The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (34 page)

Feluda picked up the book and turned a few pages.

‘No, there’s no mention of the owner’s name,’ he said, ‘but he clearly had the habit of marking a page by folding its corner. There are 236 pages in this book. The last sign of folding is at page 212. I assume he finished reading it.’

Feluda now turned his attention to the handkerchief.

‘The first letter of his name or surname must be “G”. No, it must be his first name, that’s far more natural.’

Then he opened the map of Calcutta and spread it on the table. ‘Red marks,’ he said, looking closely at it, ‘someone marked it with a red pencil . . . hmm . . . one, two, three, four, five . . . hm . . . Chowringhee . . . Park Street . . . I see. Topshe, get the telephone directory.’

Feluda put the map back into the case. Then he began turning the pages of the telephone directory. ‘P . . . here we are,’ he said. ‘There are only sixteen Pakrashis listed here. Two of them are doctors , so we can easily leave them out.’

‘Why?’

‘The man who recognized him in the train called him Mr Pakrashi, not Doctor, remember?’

‘Oh yes, that’s right.’

Feluda picked up the telephone and began dialling. Each time he got through, I heard him say, ‘Has Mr Pakrashi returned from Delhi? . . . Oh, sorry!’

This happened five times in a row. But the sixth number he dialled apparently got him the right man for, this time, he spoke for much longer. Then he said ‘Thanks’ and put the phone down.

‘I think I’ve got him,’ he said to me. ‘N.C. Pakrashi. He answered the phone himself. He returned from Delhi by Kalka Mail the day before yesterday. Everything tallies, except that his luggage didn’t get exchanged.’

‘Then why did you make an appointment with him this evening?’

‘Why, he can give us some information about the other passengers, can’t he? He appears to be an ill-tempered fellow, but it would take more than ill-temper to put Felu Mitter off. Come, Topshe, let’s go out.’

‘Now? I thought we were meeting Mr Pakrashi in the evening?’

‘Yes, but before calling on Pakrashi I think we need to visit your Uncle Sidhu. Now.’

Uncle Sidhu was no relation. He used to be Baba’s next door neighbour when he lived in our old ancestral home, long before I was born. Baba treated him like a brother, and we all called him Uncle. Uncle Sidhu’s knowledge about most things was extraordinary and his memory remarkably powerful. Feluda and I both admired and
respected him enormously.

But why did Feluda want to see him at this time? The first question Feluda asked made that clear. ‘Have you heard of a travel writer called Shambhucharan Bose? He used to write in English, about sixty years ago.’

Uncle Sidhu’s eyes widened.

‘Good heavens, Felu, haven’t you read his book on the Terai?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Feluda, ‘now I do remember. The man’s name sounded familiar, but no, I haven’t read the book.’

‘It was called
The Terrors of Terai.
A British publisher in London published it in 1915. Shambhucharan was both a traveller and a shikari. But by profession he was a doctor. He used to practise in Kathmandu. This was long before the present royal family came into power. The powerful people in Nepal then were the Ranas. Shambhucharan treated and cured a lot of ailments among the Ranas. He mentioned one of them in his book. Vijayendra Shamsher Jung Bahadur. The man was keen on hunting, but he drank very heavily. Apparently, he used to climb a machan with a bottle in one hand and a rifle in the other. But both his hands stayed steady when it came to pressing the trigger. Except once. Only once did he miss, and the tiger jumped up on the machan. It was Shambhucharan who shot the tiger from the next machan and saved the Rana’s life. The Rana expressed his gratitude by giving him a priceless jewel. A most thrilling story. Try and get a copy from the National Library. I don’t think you’ll get it easily anywhere else.’

‘Did he ever go to Tibet?’

‘Yes, certainly. He died in 1921, soon after I finished college. I saw an obituary on him, I remember. It said he had gone to Tibet after his retirement, although he died in Kathmandu.’

‘I see.’

Feluda remained silent for a few moments. Then he said, in a clear, distinct tone, ‘Supposing an unpublished manuscript was discovered today, written after his visit to Tibet, would that be a valuable document?’

‘My goodness!’ Uncle Sidhu’s bald dome glistened with excitement. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Felu! Valuable? I still remember the very high praise
Terai
had received from the
London Times.
It wasn’t just the stories he told, Shambhucharan’s language was easy, lucid and clear as crystal. Why, have you found such a manuscript?’

‘No, but there might be one in existence.’

‘If you can lay your hands on it, please don’t forget to show it to me, Felu. And in case it gets auctioned, let me know. I’d be prepared to bid up to five thousand rupees . . .’

We left soon after this, but not before two cups of cocoa had been pressed upon us.

‘Mr Lahiri doesn’t even know his attache case contains such hot stuff,’ I said as we came out. ‘Aren’t you going to tell him?’

‘Wait. There’s no need to rush things. Let’s see where all this leads to. In any case, I have taken the job, haven’t I? It’s just that now I feel a lot more enthusiastic.’

Naresh Chandra Pakrashi lived in Lansdowne Road. It was obvious that his house had been built at least forty years ago. Feluda had taught me how to assess the age of a house. For instance, houses built fifty years ago had a certain type of window, which was different from those built ten years later. The railings on verandas and terraces, patterns on gates, pillars at porticos—all bore evidence of the period a building was made. This particular house must have been built in the 1920s.

The first thing I noticed as we climbed out of our taxi was a notice outside the main gate: ‘Beware of the Dog’.

‘It would have made better sense,’ remarked Feluda, ‘if it had said, “Beware of the Owner of the Dog”.’

We passed through the gate and found a chowkidar standing near the porch. Feluda gave him his visiting card, which bore the legend: ‘Pradosh C. Mitter, Private Investigator’. The chowkidar disappeared with the card and reappeared a few minutes later.

‘Please go in,’ he said.

We had to cross a wide marble landing before we got to the door of the living-room. It must have been about ten feet high. We lifted the curtain and walked in, to be greeted by rows and rows of books, all stashed in huge almirahs. There was quite a lot of other furniture, a wall-to-wall carpet, pictures on the walls, and even a chandelier. But the whole place had an unkempt air. Apparently, no one cared to clean it regularly.

We found Mr Pakrashi in his study, hidden behind the living-room. The sound of typing had already reached our ears. Now we saw a man sitting behind an ancient typewriter, which rested on a
massive table, covered with green rexine. The table was placed on the right. On our left, as we stepped in, we saw three couches and a small round table. On this one stood a chess board with all the chessmen in place, and a book on the game. The last thing my eyes fell on was a large dog, curled up and asleep in one corner of the room.

The man fitted Dinanath Babu’s description. A pipe hung from his mouth. He stopped typing upon our entry, and his eyes swept over us both. ‘Which one of you is Mr Mitter?’ he finally asked.

Perhaps it was his idea of a joke, but Feluda did not laugh. He answered civilly enough, ‘I am Pradosh Mitter. This is my cousin.’

‘How was I to know?’ said Mr Pakrashi. ‘Little boys have gone into so many different things . . . music, acting, painting; why, some have even become religious gurus! So your cousin here might well have been the great sleuth himself. But anyway, tell me why you’re here. What do you want from a man who’s never done anything other than mind his own business?’

Feluda was right. If ever a competition was held in irascibility, this man would have been a world champion.

‘Who did you say sent you here?’ he wanted to know.

‘Mr Lahiri mentioned your name. He arrived from Delhi three days ago. You and he travelled in the same compartment.’

‘I see. And is he the one whose attaché case got lost?’

‘Not lost. Merely mistaken for someone else’s.’

‘Careless fool. But why did he have to employ you to retrieve it? What precious object did it contain?’

‘There was nothing much, really, except an old manuscript. There is no other copy.’

I could tell why Feluda mentioned the manuscript. If he told Mr Pakrashi the real reason why he had been employed, no doubt Mr Pakrashi would have laughed in derision.

‘Manuscript?’ he asked somewhat suspiciously.

‘Yes. A travelogue written by Shambhucharan Bose. Mr Lahiri had read it on the train, then put it back in the case.’

‘Well, the man is not just a fool, he seems to be a liar, too. You see, although I had an upper berth, I spent most of the day sitting right next to him. He never read anything other than a newspaper and a Bengali magazine.’

Feluda did not say anything. Mr Pakrashi paused for breath, then continued, ‘I don’t know what you’d make of it as a sleuth. I find the
whole thing distinctly suspicious. Anyway, if you wish to go on a wild-goose chase, suit yourself. I cannot offer any help. I told you on the phone I have about three of those Air-India bags, but on this trip I didn’t take any with me.’

‘One of the other passengers knew you, didn’t he?’

‘Who, Brijmohan? Yes. He is a moneylender. I’ve had a few dealings with him.’

‘Could he have had a blue case?’

‘How on earth should I know?’ Mr Pakrashi frowned darkly. ‘Could you give me Brijmohan’s telephone number?’

‘Look it up in the directory. S. M. Kedia & Co. SM was Brijmohan’s father. Their office is in Lenin Sarani. And one more thing—you’re wrong in thinking I knew only one of the other passengers. As a matter of fact, I knew two of them.’

‘Who’s the second one?’ Feluda sounded surprised.

‘Dinanath Lahiri. I had seen him before at the races. He used to be quite a lad. Now I believe he’s changed his lifestyle and even found himself a guru in Delhi. Heaven knows if any of this is true.’

‘What about the fourth man in your coach?’ asked Feluda. He was obviously trying to gain as much information as he could.

‘What’s going on?’ shouted Mr Pakrashi, pulling a face, in spite of the pipe still hanging from his mouth. ‘Are you here simply to ask questions? Am I an accused standing trial or what?’

‘No, sir,’ said Feluda calmly. ‘I am asking these questions only because you play chess all by yourself, you clearly have a sharp brain, a good memory, and . . .’

Mr Pakrashi thawed a little. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Chess has become an addiction. The partner I used to play with is no more. So now I play alone.’

‘Every day?’

‘Yes. Another reason for that is my insomnia. I play until about three in the morning.’

‘Do you never take a pill to help you sleep?’

‘I do sometimes. But it doesn’t always help. Not that it matters. I go to bed at three, and rise at eight. Five hours is good enough at my age.’

‘Is typing also . . . one of your addictions?’ Feluda asked with his lopsided smile.

‘No, but there are times when I do like to do my own typing. I have a secretary, who’s pretty useless. Anyway, you were talking
about the fourth passenger, weren’t you? He had sharp features, was quite bald, a non-Bengali, spoke very good English and offered me an apple. I didn’t eat it. What else would you like to know? I am fifty-three and my dog is three-and-a-half. He’s a boxer and doesn’t like visitors to stay for more than half an hour. So . . .’

‘An interesting man,’ Feluda remarked. We were out in the street, but not walking in the direction of home. Why Feluda chose to go in the opposite direction, I could not tell; nor did he make any attempt at hailing either of the two empty taxis that sailed by.

One little thing was bothering me. I had to mention it to Feluda. ‘Didn’t Dinanath Babu say he thought Pakrashi was about sixty? But Mr Pakrashi himself said he was fifty-three and, quite frankly, he didn’t seem older than that. Isn’t that funny?’

‘All it proves is that Dinanath Babu’s power of observation is not what it should be,’ said Feluda.

A couple of minutes later, we reached Lower Circular Road. Feluda turned left. ‘Are you going to look at that case of robbery?’ I asked. Only three days ago, the papers had reported a case of a daylight robbery. Apparently, three masked men had walked into a jeweller’s shop on Lower Circular Road and got away with a lot of valuable jewellery and precious stones, firing recklessly in the air as they made their escape in a black Ambassador car. ‘It might be fun tracing those daredevils,’ Feluda had said. But sadly, no one had come forward to ask him to investigate. So I thought perhaps he was going to ask a few questions on his own. But Feluda paid no attention to me. It seemed as though his sole purpose in life, certainly at that moment, was to get some exercise and so he would do nothing but continue to walk.

A little later, he turned left again rather abruptly, and walked briskly into the Hindustan International Hotel. I followed him quickly.

‘Did anyone from Simla check in at your hotel on 6 March?’ Feluda asked the receptionist, ‘His first name starts with a “G” . . . I’m afraid I can’t recall his full name.’

Neither Brijmohan nor Naresh Pakrashi had names that started with a ‘G’. So this had to the applewalla.

The receptionist looked at his book.

‘There are two foreigners listed here on 6 March,’ he said, ‘Gerald
Pratley and G. R. Holmes. Both came from abroad.’

‘Thank you,’ said Feluda and left.

We took a taxi as we came out. ‘Park Hotel,’ Feluda said to the driver and lit a Charminar.

‘If you had looked carefully at those red marks on the map,’ he said to me, ‘you’d have seen they were markers for hotels. It’s natural that the man would want to stay at a good hotel. At present, there are five well-known hotels in Calcutta—Grand, Hindustan International, Park, Great Eastern and Ritz Continental. And those red marks had been placed on, these. The Park Hotel would be our next port of call.’

As it turned out, no one with a name starting with ‘G’ had checked in at the Park on 6 March. But the Grand offered some good news. Feluda happened to know one of its Bengali receptionists called Dasgupta. He showed us their visitors’ book. Only one Indian had checked in on the 6th. He did arrive from Simla and his name was G. C. Dhameeja.

‘Is he still here?’

‘No, sir. He checked out yesterday.’

The little flicker of hope in my mind was snuffed out immediately.

Feluda, too, was frowning. But he didn’t stop asking questions.

‘Which room was he in?’

‘Room 216.’

‘Is it empty now?’

‘Yes. We’re expecting a guest this evening, but right now it’s vacant.’

‘Can I speak to the room boy?’

‘Certainly. I’ll get someone to show you the way.’

We took the lift up to the second floor. A walk down a long corridor finally brought us to room 216. The room boy appeared at this point. We went into the room with him. Feluda began pacing.

‘Can you remember the man who left yesterday? He was staying in this room.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now try to remember carefully. What luggage did he have?’

‘A large suitcase, and a smaller one.’

‘Was it blue?’

‘Yes. When I came back to the room after filling his flask, I found him taking things out of the blue case. He seemed to be looking for something.’

‘Very good. Can you remember if this man had a few apples— perhaps in a paper bag?’

‘Yes. There were three apples. He took them out and kept them on a plate.’

‘What did this man look like?’

But the description the room boy gave did not help. At least a hundred thousand men in Calcutta would have fitted that description.

However, there was reason to feel pleased. We now had the name and address of the man whose attaché case had got exchanged with Mr Lahiri’s. Mr Dasgupta gave us a piece of paper as we went out. I glanced over Feluda’s shoulder and saw what was written on it:

G. C. Dhameeja
‘The Nook’
Wild Flower Hall
Simla.