‘But the driver? What about him?’
‘He had been bribed. I’m sure of it.’
‘Or the driver himself might have killed him?’
‘No, that’s unlikely. He wouldn’t have had a sufficiently strong motive.’
Feluda rose. ‘Let’s get back, Topshe. We must find SKM 463.’ But SKM 463 was not in Gangtok, as it turned out. It had left for Siliguri the day before. ‘I think people want to hire it because it’s a new jeep,’ Feluda remarked.
‘What do we do now?’
‘Wait, let me think. I’m getting muddled.’
We returned to the hotel from the jeep stand. Feluda ordered cold drinks in the dining hall. His hair was dishevelled and he seemed greatly perturbed.
‘When did we arrive here?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Fourteenth April.’
‘And when was Shelvankar killed?’
‘On the eleventh.’
‘Apart from Shelvankar, Mr Sarkar was here in Gangtok, and Helmut and Dr Vaidya.’
‘And Virendra.’
‘All right, let us make that assumption. When did Mr Sarkar get that Tibetan warning?’
‘On the night of the fourteenth.’
‘Right. Who was in town that day?’
‘Helmut, Mr Bose, Virendra, and . . . and . . .’
‘Mr Sarkar.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘He may well have committed a crime. Maybe he is trying to remove suspicion from himself by showing us a piece of paper with a Tibetan word written on it. He may have written it himself. His shrieks for help in Rumtek could have been a clever piece of acting.’
‘But what can he have done?’
‘I don’t know that yet, though I don’t think he killed Shelvankar.’
‘Well then, who is left?’
‘Dr Vaidya. Don’t forget him. We don’t know for sure whether he did go to Kalimpong or not.’
Feluda finished a glass of Sikkim orange in one gulp. Then he continued, ‘The only person whose movements cannot be questioned is Mr Bose, because he came with us and went to Bombay the next day. Someone in his house confirmed that he had indeed returned to Bombay. But he’s not there now. Maybe he’s on his way here. Perhaps our trip to Pemiangchi—’ Feluda stopped speaking. Someone had walked into the dining hall and was talking to the manager. It was our German friend, Helmut Ungar. The manager pointed at us. Helmut wheeled around. ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t realize you were here,’ he said, adding rather hesitantly, ‘There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. Do you think we could go up to your room?’
Ten
‘May I close the door?’ asked Helmut as we walked into our room. Then he shut the door without waiting for an answer. I looked at him and began to feel vaguely uneasy. He was tall and strong, taller than Feluda by at least an inch. What did he want to do that required such secrecy? I had heard that some hippies took drugs. Was Helmut one of them? Would he—?
By this time, Helmut had placed his camera on my bed, and was opening a large red envelope with Agfa written on it.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Feluda offered.
‘No, thanks. I came here only to show you these photos. I couldn’t get them printed here. So I had sent them to Darjeeling. I got the enlargements only this morning.’
Helmut took out the first photograph. ‘This was taken from the North Sikkim Highway. The road where the accident took place goes right across to the opposite hill. You can get a wonderful view of Gangtok from there. That is where I was that morning, taking photos of this view. Mr Shelvankar had offered to pick me up on his way. But his jeep never got to the spot where I was standing. I heard a noise as I was clicking, which made me turn around. What I saw from where I was standing has been captured in these photos that I took with my telephoto lens.’
It was a strange photo. Most of the details were clear, although it had been taken from a distance. A jeep was sliding down a hill. A few feet above it, a man was standing on the road, looking at the falling jeep. This was probably the driver. He was wearing a blue jacket. His face couldn’t be seen
Helmut took out the second photo. This was even stranger. Taken a few seconds after the first one, it showed the jeep lying wrecked by the side of the hill. Next to it, behind a bush, there was a partially hidden figure of a man in a dark suit, lying on the ground. The driver was still standing on the road, this time with his back to the camera, looking up at the hill. Right on top of the hill was another man, bending over a rock. His face was just as unclear, but he was wearing red clothes.
In the third photograph, this man in red could not be seen at all. The driver was running—in fact, he had nearly shot out of the frame. The jeep and the man in the dark suit were still lying on the ground. And the rock that was on top of the hill was now lying on the road, broken to pieces.
‘Remarkable!’ Feluda exclaimed. ‘I have never seen photographs like these!’
‘Well, it isn’t often that one gets such an opportunity,’ Helmut replied dryly.
‘What did you do after taking these pictures?’
‘I returned to Gangtok on foot. By the time I could walk across to the spot where the jeep had fallen, Mr Shelvankar had been taken away. All I could see was the broken jeep and the shattered rock. I heard about the accident the minute I reached Gangtok. I then went straight to the hospital where Mr Shelvankar had been taken. He remained alive for a couple of hours after I got there.’
‘Didn’t you tell anyone, about the photographs?’
‘No. There was no point, at least not until I could have the film developed, and use it as evidence. Yet, I knew it was not an accident, but murder. Had I been a little closer, the face of the murderer might have been clearer in the picture.’
Feluda took out a magnifying glass and began examining the large prints again. ‘I wonder if that man in red is Virendra?’ he said.
‘That’s impossible!’ Helmut declared. There was something in his voice that made us both look at him in surprise.
‘Why? How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I am Virendra Shelvankar.’
‘What!’ For the first time, I saw Feluda go round-eyed.
‘What do you mean? How can you be Virendra? You are white, you have blue eyes, you speak English with a German accent, your name . . .’
‘Please let me explain. You see, my father married twice. My mother was his first wife. She was a German. She met my father in Heidelburg when he was a student. That was where they got married. Her maiden name was Ungar. When I left India and settled in Germany, I started using this name, and changed my first name from Virendra to Helmut.’
My head started reeling. Helmut was Shelvankar’s son? Of course, if he had a German mother, that would explain his looks.
‘Why did you leave home?’ Feluda asked after a brief pause. ‘Five years after my mother died, my father married again. I couldn’t bring myself to accept this. I loved my mother very much. It’s not that I did not care for my father, but somehow when he remarried, I began to hate him. In the end, I thought leaving home was the only thing I could do to solve my problems. It wasn’t easy to travel to Europe on my own, and make a new beginning. For about eight years, I moved from place to place, and job to job. Then I studied photography, and finally started to make money. A few years ago, I happened to be in Florence working on an assignment. A friend of my father’s saw me there and recognized me. He came back and told my father about it, after which he approached a detective agency to track me down. When I came to know about this, I grew a beard and changed the colour of my eyes.’
‘Contact lenses?’
Helmut smiled and took the lenses out of his eyes. His real eyes were brown, just like my own. He then put the lenses back and continued, ‘A year ago, I came to India with a group of hippies. I hadn’t stopped loving this country. But then I realized that the detective agency was still trying to trace me. I went to a monastery in Kathmandu. When someone found me even there, I came
over to Sikkim.’
‘Wasn’t your father pleased to see you?’
‘He did not recognize me at all. I have lost a lot of weight since he last saw me. Besides, my long hair, my beard and blue eyes must have all worked together to stop him from recognizing his own son. He told me about Virendra, and how much he missed him. By this time, I, too, had forgotten my earlier dislike of my father. After all, whatever happened between us was now in the past. But when he failed to recognize me, I did not tell him who I was. I probably would have told him eventually, but. . . well, I never got the chance.’
‘Do you have any idea who the murderer might be?’
‘May I speak frankly?’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t think we should let Dr Vaidya escape.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Feluda, lowering his voice.
‘I began to suspect him the minute he mentioned the name of Virendra that evening in my room. Obviously, he didn’t know I was the same person. I think he is a first class cheat, and I bet it was he who took that statue.’
‘When Mr Shelvankar set out that morning, was he alone?’
‘I don’t know. I left quite early, you see. Dr Vaidya may well have stopped the jeep on the way and asked for a lift. Naturally, at that stage, my father had no reason to suspect him. In any case, he was a simple man. He trusted everyone.’
Feluda stood up and began pacing. Then he stopped abruptly and said, ‘Would you like to go to Pemiangchi with us?
‘Yes. I am prepared to go anywhere to catch my father’s killer.’
‘Do you know how far it is?’
‘About a hundred miles from here. If the roads are good, we can get there in less than six hours. I think we should leave today, as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll try to find a jeep.’
‘OK, and I’ll get rooms booked at the dak bungalow in Pemiangchi. By the way—’ Helmut turned back from the doorway, ‘a dangerous man like him may well be armed. I have nothing except a flashgun. Do you—?’
Without a word, Feluda slipped a hand inside his suitcase and brought out his revolver. ‘And here’s my card,’ he said, handing one of his cards of Helmut. ‘Pradosh C. Mitter, Private Investigator’, it said.
Unfortunately, we couldn’t get a jeep that day. The few there were had all been hired by American tourists for a day trip to Rumtek. We booked one for the next morning and spent the day walking around in the streets of Gangtok.
We ran into Mr Sarkar near the main market. ‘We’re going to Pemiangchi tomorrow,’ Feluda told him. ‘Would you like to join us?’
‘Oh sure. Thanks!’
In the evening, he came to our room carrying a strange object. A small white bundle was tied at the end of a stick. ‘I bet you can’t guess what this is,’ he said, beaming. ‘This is actually used to get rid of leeches. This small bundle contains salt and tobacco. If a leech attaches itself to your foot, just rub it once with this stick and it’s bound to drop off.’
‘But how can a leech attack anyone through heavy leather boots and nylon socks?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ve seen leeches slip through even very thick layers of clothes. The funny thing about leeches is that they can’t see. Suppose a number of people were walking in single file, no leech would attack the person at the head of the file. It would simply pick up the vibrations created by his movements. Then it would get ready to strike as the second person passed it by; and for the third, there would be no escape at all. He would definitely get bitten.’
We decided to take four similar sticks with us the next day.
‘It’s Buddha Purnima the day after tomorrow,’ Feluda remarked as we were getting ready for bed. ‘There will be a big celebration here.’
‘Shall we get to see it?’
‘I don’t know. But if we can catch the man who killed Mr Shelvankar, that will make up for everything we miss seeing.’
The sky remained clear that night. I spent a long time looking at a moon that was nearly full. Kanchenjunga gleamed in its light.
The next day, the four of us left for Pemiangchi at five in the morning, with just a few essentials. Mr Sarkar did not forget the ‘leech-proof’ sticks.
Eleven
There were two routes to Pemiangchi. Unfortunately, we couldn’t take the shorter one as the main road had been damaged. Taking the longer route meant spending at least eight hours on the journey. Pemiangchi was a hundred and twenty-seven miles away. But it couldn’t be helped. Our hotel had given us packed lunches, and we had two flasks. One was full of hot coffee, the other had water. So there was no need for us to stop anywhere for lunch, which would have taken up a lot of time.
Helmut was carrying only one camera today. Mr Sarkar, I noticed, had packed a pair of galoshes. ‘No point in taking risks,’ he told me. ‘This is cent per cent safe.’
‘Cent per cent? What if a leech fell on your head from a tree?’
‘No, that’s not likely. That happens in July and August. Leeches are normally to be found on the ground at this time of the year.’
Mr Sarkar didn’t know we were going in search of a criminal. He was therefore perfectly happy and relaxed.
We reached Singtham at a quarter past six. We had passed through this town on our way to Gangtok. A left turn brought us to the river Tista again. We crossed it and found ourselves on a road none of us knew. This led straight to Pemiangchi. The jeep we were in wasn’t new, but was in reasonably good condition. Its driver looked like a bandit from a Western film. He was dressed purely in black—the trousers, shirt and the leather jerkin he wore were all black. Even the cap on his head was dark enough to qualify as black. He was too tall to be a Nepali, but I couldn’t figure out where he was from. Feluda asked him his name. ‘Thondup,’ he replied.
‘That’s a Tibetan name,’ said Mr Sarkar, looking knowledgeable. We drove in silence for about twenty kilometres. The next town on the way to Pemiangchi was Namchi. Just as we got close to it, a jeep behind us started blowing its horn loudly. Thondup made no attempt to let it pass.
‘Why is he in such a hurry?’ Feluda asked.
‘No idea, sir. But if we let it go ahead, it’ll only blow up clouds of dust.’
Thondup increased his speed. But the sound of the horn from the other jeep got more insistent. Mr Sarkar turned around irritably to see who it was. Then he exclaimed, ‘Why, look, it’s that same gentleman!’
‘Who?’ Feluda and I turned and saw, to our amazement, that Mr Bose was in the other jeep, still honking and waving madly.
‘You’ll have to stop for a minute, Thondupji,’ Feluda said. ‘That’s a friend of ours.’
Thondup pulled up by the side of the road. Mr Bose came bounding out of the other jeep. ‘Are you deaf or what?’ he demanded. ‘I yelled myself hoarse in Singtham, but none of you heard me!’
‘Sorry, very sorry, Mr Bose. If we knew you were back, we wouldn’t have left without you,’ Feluda apologized.
‘I could hardly stay on in Bombay after receiving your telegram. I’ve been following your jeep for miles.’
Thondup was absolutely right about the dust. Mr Bose was covered with it from head to foot, like an ash-smeared sadhubaba, thanks—no doubt—to the wheels of our own jeep.
‘In your telegram you said you were suspicious about something. So where are you off to now? Why did you leave Gangtok?’
Instead of giving him a straight answer, Feluda asked, ‘Do you have a lot of luggage?’
‘No, just a suitcase.’
‘In that case, why don’t we move our own luggage into your jeep, and you can climb in with us? I’ll fill you in.’
It took only a couple of minutes to transfer all the luggage. Mr Bose climbed in at the back with Mr Sarkar and Helmut, and we set off again. Feluda told Mr Bose briefly what had happened over the last two days. He even revealed that Helmut was Mr Shelvankar’s son. Mr Bose frowned when Feluda finished. ‘But who is this Dr Vaidya? He’s bound to be a fraud. You
should not have allowed him to get away, Mr Mitter. You could have—’
Feluda interrupted him. ‘My suspicions fell on him when I learnt about Helmut’s true identity. You are partly to blame, Mr Bose. You should have told us your partner’s first wife was a German.’
‘How was I to know that would matter? Besides, all I knew was that she was a foreigner. I had no idea about her nationality. Shelvankar married her about twenty-five years ago. Anyway, I just hope that Vaidya hasn’t left Pemiangchi. Or our entire journey will come to nothing!’
We reached Namchi a little after ten. Here we stopped for a few minutes, to pour cold water into the engine, and hot coffee into ourselves. I could see clouds gathering in the sky, but wasn’t unduly worried since I’d heard Namchi was considered by many to be the driest and cleanest place in Sikkim. Helmut was taking photographs, more out of habit than any real interest. He had hardly spoken since we left.
Now that Mr Sarkar had learnt the real reason for going to Pemiangchi, he seemed faintly uneasy; but the prospect of having an adventure was obviously just as appealing. ‘With your cousin on one side, and the German Virendra on the other, I see no reason to worry,’ he declared to me.
We left Namchi after ten minutes. The road went down from here, towards another river called Rangeet. This river was very different from the Tista. Its water was clear, with a greenish tinge, and it flowed with considerable force. Pools of foam formed where it struck against stones and rocks. I had never seen such a beautiful river in the hills. We had to cross another bridge and climb up the hill again to get to Pemiangchi, which was at a height of 9,000 feet.
As we wound our way up, I could see evidence of landslides almost everywhere. The thick green foliage on the hills had large gaps here and there. Great chunks of the hill had clearly slid down towards the river. Heaven knew how long it would take nature to repair the damage caused by these ‘young mountains’!