A Killer in Kailash: Adventures of Feluda (3 page)

‘What's your name?’

‘Panu.’

‘Did you see the head of a statue? Did you take it?’

Silence. ‘Look, Panu,’ Feluda said even more gently, ‘it's all right. No one's going to get angry with you. But if you can give me that head, I’ll pay you for it. Have you got it with you?’

More silence. This time, one of the old men shouted at him, ‘Go on, Panu, answer the gentleman. He hasn’t got all day.’

Panu finally opened his mouth. ‘I haven't got it with me now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I found it, babu. I swear I did. But I gave it to someone else, only a few minutes ago.’

What! Could this really be true? My heart started hammering in my chest.

‘Who was it?’ Feluda asked sharply.

‘I don't know. He was a man from the city, like you. He came in a car, a blue car.’

‘What did he look like? Was he tall? Short? Thin? Fat? Did he wear glasses?’

This prompted many of Panu’s friends to join the conversation. From the description they gave, it seemed that a man of medium height, who was neither thin nor fat, neither fair nor dark, and whose age was between thirty and fifty, had arrived half an hour before us and had made similar enquiries. Panu had shown him the yakshi's head, and he had bought it from him for a nominal sum. Then he had driven off in a blue car.

When we were driving to Sidikpur, a blue Ambassador had come from the opposite direction, passed us, and gone towards the main road. All of us remembered having seen it.

‘OK. Come on, Topshe. Let's go, Mr Ghosh.’

If Feluda was disappointed by what we had just learnt, he did not show it. On the contrary, he seemed to have found new energy. He ran all the way back to the taxi, with the driver and me in tow.

God knew what lay in store.

C
HAPTER
3

W
e were now going back the same way we had come. It was past one-thirty, but neither of us was thinking of lunch. Balaram Ghosh did suggest stopping for a cup of tea when we reached Jessore Road, but Feluda paid no attention. Perhaps our driver smelt an adventure in all this, so he too did not raise the subject of food again.

Our car was now going at 75 kmph. I was aware of only one thought that kept going over and over in my mind: how close we had got to retrieving the yakshi's head! If we hadn’t had a power cut this morning, we would have heard the news on the radio, and then we would have reached Sidikpur much sooner and most certainly we would have got hold of Panu. If that had happened, by now we would have been making our way to the office of the Archaeological Survey of India. Who knows, Feluda might have been given a Padma Shree for recovering the country’s lost heritage!

The sun had already dried the road. I was beginning to wonder why we couldn't go a little faster, when my eyes caught sight of something by the roadside that caused a sharp rise in my pulse rate.

A blue Ambassador was standing outside a small garage.

‘Should I stop here, sir?’ Balaram Ghosh asked, reducing his speed. He had obviously paid great attention to what those boys had told us.

‘Yes, at that tea stall over there,’ Feluda replied. Mr Ghosh swept up to the stall and pulled up by its side with a screech. We got out and Feluda ordered three cups of tea. I noticed that tea was being served in small glasses, there were no cups.

‘What else have you got?’ Feluda asked.

‘Biscuits. Would you like some? They’re fresh, sir, and very tasty.’

Two glass jars stood on a counter, filled with large, round biscuits. Feluda asked for half-a-dozen of those.

My eyes kept darting back to the blue car. A mechanic was in the process of replacing a punctured tyre. A man—medium height, age around forty, thick bushy eyebrows, hair brushed back—was pacing up and down, inhaling every now and then from a half-finished cigarette.

Our tea was almost ready. Feluda took out a Charminar, then pretended he had lost his lighter. He patted his pocket twice, then shrugged and moved over to join the other man. The driver and I stayed near our taxi, but we could hear what was said.

‘Excuse me,’ Feluda began, ‘do you … ?’

The man took out a lighter and lit Feluda's cigarette for him.

‘Thanks,’ Feluda inhaled. ‘A terrible business, wasn’t it?’

The man glanced at Feluda, then looked away without replying. Feluda tried once more.

‘Weren't you at the site where that plane crashed? I thought I saw your car there!’

This time, the man spoke. ‘What plane crash?’

‘Good heavens, haven't you heard? A plane bound for Kathmandu crashed near Sidikpur.’

‘I am coming from Taki. No, I hadn’t heard of the crash.’

Taki was a town near Hasnabad. Could the man be telling the truth? If only we had noted the number of his car when he passed us!

‘How much longer will it take?’ he asked the mechanic impatiently.

‘A couple of minutes, sir, no more.’

Our tea had been served by this time. Feluda came back to pick up a glass. The three of us sat down on a bench in front of the stall. ‘He denied everything … the man's a liar,’ Feluda muttered.

‘How can you be so sure, Feluda? There are millions of blue Ambassadors.’

‘His shoes are covered with ash. Have you looked at your own sandals?’

I glanced down quickly and realized the colour of my sandals had changed completely. The other man's brown shoes were similarly covered with dark patches.

Feluda took his time to finish his tea. We waited until the blue car got a new tyre—this took another fifteen minutes instead of two—and went along Jessore Road. Our own taxi left a minute later. There was quite a big gap between the two cars which, Feluda said, was no bad thing. ‘He mustn't see that we’re following him,’ he told Mr Ghosh.

It began raining again as we reached Dum Dum. Everything went hazy for a few minutes and it became difficult to keep the blue car in view. Balaram Ghosh was therefore obliged to get a bit closer, which helped us in getting the number of the car. It was WMA 5349.

‘This is like a Hindi film, sir!’ Mr Ghosh enthused. ‘I saw a film only the other day—it had Shatrughan Sinha in it—which had a chase scene, exactly like this. But the second car went and crashed into a hill.’

‘We’ve already had a crash today, thank you.’

‘Oh, don't worry, sir. I've been driving for thirteen years. I haven't had a single accident. I mean, not yet.’

‘Good. Keep it that way.’

Balaram Ghosh was a good driver, I had to admit. We were now back in Calcutta, but he was weaving his way through the busy roads without once losing sight of the blue car. I wondered where it was going.

‘What do you think the man's going to do with the statue?’ I asked Feluda after a while.

‘Well, he's certainly not going to take it back to Bhubaneshwar,’ Feluda replied. ‘What he might do is find another buyer. After all, it isn't often that one gets the chance to sell the same thing twice!’

The blue car finally brought us to Park Street. We drove past the old cemetery, Lowdon Street, Camac Street, and then suddenly, it turned left and drove into a building called Queen’s Mansion.

‘Should I go in, sir?’

‘Of course.’

Our taxi passed through the front gates. A huge open square faced us, surrounded by tall blocks of flats. A number of cars and a couple of scooters were parked before these. The blue car went to the far end and stopped. We waited in our taxi to see what happened next.

The man got out with a black bag, wound up the windows of his car, locked it and slipped into Queen’s Mansion through a large door. Feluda waited for another minute, then followed him.

By the time we reached the door, the old-fashioned lift in the lobby had already gone up, making a great deal of noise. It came back a few seconds later. An old liftman emerged from behind its collapsible gate. Feluda went up to him.

‘Did I just miss Mr Sengupta?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Mr Sengupta?’

‘The man who just went up?’

‘That man was Mr Mallik of number five. There's no Sengupta in this building.’

‘Oh. I must have made a mistake. Sorry.’

We came away. Mr Mallik, flat number five. I must remember these details.

Feluda paid Balaram Ghosh and said he was no longer needed. Before driving off, he gave us a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. ‘That's my neighbour’s number,’ he said. ‘If you ever need me, ring that number. My neighbour will call me. I'd love to be able to help, sir. You see, life’s usually so boring that something like this comes as a tremendous … I mean, it makes a change, doesn't it?’

We made our way to the Park Street police station. Feluda knew its OC, Mr Haren Mutsuddi. Two years ago, they had worked together to trace the culprit who had poisoned a race horse called Happy-Go-Lucky. It turned out that Mr Mutsuddi was aware of the theft in Bhubaneshwar. Feluda told him briefly about our encounter with Mr Mallik and said, ‘Even if Mallik is not the real thief, he has clearly taken it upon himself to recover the stolen object and pass it on to someone else. I have come to make two requests, Mr Mutsuddi. Someone must keep an eye on his movements, and I need to know who he really is and where he works. He lives in flat number five, Queen’s Mansion, drives a blue Ambassador, WMA 5349.’

Mr Mutsuddi heard Feluda in silence. Then he removed a pencil that was tucked behind his ear and said, ‘Very well, Mr Mitter. If you want these things done, they will be done. A special constable will follow your man everywhere, and I’ll see if we have anything in our files on him. There's no guarantee, mind you, that I’ll get anything, particularly if he hasn’t actually broken the law.’

‘Thank you. But please treat this matter as urgent. If that statue gets passed on to someone else, we'll be in big trouble.’

‘Why?’ Mr Mutsuddi smiled, ‘Why should you be in big trouble, Mr Mitter? You'll have me and the entire police force to help you. Doesn't that count for anything? We’re not totally useless, you know. But there's just one thing I'd like to tell you. The people behind such rackets are usually quite powerful. I'm not talking of physical strength. I mean they often manage to do things far worse and much more vile than ordinary petty criminals. I am telling you all this, Mr Mitter, because you are young and talented, and I look upon you as a friend.’

‘Thank you, Mr Mutsuddi. I appreciate your concern.’

We left the police station and went to the Chinese restaurant, Waldorf, to have lunch. Feluda went to the manager’s room to make a call after we had placed our order.

‘I rang Mallik,’ he said when he came back. ‘He was still in his room and he answered the phone himself. I rang off without saying anything.’ He sounded a little relieved.

We returned home at 3 p.m. Mr Mutsuddi called us a little after four. Feluda spoke for nearly five minutes, noting things down in his notebook. Then he put the phone down and told me everything even before I could ask.

‘The man's called Jayant Mallik. He moved into that flat about two weeks ago. It actually belongs to a Mr Adhikari, who is away in Darjeeling at the moment. Perhaps he's a friend, and he's allowed Mallik to use his flat in his absence. That blue Ambassador is Adhikari’s. Mallik took it to the Grand Hotel at three o’clock today. He went in for five minutes, then came out and was seen waiting in his car for twenty minutes. After that, he went in once more and emerged in ten minutes. Then he went to Dalhousie Square. Mutsuddi’s man lost him for a while after this, but then found him in the railway booking office in Fairlie Place. He bought a ticket to Aurangabad, second class reserved. Mutsuddi’s man will ring him again if there's more news.’

‘Aurangabad?’

‘Yes, that's where Mallik is going. And we are going immediately to Sardar Shankar Road, to visit Uncle Sidhu. I need to consult him urgently.’

C
HAPTER
4

‘A
urangabad!’ Uncle Sidhu’s eyes nearly popped out. ‘Do you realize what this means? Aurangabad is only twenty miles from Ellora, which is a sort of depot for the best specimens of Indian art. There is the Kailash temple, carved out of a mountain. Then there are thirty-three caves—Hindu, Buddhist, Jain—that stretch for a mile and a half. Each is packed with beautiful statues, wonderful carvings … oh God, I can hardly think! But why is this man going by train when he can fly to Aurangabad?’