The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (10 page)

Since we didn’t have a car, Subir Datta offered to drop us back, but Feluda assured him we could quite easily walk to the main road and get a taxi.

‘Informing the police might not be such a bad idea, you know,’ Feluda said suddenly. It was a totally unexpected remark. Even Mr Datta looked taken aback. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.

‘No matter what your brother thinks of the police, they have the means to track down thieves and burglars. A private investigator cannot do that. Besides, the amount of money stolen isn’t that small, is it? You said the numbers on the notes were written down somewhere. So, if you told the police, they would probably find their job relatively simple.’

Subir Datta said, ‘Since J asked you to come here, and there
has
been an unfortunate occurrence, I cannot even think of asking you to leave the case. Even if I inform the police, I’d like you to work alongside them. If you do that, my brother and I will both feel much more reassured. But . . . to tell you the truth . . . I can tell who the thief is, even without any help from anyone.’

‘Do you mean your son?’

Subir Datta sighed and nodded. ‘It couldn’t possibly be anyone but Shankar. He knows the lights go off in this area at six o’clock. He’s an agile young man. Scaling that wall would not have been a problem for him. Using those back stairs, going up to his uncle’s room and opening that safe . . . all this would be child’s play!’

‘But what would he do with his uncle’s research papers? Does he know a lot of people in scientific circles?’

‘He doesn’t have to. He can blackmail my brother. Get him to pay for the return of his papers. Shankar knows very well how much those papers mean to his uncle.’

So much had happened in such a short time—my head was reeling. I had no idea, when we left Mr Datta’s house, that much
more was in store. But, before I describe what happened later that day, I ought to mention the conversation I had with Feluda when we got home.

After dinner, I went to his room to find him lying flat on his back, chewing a paan and smoking a Charminar. I went and sat on his bed, and finally asked the question that had bothered me ever since we’d left the Dattas’ house.

‘Why did you want to leave this case, Feluda?’

Feluda blew out two perfect smoke rings, and said, ‘There’s a reason, dear Topshe, there’s a reason!’

‘But you told us what that reason was. The police can catch a thief more easily, especially if he’s got a lot of money.’

‘You are convinced that it was Subir Datta’s son who stole the money?’

‘Who else could it be? It’s obvious that someone from the family was responsible. Mr Dastur wasn’t there at all. And I can’t believe Sukhwani could have stolen the stuff and continued to sit at home, as if nothing had happened. Ranajit Banerjee arrived after the theft. Apart from these people, there are only the servants . . .!’

‘But—suppose—my client himself is responsible?’

I stared at Feluda in surprise.

‘Subir Datta?’

‘Try to think of everything that happened just before we realized there had been a theft,’

I shut my eyes and cast my mind back. There we were, sitting in the living room. The tea was brought in. We began drinking it. Feluda was holding his cup. The lights went out. And then. . .

Suddenly, I remembered something that made my heart give a lurch.

‘Subir Datta left the room as soon as the lights went out, to call his servant!’

‘Right. How do you think I’m going to look if it turns out that my own client had gone and opened the safe? It is not entirely impossible, you know. After all, we do not know a great deal about him, do we? Yes, he did call the servant, there’s no doubt about that. However, supposing he has lost a lot of money speculating on the stock market, or at the races, or gambling, and has run up a huge debt, then would you be surprised to learn that it was he who took the money?’

‘But . . . but . . . he came to you himself!
He
asked you to investigate the case!’

‘Yes. If he is a high-class criminal—one of the really clever ones— then his coming to me is not in the least surprising. That is exactly the kind of thing he
would
do.’

After this, there was really no more left to be said.

Feluda picked up his copy of the Mahabharat and switched on his reading lamp. I rose and left his room.

I heard the sound as soon as I got to our living room. A scooter. No, not just one scooter. There was more than one. They shattered the silence of the whole area, and appeared to stop right in front of our house.

A second later, someone rang our doorbell.

*

Although we did get visitors at odd hours, no one ever came on a scooter. It might not be safe to open the door at once. So I returned to Feluda’s room and lifted his curtain to take a quick peep. Feluda had put his book away, and was already on his feet. ‘Wait,’ he said. It meant that he wanted to open the door himself.

When he did, a young man swept into the room. I could see, in a matter of seconds, that he was evil incarnate. He did not find it necessary to sit down. Slamming the door behind him and leaning against it, Subir Datta’s son, Shankar Datta, stared at Feluda with glazed eyes, and began a harangue. Each word sounded like a whiplash.

‘Look here, Mister, I don’t know what my father told you about me, but I can guess. All I can tell you is that no one can do anything to me, even if they employ a snoopy sleuth. I’m here to warn you. I am not alone, see? We have an entire gang. If you try acting smart, you’ll regret it. Oh yes, sir, you’ll be sorry you were ever born!’

Having finished his speech, Shankar Datta made an exit, which was as dramatic as his entrance. Then we heard three scooters roar into life and leave, the entire neighbourhood reverberating under the racket.

Until that moment, Feluda remained still. He could stay perfectly calm even when someone stood there flinging insults at him. He really has extraordinary control over his nerves. I have heard him say that he who can keep rising anger firmly under control must have far greater will power than someone who has a furious outburst.

However, when Shankar left, Feluda moved quickly even before the sound of the scooters had faded away. In a flash, he had put on his kurta and grabbed his wallet. ‘Come on, Topshe. A taxi. . .!’

Within three minutes, we were in Southern Avenue, flagging down a taxi. The scooters had gone towards the north. That much I knew.

‘Try Lansdowne Road,’ Feluda said to the driver as we got in. The main road was dug up, so it was highly likely that the scooters would go down Lansdowne Road.

It was a quarter to eleven. Southern Avenue was almost completely empty. Our driver was a Bengali, a local man. We had seen him before. ‘Do you wish to follow someone, sir?’ he asked.

‘Three scooters,’ Feluda said in a low voice.

Our hunch was right. We saw the three scooters near the Elgin Road crossing. Shankar was on one, and the other two had two riders on each. None of us had to be told that they were all hardened criminals. Our taxi began tailing them.

We passed Lower Circular Road and Camac Street. Upon reaching Park Street, they turned left. They were driving in a zigzag fashion, possibly because each of them was in a good mood, without a care in the world. Feluda was hiding in the dark depths of the taxi, trying to avoid the streetlight that came in through the windows. I could not tell what he was thinking.

The scooters went down Mirza Ghalib Street, and then turned left again. Marquis Street. The road was narrow here, the lights were dim, and every house was dark. Feluda told the driver to reduce the speed and increase the distance between the scooters and our taxi, in case those men became suspicious.

A little later, after taking two more turns, the scooters stopped before a building.

‘Drive on, don’t stop,’ Feluda said.

As we passed the building, I realized it was not an ordinary house, but a hotel. It was called The New Corinthian Lodge. New? The building was at least a hundred years old.

Feluda’s mission was accomplished. All he had wanted to do was to see where the gang was based.

By the time we returned home, it was eleven-forty. The meter on the taxi read nineteen rupees and seventy-five paisa.

The following morning, Uncle Sidhu turned up most unexpectedly. I knew that he went out for a walk every morning, but that was always in the direction of the lake. If he had come to our house instead, there had to be a special reason.

‘That scrapbook was too heavy to carry, so I simply copied out the press cutting,’ he told us. ‘Look, here it talks about an S. Choudhury, and he’s a biochemist. But I’ve no idea if it’s Suprakash.’

‘When was it reported?’

‘1971. The police raided a pharmaceutical company in Mexico, and arrested a Bengali biochemist. He went to jail. He was said to be selling spurious drugs, which were causing terrible diseases. That is all the report says. Since I was thinking only of the name “Suprakash”, I didn’t immediately connect that name with this report. But whether it’s the same . . . ?’

‘Yes, it’s the same person,’ Feluda replied gravely.

Uncle Sidhu rose to take his leave. His barber was expected at home—it was time for his regular haircut. He thumped Feluda’s back, grabbed my ear and gave it an affectionate twist, tucked his dhoti in at the waist, and stepped out.

Feluda began scribbling in his notebook. I went and stood by his side. There were three questions listed on a page:

1. Why were there so many scratches around the keyhole on the safe?

2. ‘Who’s there’? What does it mean?

3. What is the ‘unfinished job’?

The questions made me think, too.

Last evening, I had seen the scratches around the keyhole when Feluda had shone his torch on it. Yes, they
were
rather suspicious. Such marks would not have been left there unless someone had scuffed the steel surface really hard. Was Nihar Datta such a heavy sleeper that even the sound of so much scraping did not wake him?

The second question was not immediately clear to me. Then I remembered Nihar Datta calling out from the landing when he heard Mr Dastur’s voice. What I could not understand was why Feluda should find anything suspicious in Nihar Datta saying, ‘Who’s there?’

It was Nihar Datta who had talked about an unfinished job. At
least, that was what Ranajit Banerjee had told us. I had assumed that was a reference to his incomplete research. Didn’t Feluda believe that?

Feluda was about to scribble some more, when the telephone rang. He reached out and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello.’

There was a pause. Then he said, ‘Hmm . . . hmm . . . yes, I’ll be there straightaway.’

He replaced the receiver and grabbed a hanger in his wardrobe, from which were hanging a shirt and a pair of trousers. Feluda yanked those off and said to me, ‘Get ready at once. There’s been a murder in Golok Lodge.’

My heart flew into my mouth.

‘Who?’

‘Mr Dastur.’

As soon as we entered Ballygunj Park, I could see a police van parked outside 7/1, and a knot of people. Luckily, it was a quiet and genteel locality, or there would have been many more onlookers.

There is no one in Calcutta Police who does not know Feluda. We found Inspector Bakshi as we walked into Golok Lodge. He came forward with a smile on his face. ‘Ah. So here you are! Could you smell the murder, even from your house?’

Feluda offered his lopsided smile. ‘I met Subir Datta recently. He rang me, so I came. I will not interfere with your work—I promise. How was he murdered?’

‘Blow on the head. Not one, but three—while he was asleep. The body is about to be removed for a post-mortem. Dr Sarkar has seen it already. It happened between two and three o’clock last night.’

‘Did you learn anything about the victim?’

‘Suspicious character. Seems he was on the point of leaving. Had started to pack his suitcase!’

‘Was any money stolen?’

‘I don’t think so. There’s a wallet on the bedside table, with about three hundred rupees in it. Perhaps he didn’t keep a lot of cash in the house. But we can’t find his bank passbook, or cheque book, or anything. A gold watch was lying by his pillow. Mind you, we haven’t yet made a thorough search. We’ll do that now. But, from what we’ve found so far, we’ve learnt nothing about the real man.’

By this time, we had been joined by Subir Datta. He looked at Bakshi and said, ‘Sukhwani is making a lot of fuss. He says he has a
most important appointment in Dalhousie Square. But I’ve told him no one can leave the house until the police have finished asking questions.’

‘Yes, you did the right thing. But then, we’ll question everyone, even you.’

Bakshi smiled as he spoke. Subir Datta nodded to indicate that he was aware of the situation. ‘The fewer questions you ask my brother, the better,’ he pointed out.

‘Naturally,’ said Bakshi.

‘May I see the room?’ Feluda asked.

‘Certainly.’

Bakshi went forward with Feluda, followed by me. Just before stepping into Dastur’s living room, Feluda turned to Mr Datta and said, ‘By the way, your son came to my house yesterday.’

‘When?’ Mr Datta sounded quite taken aback.

Feluda explained quickly. ‘Did he return home last night?’

‘Even if he did, I didn’t hear him come in,’ Mr Datta replied. ‘I haven’t seen him this morning.’

‘At least now we know where your son and his friends are to be found. That hotel has a bad reputation. It’s been raided twice,’ Inspector Bakshi informed us.

The room looked entirely different. The previous night, it had been totally dark. This morning, bright sunlight was streaming in through the windows and falling on the sofa and the floor. To my surprise, I saw that the old stub of a Charminar was still lying in the ashtray. Two constables were posted in the room; and the photographer, having finished his work, was in the process of packing away his equipment.

The murder had taken place in the bedroom. Feluda and Bakshi went in. I went up to the threshold and caught a glimpse of the corpse, covered with a white sheet. A constable was searching the room. On the floor, a suitcase was lying open, with a few clothes folded and packed in it. Beside the suitcase stood Dastur’s new briefcase which I’d seen him carrying the previous day.