossible to tell if they spoke to each other, but they separated in a few seconds and started to walk in different directions. The one who had come from Sagarika was making his way back—!

On no! Lalmohan Babu had jabbed at his torch carelessly and switched it on by accident. Feluda snatched it from his hand and threw it down on the sand. But, in the same instant, someone fired a gun. A bullet came and hit one of the bamboo poles of our shelter, making an ear-splitting noise and missing Lalmohan Babu’s neck by a few inches.

‘Get the other one!’ hissed Feluda and shot up like a rocket to chase the second man. To my own surprise, I discovered that those few words from Feluda were enough to make me forget fear. I
jumped to my feet without a word and began sprinting towards the first man.

It did not take me long to catch up with him. I threw myself at his legs, a bit like a rugby player doing a ‘flying tackle’, and managed to grab them both. The man tripped and fell flat on his face. I lost no time climbing on to his back. Then I looked around for Feluda.

Two silhouettes were standing at a slight distance, facing each other. I saw one of them raise a hand and aim for the other’s chin. A second later, the second figure was knocked down on the ground. I even heard the faint thud as he fell.

In the meantime, Lalmohan Babu had joined me and was dancing around with his blunt instrument in his hand, waiting for a suitable opportunity to strike the figure wriggling under me. However, another soft thud soon told me that, in his excitement, he had dropped his weapon on the sand once more.

‘Bring him over here!’ Feluda shouted.

This time, Lalmohan Babu was of real help. He took one leg, and I caught the other. Together, we dragged the man to join Feluda. Feluda was standing with one foot on the chest of his opponent, and the other on his right hand. The revolver this hand had held a few moments ago was lying nearby.

‘Until today, you had no injury on your chin. But after this, I think there will be a permanent mark,’ Feluda declared solemnly, shining his pocket torch on the man.

The word ‘wildlife’ suddenly flashed through my mind. Pinned down by his feet, staring back at Feluda, his eyes wild with anger, was Bilas Majumdar. His left hand was still curled around an object wrapped in red silk. Another manuscript! Feluda bent down and snatched it away. Then he turned and shone his torch on our prisoner. ‘What is your third eye telling you, Laxman Babu?’ Feluda asked, ‘Did you know what was written in your own destiny?’

Suddenly, several shadows emerged from the darkness. Who on earth were these people?

‘Hello, Mr Mahapatra,’ Feluda greeted one of them, ‘I’m going to hand these two culprits over to you, but I haven’t yet finished. I’d like us all to go and sit in the living room of Bhujanga Niwas. These two men must come with us.’

Four constables stepped forward and grabbed Bilas Majumdar and Laxman Bhattacharya. ‘Mahim Babu, are you there?’ Feluda called.

‘Oh yes. Here I am!’ Mahim Sen raised a hand. With a start, I realized he was the man we had first seen standing near a shelter. ‘I think Father’s about to join us. Look, there he is, with a torch,’ he added, pointing.

‘We’ve made seating arrangements in the front room of that building,’ said Mr Mahapatra, pointing at Bhujanga Niwas. ‘There will be room for all, don’t worry.’

‘Why, it’s just fine outside, why not—?’ began Lalmohan Babu, but I don’t think anyone heard him, for everyone had already started walking towards Bhujanga Niwas.

‘Come in, Mr Sen, we’re all waiting for you,’ Feluda opened the door. Mahim Sen came in with his father. Three lanterns had been lit in the room, the police had clearly worked quite hard at cleaning and dusting. It looked a different room altogether.

Father and son took two chairs.

‘Here’s your
Kalpasutra,’
said Feluda, offering him the manuscript he had just recovered from Bilas Majumdar. Mr Sen looked visibly relieved as he took it, but asked with considerable anxiety, ‘What about the other one?’

‘I am coming to that. You’ll have to bear with me. I hope you didn’t take a sleeping pill today?’

‘No, no, of course not. That’s what led to this disaster. God knows what he put in my glass of water yesterday!’ Mr Sen glared at Laxman Bhattacharya.

‘What I fail to understand is why you went to this humbug in the first place. Didn’t you know there were other much better doctors in town?’

‘I did, Mr Mitter. But he came to me himself, and everyone else said he was very good. So I thought I should give him a chance. Besides, he said he knew of old manuscripts and scrolls . . . he could get me a few . . .’

‘That’s your biggest weakness, isn’t it? And he took full advantage of it. Anyway, I hope the Diapid has worked? That’s supposed to be the best among modern drugs to bring back lost memory.’

‘It’s worked like a charm!’ Mr Sen exclaimed. ‘My memory is coming back to me, exactly as if one door is being opened after
another. Thank God Dr Senapati came to me himself and gave me that medicine. You see, I had even forgotten that it was he who used to treat me before!’

‘Well then, tell me, Mr Sen, can you recognize this gentleman?’ Feluda flashed his torch on Bilas Majumdar. Mr Sen stared at him for a few seconds, then said slowly, ‘Yes, I could recognize him yesterday from the look in his eyes and his voice. But still, I wasn’t sure.’

‘Can you remember his name?’

‘Certainly. But he may have changed it here.’

‘Is his name Sarkar?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Mr Sarkar. I never learnt his first name.’

‘Liar!’ Mr Majumdar screamed. ‘Do you want to see my passport?’

‘No, we don’t,’ Feluda’s voice was ice-cold. ‘A criminal like you may well have a fake passport. That won’t mean anything at all. What’s in it, anyway? It describes you as Bilas Majumdar, right? And states that you have a distinguishing mark on your forehead, a mole? OK. Now watch this.’

Feluda strode over to Mr Majumdar and took out his handkerchief from his pocket. Then, without any warning whatsoever, he struck at his forehead with the handkerchief still in his hand. This made the false mole slip out and hit the dark floor.

‘You made a lot of enquiries about Bilas Majumdar, didn’t you?’ Feluda went on. ‘You knew he had gone to take photos of a snow leopard, and then he had had an accident. You even knew which hospital he had been taken to, the nature of his injuries and that he had been kept in the same hospital until last month. But a tiny news item escaped your notice. I had read it, but hadn’t paid much attention at the time. Yesterday, Dr Bhargav of Veer Hospital in Kathmandu confirmed what I vaguely remembered having read. Bilas Majumdar’s most serious injury was to the brain. He died three weeks ago.’

Even in the dim light from the lanterns, I could see the man had turned white as a sheet. ‘Listen, Mr Sarkar,’ Feluda said, ‘your profession is something that no passport will ever reveal. You are a smuggler. Perhaps you don’t always steal things yourself, but you certainly help in transferring smuggled goods. In Kathmandu, you had come upon the scroll stolen from the palace museum in Bhatgaon. Mr Sen will tell you the rest.’

The look in D.G. Sen’s eyes was cold and hard as steel. He said, ‘This man and I happened to be staying in the same hotel in Kathmandu. One day, I unlocked his door by mistake, and found two other men in his room. One of them was in the process of handing him an object wrapped in red silk. I realized immediately that it was a manuscript. But all I could do at that moment was apologize and come away. God knows what happened to me that night. When I woke up, I found myself in a hospital. Every memory prior to this incident was gone from my mind. But people were very kind. They found my address from the hotel, and eventually managed to inform my family. Nishith went and brought me back. I had to spend three and a half months in hospital.’

‘I think I can fill the gaps in your memory. If I get anything wrong, perhaps Mr Sarkar will correct me?’ Feluda said coolly. ‘You were obviously given something that made you unconscious. You were then taken by car outside the main city, into the mountains and dropped from a height of five hundred feet. Mr Sarkar was convinced you were dead. However, nine months later, when he came to Puri to transfer the stolen scroll, he saw your nameplate and began to get suspicious. It is my belief that the occupant of your ground floor, Mr Laxman Bhattacharya, supplied him with all the necessary information regarding your present condition. Am I right?’

Laxman Bhattacharya, who had not uttered a single word so far, burst into speech at this. ‘What are you saying, sir? I supplied all the information to him? Why, I saw him for the first time when you brought him to my place!’

‘Really?’ Feluda walked across to stand directly before Laxman Bhattacharya. ‘Well then, Mr Astrologer, tell me this: when we took him to your place, you asked him to sit on the divan immediately, and told us to take the chairs. How did you know he was Bilas Majumdar, and not me? Who told you that?’

Laxman Bhattacharya could not make a reply. He seemed to shrink into himself with just that one question from Feluda.

Feluda continued. ‘I think the idea of stealing manuscripts first occurred to Mr Sarkar when he heard about Mr Sen’s loss of memory, and when Laxman Bhattacharya offered to help him. He knew he could easily find a buyer for an old and valuable scroll, since Mr Hingorani was in the same hotel. But three major difficulties suddenly arose to complicate matters. Firstly, a totally undesirable
character followed Mr Sarkar all the way to Puri. It was Rupchand Singh. He really gave you a lot of trouble, didn’t he? I mean, it’s easy enough to bribe the driver of a car that takes an unconscious man to the top of a hill to kill him. But what happens if this driver is not happy with what he has paid? What if he’s greedy and starts blackmailing you to get more? What can anyone do under such circumstances, tell me, but kill the blackmailer?’

‘Lies, lies, lies!’ Mr Sarkar cried desperately.

‘Suppose, Mr Sarkar, I could prove that the bullet that killed Rupchand Singh had come from your own revolver? This same revolver you had tried to use on us a little while ago? What then?’

Mr Sarkar sank back instantly. I could see that his whole body was bathed in sweat. I was sweating, too, but that was simply in breathless excitement. Lalmohan Babu, sitting next to me, was looking as though he was watching a fencing match. It was true, of course, that Feluda’s words were as sharp as a sword; and the game wasn’t over yet.

‘Rupchand Singh was victim number one,’ Feluda continued. ‘Now let’s look at the second problem Mr Sarkar had to tackle. It was my own arrival in Puri. Mr Sarkar realized he could do nothing without somehow pulling the wool over my eyes. So he decided to pass himself off as Bilas Majumdar. I must say initially he succeeded very well in this task. Not only that, he even managed to shift his own blame on to an old man who had lost his memory. It was this initial success that made him a bit reckless. His plan was quite simple. If he could get hold of a manuscript, he’d sell it to Hingorani. There was no way he could get it from its rightful owner, for Mr Sen wasn’t even remotely interested in money, and the old manuscripts to him were perhaps more precious to him than his own life. So the stuff had to be stolen from the safe. How would he do that? Very simple. The job would be done by Laxman Bhattacharya, because he had been doing it for quite sometime. When he did it before, he had obviously pocketed the whole amount himself. In this particular case, he agreed to share with Mr Sarkar the money Hingorani offered, since it was a fairly large sum. But they had to consider one other person. It was Mr Sen’s secretary, Nishith Bose.’

Feluda paused. Then he walked over to Mr Bhattacharya once more and asked, ‘Didn’t you say something about going to a keertan?’

Laxman Bhattacharya tried to appear nonchalant. ‘So I did,’ he
said. ‘Why, you think I lied?’

‘No. You didn’t lie about the keertan. It is true that a group of singers get together every Monday for a session of keertan. But you have never gone there. I checked. However, there was one person who used to go there regularly. It was Nishith Bose. He used to be absent from his duties every Monday from five to six-thirty in the evening. A servant used to be around at that time to take care of visitors. He was bribed last Monday, after Mr Bose left the house. You, Mr Bhattacharya, tampered with Mr Sen’s glass of water, got him to take a heavy dose of your sleeping pills, and then entered his room at five-thirty. Then you took the key from under his pillow, opened the safe and removed one of the most precious manuscripts, in order to hand it over to Mr Sarkar. You had arranged to meet him on the veranda of this house. You arrived here first, and spent some time waiting for your accomplice. Your footprints, your used matchsticks and the paan juice you spat out on the floor, all gave you away. But something totally unexpected happened while you were waiting, didn’t it, Mr Bhattacharya?’

Laxman Bhattacharya made no attempt to speak. He was trembling violently, as—with the only exception of Mr Sarkar—everyone in the room was staring at him. I felt my body go rigid with tension.

Feluda started speaking again.

‘An American was supposed to visit Mr Sen at half-past six that evening. So Nishith Bose returned at six, which was much earlier than usual. Perhaps he started to get suspicious when he found his employer still asleep. He must then have opened the safe and discovered the theft. You were not at home. This must have made him even more suspicious. So he came out of the house, saw your footprints on the sand, and followed you to Bhujanga Niwas. When you realized you had been caught red-handed, what could you do but finish Mr Bose instantly? You had a blunt instrument in your hand, didn’t you? So you used it to kill Mr Bose, then removed his body and returned to Sagarika to fetch his suitcase and bedding. Just as all seemed to be well, you saw that there were blood stains on your weapon. So you left once more to throw it into the sea, but who did you run into on your way to the beach? It was me. You struck my head with the same weapon, and then dropped it in the water. Tell me, is any of this incorrect?’

Feluda stopped, although he must have known Laxman
Bhattacharya was totally incapable of making a reply. But the brief pause helped in emphasizing his next question. It shot through the air like a bullet.

‘In spite of all this, Mr Bhattacharya, could you get what you wanted?’

Silence. Feluda answered his own question. ‘No. Hingorani didn’t get that scroll, nor did Mr Sarkar. That was why you found it necessary to steal the second most valuable manuscript tonight. By this time, you had told everyone the story about Mr Bose’s mother’s illness which accounted for his absence. But can you tell these people now why you failed to get the first manuscript? No? Very well, I’ll tell them, for I don’t think you could explain the details of such an extraordinary occurrence. Even I was fooled at first. I’ve solved a number of difficult cases, but this one was truly amazing. I knew the instrument used was a blunt one, but how was I to know it was the scroll itself? Yes, the stolen scroll, written by Pragya Paramita in the twelfth century. How was I to know that that was the only thing Laxman Bhattacharya had in his hand to strike a person with? I couldn’t figure it out, despite being hit by the same wooden bars. The scroll was bloodstained. Some of that blood got smeared on my own head. Naturally, you could not pass it on to either Sarkar or Hingorani.’

‘Oh no, oh no, oh no!’ cried D.G. Sen, covering his face with his hands. ‘My manuscript! My most precious, my very—’

‘Listen, Mr Sen,’ Feluda turned to him. ‘Did you know that the sea doesn’t always accept what’s offered to it? In fact, sometimes, it returns an offering almost immediately?’

Feluda slipped a hand into his shoulder bag and, almost like a magician, brought out a manuscript covered in red silk.

‘Here is your
Ashtadashasahasrika Pragya Paramita.
The silk wrapper is quite unharmed. The wooden bars have been damaged, but the actual writing is more or less unspoilt. Not much water could seep in through layers of wood and cloth.’

‘But. . . but . . . where did you get it, Felu Babu?’ Lalmohan Babu gasped.

‘You saw that piece of red silk this morning,’ Feluda replied. ‘That little Nulia boy called Ramai was wearing it round his head. It made me think. That’s why I went to the Nulia colony and retrieved it. Ramai had found the scroll stuck in the wet sand near the edge of the water. He took the silk wrapper, but the manuscript was kept safe in
his house. I had to pay ten rupees to get it. Mr Mahapatra, will you please get Sarkar’s wallet and give me ten rupees from it?’

I had no idea the sea looked so much more enormous from the terrace of Mr Sen’s house. I stood near the railing, marvelling at the sight.

Last night, after the police had left with the two culprits, Mr Sen had invited us for morning coffee. Mahim Sen had spent the night with his father, since Nishith Bose was dead and the servant had run away. On hearing this, Feluda offered immediately to speak to Shyamlal Barik of our hotel and arrange for a new servant. The cook brought us coffee on the terrace.

By this time, Mr Sen had handed a cheque to Feluda. The amount on it was so handsome that it made up for all the weeks Feluda had spent at home before coming to Puri. Initially, Feluda had refused to accept it, but when Mr Sen began to insist, he had to take it. Lalmohan Babu said to him later, ‘If you didn’t take that cheque, Felu babu, I would have hit you with a blunt instrument. Why do you turn all modest and humble when you’re offered payment? I find it most annoying!’