‘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?
Seven
Lalmohan Babu’s car arrived the following morning just as we were planning to go out after breakfast. His driver told us he had got held up in Balasore for nearly four hours because of torrential rain, othewise he’d have reached Puri much sooner.
The Neelachal being full, we had booked a room for the driver at the New Hotel, which was not far. He left the car in the car park of our hotel, and went off to find his own room. We told him we might go to Bhubaneshwar later, weather permitting.
Feluda wanted to go to the station to buy a copy of the Statesman. He wasn’t satisfied with the Bengali newspaper the hotel provided. Walking to the station took us about half an hour. By the time we got there, it was eight forty-five. The Jagannath Express from Calcutta had arrived at seven. The Puri Express was late by an hour, but it was expected any minute. I love going to railway stations, and to watch how a quiet and peaceful place can come to life and hum with activity when a train arrives.
Lalmohan Babu found a bookstall. ‘Do you have books by the famous writer, Jatayu?’ he asked. There was, in fact, no need to do this since I could see at least three of his books displayed quite prominently. Feluda bought his newspaper and began leafing through some of the books. At this moment, we heard a voice. ‘Has the latest Mystery Magazine arrived yet?’ it asked. I turned to find Nishith Bose. He hadn’t seen us at first, but when he did, he grinned from ear to ear. ‘Just imagine, here I am buying the Mystery Magazine, when a detective is standing right next to me!’ he exclaimed.
‘How is your boss?’ Feluda asked.
‘Under great stress. People turn up without making an appointment, and then beg me to arrange a meeting. Who knew so many people were interested in old manuscripts?’
‘Why, who else came visiting?’
‘I don’t know his name. He had a beard and he wore dark glasses. He said there was no point in giving his name, since Mr Sen wouldn’t recognize it, but he knew someone who had some manuscripts to sell. So I went and informed Mr Sen, and he said all
right, bring him up to the terrace. I showed him in, then went to my room to type a few letters. In less than three minutes, I heard Mr Sen calling my name. I ran to see what the matter was, and found him looking pale and greatly distressed, almost as though he was about to have a heart attack. All he could say to me was, “Take this man away, at once!” So I took him down the stairs immediately. He had the nerve to say before going, “I think you employer’s heart isn’t all that strong. Get him to see a doctor.” Imagine!’
‘How is he now?’
‘Better, much better.’ Mr Bose glanced at the clock and gave a start. ‘Good heavens, I had no idea it was already so late. I must go now. You’re going to be here for a few days, aren’t you? I’ll tell you everything one day. I have a lot to tell. Goodbye!’
The Puri Express had arrived while we were talking. The guard now blew his whistle and it began pulling out of the platform. Mr Bose disappeared in the crowd.
Feluda had selected a book from the stall and paid for it. I glanced over his shoulder and saw that it was called A Guide to Nepal. On our way back to the hotel, he said, ‘I think it might be a good idea for you and Lalmohan Babu to go to Bhubaneshwar today. Something tells me I ought to remain here. I don’t think anything drastic is going to happen very soon, but there’s something in the air . . . I just don’t like it. Besides, I need to sort a few things out. I must make a phone call to Kathmandu. Let’s straighten all the facts out before they get too muddled.’
I was quite familiar with this mood Feluda was in. He would now withdraw himself totally and stop talking altogether. He would go back to his room and lie flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. When he did this, I had noticed in the past, sometimes he stared into space for three or four minutes without blinking even once. Lalmohan Babu and I usually left him alone at a time like this or spoke in whispers. Going to Bhubaneshwar would be much better, I thought, than just hanging around waiting for Feluda to break his silence. I nodded at Lalmohan Babu, to indicate that we should leave as soon as possible.
We reached our hotel to find Mr Majumdar coming out of it.
‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you!’ he exclaimed. ‘If you returned even a minute later, I’d have missed you.’
‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Mr Majumdar came into our room and sat down, wiping his face. ‘You took my advice, didn’t you?’ Lalmohan Babu asked with a big smile.
‘Yes. Mr Sen reacted exactly as you’d said he might. He jumped as though he’d seen a ghost. Amazing, isn’t it, how he could recognize me despite this thick beard?’
‘There is something very special in your face, Mr Majumdar, that your beard cannot hide,’ Feluda pointed out.
‘What?’
‘Your third eye. It isn’t easy to forget.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I forgot all about it. Anyway, something rather strange happened today. When I saw Mr Sen, I found a man who has aged dramatically in these few months. Why, he looks at least ten years older than what he had seemed in Kathmandu. I felt sorry for him. Yes, truly I did. Now I can put the whole thing behind me. If Mr Sen did try to kill me, I think he has paid for it already.’
‘Good,’ said Feluda, ‘I am glad to hear this, for you couldn’t have got very far without concrete evidence, anyway.’
Mr Majumdar rose. ‘What are your plans now?’ he asked. ‘These two are going to Bhubaneshwar today. I’ll stay on here.’
‘I think I’ll leave Puri tomorrow. I haven’t yet seen the forests of Orissa. I’ll try and meet you again before I go.’
By the time we could leave, it was twelve-thirty. But it was a fine day, and the roads were good. Lalmohan Babu’s driver drove at 80 kmph, which enabled us to reach Bhubaneshwar in exactly forty-two minutes. We went, first of all, to the temple called Raja Rani. A few years ago, the head of a yakshi carved on the wall of this temple had been stolen. Feluda had had to exercise all his brain power to get it back. It sent a shiver of excitement down my spine to see it back where it belonged.
There were dozens of other temples to be seen—Lingaraj, Kedar Gauri, Mukteshwar, Brahmeshwar and Bhaskareshwar, among others. Lalmohan Babu insisted on seeing each one because, he said, one of his school teachers—a very gifted man called Baikuntha Mallik—had written a poem on Bhubaneshwar that haunted him even today. Disregarding the presence of at least forty other tourists (many of them from abroad), he recited this poem for me in the temple of Mukteshwar:
On its walls
does Bhubaneshwar
tell the story of
each sculptor.
Like Michaelangelo
and Da Vinci,
all unsung heroes
of our own country.
‘It doesn’t rhyme very well, does it?’ I couldn’t help saying, ‘I mean, “Bhubaneshwar” hardly goes with “sculptor”, and how can you rhyme “Da Vinci” with “country”?’
‘Free verse, my boy, it’s free verse!’ Lalmohan Babu replied airily. ‘It doesn’t have to rhyme.’
We returned to Puri around seven in the evening. Bhubaneshwar was a nice place, neat and tidy, but I liked Puri much better because of the sea. Our manager, Shyamlal Barik, called out to us as we climbed the front veranda of the Neelachal.
‘Mr Ganguli, there’s a message for you!’
We went quickly to his room.
‘Mr Mitter went out ten minutes ago. He told you to wait in your room.
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘There was a call from the police station. Mr D.G. Sen’s house has been burgled. A very valuable manuscript has been stolen.’
How very strange! Feluda said only this morning he thought something might happen. Who knew it would happen so soon?
Eight
A shower and a cup of tea refreshed me physically, but I felt too restless to sit still. Feluda had now officially begun his investigation. Puri, like so many other places we had gone to on holiday, had given us a mystery to work on. Knowing Feluda’s calibre and his past performance, I was sure we would not go back disappointed.
But, I wondered, would Feluda get paid for his pains? After all, no one had actually hired him in this case. Not that it mattered. If the case was challenging enough and if he got the chance to exercise his brain, Feluda did not really care about money.
‘Who do you suspect, Tapesh?’ asked Lalmohan Babu. Unable to remain in his own room, he had joined me in mine and was pacing up and down, holding his hands behind him.
I said, ‘Well, Nishith Bose had free access to the manuscripts, so he ought to be the prime suspect. But for that reason alone, I don’t think he did it. Then there’s Mr Hingorani. Didn’t he say he wouldn’t give up easily? And there’s Bilas Majumdar. He might have stolen it to settle old scores. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to forgive and forget, after all. But Laxman Bhat—’
‘No, no, no!’ Lalmohan Babu interrupted, protesting violently, ‘Don’t drag Laxman Bhattacharya into this, please. He couldn’t possibly be involved in theft. Why should he even dream of it? Just think of his special power!’
‘Well then, what are your own views on this?’ I asked him.
‘I think the most important man is missing from your list.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Sen himself.’
‘What! Why should he steal his own property?’
‘No, I’m not saying he stole anything. I mean, not this time. That manuscript was stolen, anyway, as Mr Hingorani said. So Mr Sen has sold it to him, for twenty-five thousand; and he’s saying it’s been stolen, to remove suspicion from himself. Don’t you see, now if anyone asks for that particular manuscript, he has a valid reason for saying he hasn’t got it?’
Could this be true? It seemed “a bit far-fetched, but . . . I could think no further, for a room boy arrived at this moment and said there was a phone call for us. It had to be Feluda. I ran downstairs and took the call.
‘Yes?’
‘Did Mr Barik give you my message?’ asked Feluda’s voice. ‘Yes. Bu
t have you been able to work anything out?’
‘Mr Bose has disappeared.’
‘Really? Who informed the police?’
‘I’ll tell you everything when I get back, in half an hour. How was Bhubaneshwar?’
‘Fine. We—’ I couldn’t finish. Feluda had put the phone down.
I returned to my room and told Lalmohan Babu what Feluda had just said. He scratched his head and said, ‘I would like to visit the scene of the crime, but I don’t think your cousin would like that.’
We waited for another hour, but Feluda did not return. I began to feel rather uneasy. A little later, I ordered a fresh pot of tea, just to kill time. Then I did something Feluda had told me many times not to do. In my present state of mind, I simply could not help it. I opened his notebook and read the few entries he had made:
Diabid—gout—snake?—what will return?—why doesn’t he know his son?—blackmail?—who?—why?—who walks with a stick?—
None of this made any sense. We waited for another twenty minutes, then our patience ran out. Lalmohan Babu and I left the hotel to look for Feluda. If he was going to return from Sagarika, we thought, he would probably take the road that ran by the sea. We turned right as we came out of the hotel.
As we began walking, it struck me once more how different the sea looked in the dark. The waves roared with the same intensity as they did during the day, but now they looked kind of eerie. It was the phosphorous in the water that did it. How else could I have watched them lashing the shore even under a cloudy sky? In the far distance, the sky looked a shade brighter, possibly because of the lights from the city. The rows of flickering lights by the beach meant there was a colony of Nulias. Lalmohan Babu had a torch, but there was no need to use it. My feet kept sinking in the sand. Lalmohan Babu was wearing tennis shoes, but I had chappals on my feet. Suddenly, one of these struck against something. I stumbled and fell flat on my face. I must have cried out, for Lalmohan Babu turned quickly with ‘Why, Tapesh, whatever—’ A second later, he went through the same motions and joined me on the ground. ‘Help! Help!’ he cried hoarsely.