The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (69 page)

‘If I asked you a few questions, would you mind?’ Feluda asked Lalmohan babu. We had returned to our hotel from Shivaji Castle about ten minutes ago. The receptionist had informed us that while we were out, someone had rung Lalmohan babu, but didn’t leave his name or a message.

‘It must be Pulak, trying to get hold of me every now and then,’ said Lalmohan babu. ‘It cannot be anyone else.’

Now he turned to Feluda and said, ‘If I could handle a police interrogation and come through with flying colours, why should I mind questions from you?’

‘Very well. You don’t know Sanyal’s first name, do you?’

‘No. I didn’t get round to asking him.’

‘Can you describe him? I want a full and clear description—not the slipshod type of description you use in your books!’

Lalmohan babu cleared his throat and frowned.

‘His height would be . . . let’s see . . .’

‘Do you always take in a person’s height before anything else?’

‘Yes, if he is exceptionally shorter or taller than average . . .’

‘Was Sanyal very short?’

‘No.’

‘Remarkably tall?’

‘No.’

‘Then let’s not talk about his height right now. Tell me about his face.’

‘I saw him late in the evening. And the light bulb in my living room isn’t particularly strong, it’s only forty watts.’

‘Never mind. Tell me what you can remember.’

‘A broad face. His eyes . . . ah . . . he was wearing glasses. Had a beard—pretty thick—and a moustache, attached to his beard . . .’

‘You mean a French beard?’

‘N-no, it was different, I think. It was joined to his sideburns as well.’

‘All right, go on.’

‘His hair . . . salt-and-pepper. Yes, that’s what it was, and he had a right. . . no, no, a left parting.’

‘Teeth?’

‘Perfect. Didn’t appear to be false teeth.’

‘Voice?’

‘Neither too deep, nor too thin. Sort of medium.’

‘Height?’

‘Told you. Medium.’

‘Didn’t he give you a phone number? Didn’t he say it was his friend’s number in Bombay, and this friend was a very helpful man?’

‘Oh yes! I say, I’d forgotten all about it. I could have told the police, but even when that inspector was asking me all those questions, I clean forgot.’

‘No matter, you can tell
me.
’

‘Wait, let me see . . .!’ Lalmohan babu opened his wallet and took out a blue, folded piece of paper. Feluda examined it carefully, as the writing was Sanyal’s own. Then he put the paper away in his own wallet, and said to me, ‘Topshe, could you please ask for that number—tell the operator it’s 253418.’

I picked up the phone and spoke to the operator. Then I passed the phone to Feluda.

‘Hello,’ Feluda said, ‘Could I speak to Mr Desai, please?’

How perfectly weird! It turned out that no one called Desai had ever used that number. The man who answered it was called Parekh, and he had been using that same number for ten years, he said.

‘Lalmohan babu,’ said Feluda replacing the receiver, ‘forget about selling your next story to Sanyal. The man sounds decidedly fishy, and I think that packet he gave you is no less suspicious.’

Lalmohan babu scratched his head and sighed. ‘To tell you the truth, Felu babu,’ he muttered, ‘for some funny reason, I didn’t like the man, either!’

Feluda’s voice took on a sharp edge. ‘For some funny reason? I hate that expression. You should know the exact reason; don’t dismiss it as “funny”. Come on, try to explain.
Why
didn’t you like Sanyal?’

Lalmohan babu didn’t mind Feluda speaking to him sharply; he was quite used to it. In fact, he was the first to admit that his writing had improved chiefly because Feluda did not hesitate to point out his mistakes.

Now he sat up straight. ‘First,’ he said, ‘the fellow did not look straight at me when he spoke. Second, he spoke in a low voice—as if he had come to discuss some secret plan. Where was the need to speak so softly? Third . . .’

Here his voice trailed away. Over the next few minutes, Lalmohan babu tried very hard to remember the third reason, but failed.

The evening show at the Lotus was going to start at six-thirty. So we left the hotel at six o’clock. Only Lalmohan babu and I got into the car, as Feluda said he had some work to do. His blue notebook had emerged from his bag; I didn’t have to be told what ‘work’ was going to keep him busy.

The Lotus cinema was in Worli, so we had to go back there. Lalmohan babu was looking decidedly nervous. The film we were about to see would prove what kind of a director Mr Ghoshal was. ‘Well,’ he said to me, ‘if three of his films have been successful—one after the other—then he can’t be all that bad, can he? What do you think, Tapesh?’

What could I say? That was exactly what I was telling myself to find reassurance.

Mr Ghoshal had not forgotten to inform the manager. Three tickets had been reserved for us in the Royal Circle. However, as it was a repeat show, plenty of seats were empty in the main auditorium.

We realized, even before the intermission, that
Teerandaj
was the kind of film that would be liable to give one a severe headache. Lalmohan babu and I exchanged glances in the dark. I wanted to laugh, but at the same time, felt concerned each time I thought about the future of
Jet Bahadur.
What was Lalmohan babu going to do?

When the lights came on during the intermission, Lalmohan babu sighed. ‘Pulak,’ he said with a lot of feeling, ‘you and I come from the same city, same area. Is
this
all you’ve learnt to do in so many years?’ Then, after a pause, he turned to me and added, ‘Pulak used to put on a play every year during Durga Puja. As far as I can recall, he failed his B. Com. Well, what else can you expect from such a character?’

We left the auditorium as soon as the lights dimmed again. I was afraid we might find either Pulak Ghoshal himself, or one of his men, outside in the lobby. But there was no one.

‘If he asks me, I am going to say it was first-class,’ Lalmohan babu decided. ‘Frankly, Tapesh, I would have felt quite heartbroken, had I not received all those fresh, crisp notes from Gore!’

Our car was parked opposite the cinema. Lalmohan babu did not immediately make for the car. He walked over to a small grocery store instead, and bought a packet of savouries, two packets of biscuits, six oranges and a packet of lemon drops. ‘Sometimes I get quite hungry in my hotel room. These will come in handy,’ he confided.

We returned to the car, our hands laden with various packets. As soon as I opened the door, each of us received an enormous shock. The car was reeking with the scent of Gulbahar. It was certainly not there when we arrived here. It had appeared in the last one-and-a-half hours.

‘My head is reeling, Tapesh. This is positively spooky, isn’t it? I’m sure Sanyal has been murdered. And we’re being haunted by his perfumed ghost!’ Lalmohan babu exclaimed.

I asked the driver if he knew anything. He said he was in the car most of the time, but he did leave it—only for about five minutes—to watch a Hindi programme (
Phool Khile hain Gulshan Gulshan
)
on TV at a shop nearby. Yes, he could smell the perfume too, but had no idea how it had got there. It was like magic, he thought.

We told Feluda about it as soon as we got back to the hotel. ‘When the plot thickens, this kind of thing is bound to happen, Lalmohan babu! Or one can’t call it a real mystery; and if it isn’t a real mystery, then Felu Mitter cannot exercise his brain, can he?’ said Feluda.

‘But. . .’

‘I know what you’re going to ask me. No, I haven’t worked out the whole plot. All I’m doing right now is trying to understand its nature.’

‘It seems that you went out?’ I put in, sounding most sleuth-like. ‘Well done, Topshe. But I didn’t have to leave the hotel to get it. The receptionist gave it to me.’

The object in question was an Indian Airlines time-table, which was lying by Feluda’s side. ‘I wanted to find out how many flights go to Calcutta from Kathmandu, and what time they arrive,’ Feluda explained.

The mention of Kathmandu reminded me of something I wanted to ask Feluda.

‘Inspector Patwardhan mentioned a Nanasaheb. Which Nanasaheb did he mean?’

‘There is only one who is famous in Indian history.’

‘The one who fought against the British during the mutiny?’

‘Yes, but later he escaped and left India. He went all the way to Kathmandu, taking with him a lot of valuable jewels—including a necklace studded with diamonds and pearls. It was called the naulakha. Eventually, it went to Jung Bahadur of Nepal. In return, Jung Bahadur gave two villages to Nanasaheb’s wife, Kashi Bai.’

‘Has that famous necklace been stolen?’

‘Yes, so it would seem from what Patwardhan said.’

‘Oh my God, did I hand over that same necklace?’ Lalmohan babu’s voice rose with concern. He almost shouted.

‘Just think about it. If you did, your name will be recorded in history, in letters of diamond!’

‘But . . . but . . . in that case, it’s gone where it was meant to go. Now it’s for the police to make sure it doesn’t leave the country. Why are
you
so worried? Do you wish to catch these smugglers yourself?’

Before Feluda could reply, the telephone began ringing. Lalmohan babu picked it up as he was standing close to it.

‘Hello . . . yes, speaking!’

So the call was meant for him. Perhaps it was Pulak Ghoshal. No, it wasn’t. It couldn’t possibly be. Mr Ghoshal could never say anything
that would make Lalmohan babu’s mouth hang open like that, and his hand tremble so much. I saw him take the receiver away from his ear. Even the receiver was shaking.

Feluda took it away from him and placed it to his own ear. However, presumably because he couldn’t hear anything, he replaced it almost immediately. ‘Was it Sanyal?’ he asked.

Lalmohan babu tried to nod, but clearly even that was difficult for him. Perhaps every muscle in his body had frozen.

‘What did he say?’

‘S-s-said,’ Lalmohan babu gave himself a shake and made a valiant attempt to pull himself together, ‘Said if I open my mouth, he’ll r-rrip open my st-stomach!’

‘Okay, that’s good.’

‘Wh-what!’ Lalmohan babu stared foolishly at Feluda. I, too, found Feluda’s remark distinctly odd. Feluda explained quickly, ‘It wasn’t enough simply to have that strong perfume every now and then. I mean, it wasn’t good enough as a clue. I couldn’t be sure whether Sanyal himself had come to Bombay, or someone here was using that scent. Now I can be sure.’

‘But why is he hounding me?’ Lalmohan babu cried desperately.

‘If I knew that, Lalmohan babu, there would be no mystery. If you want an answer to that question, you will have to be a little patient.’

Lalmohan babu simply toyed with his food that evening, saying he wasn’t hungry at all. Feluda said it didn’t matter as Lalmohan babu had eaten the most that afternoon at the Copper Chimney.

The previous night, we had all gone out together after dinner to buy paan. Tonight, Lalmohan babu refused to leave the hotel. ‘Who wants to go out in the crowded streets? I bet Sanyal’s men are watching the hotel. One of them will plunge his knife straight into me, if I am seen.’

In the end, Feluda went out alone. Lalmohan babu stayed put in our room with me, muttering constantly, ‘Why on earth did I have to accept that packet?’ After a while, he began blaming something else for his present predicament: ‘Why did I have to write a story for a Hindi film?’ Eventually, I heard him say, ‘Why the hell did I ever start writing crime thrillers?’

Feluda returned in a few minutes and offered us the paan he’d bought. ‘Will you be all right sleeping alone in your room?’ he asked Lalmohan babu, who made no reply. ‘Look,’ Feluda said reassuringly, ‘there’s a tiny cubby-hole at the end of the passage. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? A bell boy remains in that room, all the time. Besides, some of the hotel staff are on duty all night. This is not Shivaji Castle.’

A mention of Shivaji Castle made Lalmohan babu shiver once more. However, around ten o’clock he mustered enough courage to wish us good-night and return to his room.

I went to bed soon after he left. Pulak Ghoshal’s film had caused me a great deal of strain—much more than travelling all over the city. Feluda, I knew, would remain awake. His notebook was lying on a bedside table. He had made several entries throughout the day. Perhaps now he’d make some more.

In the past, I had tried, at times, to make a note of the exact moment when I fell asleep. But I had failed every time. Tonight was no different. I have no idea when I fell asleep, but do remember the moment when I woke. Someone was banging on the door,
and
pressing the buzzer repeatedly. I sat up in bed. Feluda’s bedside lamp was still on; my watch showed quarter to one. Feluda rose and opened the door. Lalmohan babu tumbled into the room.

He was panting, but did not appear to be frightened. When he spoke, his words were curious, but nothing that might cause alarm.

‘A scandal!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is a positive scandal, I tell you!’

‘Come in and sit down,’ Feluda said.

‘No, no, I’m too excited to sit down. Look, here’s the famous necklace, the valuable jewels I was supposed to have handed over!’

What Lalmohan babu then held under Feluda’s nose was a book. A famous book, written in English. I had seen a copy of it only recently, displayed in a shop window in Lansdowne Road. It was
Life Divine
by Sri Aurobindo.

Even Feluda could only gape. ‘And look,’ Lalmohan babu went on, ‘the binding is faulty. After the first thirty pages, the next few pages are stuck together. If someone paid good money for this book, every penny has been wasted. How could a binder in Pondicherry do such a shoddy job?’

‘But . . . if this is the original packet, what did you pass on to Mr Red Shirt the other day?’

‘You’re not going to believe this. Can you imagine what I did? I passed on one of my own books! Yes,
The Bandits of Bombay
! You see, what I had sent Pulak was a copy of my manuscript. So I thought
I’d now give him a copy of the book, with my blessings and autograph. In fact, I have three more copies in my bag, each wrapped with brown paper. I know I have fans all over the country . . . thought I might meet a few in Bombay, so I brought extra copies. And it was one of those that I . . . ha ha ha!’

I had not seen Lalmohan babu so cheerful in a long time. Feluda took the book from him, looked at it briefly and asked, ‘But what about the threat from Sanyal? Didn’t he threaten you on the phone? How does that fit in with this
Life Divine
?’

Lalmohan babu refused to be daunted. ‘Well, who knows if it was Sanyal in person? It isn’t always possible to identify a voice on the telephone, is it? It could well have been some crackpot, trying to be funny. Anything is possible in Bombay. I mean, if a film like
Teerandaj
could run for more than twenty-five weeks . . . need I say more?’

‘All right, but what about that perfume in the car?’

‘That? I bet our driver was wearing it. He’s a fashionable young man. Didn’t you see his hairstyle? But when we began asking questions, he was embarrassed and wouldn’t admit to using the scent.’

‘Well then, every mystery is solved. You may relax now, and have a good night’s sleep.’

‘Yes, I certainly will. I had a headache when I went to bed, so I opened my bag to take out a pain killer. That’s how I made this amazing discovery. Anyway, now that everything’s cleared up, I am going to leave that book with you. Perhaps you should read up on spiritual matters, it can’t do you any harm. Good night!’

Lalmohan babu left, and I went back to my own bed.

‘Imagine being handed a copy of a book by Jatayu, when one was expecting
Life Divine.
Feluda, how do you suppose the fellow felt?’

‘Furious,’ Feluda replied, resting his head on his pillow. But he did not switch the light off. I felt quite amused to see that he put his blue notebook away, and began turning the pages of Sri Aurobindo’s book.

It was at this moment, I think, that I fell asleep again.