‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Suraj Singh turned to Feluda. His face had turned scarlet, he was shaking all over.
‘You . . .’ he muttered, clearly finding it difficult to speak, ‘you . . . were trying to sell me a fake? You scoundrel!’
Feluda appeared totally astounded. ‘I don’t understand!’ he exclaimed. ‘Perhaps Jaichand Boral made a mistake. Maybe it was a fake pearl all along, but he didn’t know it.’
‘Shut up! Put that gun away.’
Feluda lowered his hand.
‘Here’s your stupid pearl!’ Suraj Singh thrust the pearl and the little box into Feluda’s hand.
‘Now get out!’ he barked.
The three of us walked out like three obedient children. I stole a glance at Feluda as we got into the lift. His brows were creased in a deep frown.
It was quite late at night by the time we reached our house in Calcutta two days later. Feluda had barely spoken during the journey.
The next morning, however, I heard him humming under his breath. It was the same song Lalmohan Babu had been forced to sing for Maganlal. He said nothing when I entered his room, but continued to move about restlessly, still humming. I felt quite pleased by this for I hate to see him depressed.
Lalmohan Babu arrived in five minutes. We heard his car toot outside. I opened the door; but before I could say anything, Feluda strode forward to greet him.
‘Good morning!’ he said, folding his hands and bowing low, ‘Please do come in, O Clever One!’
Considerably taken aback, Lalmohan Babu stopped at the threshold and stuttered, ‘D-does this m-mean you have . . .?’
‘Yes, sir. I don’t like being in the dark, Mr Ganguli, so it’s impossible to keep me there for long. I have worked out the truth: you and my dear cousin were in it together, weren’t you? Your own jeweller created the false pearl, right? But how, and when—?’
‘I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you. Oh God, I’ll be glad to make a confession!’ Lalmohan Babu came in and sat down. ‘Please forgive me for doing this, Mr Mitter, and don’t be cross with your cousin, either. He helped me all right, but it wasn’t his idea. You see, when you paid no heed to Maganlal’s threat, I began to feel most concerned. He gave you three days to make up your mind—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. I came back here on Tuesday, remember? You went off to get a haircut. Tapesh found your keys in your absence and opened your safe. Then he passed me Boral’s pearl. I took it to my jeweller immediately, and he made a duplicate the same day. I returned on Wednesday and got Tapesh to slip it back into your safe. What I did was purely out of concern for your welfare, believe me.’
‘I do. It was an admirable plan. Where is the real pearl?’
‘With me, safe and sound. When you told Maganlal it was fake, for a minute I thought you had seen through everything.’
‘No. I would never have thought you capable of such deviousness. I was bluffing before Maganlal and hoping his jeweller would simply say he couldn’t tell if the pearl was genuine. How was I to know the old man would make a mistake and declare that it was?’
‘Jaichand Boral will get a better offer, I am sure.’
‘He already has, from an American millionaire. I found a letter from Someshwar waiting for me. He’s been offered three hundred thousand rupees.’
‘Oh good. I am pleased for him.’
Feluda now turned to me. I braced myself for a sharp tap on my head, or at least a long lecture, but all Feluda did was place his hand very gently on my shoulder.
‘Let me give you a word of advice,’ he said. ‘When you write about this case, do not reveal what the two of you did until you get to the end of the story. It will hold the suspense, and your readers will enjoy your story all the more!’
Dr Munshi’s Diary
One
Today we were having samosas with our tea instead of daalmut. Lalmohan Babu had brought these from a shop that had recently opened in his neighbourhood.
‘It’s a shop called Let’s Eat, and the samosas they make are absolutely out of this world!’ he had told us a few days ago.
Having just demolished the ones he had brought, Feluda and I found ourselves in full agreement.
‘Have you worked out the plot of your next book?’ Feluda asked Jatayu.
‘Yes, sir, including the title: Flummoxed in Florence. My hero, Prakhar Rudra, behaves like Pradosh Mitter in this book.’
‘Really? He’s a lot sharper, is he? And brighter?’ Feluda laughed. ‘You bet!’
‘What about his creator? Is he any smarter?’
‘Well, Felu Babu, all these years of hovering around you was bound to have had some effect.’
‘Yes, but I shall be convinced only if you can pass a test.’
‘A test? What kind of a test?’
‘An observation test. Tell me, do you notice any change in me—or my appearance—since yesterday?’
Lalmohan Babu got up, stepped back and looked carefully at Feluda. After a few seconds of scrutiny, he shook his head. ‘No, I can’t spot any difference at all.’
‘Then you’ve failed, and so has Prakhar Rudra. I cut my nails, after about a month, only minutes before you arrived. If you look at the floor, you’ll find some bits there, shaped like the crescent moon.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see what you mean.’
Lalmohan Babu looked a little crestfallen. Then he perked up and said, ‘Very well. Now you tell me if you can spot any changes in me.’
‘Shall I?’
‘Yes, do.’
Feluda put his empty cup down on a table and picked up his packet of Charminar. Then he said, ‘Number one, you had used Lux until yesterday. Today I can smell Cinthol. A result of ads on TV?’
‘Yes, quite right. Anything else?’
‘You are wearing a new kurta. The top button is open, presumably because you found it difficult to insert it in the buttonhole. Normally all your buttons are in place.’
‘Correct!’
‘There’s more.’
‘What else?’
‘You take garlic every morning, don’t you? I can smell it as soon as you come and sit here. Today I can’t.’
‘Yes, I know. My servant gets it ready for me, but today he forgot. He’s getting quite careless. I had to have a stern word with him. Garlic is a wonderful substance, Felu Babu. I’ve been taking it regularly since ’86. My whole system—’
Before he could continue this eulogy on garlic, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a young man of about the same age as Feluda. Feluda stood up.
‘Please come in,’ he said.
‘Are you—?’
‘Yes, I am Pradosh Mitter.’
The man sat down on a sofa and said, ‘My name is Shankar Munshi. You may have heard of my father, Dr Rajen Munshi.’
‘The psychiatrist?’
‘Yes.’
‘I seem to have read something on him recently. Wasn’t there a press report with his photograph?’
‘Yes, you’re quite right. You see, my father has kept a diary for over forty years. It is now going to be published by Penguin as a book. Father is well known as a psychiatrist, but there is a different area in which he has had quite a lot of experience: shikar. He gave up hunting twenty-five years ago, but he recorded his experiences in his diary. Penguin haven’t yet seen any of it, but have offered to publish it since the diary of a psychiatrist who is also a shikari is bound to be something unique. However, they do know that my father has been writing interesting articles in medical journals, so in his own way he is already an established writer.’
‘Was it your idea to have that report published in the press?’
‘No, that was done by the publishers.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway, let me now tell you why I am here. My father has always been very proud of the fact that he has only recorded the unvarnished truth in his diary. In talking about some of his cases, he has mentioned three men, although he has used just the first let
ter of their names. These are A, G and R. All three are now successful and well known in society. Many years ago, they had all done something terribly wrong, but they managed to evade the law. None of them was caught. Since my father has not used their full names, he is safe and knows he cannot be sued. Still, he rang them as soon as Penguin made their offer, and told them he was going to write about all three cases. A and G were initially not very happy about this; but when Father explained that their true identity was not going to be revealed, they gave their consent, albeit a little reluctantly. R raised no objection at all.
‘Yesterday, as we were sitting down to have lunch, our bearer brought him a letter which had just been delivered. He grew so grave upon reading it that I had to ask him what was wrong. That was when he told me about these three people. Until then, I had had no idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my father never spoke about his patients or his diary. He . . . he’s a bit peculiar. All he has ever seemed to care about is his work. My mother, myself, our family . . . none of this appears to have any meaning for him. My own mother died when I was three. Then my father remarried, but he and my stepmother are not very close, either. In fact, my stepmother, too, has always held herself a little aloof from me. I used to be looked after by an old servant when I was a child. So I grew up rather distant from both parents. The good thing was that if I didn’t get my father’s love, I didn’t get any interference from him, either. I was free to do what I liked, without any parental supervision or control.’
‘And you didn’t read his diary?’
‘No. No one has read it.’
‘I see. Going back to this letter, was it from one of these three people your father spoke to?’
‘Yes, yes. Look, here it is.’
Shankar Munshi took out an envelope and passed it to Feluda. Lalmohan Babu and I stood behind him and read the letter when Feluda took it out. It was signed A. It said, ‘I take back my word. If you get your diary published, you’ll have to delete the portions in which you’ve mentioned me. This is not a request, but a command. If you do not obey it, you will pay for it, very heavily.’
‘I have a question for you. How did your father get to know what these people did?’
‘That’s a rather interesting story. All three got away with what they had done, but their own conscience began to trouble them. A deep regret for their action, combined with a fear of making a slip somewhere and being caught out turned them into psychiatric cases. My father had made quite a name for himself, so all three came to him for treatment. Naturally, they had to tell him exactly what had happened and the reason for their fear. Without knowing these details, my father could not have treated them. In time, they recovered and went back to leading normal lives.’
‘Is A the only person to have threatened your father?’
‘Yes, so far. But my father’s not too sure about G. He may well do the same.’
‘Do you know what terrible crimes these men are supposed to have committed?’
‘No; nor do I know their real names, or what they are now doing. But I am sure my father will tell you what he has never told me, or anyone else.’
‘Did he ask to see me?’
‘Yes, certainly, that’s why I am here. One of his patients mentioned your name. He asked me if I had heard of you, so I said you were very well-known in your profession. At this, Father said, “A good detective has to be a good student of psychology. I’d like to speak to Mr Mitter. A threat like this is going to cause a great deal of disturbance—that’s the last thing I want right now.” So here I am. Do you think you can come to our house at ten o’clock on Sunday?’
‘Yes, of course. I’d be glad to help, if I can.’
‘Good. We’ll see you on Sunday. Our address is 7 Swinhoe Street, and the house is called Munshi Palace.’
Two
Seven Swinhoe Street did not seem to be the house of a doctor at all. Close to the front door stood a Royal Bengal tiger, over which the head of a bison was fixed on the wall.
Shankar Munshi met us downstairs, then took us to their living room on the first floor. The walls of this room also bore evidence of Dr Munshi’s years as a shikari. How did he get the time to kill so many animals if he was a busy doctor?
He arrived in less than a minute. All his hair had turned white, I noted, but he was still quite strong and agile. He shook Feluda’s hand and said, ‘You appear very fit. You do physical exercises every day, don’t you? Good, good. I am so glad you decided not to neglect your body even if you have to use your brain so much more in your job.’
Then he glanced at us. Feluda made the introductions.
‘Are these people trustworthy?’ Dr Munshi asked. ‘Absolutely,’ Feluda replied. ‘Tapesh is my cousin and Mr Ganguli is a very close friend.’
‘I see. I have to make sure, you see, because today I am going to tell you who the three men are, about whom I have written in my diary. I know you cannot help me unless you know the truth, but I don’t want another soul to hear of it.’
‘Please don’t worry about it, sir,’ Lalmohan Babu reassured him. ‘No one will learn anything from us.’
‘Very well.’
‘We have already heard about the written threat,’ Feluda said. ‘Something else has happened, Mr Mitter. I received a verbal threat as well, on the telephone last night at around half past eleven. He was totally drunk, I think. It was Higgins. George Higgins.’
‘The G in your diary?’
‘Yes. He said, “I was a fool to accept what you told me. I am still running the same business that I used to when I went to you for treatment. In my field, I am virtually the only man who runs such a business. So loads of people are likely to recognize me simply from my initial. Leave me out of your book.” I could hardly reason with a drunkard. So I put the phone down. I can see that talking to these people on the phone won’t do. I really ought to visit them and have a face-to-face chat. But I am so busy with my patients every day that I don’t think I shall ever find the time. That’s why I’d like you to see them on my behalf. You’ll have to visit only A and G. I’ve spoken to
R. He doesn’t think anyone will recognize him just from his initial.’
‘I see. Who are these three people?’
‘Have you got a pen and piece of paper?’
Feluda took out his notebook and his pen.
‘A stands for Arun Sengupta,’ Dr Munshi went on. ‘He is the general manager of McNeil Company, and the vice president of Rotary Club. He lives at 11 Roland Road. You’ll get his telephone number from the directory.’
Feluda noted everything down quickly.
‘G is George Higgins,’ said Dr Munshi. ‘His business is to catch wild animals and export them abroad for foreign television. His address is 90 Ripon Street. He is an Anglo-Indian. I am not going to tell you who R is, unless it becomes absolutely necessary to do so.’
‘What crime did A and G commit?’
‘Look, I’ll let you take my manuscript and read it. Read the whole thing, and then tell me if you think I have written anything so damaging about anyone that they can sue me.’
‘Very well. In that case—’ Feluda had to stop, for three men had entered the room. Dr Munshi introduced them.
‘These people live with me, apart from my wife and my son. All of them wanted to meet you when they heard you were coming. This is my secretary, Sukhamoy Chakravarty; and this is my brother-in-law, Chandranath.’
Sukhamoy Chakravarty was probably no more than forty. He wore glasses. Chandranath was much older, possibly in his mid-fifties. For some reason, he looked as if he didn’t have a job or an income of his own and that he merely lived with the Munshis.
‘And this is one of my patients, Radhakanta Mallik. He’s still under treatment. He’ll remain here until he recovers fully.’
Radhakanta Mallik—a man in his late thirties—seemed oddly restless, blinking every now and then and cracking his knuckles. Why was he so nervous? If that was his ailment,
he seemed a long way from recovery.
After greetings had been exchanged, Mr Mallik and Chandranath left, but Sukhamoy Chakravarty remained in the room. ‘Please get my manuscript and give it to Mr Mitter,’ Dr Munshi told his secretary. Mr Chakravarty went out and returned in a couple of minutes, carrying a thick, heavy envelope.
‘That is the only copy,’ Dr Munshi told us. ‘Sukhamoy will type it out before we pass it on to the publishers.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle it very carefully. I am fully aware of its value,’ Feluda replied.
We rose to take our leave. Shankar Munshi saw us off at the front door. We got into Lalmohan Babu’s green Ambassador and left. On our way back, Lalmohan Babu spoke suddenly: ‘I have a request, Felu Babu!’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘I want to read that manuscript after you. You’ll have to lend it to me for a couple of days, please don’t say no.’
‘Why are you so keen?’
‘I love reading tales of shikar. I find them quite irresistible . . . please, Felu Babu, do not refuse.’
‘All right. You may take it, but only for a day. Dr Munshi stopped going on shikar after 1965. A day should be enough to read the chapters where he speaks of animals and hunting. Remember, Lalmohan Babu, you must return the manuscript the day after you take it home.’
‘OK, OK, I won’t forget. I promise!’
Three
Although Dr Munshi’s writing was quite clear and legible, it took Feluda three days to finish reading his manuscript, which ran to 375 pages. But the delay was partly due to the fact that Feluda had to stop every now and then to make notes in his own notebook.
On the fourth day, Lalmohan Babu turned up.
‘Have you finished?’ he asked as soon as he stepped in.
‘Yes.’
‘So what is your view? Is it safe to publish that book as it stands?’
‘Absolutely. But what I think is not going to make any difference to those men who are convinced they are going to be recognized. I don’t think they’ll stop at anything to prevent its publication.’