The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (3 page)

The next morning, by the time I got up, Feluda had already called Professor Kanungo and gone over to his house. This surprised me, since I had no idea he was in such a hurry to meet the professor. My plans were different. I had wanted to spend the morning bathing in the sea. Feluda might have accompanied me. I asked Lalmohan Babu, but he said, ‘Look Tapesh, at your age, I used to swim a lot. My butterfly-stroke often earned me applause from onlookers. But a small Calcutta swimming pool is not the same thing as the Bay of Bengal, surely you can see that? Besides, the sea in Puri is extremely treacherous. Had it been the sea in Bombay, I wouldn’t have hesitated.’

He was right. It had rained the night before and was still cloudy and kind of oppressive. So we decided to wait until Feluda got back. ‘Let’s go and have a walk on the beach,’ Lalmohan Babu suggested. I agreed, and we left soon after a breakfast of toast and eggs. Lalmohan Babu seemed to be in a very good mood, possibly as a result of what Laxman Bhattacharya had told him.

The beach was totally empty. A few boats were out in the sea, but there was no sign of the Nulia children. A couple of crows were flying about, going near the water as the waves receded, then flitting quickly away as they came surging back again.

We walked on. A few minutes later, Lalmohan Babu stopped suddenly. ‘I have heard of people sunbathing on a beach,’ he observed, ‘but do they also cloud-bathe?’ I could see what he meant. A man was lying on his back about fifty yards away, at a spot where the beach ended and a slope began. There was a bush on one side. Had the man chosen to lie down a little to the left, he would have been hidden from sight.

‘Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu whispered. I said nothing, but went forward to have closer look. Why was the man lying here? It certainly did not seem right.

Even from ten feet away, he looked as though he was sleeping. But as we went a few steps further, we realized with a shock that he was dead. His eyes were open, and around his head was a pool of blood; or, at least, it had been a pool hours ago, now it was a dark patch on the sand.

The man had thick curly hair, thick eyebrows, a heavy moustache and a clear complexion. He was wearing a grey cotton jacket, white trousers and a blue striped shirt. There were shoes on his feet, but no socks. On one of his little fingers he wore a ring with a blue stone. His nails were long and dirty. The front pocket of his jacket was crammed with papers. I was sorely tempted to take them out and go through them quickly, just to find out who the man was. But Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Don’t touch anything.’ There was actually no need to say this, for I knew from experience what one should or should not do in a case like this.

‘We are the first to . . . to . . . discover, I think?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, trying very hard to appear cool and nonchalant. But I could tell his mouth had gone dry. ‘Yes, I think so, too,’ I replied, feeling rather shaken myself. ‘Well, we must report it.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

We hurried back to the hotel to find that Feluda had returned. ‘Judging by the fact that you forgot to wipe your feet before coming in and spread a few hundred grams of sand all over the floor, I assume you are greatly perturbed about something,’ Feluda announced, looking at Lalmohan Babu. I spoke hastily before Lalmohan Babu could get the chance to exaggerate what we had seen. Feluda heard me in silence, then rang the police to explain in a few succinct words what had happened. Then he turned to me and asked just one question: ‘Did you see a weapon anywhere near the body? A pistol or something?’

‘No, Feluda.’

‘But I’m absolutely certain the fellow isn’t a Bengali,’ Lalmohan Babu said firmly.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Those eyebrows. They were joined. Bengalis don’t have joined eyebrows. Nor do they have such a strong, firm jaw as this man. I shouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be from Bundelkhand.’

Feluda, in the meantime, had made an appointment with D.G. Sen. His secretary had asked him to call at 8.30 a.m. and not take more than fifteen minutes of Mr Sen’s time. We left almost
immediately.

On our way to Mr Sen’s house, we noticed a small crowd near the dead body. It hadn’t taken long for word to spread. This was no doubt a most unusual event. The police were already there. One of the officers spotted Feluda and stepped forward with a smile and an outstretched arm.

‘Inspector Mahapatra!’ Feluda exclaimed, shaking his hand warmly. ‘We met over a case in Rourkela, didn’t we?’

‘Yes, I recognized you at once. Are you here on holiday?’

‘Yes, that’s the general idea. Who is the deceased?’

‘No one from this area. His name is Rupchand Singh.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘There was a driving licence.’

‘Where from?’

‘Nepal!’

A gentleman wearing glasses made his way through the crowd, pushing the police photographer to one side. ‘I saw the man yesterday. He was at a tea stall in Swargadwar Road. I was buying paan at the next stall. He asked me for a light, and then lit a cigarette.’

‘How did he die?’ Feluda asked Mr Mahapatra.

‘Shot dead, I think. But we haven’t yet found the weapon. This was tucked inside the driving licence. You may wish to take a look.’ Feluda was handed a visiting card. Printed on one side was the name and address of a tailor’s shop in Kathmandu. On the other side was written, in an unformed hand, the following words: A.K. Sarkar, 14 Meher Ali Road, Calcutta.

‘Do let me know if you hear of anything interesting. We’re staying at the Neelachal,’ Feluda said.

We walked on, and soon arrived at D.G. Sen’s house. Last evening, it had appeared impressive, even inviting. But now, under an overcast sky, it looked dark and forbidding.

A young man was standing outside the gate. He was probably a servant. On seeing us arrive, he came forward and said, ‘Mitter Babu?’

‘I am Mitter Babu,’ Feluda replied.

‘Please come with me.’

A cobbled path ran towards the garden. But, in order to get to the second floor, it was necessary to go to the rear of the house where there was a separate entrance. A few steps down the passage,
Lalmohan Babu suddenly sprang back with a stifled exclamation. It turned out that his eyes had fallen on a long strip of paper. ‘I th-thought it was a s-snake!’ he exclaimed.

The servant left us at the bottom of the stairs. We saw another man coming down. ‘Mr Mitter?’ he asked with a smile, ‘This way, please.’ He looked about thirty-five, although his hairline had started to recede.

‘I am Nishith Bose,’ he said on the way up, ‘I work here as Durga Babu’s secretary.’

‘Durga Babu?’

‘Durga Gati Sen. Everyone calls him D.G. Sen.’

There was a room on the right where the stairs ended. It was probably the secretary’s, for I caught sight of a typewriter on a small table. On the left was a small corridor and two more rooms. Beyond this was a terrace. It was on the terrace that D.G. Sen was waiting for us.

A portion of the terrace was occupied by a greenhouse in which there were a few orchids. Mr Sen was sitting in a cane chair in the middle of the terrace. He appeared to be about sixty. Lalmohan Babu said afterwards, ‘Personality with a capital P.’ He was right. Mr Sen’s complexion was very fair, his eyes were sharp, and he had a French beard. His broad shoulders indicated that once he must have been a regular visitor to a gym. But he didn’t rise as we approached him. ‘Namaskar,’ he said from his chair. I found this odd, but the reason became clear as my eyes fell on his feet. His left foot was peeping out of his blue trousers. The whole foot was covered by a bandage.

Three chairs had been placed on the terrace. We took these and returned his greeting. ‘We’re very grateful to you,’ Feluda told him, ‘for allowing us to barge in like this. When I heard about your collection, I couldn’t resist the temptation to come and see it.’

‘I’ve had this interest for many years,’ Mr Sen replied. His eyes held a faraway look. His voice was deep. It seemed to match his personality.

‘My uncle—Siddheswar Bose—has a small collection of old manuscripts. I think you went to his house once, to look at what he had.’

‘Yes, that’s possible. I used to travel pretty widely in search of scrolls.’

‘Is everything in your collection written in Bengali?’

‘No, there are other languages. The best of the lot is in Sanskrit.’

‘When was it written?’

‘Twelfth century.’

This was followed by a short pause. There was no point in asking him to show us anything. He’d do so only if he felt like it.

‘Lokenath!’ Mr Sen called. Lokenath was probably the name of the servant, but why was he calling him?

Mr Bose appeared instead of Lokenath. Had he perhaps been standing behind the door? ‘Lokenath’s gone out, sir. Can I help?’ he asked.

Mr Sen stretched out an arm. Mr Bose caught his hand and helped him get to his feet. ‘Please follow me,’ Mr Sen said to us. We trooped back to the corridor, and went into one of the two bedrooms. It was a large room, with a huge four-poster bed in it. Next to the bed was a Kashmiri table, on which stood a lamp, two medicine bottles and a glass. There was also a desk, a chair and lined against the wall, two Godrej safes.

‘Open it,’ Mr Sen commanded, looking at his secretary. Mr Bose fished out a bunch of keys from under a pillow and opened one of the safes.

I could see four shelves, each one of which was stacked with narrow, long packets, covered by red silk. A brief glance told me there were at least fifty of them. ‘The other safe has a few more, but the really valuable—’

The really valuable one came out of a drawer in the first one. I noticed there was one more packet in the same drawer. Mr Bose untied the ribbon that held the piece of silk, revealing an eight-hundred-year-old scroll, held between two thin cylindrical pieces of wood.

‘This one’s called
Ashtadashasahasrika Pragya Paramita,’
said Mr Sen. ‘There’s one more, just as old, called
Kalpasutra.’

The wooden cylinders were painted beautifully. Neither the colour of the paint, nor the intricate designs had dimmed with the passage of time. The manuscript itself had been written on a palm leaf. I could never have believed anyone’s handwriting could be so beautiful.

‘Where did you get this?’ Feluda asked.

‘Dharamshala.’

‘Does that mean it came from Tibet, with the Dalai Lama?’

‘Yes.’

Mr Sen took the scroll back from Feluda and passed it to Mr Bose. He tied it up again with the piece of silk and put it back in the safe.

‘Were you sent here by your uncle?’

I was startled by the abruptness with which the question was asked. Feluda remained unruffled. ‘No, sir,’ he replied calmly.

‘I am not a businessman, and I certainly don’t wish to sell any of these. All I can do is show people what I’ve got, if anyone is interested.’

‘My uncle could not afford to buy what you just showed me,’ Feluda laughed. ‘But then, I have no idea how much something like this might cost.’

‘You couldn’t possibly put a price on it. It’s invaluable.’

‘But there are people who’d quite happily pass these on to outsiders, aren’t there? Aren’t ancient manuscripts from India being sold to foreigners?’

‘Yes, I am aware of that. Those who do this are criminals—confound them!’

‘Doesn’t your son share your interest?’

Mr Sen did not reply immediately. He seemed to grow a little preoccupied. Then he said, staring at the table, ‘My son? I don’t know him.’

‘Sir, Mr Mitter’s a famous detective, sir!’ Mr Bose piped up, somewhat unnecessarily. D.G. Sen promptly brought his gaze back to focus it directly on Feluda. ‘So what?’ he barked, ‘why should that make any difference? Have I killed anyone?’

Mr Barik had warned us about this. D.G. Sen really was a most peculiar man. But the next words he spoke made no sense at all.

‘No detective could bring back what is lost. He who can do anything is still trying; closed doors are opening now, one by one. There’s no need for a detective.’

None of us dared ask what he meant by this. In any case, our time was up. So we turned to go. ‘I’ll see you out,’ Mr Bose said a little urgently. Feluda thanked Mr Sen once more, and we all said goodbye. Then we began climbing down the stairs.

‘What’s the matter with his foot?’ Feluda asked Mr Bose. ‘Gout,’ he replied. ‘He used to be very healthy and fit, even a few months ago. But, over the last three months, he’s been in a lot of pain and discomfort.’

‘I noticed two bottles in his room. Were they for his gout?’

‘Yes. One of them is to help him sleep. Laxman Babu gave it to
him.’

‘Who, the astrologer?’ Lalmohan Babu asked in surprise.

‘Yes, he knows many more things beside astrology, including ayurveda, as well as conventional medicine.’

‘You don’t say!’

‘Oh yes. I’ve even heard him talk of old manuscripts when he’s with Mr Sen.’

‘What an extraordinary man!’ Lalmohan Babu said admiringly. Feluda remained silent.

Lalmohan Babu wanted Feluda to meet Laxman Bhattacharya. But the astrologer was out and his room was locked. We came out of Sagarika and began walking back to our hotel. The beach was quite crowded by this time, for the clouds had dispersed and the sun had come out. There was a hotel on our right, not far from the beach. ‘That’s the Railway Hotel,’ Feluda said. ‘Most of these people are staying there.’ We made our way through the crowd and moved away. Suddenly, someone called out: ‘Mr Mitter!’

A tall gentleman was standing alone, away from groups of bathers, and smiling at Feluda. He must have spent quite a few days on the beach, for when he removed his sunglasses, I could see a pale mark running from his eyes to his ears. The rest of his skin was deeply tanned.

He came walking towards us. He was nearly as tall as Feluda and quite good-looking. He had a beard and a neatly trimmed moustache.

‘I have heard of you,’ he said. ‘Are you already working on a case?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘There’s been a murder, I gather. So I thought you might be making enquiries.’ Feluda laughed. ‘No. I haven’t been asked to investigate, so I couldn’t make enquiries even if I wanted to.’

‘You’re staying at the Neelachal, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Er . . .’ he seemed to be hesitating.

‘Have you been appointed as guard?’ Feluda asked. I had noticed it, too. The man was clutching three golden rings in his hand. He
gave an embarrassed smile.

‘It’s such a bore . . . but you’re right. These belong to a guest in my hotel. I met him only yesterday. This morning, he said he wanted to have a swim in the sea, but was afraid these might come off. So he asked me to hang on to them until he came out of the water. I wish I hadn’t agreed.’

Before any of us could say anything, the owner of the rings arrived, dripping wet and accompanied by a Nulia. We recognized him instantly. It was our ‘golden’ fellow passenger, Mr M.L. Hingorani. He saw Feluda and shouted, ‘Good morning!’ Then he took his rings back, and said ‘Thank you’ to the gentleman, adding that out of all the beaches he had seen in Goa, Miami, Acapulco and Nice, there was none like the beach in Puri.

We said goodbye to him and began walking again, this time accompanied by the bearded gentleman.

‘I don’t think I got your name—?’ Feluda began politely.

‘No, I didn’t tell you my name, chiefly because I thought it might not mean anything to you. There is a special area in which I’ve made a small contribution, but not many would know about it. I am called Bilas Majumdar.’

Feluda frowned and looked at the man. ‘Have you anything to do with mountains?’ he asked.

‘My God, your knowledge . . . !’

‘No, no,’ Feluda interrupted him, ‘there’s nothing extraordinary about this. It’s just that I thought I had seen your name somewhere recently, in a journal or something. There was a mention of mountains in that report.’

‘You’re right. I joined the institute in Darjeeling to learn mountaineering. I am actually a wildlife photographer. I was supposed to go with a Japanese team to take photos of a snow leopard. You’re probably aware that snow leopards can be found in the high altitudes of the Himalayas. Many have seen this animal, but there are virtually no photographs.’

We reached our hotel without further conversation. Lalmohan Babu kept casting admiring glances at Bilas Majumdar. Feluda ordered tea as soon as we got to our room. Mr Majumdar sat down and took out a photograph from his pocket.

‘See if you can recognize this man,’ he said to Feluda.

It was a postcard-size photograph. A man wearing a cap was holding a strange animal, and several others were looking at them
both. The man Mr Majumdar was pointing at was someone we had just met.

‘Yes, we left his house only a few minutes ago,’ Feluda said. ‘It’s not easy to recognize him in that photo, since he’s now got a beard.’

Mr Majumdar took the photo back. ‘That’s all I needed to know,’ he said, ‘I saw his name-plate outside his gate, but couldn’t be sure if it was the same D.G. Sen.’

‘That animal looks like a pangolin,’ Feluda remarked.

Yes! Now I could remember having read about it. It was a species of anteater. It looked as though it was wearing a suit of armour.

‘You’re right, it is a pangolin. It’s found in Nepal. That photo was taken outside a hotel in Kathmandu. D.G. Sen and I were both staying there.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last October. I had gone to meet that Japanese team. Some of my photos had been published in Japanese journals. When this team contacted me, I was naturally very excited. But, in the end, I couldn’t go with them.’

‘Why? Why?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, sounding concerned. A mention of snow leopards had clearly made him smell an adventure.

‘I had an accident. I was so badly injured that I had to spend three months in hospital.’

‘Did your hurt your left leg?’ Feluda asked.

‘I broke the shin bone in my left leg. Why, is that obvious from the way I walk?’

‘No. But yesterday, we saw some footprints on the sand, and the mark left by a walking stick on the left side of these prints. So I thought whoever had come walking was either left-handed, or his left leg was injured. You, I can see, do not use a stick.’

‘Sometimes I do. Walking on the sand can often be difficult. But I am only thirty-nine, you see. I don’t feel like walking about with a stick in my hand all the time, like an old man.’

‘Then it must have been someone else.’

‘Perhaps. But I can tell you one thing. Breaking a shin bone was not my only injury. I had rolled down the side of a hill—nearly five hundred feet. A local farmer’s son saw me fall on top of a tree—in fact, that’s what saved my life—and informed a group of hippies. They took me to a hospital. I had seven broken ribs. Even my collar-bone was broken. There were injuries on my face, my chin was crushed. Eventually, I grew a beard simply to cover the marks
on my chin. I lay unconscious for two days. When I came to, I could remember nothing, not even my name. Someone found my name and address in my diary and informed my family in Calcutta. A nephew came to see me. I couldn’t recognize him. Then, gradually, my memory returned. Now, after a lot of treatment, I can remember most things, but not what happened just before the accident. For instance, my meeting with D.G. Sen was recorded in my diary, but it was only two days ago that I finally remembered what he looked like.’

‘Can you remember why Mr Sen had gone to Kathmandu? Was it anything to do with ancient manuscripts?’

‘Manuscripts? Well, I don’t know . . . what do these manuscripts look like?’

‘Long, thin and flat. About the size of a carton of cigarettes. They’re usually covered by red silk.’

Mr Majumdar said nothing. His eyes were resting on a table lamp; he appeared to be lost in thought. All of us looked at him without saying a word. After a long time, he raised his eyes. ‘I suppose I ought to tell you everything,’ he said. ‘The hotel in Kathmandu where Mr Sen and I stayed was called Vikram Hotel. It was a rather strange place. There were a few rooms with identical locks. You could use the key meant for one room to open the door of another, something which in a hotel one wouldn’t expect at all. One day, purely by accident, I happened to unlock the room next to mine, thinking it was my own. It was, in fact, D.G. Sen’s room. At first, I was surprised to find other people in what I thought was my own room, but soon I realized my mistake. So I quickly said “sorry” and came away, but not before I had seen something. D.G. Sen was sitting on the bed, and two strangers were sitting in chairs. One of them was taking out a thin, long packet from a cardboard box. As far as I can recall, it was red, though I couldn’t tell you whether it was silk or not.’

‘I see. What happened next?’

‘Nothing. I mean, I can remember nothing. My mind’s gone totally blank. The next thing I can remember is waking up in hospital.’

‘Hey!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed suddenly, ‘Why don’t you go to the astrologer? He’ll tell you everything, remind you of every detail.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Laxman Bhattacharya the Great. He’s a tenant on the ground
floor of Mr Sen’s house. I can make an appointment for you, if you like. Just try it out, it can’t do any harm.’

‘Well . . . that’s an idea, anyway. Thanks.’ Mr Majumdar seemed quite taken with the idea.

‘All he’ll do,’ Lalmohan Babu continued, encouraged, ‘is place his little finger on that mole in the middle of your forehead, and then he’ll be able to see it all: your past, present and future.’

I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I saw a small mole on Mr Majumdar’s forehead. It looked almost as though he was wearing a bindi.

‘Does your astrologer allow visitors?’ Feluda asked.

‘Sure. You mean you and Tapesh would like to go as observers? No problem, sir. I’ll tell him.’

‘Very well. Please see if he’s free at six o’clock this evening.’ Lalmohan Babu nodded happily, then told Mr Majumdar that the astrologer’s fee was five rupees and seventy-five paise. Mr Majumdar started to laugh, but stopped when Feluda pointed out it wasn’t a figure to be laughed at. ‘Just think. If he gets even ten visitors every day, that gives him a monthly income of nearly two thousand rupees. That’s not bad, is it?’

It was clear to me that although Feluda had no wish to have his future read, he was quite curious about the return of Mr Majumdar’s memory.