The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (4 page)

We decided to go to the famous temple of Jagannath in the evening before our meeting with Mr Bhattacharya. I was more interested in looking at the chariot. I had learnt from Feluda that every year, the old wooden chariot of Jagannath was broken methodically and a new one built in its place. Toys were made with the broken pieces of wood from the old one and sold in the market.

Feluda was not speaking much. Perhaps he was thinking of all the new people we had met and what they had said to us. There was one little thing that I felt I had to say to him.

‘Have you noticed, Feluda,’ I said, ‘how everything seems to be related to Nepal? The man who got murdered was from Nepal, Bilas Majumdar went to Kathmandu, and so did D.G. Sen . . .’

‘So? You think that has a special significance?’

‘Well, yes, I mean . . .’

‘There is no reason to assume anything of the kind. It’s most probably no more than a coincidence.’

‘OK, if you say so.’

Having seen the famous chariot, we were roaming around in the huge street market in front of the temple, looking at tiny statues and wheels of Konark being carved out of stone, when suddenly we bumped into Inspector Mahapatra. It took me a few seconds to recognize him, for he had had a haircut. One look at his new, freshly cropped hair reminded me of an uncle who always used to fall asleep the minute he sat in a barber’s chair. When he woke up, the barber would show him his handiwork, which would invariably result in a violent argument. Inspector Mahapatra seemed to be a man who had a lot in common with my uncle.

‘Hello, Inspector!’ Feluda greeted him. ‘Any progress? Did you manage to contact Mr Sarkar of Meher Ali Road?’

‘We received some information this afternoon,’ the Inspector replied. ‘Fourteen Meher Ali Road is a block of apartments. There are eight apartments. Mr Sarkar lives in number three. His flat’s been locked for a week. Apparently, he goes out of town quite frequently.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone this time?’

‘Puri.’

‘Really? Who told you that?’

‘The occupant in flat number 4. He’s supposed to be here on holiday.’

‘Did you get a description?’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t really mean anything. Medium height, clean-shaven, age between thirty-five and forty.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He calls himself a travelling salesman. No one seems to know what he sells. He took that flat a year ago.’

‘And Rupchand Singh?’

‘He arrived in Puri yesterday, and checked in at a hotel near the bus stand. He didn’t even pay his bill. Last night, he had tried making a call from his hotel, but the phone was out of order. So he went to a chemist across the road and used their phone. The chemist saw him, but didn’t hear what he said on the phone as he was busy serving his customers. Rupchand left the hotel at eleven, but did not return. We found a suitcase in his room with a few clothes in it. They
were good clothes, well-made and expensive.’

‘That’s not surprising. A driver these days earns pretty well. So I don’t think Rupchand found it too difficult to be able to afford a few good things in life.’

Inspector Mahapatra left soon after this. We made our way to the Railway Hotel, where Mr Majumdar was waiting for us. We reached there at a quarter to six. The hotel had obviously been built during the British times. It had been renovated, but there was, even today, an old-fashioned air about it. In the large front garden, guests were drinking tea under garden umbrellas. Mr Majumdar rose from a table and came forward to meet us, with a brief ‘Excuse me’ to his companions.

‘OK, let’s go and find out what’s in store,’ he remarked. Lalmohan Babu was our guide today. His whole demeanour had changed. When we reached Sagarika, he walked straight up the cobbled path and climbed on to the veranda, knocking the front door smartly. When no one appeared, he looked around just a little uncertainly, then pulled himself together and shouted ‘Koi hai?’ with a ring of such authority in his voice that we all looked at him in surprise. A side door opened instantly.

‘Welcome!’ said Laxman Bhattacharya. He was wearing a silk lungi and a fine cotton embroidered kurta. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance, except a thin moustache that drooped down, nearly touching the edge of his chin.

Lalmohan Babu began introductions, but was interrupted. ‘Please come in,’ Mr Bhattacharya invited, ‘we can get to know each other when we’re comfortably seated.’

We went into his sitting room, most of which was occupied by a large divan. This was probably where he worked. We took the chairs and stools that were strewn about. Apart from these, the room had no furniture. There was a built-in cupboard, the lower shelves of which were visible. Papers and wooden boxes had been crammed into them. There also appeared to be a few jars and bottles.

‘Could you please sit here?’ Mr Bhattacharya looked at Bilas Majumdar and pointed at the divan.

Mr Majumdar rose and took his place. Lalmohan Babu quickly introduced us. ‘This is the friend I told you about,’ he said, indicating Feluda, ‘and the gentleman here is a famous wil—’ he stopped, biting his lip. I knew he was about to say ‘wildlife photographer’, but had had the sense to check himself.

Feluda said hurriedly, ‘I hope you don’t mind two extra people in the room?’

‘No, not at all. The only thing I do mind is being asked to perform on a stage. Many people have asked me to do that, as if I were a magician. Why, only this other—’ Laxman Bhattacharya stopped speaking. I glanced at him quickly to find him staring at Bilas Majumdar. ‘How very strange! You have a mole on the very spot where gods and goddesses have a third eye. Do you know what there is in the human body under that spot?’

‘The pineal gland?’ Feluda asked.

‘Exactly. The most mysterious portion of the brain; or at least that’s what western scientists say. Some thinkers in India are of the opinion that, thousands of years ago, most creatures, including man, had three eyes. In the course of time, the third eye disappeared and became the pineal gland. There is a reptile called Taratua in New Guinea that’s still got this third eye.’

Feluda asked, ‘When you lay a finger in the middle of one’s forehead, is it simply to establish contact with the pineal gland?’

‘Yes, you could say that,’ Mr Bhattacharya replied. ‘Mind you, when I first started, I hadn’t even heard of this gland. I was only twelve at the time. One Sunday, an uncle happened to get a headache. “If you press my head,” he said, “I’ll give you money to buy ice-cream.” So I began pressing his temples, and then he told me to rub his forehead. As I began running my finger on his forehead, pressing it gently, a strange thing happened. Scenes began to flash before my eyes—as though I was watching a film. I could see my uncle as a small boy, going to school; then as a young man, shouting “Vande Mataram” and being arrested by the police; then I saw him getting married, saw his wife’s death, and even his own death. There he was before my eyes, lying with his eyes closed, surrounded by many other members of our family. Then the scenes disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. I did not say anything to anyone, as I could hardly believe it myself. But when he did actually die and everything I had seen turned out to be true—well, then I realized somehow I had acquired a special power, and . . .’ his voice trailed away.

I looked at the others. Lalmohan Babu was gaping at Laxman Bhattacharya, round-eyed with wonder. Bilas Majumdar was looking straight at the astrologer, his face expressionless.

‘I hear you have some knowledge about medicine, and I can see
evidence of that in this room,’ Feluda remarked. ‘What do you call yourself? A doctor, or an astrologer?’

‘Well, I did not actually learn astrology. To tell you the truth, my knowledge of stars and planets is quite limited. If I have the power to see a person’s past and future, it is a God-given power. I myself have nothing to do with it. But ayurveda is something I have studied, as well as conventional medicine. So if you asked me what my profession was, I’d say I was a doctor. Anyway, Mr Majumdar, could you please come forward a little?’

Mr Majumdar slid forward on the divan, and sat cross-legged. The astrologer turned and dipped the little finger of his right hand into a little bowl, then wiped it with a spotless white handkerchief. I hadn’t noticed the bowl before, nor could I tell what it contained. Whatever it was, it seemed to give Mr Bhattacharya sufficient encouragement to start his job. He closed his eyes, stretched his hand and placed his little finger on the mole on Mr Majumdar’s forehead in a single, precise movement. After this, the next couple of minutes passed in silence. Nobody spoke. All I could hear was the ticking of a clock and the roaring waves outside.

‘Thirty-three . . . nineteen thirty-three . . .’ Mr Bhattacharya suddenly started speaking. ‘Born under the sign of Libra . . . the first child. Tonsils removed at the age of eight—a scholarship—and a gold medal when leaving school—physics—a graduate at nineteen—started earning at twenty-three—a job—no, no, freelance—photography—struggle, I can see a lot of struggle—but great endurance and determination—love of animals—mountains—skill in climbing mountains—not married—travels a lot—not afraid to take risks . . .’ he stopped.

Feluda was staring steadily at an ashtray. Lalmohan Babu was sitting straight, his hands clenched in excitement. My own heart was beating fast. Bilas Majumdar’s face was still devoid of expression, but his eyes were fixed on the astrologer’s face. Not for a single second had he removed them.

‘Seventy-eight . . . seventy-eight . . .’ the astrologer resumed speaking. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. His breath came fast; he was obviously finding it difficult to speak.

‘. . . Forest—there’s a forest—the Himalayas—acci—acci—no, it’s not.’ He fell silent again, but only for a few seconds. Then he opened his eyes, and took his finger away. ‘You,’ he said, looking directly at Mr Majumdar, ‘should not be alive today. Not after what happened.
But you’ve been spared. God saved your life.’

‘You mean it, was not an accident?’ Mr Majumdar’s voice sounded choked. Laxman Bhattacharya shook his head, and helped himself to a paan. ‘No,’ he said, stuffing it into his mouth, ‘as far as I could see, someone had pushed you deliberately down that hill. The chances of survival were practically nil. It’s nothing short of a miracle that you didn’t die on the spot.’

‘But who pushed him?’ Lalmohan Babu asked impatiently. ‘Sorry,’ Laxman Bhattacharya shook his head again, ‘I couldn’t tell you that. I did not see who pushed him. If I were to describe the person, or give you a name, it would be a total lie. And I would be punished for lying. No, I cannot tell you what I did not see.’

‘Give me your hand, sir,’ said Bilas Majumdar, offering his own. A second later, the photographer and the astrologer were seen giving each other a warm handshake.

We left soon afterwards.

‘What will you call this? Five-star, or six-star?’ Feluda asked, looking at Lalmohan Babu.

We were having dinner at the Railway Hotel, at Mr Majumdar’s invitation. ‘I am very grateful to you,’ he had said as soon as we had come out of Sagarika. ‘Had it not been for you, I would not even have heard Laxman Bhattacharya’s name. What he told me helped clarify a lot of doubts. In fact, I can even remember some of the details of what happened after that night when I walked into Mr Sen’s room. So I’d be delighted if you could join me for dinner at my hotel.’

‘I had no idea food in a railway hotel could be so good,’ Lalmohan Babu freely admitted. ‘I had assumed it would be as tasteless as what is served on trains. Now I know better, thanks to you.’

Bilas Majumdar smiled. ‘Please have the souffle.’

‘What? Soup plate? But I have already had the soup!’

‘No, no. Souffle, not soup plate. It’s the dessert.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

Mr Majumdar told us about the return of his memory while we all helped ourselves to the dessert.

‘I was naturally embarrassed to have walked into someone else’s
room, but what I saw did not make me suspicious at all. Mr Sen was going to Pokhra the next day. He invited me to join him. The Japanese team I was waiting for was not expected for another three days. I had plenty of time, so I agreed. Pokhra is about two hundred kilometres from Kathmandu. We had to drive through a forest. Mr Sen asked the driver to stop there, to look for wild orchids. I got down with him, thinking even if we didn’t find any flowers, I might get to see a few birds. I remember taking my camera with me. He went off in one direction to look for orchids. I went in another to look for birds. We decided to return to the car in an hour. I started to walk with my eyes on the trees, scanning every branch to see if I could find a bird. Suddenly, out of the blue, I felt a blow on my head, and everything went black.’

He stopped. We had already heard what followed next. ‘You’re still not sure about who had struck that blow?’ Feluda asked.

‘No, not at all. But I do know this: the car was parked on the main road, about a kilometre away, and I hadn’t seen a single soul in that forest.’

‘If the culprit was Mr Sen, you have no real evidence to prove it, have you?’

‘No, I am afraid not.’

Lalmohan Babu seemed a bit restless, as though there was something on his mind. Now he decided to get it off his chest.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘why don’t you go and meet Durga Gati Sen? If he really is the man who tried to kill you, surely he’ll think he’s seeing a ghost? And surely that will give him away?’

‘You’re right. I thought of doing that. But there is a problem. You see, when he met me, I didn’t have a beard. So he might not recognize me. Not instantly, anyway.’

We chatted for a few minutes before taking our leave. Mr Majumdar came up to the main gate to see us off. We set out, to discover that the sky was now totally clear and the moon had come out. Feluda had a small, powerful torch in his pocket, but the moonlight was so good that there was no need to use it.

We crossed over to the other side and began walking on the paved road that ran by the side of the sea. ‘Tell me frankly, Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu said a few minutes later, ‘what did you think of Laxman Bhattacharya? Isn’t he incredible?’

‘Incredible he might be, Lalmohan Babu. But what knowledge he
has is not good enough. If Bilas Majumdar has to find out who had tried to kill him, he must come to me. It’s Felu Mitter’s brain that’s required to discover the truth, not somebody’s supernatural power.’

‘You mean you’re going to investigate?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, his eyes glinting with excitement. Feluda opened his mouth to make a reply, but stopped as our eyes fell on a man, walking briskly towards us, staring at the ground and muttering to himself. It was Mr Hingorani.

He stopped short as he saw us. Then he shook a finger at Feluda and said, ‘You Bengalis are very stubborn, very stubborn!’ He sounded decidedly put out.

‘Why?’ Feluda smiled. ‘What have we done to make you so annoyed?’

‘That man refused. I offered him twenty-five thousand, and he still said no.’

‘What! You mean there’s actually someone in this world who could resist such profound temptation?’

‘The fellow’s mad. I had heard of his collection of manuscripts, so I made an appointment to go and see him. I said, “Show me your most valuable piece.” So he opened a safe and brought out a piece going back to the twelfth century. An extraordinary object. God knows if it was stolen from somewhere. Last year, three old manuscripts were stolen from the palace museum in Bhatgaon. Two of them were recovered, but the third is still missing. It was one written by Pragya Paramita. So what I just saw might well have been the stolen one.’

‘Where is Bhatgaon?’ Lalmohan Babu asked. I had not heard of it either.

‘Ten kilometres from Kathmandu. It’s a very old town, used to be known as Bhaktapur.’

‘But if it was stolen, he wouldn’t have shown it to you, would he? And, as far as I know, there are plenty of manuscripts written by Pragya Paramita that are still in existence,’ Feluda remarked.

‘I know, I know,’ Mr Hingorani said impatiently. ‘He said he bought it in Dharamshala, and it came to India with the Dalai Lama. Do you know how much he paid for it? Five hundred. And I offered him twenty-five thousand. Just imagine!’

‘Does that mean your visit to Puri is going to be a total waste of time?’

‘No. I do not give up easily. Mr Sen does not know this Mahesh
Hingorani. He showed me another manuscript of the fifteenth century. I’m here for a couple of days. Let’s see what happens. I don’t usually take no for an answer. Well, good night to you all.’

Mr Hingorani went towards his hotel.

‘It sounds a little suspicious, doesn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu asked. ‘What does?’

‘This business of not wanting to sell something for twenty-five thousand rupees, when all he had bought it for was five hundred.’

‘Why? Do you find it impossible to believe that a man can be totally devoid of greed? Did you know Uncle Sidhu refused to sell a manuscript from his own collection to Durga Gati Sen?’

‘Why, Mr Sen didn’t mention this!’

‘That is what strikes me as most suspicious. He visited Uncle Sidhu only a year ago.’

Mr Sen was not just peculiar, but also rather mysterious, I thought. And if what Bilas Majumdar had said was true . . .

‘But then,’ Feluda continued, ‘it isn’t just Mr Sen my suspicion’s fallen on. Take your astrologer, for instance. The three-eyed reptile he told us about is called Tuatara, not Taratua; and it’s not found in New Guinea, but New Zealand. Now, it’s all right for Jatayu to make such mistakes. But if Laxman Bhattacharya’s aim in life is to impress people with information like that, he really must learn to be more accurate. Then there’s Nishith Bose. He has the awful habit of eavesdropping. He said Mr Sen suffers from gout. Those medicines in his room weren’t for gout at all.’

‘What were they for?’

‘One of them was released only last year. I read about it in
Time
magazine. I can’t quite recall what it’s for, but it’s certainly not for gout.’

‘There’s one other thing,’ I put in, ‘Mr Sen seemed amazingly preoccupied, didn’t he? What’s on his mind, I wonder? Besides, why did he say he didn’t know his son?’

‘No idea. I find it puzzling, too.’

‘If it is true that he did try to kill Bilas Majumdar,’ Lalmohan Babu said slowly, ‘that could be a reason for his being so preoccupied. Maybe he is deeply worried. Maybe—’

He stopped. So did we. All of us stood staring at the ground. There were footprints on the sand and, on the left, marks made by a walking stick. They were fresh marks, made in the last few hours.

Bilas Majumdar, who was likely to use a walking stick, had
returned straight to his hotel from Laxman Bhattacharya’s house to wait for us. He could not have come walking this way.

Who, then, had left these footprints?

Who else walked about on the beaches of Puri with a stick in his left hand?