The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (29 page)

‘H
ello can I speak to Mr Mitter, please?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Namaskar. My name is Shankarprasad Chowdhury. I live in Panihati. You don’t know me, but I am calling you to make a special request.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d like you to visit my house here in Panihati. It is by the Ganges. It’s about a hundred years old and is called Amaravati. Locally it’s quite well-known. I’m aware of the kind of work you do, and that you’re normally accompanied by your cousin and your friend, so I’m inviting all three of you. Do you think you could come next Saturday, say around ten in the morning? You could stay the night and go back the following morning.’

‘Are you in trouble of some kind? I mean, you said you knew about my profession, so I wonder . . . ?’

‘Yes, why else would I need to seek your help? But I’m not going to talk about it on the phone. I think you’ll enjoy staying in my house. You’ll be well looked after—I can guarantee that—and you’ll get a chance to exercise your brain.’

‘Well, I must confess I am free this weekend.’

‘In that case, please say yes. But I must mention something else.’

‘What is it?’

‘There will be a few other people here. I don’t want them to know who you are—at least, not right away. There’s a special reason for this.’

‘You mean we should come in disguise?’

‘No, no, that will not be necessary. After all, you’re not a film star, so I don’t think the others are familiar with your appearance. All you need to do is choose yourselves three different roles. I can even suggest what roles you might play.’

‘Yes?’

‘My great-grandfather Banwarilal Chowdhury was a strange man. I’ll tell you about him when we meet, but you could pretend you have come to collect information about him to write his biography. In fact, I really think it’s time his biography was written.’

‘Very well. What about my friend, Mr Ganguli?’

‘Do you have a pair of binoculars?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why don’t you turn him into a bird-watcher? I get plenty of birds in my garden. That’ll give him something to do.’

‘All right; and my cousin could be the bird-watcher’s nephew.’

‘Good idea. So I’ll see you on Saturday, at around ten?’

‘Yes, I’ll look forward to that. Thank you and goodbye!’

Feluda put the phone down and repeated the whole conversation to me. He ended by saying, ‘Some people speak with such genuine warmth and sincerity that it becomes impossible to turn down their request. This Mr Chowdhury is such a man.’

‘But why should you even think of turning him down? From what he told you, there’s a case waiting in Panihati for you. Surely you have to think of earning some money, at least occasionally?’

Over the last couple of months, Feluda had refused to accept a single case. He did this often after a spate of great activity, during which he might have had to work on more than one case. Then he would take some time off and spend his days studying different subjects. His current passion was the primitive man. He found an article by an American scientist called Richard Leaky in which it was suggested that the actual process of evolution took far longer than is generally believed. This got Feluda terribly excited. He paid five visits to the museum, went three times to the National Library and once to the zoo.

‘Do you know what the latest theory says?’ he told me once. ‘It says man came from a particular species of apes called the “killer ape”. That’s why there is an inherent tendency towards violence in man.’

The chances of encountering violence in Panihati seemed remote, but I knew Feluda would welcome the opportunity to get out of Calcutta for a couple of days. In fact, we all enjoyed short trips to neighbouring towns.

We left for Panihati on Saturday morning in Lalmohan Babu’s Ambassador. His driver being away, Feluda took his place. ‘What a responsibility you’ve thrust upon me, Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked as we set off. ‘A bird-watcher? Me? I’ve never seen anything except crows and sparrows where I live. What use are these binoculars to me, and these two books you have told me to read?’ The two books in question were Salim Ali’s
Indian Birds
and Ajoy Hom’s
The Birds of Bengal
.

‘Don’t worry,’ Feluda reassured him. ‘Just remember a crow is
Corvus splendens
, and a sparrow is
Passer domesticus
. But you
needn’t try to learn the Latin names of all the birds you might see—that’ll only make you stutter. All you need do is throw in ordinary English names like drongo, tailor-bird or jungle babbler. If even that is difficult, just keep peering through your binoculars. That’ll do.’

‘I see. And what about a new name for me?’

‘You are Bhabatosh Sinha. Topshe is your nephew. His name is Prabeer. And I am Someshwar Roy.’

We reached Mr Chowdhury’s house in Panihati at five minutes to ten. The Gurkha at the gate opened it as he saw our car approach. Feluda drove gently up a cobbled driveway. The house was huge, and it had a massive compound. Whoever designed it must have been impressed by English castles, for the general pattern of the house reminded me instantly of pictures of castles I had seen. There was a garden on one side in which grew a number of flowers. It had a greenhouse in one corner, behind which an orchard began.

Mr Chowdhury was waiting for us at the door. ‘Welcome to Amaravati!’ he said, smiling, as we got out. He appeared to be about fifty, was of medium height and had a clear complexion. He was dressed in a pyjama-kurta and carried a cheroot in one hand.

‘My cousin Jayanta arrived yesterday. I’ve told him everything, but he’s not going to tell the others who you really are. I trust him entirely,’ said Mr Chowdhury.

‘Very well. But are the others already here?’

‘No, I’m expecting them in the evening. Please come in; you can have a little rest, and we can talk more comfortably inside.’

We went in and sat on a wide veranda that overlooked the river. It was beautiful. I noticed a few steps going down to the edge of the water. It appeared to be a private bathing ghat.

‘Is that ghat still in use?’ Feluda asked.

‘Oh yes. My aunt lives here, you see. She bathes in the Ganges every day.’

‘Does she live alone?’

‘No, no. I’ve been living here for the last couple of years. I work in Titagarh. That’s closer from here than from my house in Calcutta.’

‘How old is your aunt?’

‘Seventy-eight. Our old servant Ananta looks after her. She’s more or less in good health, except that she’s lost most of her teeth and has had to have cataracts removed from both her eyes. Besides, she’s turned a little senile—she can no longer remember names, she
complains of not having eaten even after she’s been fed, sometimes she gets up in the middle of the night to crush paan leaves for herself, for she can’t chew on paan any more . . . you know, that kind of thing. She suffers from insomnia, too. If she gets two hours’ sleep every day, she’s lucky. She could have stayed in Calcutta, but after my uncle died, she decided to come and live here.’

A bearer brought tea and sweets on a tray. ‘Please help yourselves,’ Mr Chowdhury invited. ‘Lunch is going to be delayed. I think you’ll like the sweets. You don’t get this kind in Calcutta.’

‘Thank you,’ Feluda replied, picking up a steaming cup from the tray. ‘Well, Mr Chowdhury, you know who I am. It’ll help if you told me who you are and what you do. I hope you don’t mind?’

‘No, no, of course not. I asked you to come here simply to tell you a few things, didn’t I? Very simply, I am a businessman. A successful businessman, as you can see.’

‘Has your family always had a business?’

‘No. This house was built by Banwarilal Chowdhury, my great-grandfather.’

‘The same man whose biography I am supposed to be writing?’

‘That’s right. He was a barrister. He used to practise in Rampur. In time, he became quite wealthy and came to Calcutta. Then he decided to move here and had this house built. In fact, he died in this house. My grandfather, too, was a barrister, but his passion for gambling and drinking ate heavily into his savings. It was my father who started a business and eventually strengthened our financial position again. I simply carried on what my father had started. Things at present are not too bad. I only feel sorry to think about the possessions of Banwarilal that my grandfather sold to settle his gambling debts.’

‘What about your cousin?’

‘Jayanta did not join me in my business. He works for an engineering firm. I believe he earns quite well, but of late he’s started to play poker in his club. Clearly our grandfather’s blood runs in his veins. Jayanta is five years younger than me.’

I noticed that Feluda had switched on the microcassette recorder that we had brought back from Hong Kong. It was now so much easier to record what a client told us.

‘Well, that covers my relatives. Let me tell you something about a few other people,’ Mr Chowdhury added.

‘Before you do that,’ Feluda interrupted, ‘please allow me to ask a
question. Although it’s almost gone, I can see traces of a white
tika
on your forehead. Does that mean—?’

‘Yes, it’s my birthday today. My aunt put that
tika
.’

‘Oh, I see. Is that why you’ve invited your friends this evening?’

‘There will be only three people. I had invited them last year to celebrate my fiftieth birthday. I had no wish to invite people again on my birthday this year. But there’s a special reason why I had to.’

‘And what is that?’

Mr Chowdhury thought for a minute. Then he said, ‘If you will be so kind as to come with me to my aunt’s room upstairs, I can explain things better.’

We finished our tea and rose. The staircase going up was through the drawing room. I was greatly impressed by the beautiful old furniture, the chandeliers, the carpets and the marble statues that filled the large drawing room.

‘Who else lives on the first floor apart from your aunt?’ asked Feluda, quickly climbing the stairs.

‘My aunt’s room is at one end. I have a room at the other. When Jayanta visits us, he, too, sleeps in a room on my side of the building.’

We crossed the landing and entered Mr Chowdhury’s aunt’s room. It was a big room, but only sparsely furnished. Through one of its open doors came a fresh cool breeze. The river must lie on that particular side. An old lady was sitting on a mat by the side of the open door, prayer beads in her hand. Next to her on the mat was a hand-grinder, a few paan leaves in a container and a big fat book. It must be either the
Ramayana
or the
Mahabharata
, I thought. The old lady glanced up and peered at us through thick lenses.

‘I have a few visitors from Calcutta,’ Mr Chowdhury informed her.

‘So you decided to show them this ancient relic?’ asked his aunt. We went forward to touch her feet. ‘It’s very good of you to have come,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in telling me your names. I couldn’t remember even a single one. Why, I often forget my own! It doesn’t matter, I suppose, my days are numbered, anyway. I only have to wait for the end . . .’

‘Come this way, please.’

We turned as Mr Chowdhury spoke. The old lady went back to her prayer beads, mumbling under her breath.

Mr Chowdhury led us to the opposite end of the room where there
was a huge chest. He took out a key from his pocket and began unlocking it. ‘What I am going to show you now,’ he said, ‘belonged once to my great-grandfather. Many of his clients in Rampur were Nawabs, who often gave him expensive gifts. In spite of his son having sold most of them, what remains today is not insignificant. Take a look at these!’

He picked up a small velvet bag and turned it over on his palm. A number of gold coins slipped out. ‘These are said to have been used by Jehangir,’ said Mr Chowdhury. ‘A sign of the zodiac is engraved on each.’

‘But you’ve only got eleven pieces here. Surely there are twelve zodiac signs?’

‘Yes. One of the coins is missing.’

We exchanged puzzled glances. Missing? Why was it missing? ‘But there are other interesting objects as well,’ Mr Chowdhury continued. ‘Look, there’s this golden snuff box from Italy. It’s studded with rubies. There’s a goblet made of jade, also studded with rubies and emeralds, and a large collection of rings and pendants made of precious stones. I will show you those in the evening when the others are here.’

‘You keep the key to this chest, don’t you?’ Feluda asked.

‘Yes. There is a duplicate which is kept in my aunt’s wardrobe.’

‘But why haven’t you kept this chest in your own room?’

‘My great-grandfather used to live in this room. It was he who had placed the chest in this corner. I saw no reason to remove it. Besides, we have very reliable guards at the gate and my aunt spends most of her time in this room. So it’s quite safe to leave it here.’

We returned to the veranda downstairs. Feluda switched on his recorder again and asked, ‘How does a single coin happen to be missing?’

‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. You see, last year on my birthday, I had invited three people. One of them was my business partner, Naresh Kanjilal. The second guest was Dr Ardhendu Sarkar. He lives here in Panihati. The third was Kalinath Roy, an old friend from school. I had lost touch with him completely. He contacted me after thirty-five years. Each one of these guests had heard of my great-grandfather’s possessions, but none had seen any of them. That evening, I told Jayanta to take out the little bag of gold coins and bring it down to the drawing room. He did so, and I spread all twelve out on a table. We were bending over these to get a better
look when suddenly, there was a power cut. Mind you, this was nothing unusual. One of the bearers brought candles in less than two minutes, and I put the coins back in the chest. Rather foolishly, I did not count them then for it never occurred to me that one might go missing. The next day, when it did dawn on me that counting the pieces might be a good idea, it was too late. My guests had left, and the coin showing the sign of cancer had vanished.’

‘Are you sure you yourself had put the coins away?’

‘Oh yes. But just think of my predicament, Mr Mitter. The three outsiders were all my guests. I have known my business partner for twenty-five years. Dr Sarkar is a well-known doctor here; and Kalinath is an old friend.’