The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (59 page)

I had no idea Saldanha & Co. in Hazratganj was such an old shop. Its threadbare look startled me.

Mr Saldanha was sitting behind a desk. The shop was going to close in fifteen minutes. There was no one except an assistant. Mr Saldanha smiled as he saw us arrive.

‘Welcome, Mr Mitter. Do sit down.’

We were offered three chairs.

‘I hope we haven’t caused you any inconvenience by coming here?’ Feluda asked.

‘Oh no, not at all. We’re about to close, anyway. You may ask me what you like; then when we’re finished here. I’ll take you to my house. You could have a cup of coffee and meet my wife.’

‘That would be very nice, thank you. I would like to ask your wife a few questions as well. You see, I have to speak to everyone who was present at the party.’

‘That’s all right. I don’t think she’ll mind.’

‘Very well. Let me begin with you. How old is this shop?’

‘Nearly seventy years. My grandfather started it. It was Lucknow’s first music shop.’

‘There must be other music shops now?’

‘Yes, there are two more, both owned by Goans. One belongs to de Mello, the other to Noronha. One of them is not far from here. Sadly, we have not been able to keep up with the times. You can tell that, can’t you, from the appearance of this shop?’

‘Are you saying that your business isn’t doing all that well?’

‘What can I say, Mr Mitter? It’s the age of competition, isn’t it? If I could get my son to join me, perhaps his young ideas would help. But he studied medicine, then went off to America. He’s earning a lot of money there, but his old Dad has to look after this old shop. I have a few faithful customers, so I do get by, but things have changed. No one respects simplicity and honesty any more. Everyone wants glamour.’

Feluda made sympathetic noises, then moved to his next question. ‘Do you have anything to say about the tragedy that occurred last night?’

‘I hardly know what to say. When that necklace went to my sister-in-law, Margaret—my wife—broke down completely. She loved that necklace and was bitterly disappointed it wasn’t given to
her. And who could blame her? It was so extraordinarily beautiful . . absolutely priceless.’

‘You mean you agree that it was unfair of Shakuntala Devi to have given it to her younger daughter, even in the eyes of God?’

‘Yes. Why else would Pamela suffer such a tragedy?’

‘But who could have taken it? Do you have any idea?’

‘No, Mr Mitter, I cannot help you at all in this matter.’

‘Are you aware that your sister-in-law’s son has fallen into bad company?’

‘I had guessed as much, yes.’

‘He is probably into drugs. He needs a great deal of money regularly.’

Mr Saldanha clicked his tongue regretfully. Then he said, ‘That may be so, Mr Mitter, but I cannot believe he’d steal and sell such a prized possession. No, that seems quite far-fetched.’

‘Did you see anyone go out of the room during the film show?’

‘No, but I saw Sukius come in.’

‘Thank you.’

It was time to close the shop. We got to our feet. When we reached Mr Saldanha’s house in his car, it was a quarter past six and quite dark. Like Mr Biswas’s house, it was a bungalow, but smaller in size. The drawing room appeared rather bare. Mr Saldanha obviously wasn’t as wealthy as his brother-in-law, and his wife not that keen on interior decoration.

‘Margaret, you have visitors!’ called Mr Saldanha. Margaret Susheela arrived a moment later. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said, smiling a little. But the smile did nothing to hide the look of exhaustion on her face.

‘Please sit down, Mrs Saldanha,’ Feluda said. ‘Perhaps you don’t know that Mr Biswas asked me to investigate this business of the stolen necklace.’

‘I had guessed.’

‘May I ask you a few questions in this regard?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

Mr Saldanha got up, ‘Let me go and get changed, Mr Mitter; and I’ll get us some coffee.’

He went inside. Margaret Susheela took a chair and looked at Feluda.

‘How long have you been married?’ Feluda began after a short pause.

‘Thirty-five years.’

‘Your son is in America, I believe. Do you have any other children?’

‘A daughter. She’s married. Her husband owns an apple orchard in Kulu. That’s where they live.’

‘What’s the difference in age between you and your sister?’

‘Just two years.’

‘Have you always been close?’

‘We were very close when we were little. We played together, wore similar clothes, went to the same nursery school.’

‘What happened when you grew older?’

‘When I was about fifteen, I realized our mother was much more fond of Pam than she was of me. There was a reason for this. Pamela was better looking and far more talented. She was good at acting, elocution and music. She even fared better in studies. I could feel my mother’s affection moving away from me. She gave Pam all her attention. Our father loved me a lot, but that didn’t seem to make up for the loss of mother’s affection. I felt quite jealous of Pam. And then . . . then that necklace was given to her. I have never felt so let down in my life. I was the elder daughter. It should have come to me. It took me a long time to get over my disappointment.’

‘What about now? Are you still jealous of her?’

‘No. All that’s history now. We are very fond of each other. You saw us yesterday. Did we appear distant?’

‘Not at all.’

‘It’s not just love that I feel for my sister. Sometimes I even feel pity.’

‘Pity? Why is that?’

‘My brother-in-law’s business is not doing well. They are in trouble. Money has become a serious problem.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I am saying this to you in absolute confidence. Pam’s husband has piled up a lot of debts, and is drinking heavily.’

‘But only yesterday they threw a party!’

‘I know. I can’t imagine how they did it. My husband and I were very surprised to receive an invitation.’

‘Perhaps things are better now.’

‘Perhaps. But even two months ago, my sister often used to come to me and tell me of her problems. Sometimes she cried. Besides, their son isn’t . . . you know about their son, I assume?’

‘Yes.’

‘I just hope you’re right and things have improved in their house.’

‘Do you have any idea who might have stolen the necklace?’

‘None whatsoever. It’s a big mystery to me.’

‘Don’t you suspect Prasenjit?’

‘Prasenjit? Pam’s son?’

Mrs Saldanha pondered for a while. Then she said slowly, ‘Perhaps I ought to mention this. When that film was being screened, Prasenjit was sitting next to me. He left his seat during the show. I do not know where he went.’

‘Did you see anyone else move?’

‘No. I was engrossed in the film. I saw it after twenty years.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Saldanha. No more questions.’

We had coffee after this, and left. As we emerged outside, Feluda said, ‘Albert Ratanlal. Then we can call it a day.’

We went to Ratanlal’s flat from the Saldanhas’ house. I was surprised by the opulence that greeted my eyes, in direct contrast to the house we had just left. The flat was large—in fact, very large for one person. The sitting room was filled with expensive furniture and various
objets d’art.
Ratanlal was lounging in a sofa, listening to ghazals on a hi-fi stereo. He was dressed in a silk dressing gown, and a pipe hung from his mouth. The whole room reeked with the smell of attar.

He switched off the stereo as he saw us enter and said, ‘Why, whatever’s the matter?’

‘I have a few questions to ask you, Mr Banerjee,’ Feluda explained, ‘regarding the theft last night. I have to speak to everyone who was present.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Yes. Sukius is the only person left. I’ll go to him tomorrow.’

‘Do you think I might be the thief?’

‘No. But I do think you might help me catch whoever it was.’

‘Mr Mitter, I am not in the least bit interested in the theft.’

‘How can you say that? What was stolen was not just valuable, but such an exquisitely beautiful object. How can you be totally disinterested in it?’

‘It was a gift from the Maharaja of Mysore, so obviously it was expensive. There’s nothing surprising about that.’

‘But it was so precious to your mother!’

‘So what? Look, neither my mother’s jewellery nor her career in films is of any interest to me. I think all films are rotten, certainly silent ones.’

‘What, may I ask, do you do for a living?’

‘Yes, you may. I am the assistant manager in a mercantile firm.’

‘And you cannot help us in any way?’

‘No. I am very sorry, but I have nothing to say to you.’

‘One last question—did you see anyone move during the film show?’

‘No. I wasn’t watching the film, however. It was boring. I saw Sukius come in.’

‘Thank you. Goodbye, Mr Banerjee . . . I see that you’re fond of Indian music, like your grandfather.’

Ratanlal made no comment. He simply switched on the stereo again. We came away.

The next day, Feluda said, ‘Why don’t you two go to Dilkhusha? I have a few things to do. I must make an appointment with Sukius, and also speak to Inspector Pandey.’

Lalmohan Babu and I left after breakfast. Instead of taking a taxi, we took a tonga this time. It was his idea, since he had heard Feluda and I had ridden in tongas during our last visit.

‘Can you tell me the history of this place, dear Tapesh?’ he asked on the way. I told him what I knew: ‘Early in the nineteenth century, Nawab Sadat Ali had this building built, though he did not live here permanently. He brought his friends over sometimes, to have a good time for a few days. It had a most scenic view. Deer roamed in his gardens. Sadly, now the whole place is in ruins, but there is a beautiful park next to it. To the north of Dilkhusha is the famous La Martiniere School. Claude Martin, who was a Major General, built this school in the eighteenth century. You can see it from Dilkhusha.’

It did not take us long to inspect the ruins. ‘It’s like watching history unfold itself!’ Lalmohan Babu enthused. Then we went for a walk in the park, little knowing what an unpleasant experience awaited us.

At first, the park appeared to be empty. Perhaps it was in the
evening that most people came here. We made our way through beds of flowers. Soon, a portion of a bench behind a tree came into view. This was followed by voices. What we saw as we passed the tree made my heart jump.

Prasenjit and a couple of other boys of the same age were sitting on the bench, smoking. Their hair was dishevelled, their eyes looked glazed. Now there could be no doubt that Prasenjit was a drug addict. Unless something was done soon, it would be too late for him to make a comeback. Hard drugs made an addict lose all sense of right and wrong. Sometimes people didn’t even hesitate to kill.

It took Prasenjit a few seconds to notice us. When he did, his lips spread in a slow, cruel smile.

‘I can see the detective’s chamchas. Where’s the super sleuth himself?’ he asked. His voice sounded hoarse, his speech was slurred.

‘He didn’t come with us,’ Lalmohan Babu replied shortly.

‘No? Well, it’s his loss. He missed witnessing this tremendous scene!’

We remained silent.

‘Has the thief been caught?’ Prasenjit’s voice held open contempt. ‘No, not yet.’

‘I am the prime suspect, aren’t I? Because I need money. Everyone knows that. I have to borrow money all the time . . . just for a glimpse of heaven . . . for an hour or two. Listen—I can tell you this—I wouldn’t be foolish enough to steal that necklace. Do you know why? Because I don’t need to. My luck has changed. I’ve been making a lot of money lately. Yes, yes . . . gambling, what else? If I have to borrow money sometimes, it’s only because once you’ve had a taste of heaven, you cannot stop. Why don’t you try it, Mr Thriller Writer? Your writing’s bound to improve . . . you’ll get thousands of new ideas, I promise. Come on, are you game?’

Still we said nothing. What could we say, anyway?

‘Remember just one thing, both of you!’ Prasenjit suddenly leapt to his feet. His voice was still hoarse, but had a sharp edge to it. Before either of us could ask him what he meant, he took out a flick knife from his pocket and pointed it at us. We were both considerably startled by the speed with which the blade sprang out.

‘If I hear that anyone has come to know about my hanging around in this park, I will know who has blabbed. And then you will learn how sharp this knife is. Now clear out from here!’

There was no reason to stay on. We had already seen and heard
too much. Lalmohan Babu and I retraced our steps, found another tonga and returned to our hotel. Neither of us spoke on the way back.

We found Sheela in our room, an autograph book in her hand. She stood up on seeing us.

‘I’d better be going now,’ she said, turning to Feluda. ‘I’ve already taken up quite a lot of your time. Thank you for the autograph. Good luck with your detection!’

When Sheela had gone, Lalmohan Babu described our recent experience. Feluda shook his head sadly. ‘There was something odd about the look in his eyes,’ he said. ‘It was pretty obvious he took drugs. I feel sorry for his parents. A bleak future is all that’s in store for him.’

‘But does that mean it was he who stole the necklace?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

Feluda made no reply. After a brief pause, he suddenly said, ‘Oh by the way, you’ll have to go out again, I am afraid.’

‘Why?’

‘Mr Sukius’s telephone seems to be out of order. We’ll have to go to his house to make an appointment to see him. I would have gone myself, but Sheela turned up. And now I don’t want to go out. I need to think. There’s something shaping up in my mind . . . I have to sit quietly and think it through. If you left now, you might get him at home. Go on, Topshe, call a taxi.’

Lalmohan Babu appeared quite pleased by this. ‘I was getting tired of all those questions,’ he confessed as we climbed into a taxi. ‘Now we’ve got something different to do.’

We found the house easily enough. We told our driver to wait for five minutes and rang the bell. It was a large house. It looked at least fifty years old, but was well maintained. A marble nameplate on the gate bore Sukius’s name.

A bearer opened the door.

‘Is Mr Sukius in?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

‘Yes, sir. May I please have your name?’

‘Tell him Mr Mitter has sent his cousin and his friend to see him. We won’t take long.’

‘Please wait here.’

The bearer disappeared. When he returned less than a minute
later, his whole demeanour had changed. He looked as though he had seen a ghost. His eyes were bulging, his body was trembling and he could barely speak.

‘What’s the matter? What happened?’ we asked in unison. ‘P-p-please c-come with me!’ he managed, motioning us to follow him.

We went through the drawing room to what appeared to be a study. It was packed with glass cases, some filled with books, others with objects of art. In the middle of the room was a big table. Behind it was a revolving chair. Seated on this chair, leaning forward on the table, was Mr Sukius. His head was resting on the table. The back of his white shirt was soaked with blood. Although his eyes were open, I knew he was dead. Rarely had I seen a sight so horrible.

I heard Lalmohan Babu give a gasp. I myself felt quite stupefied. Lalmohan Babu was the first to recover.

‘When did you last see him alive?’ he asked the bearer.

What the poor man mumbled amounted to this: Mr Sukius was in the habit of retiring to this room every morning after breakfast. He had no secretary, so he had to deal with his own correspondence and other paperwork. His bearer had instructions not to disturb him at this time of the day unless it was necessary to do so. This morning, Mr Sukius had had breakfast as usual and then disappeared into his study. The bearer found him like this when he came to inform him of our arrival.

‘Did anyone else come to see him?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

The bearer shook his head vigorously.

There was an open window behind Sukius’s chair. It had no grills. The murderer had undoubtedly gained entry through the window. There was no need for him to have come through the front door.

‘Your telephone isn’t working, is it?’

‘No, sir. It hasn’t been working for two days.’

‘But—’

I interrupted Lalmohan Babu. ‘Never mind about calling the police. Let’s go back and tell Feluda. Let him decide what’s to be done.’

‘OK. Let’s do that.’