‘Mr Batra has gone out, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘A very important person rang him this morning, you see. He wanted to see our new bungalow in the Rapti valley. So Mr Batra had to go with him. But he did tell me you might need a car. I can arrange one quite easily.’
‘Thank you. But could you please tell us who this important person was?’
‘Certainly. It was Mr Meghraj. He’s staying at the Oberoi. A very important art dealer.’
Lalmohan Babu clutched my hand. The very mention of Meghraj’s name had brought him to his senses. But Mr Batra? Who could have known he would fall into Maganlal’s trap so soon?
‘How long does it take to get to your bungalow?’ Feluda asked. ‘You will need to go via Hetaora—that’s 150 km. You might wish to stop for lunch in Hetaora. Our bungalow is new, you see, so the kitchen isn’t ready yet. Turn right as you come out of Hetaora and go along the river for three kilometres. You’ll find our bungalow there, in the middle of the jungle. It’s a beautiful spot.’
‘I see. Could you have a car pick us up from the hotel in half an hour?’
‘Very well, sir. No problem!’
‘You two go back to the hotel and wait for me. I have to go to Darbar Square. I won’t be long,’ Feluda said as we came out of Sun Travels.
The car arrived in twenty minutes. Feluda took twenty-five. ‘Had to go to Freak Street,’ he explained.
‘Where is that?’
‘Not very far. That’s where most hippies stay.’
In five minutes, we were on our way to Hetaora. Feluda had his notebook open and was studying its entries, frowning deeply. Lalmohan Babu had been restored to his normal self, although I noticed he had a strangely tranquil air, suggesting he was totally at peace with the world. Looking at the scenery, he made only one comment: ‘I had double vision yesterday. Now I can see only one of everything.’
Feluda looked up at this and said with a slightly preoccupied air, ‘That is true. But then, so is its reverse.’
I found this remark extremely mystifying.
We had climbed four thousand feet from Kathmandu. Snow-capped peaks were clearly in view. Soon, it became necessary to take out woollen mufflers, and drink the hot coffee we had brought in a flask.
Half an hour later, we began climbing down, making our way to the Shivalik hills. The Rapti valley and the town of Hetaora were not far.
‘Topshe, do you know Batra’s first name?’ Feluda asked suddenly, closing his notebook.
‘No. He never told us, did he?’
‘He didn’t. But you should have noticed the name-plate on his desk. It’s Anantlal Batra.’
When we reached Hetaora, it was nearly 2 p.m. None of us felt hungry, so we didn’t stop for lunch. ‘What is food at a moment like this?’ asked Lalmohan Babu. ‘It is nothing!’
The driver drove on, turning right from the highway. I could now see the river Rapti gushing through the trees. The road we were on was lined with tall trees on both sides. I couldn’t get over the fact that we were actually passing through the famous Terai, which was well-known for its vicious wild animals. I had read such a lot about it! After the sepoy mutiny in 1857; Nana Saheb was supposed to have taken refuge in its leafy depths, together with all his men.
We took another right turn, which brought us to a dirt road. A few minutes later, we saw the bungalow. A large area had been cleared to build it. It had a sizeable compound. Our car passed through the gate and went up a cobbled driveway. Then it stopped just before the front door.
I realized how quiet the place was as soon as our driver switched off the engine. He then got out and moved towards the garage. I could see another car parked there. We too got out of the car and went into the house. The front door was open.
‘Come in, Mr Mitter!’
It wasn’t difficult to recognize the deep voice of Maganlal Meghraj. We walked into the living room. There were two settees. The floor was covered by a Tibetan carpet. A radio stood on a small table on one side, and on a shelf were a few books and magazines.
Maganlal was sitting on one of the settees, eating puri-sabzi from a tiffin carrier. A servant stood waiting with a towel and a bowl of water. There was no one else in the room.
‘I knew you’d come,’ he said, wiping his hands. By this time, we were all seated. ‘I also know why you’ve come,’ Maganlal went on, ‘but I am going to win this round. You can’t have it your way each time, can you?’ Feluda did not speak.
‘I haven’t forgotten the humiliation you caused me in Benaras, Mr Mitter. I am going to pay you back.’
I could hear a funny thudding noise coming from one of the rooms to our right. God knows what was causing it.
‘Where is Mr Batra?’ asked Feluda calmly, ignoring Maganlal’s threat.
Maganlal clicked his tongue. ‘Very sorry, Mr Mitter. I told you Jagdeesh was my right hand. One needs only one right hand, doesn’t one? I saw no reason to have two.’
‘You did not answer my question. Where is he?’
‘Batra is still alive. He’ll be safe during the day. But who knows what might happen at night? There is a law against destroying wild-life. But tell me, have you ever heard of a law protecting a man from hungry wild animals?’
‘Why did you leave Kathmandu, Maganlalji? Do you know what’s happening there today?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Your factory in Patan and warehouse in Kathmandu are both being ransacked by the police.’
Maganlal burst into laughter. His massive body swayed from side to side. ‘What kind of a fool do you take me for, Mr Mitter? The police will find nothing, absolutely nothing! The warehouse in the pig alley is empty, and all that is now being made in Patan are handicrafts. Perfectly genuine handicrafts. I have brought all my stuff with me, Mr Mitter. Didn’t you see lorries going to India through Hetaora? They carry timber; and some of them, Mr Mitter, carry what I wish to have hidden in the timber. Yes, that is how I send fake drugs to India. Mind you, most of my work is done in India by Indians. Labels, capsules, ampoules, phials—they all come from India. The rest is done here, for Nepalis work harder—and better—than Indians.’
Maganlal stopped. I could hear crickets outside, making a racket. But what was that noise—?
Jagdeesh lifted a colourful embroidered curtain and came in, a revolver in his left hand. He stood mutely, pointing it at Feluda.
‘Get up!’ Maganlal ordered. We rose slowly.
‘Raise your hands.’ We did.
‘Ganga! Kesri!’
Two other men came in and began to search us. One of them found Feluda’s revolver and handed it to Maganlal.
The thudding noise seemed to have grown louder and more insistent. Maganlal looked faintly annoyed and said, ‘I am sorry, Mr Mitter, but I had to get hold of another friend of yours. He was trying to get our drugs analysed and create more problems for us. So naturally he had to be stopped.’
‘Will you feed him to the animals, too?’
‘No, no, Mr Mitter.’ Maganlal grinned. ‘I can use him to my own advantage. It’s very useful to have a doctor to turn to. My heart—’
Before he could finish speaking, a number of things happened all at once. The two men called Ganga and Kesri had left the room. Now they came back carrying thick ropes. At this moment, a car drew up outside. Jagdeesh promptly removed the safety catch of his revolver; but Feluda was too quick for him. He leapt up in the air and kicked the revolver out of Jagdeesh’s hand. But somehow the gun went off. A bullet shot out and hit the ceiling fan, making it spin.
In these few seconds, as if by magic, a large number of men had appeared out of nowhere. I couldn’t recognize any of them, but could tell that they were all policemen in plain clothes from both India and Nepal. One of them grabbed Jagdeesh and pinned him against the wall.
Maganlal was on his feet, glaring with smouldering eyes. ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare!’ he hissed.
‘We’ll deal with you in a minute, Maganlalji,’ Feluda said, ‘but first, let me
get something settled.’ He turned to Jagdeesh. ‘I couldn’t see your fingers properly because you were holding that gun,’ said Feluda, ‘but now . . . yes, I can see that two of your fingers have got ink on them. Are you still using that same old pen that leaks, Mr Batra?’
‘Shut up, Mr Mitter!’ shouted Maganlal. ‘Just shut up! Jagdeesh is my—’
‘Not Jagdeesh. Batra—Anantlal Batra—is your right hand. There is no Jagdeesh; nor is there a second Mr Batra. It’s the same man. I’m sure the police can make him remove his contact lenses. There is something he doesn’t yet know. His house was searched this morning after he left. The police found a lot of counterfeit money, which—no doubt—used to be produced in your factory in Patan.’
An officer from the Nepal Police brought out a large bundle of hundred-rupee notes. Batra went white.
‘You made one false move in Calcutta, Mr Batra,’ Feluda told him. ‘In trying to establish that there were two Batras, you bought a kukri at the gift shop in your hotel and gave them a fake note. But you could not take it back, since later you had to pretend to be totally innocent. So the shop passed it on to the police. The number on it was the same as the number on all the notes they found in your house.’
Batra looked as though he wanted to sink through the floor. But Maganlal had not given up.
‘I warn you, Mr Mitter—’ he began.
‘You’re talking too much!’ Feluda interrupted him. ‘I must do something to keep you quiet. Topshe, get the man!’
I was quite willing to do this, but noticed, to my surprise, that Lalmohan Babu seemed much more keen to grab Maganlal and push him down on the sofa. He wriggled a lot, but the two of us held him back.
Feluda, in the meantime, had taken out two objects from his pocket. One of them was a sugar cube. This explained why he had gone to Freak Street. He forced it into Maganlal’s mouth and made him swallow it.
The second object was a roll of cellotape. Feluda tore a portion of it and sealed Maganlal’s mouth with it.
Finally, he put his hand inside his jacket pocket and brought out something that looked like a cigarette case. He handed it to one of the police officers and said, ‘I had switched on this mini cassette recorder the minute we stepped into this room. You will get a lot of information from it, given by Mr Meghraj himself.’
Twelve
‘I believe Batra came into contact with Maganlal through his job as a PRO,’ said Feluda.
We were sitting at a restaurant, on our way back to Kathmandu, having coffee and sandwiches. With us were Dr Divakar, Inspector Sharma of the Nepal Police and Inspector Joardar from Calcutta. We had found Dr Divakar in one of the rooms in the bungalow. His hands and feet were tied, and he had been gagged. But that had not stopped him from stamping his feet, making that thudding noise we had heard.
According to what Dr Divakar told the police this morning, Batra had called at his house and picked him up, saying there was an emergency case needing his attention. He had then collected Maganlal and the two men had forced him to go to the bungalow with them.
Maganlal and his men were now back in Kathmandu, all under arrest. I was dying to know how he’d react to the LSD, but knew I’d have to wait until tomorrow to find out.
Feluda was still speaking. ‘Maganlal knew an educated, intelligent man like Batra would be very useful to him. So he got him to join his gang. When he came to know Anikendra Som was making enquiries, he realized Som had to be got out of the way. He chose Batra for this task. Batra took the same plane from Kathmandu as Som, and managed to get talking with him, although he later denied this. We found one sentence in Mr Som’s notebook that said, “Find out about AB”. I had thought at first that meant antibiotics, but the minute I learnt Batra’s first name was Anantlal, I realized Som was referring to him. It could be that something Batra said made him suspicious.’
Feluda paused to take a sip from his cup, and continued, ‘It now looks as though Mr Som had mentioned to Batra that he was going to meet me. Batra knew who I was. So he could guess that should Som get killed, I would be asked to make an investigation. He didn’t know then that we would run into each other purely by accident. But when we did, the idea of creating a “double” occurred to him immediately. I have to admit it was a very clever idea. He happened to have bought a blue shirt just before he met me, which, in fact, he was still carrying in a plastic bag. Soon after we parted, he must have gone into a shop for readymade garments and changed into the blue shirt in one of their fitting rooms. Then he deliberately walked past us, pretending never to have seen me in his life. The next day, he staged a little drama in the gift shop, and came to my house in the evening to convince me of the existence of this “double”. The day after that, he left his hotel very early in the morning in a taxi, went to Mr Som’s hotel at five and killed him. Then he went to the airport and caught his flight to Kathmandu at nine o’clock. He left the kukri behind to make me think that the murderer was the “fake” Mr Batra.’
‘When did you first begin to have doubts?’ asked Inspector Joardar.
‘Well, you see, when I first met him, he got me to write down my address in his notebook. This was necessary, since he would have had to use his left hand if he wrote it himself. Now, that would have spoilt things, for he was then trying to establish that it was the other Batra who was left-handed. But I noticed something odd about the nib of his fountain pen. If a left-handed person uses a fountain pen, he holds it at a certain angle and the nib gets worn. A right-handed person then finds it difficult to write with the same pen. I felt the same difficulty, but paid no attention at the time. When I saw that the murderer of Mr Som was left-handed, my suspicions were roused and I felt I should probe into the matter a bit further in Kathmandu. But I did not know then that it was a case of two murders, not one.’
‘Two murders?’ Lalmohan Babu couldn’t hide his amazement. We all stared. Which was the second murder? What was Feluda talking about?
But Feluda said nothing. Finally, Dr Divakar broke the silence. ‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘I did get a sample of anti-tetanus serum from my dispensary and had it tested. It turned out to be just plain water. I was going to call on Mr Mitter and tell him personally, but I never got the chance. Those who deal with spurious drugs certainly deserve to be called murderers. I agree with Mr Mitter.’
‘But, Dr Divakar, I am not talking of spurious drugs,’ said Feluda. This time, even the doctor looked startled. ‘Then what are you talking about?’ he asked.
‘I’ll explain that in a minute. Before that I wish to mention something else. Three years ago, Himadri Chakravarty had exposed a gang of criminals. His father told us he was working on catching another group meddling with medicines and drugs. If he succeeded, Maganlal and his men would have been in deep trouble. So obviously Maganlal had a strong motive for getting him out of the way.’
‘But how?’
‘That was fairly simple. Maganlal got a doctor to help him.’
‘A doctor?’ Dr Divakar frowned.
‘Yes.’
‘Who? Which doctor do you mean?’
‘A doctor who has suddenly come into a lot of money. He’s now got a new house and a new car. He wears an expensive watch, glasses with golden frames . . .’
‘What utter nonsense are you—?’
‘—A doctor who looks at a mere scratch and gives an anti-tetanus shot, although he knows it is totally unnecessary. Do you think, Dr Divakar, that I didn’t see through your clever ploy? All that business of getting yourself tied up and gagged was just an act, wasn’t it? You are a member of Maganlal’s team, aren’t you? Just like Batra?’
Dr Divakar was actually trembling with rage. ‘How is it possible, Mr Mitter, to kill with plain water?’ he shouted.
‘Not plain water, doctor. But it is easy enough to kill with poison. You used strychnine, didn’t you? The symptoms Himadri showed once the injection had been given were very similar to symptoms of tetanus. Inspector Joardar, am I right?’
The inspec
tor nodded gravely.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘strychnine causes convulsions and other symptoms not very different from tetanus.’
Dr Divakar had risen to his feet. The inspector’s words made him sink back into the chair, then roll off it and slip to the floor, his face hidden in his hands.
Our story ended here. But three things happened later which I ought to add.
One—the sugar cube Maganlal was made to swallow caused him much discomfort. He was reported to have scratched the walls of his cell like a cat for three hours continuously. Then he mistook a floorcloth for a plate of rubri, and chewed it to shreds.
Two—Feluda was given a cash reward by the government of Nepal for unearthing not just those who were producing spurious drugs, but also those involved in making counterfeit money. The amount given was not insubstantial—we had a fair bit left over even after meeting all our expenses.
Three—Lalmohan Babu urged me, more than once, to call our adventure in Kathmandu ‘Om Manipadmey Hoomicide’. When I told him that would be going a bit overboard, he said ‘Hoommmm!’ and sat twirling his prayer wheel, looking positively put out.
Napoleon’s Letter
One
‘Are you Feluda?’
The question wafted up from somewhere near Feluda’s waist.
A little boy of about six was standing next to Feluda, tilting his head to look up at him. Only a few days ago, one of the local dailies had published an interview with Feluda, with a photograph that showed him sitting with a Charminar in his hand. As a result, people now recognized him nearly everywhere, almost as if he was a film star. Today, we were at the Hobby Centre at the corner of Park Street and Russell Street. It sold many interesting things, apart from toys and goldfish. Our Uncle Sidhu was soon going to turn seventy. Feluda had decided to come to the Hobby Centre to look for a good chess set for him.
Feluda placed a hand gently on the boy’s head. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said.