‘One of the other passengers knew you, didn’t he?’
‘Who, Brijmohan? Yes. He is a moneylender. I’ve had a few dealings with him.’
‘Could he have had a blue case?’
‘How on earth should I know?’ Mr Pakrashi frowned darkly. ‘Could you give me Brijmohan’s telephone number?’
‘Look it up in the directory. S. M. Kedia & Co. SM was Brijmohan’s father. Their office is in Lenin Sarani. And one more thing—you’re wrong in thinking I knew only one of the other passengers. As a matter of fact, I knew two of them.’
‘Who’s the second one?’ Feluda sounded surprised.
‘Dinanath Lahiri. I had seen him before at the races. He used to be quite a lad. Now I believe he’s changed his lifestyle and even found himself a guru in Delhi. Heaven knows if any of this is true.’
‘What about the fourth man in your coach?’ asked Feluda. He was obviously trying to gain as much information as he could.
‘What’s going on?’ shouted Mr Pakrashi, pulling a face, in spite of the pipe still hanging from his mouth. ‘Are you here simply to ask questions? Am I an accused standing trial or what?’
‘No, sir,’ said Feluda calmly. ‘I am asking these questions only because you play chess all by yourself, you clearly have a sharp brain, a good memory, and . . .’
Mr Pakrashi thawed a little. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Chess has become an addiction. The partner I used to play with is no more. So now I play alone.’
‘Every day?’
‘Yes. Another reason for that is my insomnia. I play until about three in the morning.’
‘Do you never take a pill to help you sleep?’
‘I do sometimes. But it doesn’t always help. Not that it matters. I go to bed at three, and rise at eight. Five hours is good enough at my age.’
‘Is typing also . . . one of your addictions?’ Feluda asked with his lopsided smile.
‘No, but there are times when I do like to do my own typing. I have a secretary, who’s pretty useless. Anyway, you were talking about the fourth passenger, weren’t you? He had sharp features, was quite bald, a non-Bengali, spoke very good English and offered me an apple. I didn’t eat it. What else would you like to know? I am fifty-three and my dog is three-and-a-half. He’s a boxer and doesn’t like visitors to stay for more than half an hour. So . . .’
‘An interesting man,’ Feluda remarked. We were out in the street, but not walking in the direction of home. Why Feluda chose to go in the opposite direction, I could not tell; nor did he make any attempt at hailing either of the two empty taxis that sailed by.
One little thing was bothering me. I had to mention it to Feluda. ‘Didn’t Dinanath Babu say he thought Pakrashi was about sixty? But Mr Pakrashi himself said he was fifty-three and, quite frankly, he didn’t seem older than that. Isn’t that funny?’
‘All it proves is that Dinanath Babu’s power of observation is not what it should be,’ said Feluda.
A couple of minutes later, we reached Lower Circular Road. Feluda turned left. ‘Are you going to look at that case of robbery?’ I asked. Only three days ago, the papers had reported a case of a daylight robbery. Apparently, three masked men had walked into a jeweller’s shop on Lower Circular Road and got away with a lot of valuable jewellery and precious stones, firing recklessly in the air as they made their escape in a black Ambassador car. ‘It might be fun tracing those daredevils,’ Feluda had said. But sadly, no one had come forward to ask him to investigate. So I thought perhaps he was going to ask a few questions on his own. But Feluda paid no attention to me. It seemed as though his sole purpose in life, certainly at that moment, was to get some exercise and so he would do nothing but continue to walk.
A little later, he turned left again rather abruptly, and walked briskly into the Hindustan International Hotel. I followed him quickly.
‘Did anyone from Simla check in at your hotel on 6 March?’ Feluda asked the receptionist, ‘His first name starts with a “G” . . . I’m afraid I can’t recall his full name.’
Neither Brijmohan nor Naresh Pakrashi had names that started with a ‘G’. So this had to the applewalla.
The receptionist looked at his book.
‘There are two foreigners listed here on 6 March,’ he said, ‘Gerald Pratley and G. R. Holmes. Both came from abroad.’
‘Thank you,’ said Feluda and left.
We took a taxi as we came out. ‘Park Hotel,’ Feluda said to the driver and lit a Charminar.
‘If you had looked carefully at those red marks on the map,’ he said to me, ‘you’d have seen they were markers for hotels. It’s natural that the man would want to stay at a good hotel. At present, there are five well-known hotels in Calcutta—Grand, Hindustan International, Park, Great Eastern and Ritz Continental. And those red marks had been placed on, these. The Park Hotel would be our next port of call.’
As it turned out, no one with a name starting with ‘G’ had checked in at the Park on 6 March. But the Grand offered some good news. Feluda happened to know one of its Bengali receptionists called Dasgupta. He showed us their visitors’ book. Only one Indian had checked in on the 6th. He did arrive from Simla and his name was G. C. Dhameeja.
‘Is he still here?’
‘No, sir. He checked out yesterday.’
The little flicker of hope in my mind was snuffed out immediately.
Feluda, too, was frowning. But he didn’t stop asking questions.
‘Which room was he in?’
‘Room 216.’
‘Is it empty now?’
‘Yes. We’re expecting a guest this evening, but right now it’s vacant.’
‘Can I speak to the room boy?’
‘Certainly. I’ll get someone to show you the way.’
We took the lift up to the second floor. A walk down a long corridor finally brought us to room 216. The room boy appeared at this point. We went into the room with him. Feluda began pacing.
‘Can you remember the man who left yesterday? He was staying in this room.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now try to remember carefully. What luggage did he have?’
‘A large suitcase, and a smaller one.’
‘Was it blue?’
‘Yes. When I came back to the room after filling his flask, I found him taking things out of the blue case. He seemed to be looking for something.’
‘Very good. Can you remember if this man had a few apples— perhaps in a paper bag?’
‘Yes. There were three apples. He took them out and kept them on a plate.’
‘What did this man look like?’
But the description the room boy gave did not help. At least a hundred thousand men in Calcutta would have fitted that description.
However, there was reason to feel pleased. We now had the name and address of the man whose attaché case had got exchanged with Mr Lahiri’s. Mr Dasgupta gave us a piece of paper as we went out. I glanced over Feluda’s shoulder and saw what was written on it:
G. C. Dhameeja
‘The Nook’
Wild Flower Hall
Simla.
Three
‘Kaka has gone out. He’ll return around seven,’ we were told.
So this was Dinanath Babu’s nephew. We had come straight from the Grand Hotel to Dinanath Babu’s house to report our progress, stopping on our way only to buy some meetha paan from a shop outside the New Empire.
Lined on one side of the gate of Mr Lahiri’s house were four garages. Three of these were empty. The fourth contained an old, strange looking car. ‘Italian,’ said Feluda. ‘It’s a Lagonda.’
The chowkidar took our card in, but, instead of Dinanath Babu, a younger man emerged from the house. He couldn’t have been more than thirty. Of medium height, he had fair skin like his uncle; his hair was long and tousled; and running down from his ears were broad sideburns, the kind that seemed to be all the rage among fashionable men. The man was staring hard at Feluda.
‘C
ould we please wait until he returns?’ asked Feluda. ‘We have something rather important to discuss, you see.’
‘Please come this way.’
We were taken into the living-room. The walls and the floor were littered with tiger and bear skins; a huge head of a buffalo graced the wall over the main door. Perhaps Dinanath Babu’s uncle had been a shikari, too. May be that was why he and Shambhucharan had been so close?
‘My uncle goes out for a walk every evening. He’ll be back soon.’ Dinanath Babu’s nephew had an exceptionally thin voice. I wondered if it was he who had been given Mr Dhameeja’s attaché case.
‘Are you,’ he asked, ‘the same Felu Mitter who solved the mystery of the Golden Fortress?’
‘Yes,’ said Feluda briefly, and leant back in his chair, crossing his legs, perfectly relaxed.
I kept looking at the other man. His face seemed familiar. Where had I seen him before? Then something seemed to jog my memory.
‘Have you ever acted in a film?’ I asked.
The man cleared his throat.
‘Yes, in The Ghost. It’s a thriller. I play the villain. But it hasn’t yet been released.’
‘Your name . . . ?’
‘My real name is Prabeer Lahiri. But my screen name is Amar Kumar.’
‘Oh yes, now I remember. I have seen your photograph in a film magazine.’
Heavens, what kind of a villain would he make with a voice like that?
‘Are you a professional actor?’ asked Feluda. For some strange reason, Prabeer Babu was still standing.
‘I have to help my uncle in his business,’ he replied, ‘which means going to his plastic factory. But my real interest is in acting.’
‘What does your uncle think?’
‘Uncle isn’t . . . very enthusiastic about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s the way he is.’
Amar Kumar’s face grew grave. Clearly, he had had arguments with his uncle over his career in films.
‘I have to ask you something,’ Feluda said politely, possibly because Amar Kumar was beginning to look belligerent.
‘I don’t mind answering your questions,’ he said. ‘What I can’t stand is my uncle’s constant digs at my—’
‘Did your uncle recently give you an Air-India attaché case?’
‘Yes, but someone pinched it. We’ve got a new servant, you see . . .’
Feluda raised a reassuring hand and smiled.
‘No, no one stole that case, I assure you. It’s with me.’
‘With you?’ Prabeer Babu seemed perfectly taken aback.
‘Yes. Your uncle decided to return the case to its owner. He hired me for this purpose. What I want to know is whether you removed anything from it.’
‘I did, naturally. Here it is.’
Prabeer Babu took out a ballpoint pen from his pocket. ‘I wanted to use the blades and the shaving cream,’ he added, ‘but of course I never got the chance.’
‘You do realize, don’t you, that the case must go back to the owner with every item intact?’
‘Yes, yes, naturally.’
He handed the pen over to Feluda. But he was obviously still greatly annoyed with his uncle. ‘At least,’ he muttered, ‘I should have been told the case was going back. After all, he did give . . .’
He couldn’t finish his sentence. Dinanath Babu’s car sounded its horn at this moment, thereby causing the film villain to beat a quick retreat.
‘Oh no, have you been waiting long?’ Dinanath Babu walked into the room, looking slightly rueful, his hands folded in a namaskar. We stood up to greet him. ‘No, no, please sit down,’ he said hurriedly. ‘You wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, would you?’
His servant appeared almost immediately and left with an order to bring us tea. Dinanath Babu sat down on the settee next to ours.
‘So . . . tell me . . . ?’ he invited.
‘Your case got exchanged with the man who gave you the apple. His name is G. C. Dhameeja.’
Dinanath Babu grew round-eyed. ‘You found that out in just a day? What is this—magic?’
Feluda gave his famous lopsided smile and continued, ‘He lives in Simla and I’ve got his address. He was supposed to spend three days at the Grand, but he left a day early.’
‘Has he left already?’ Dinanath Babu asked, a little regretfully. ‘Yes. He left the hotel, but we don’t know whether he returned to Simla. One telegram to his house in Simla, and you shall get an answer to that.’
Dinanath Babu seemed to ponder for a few moments. Then he said, ‘All right. I will send a cable today. But if I discover he has indeed gone back to Simla, I still have to return his case to him, don’t I?’
‘Yes, of course. And yours has to come back to you. I am quite curious about that travelogue.’
‘Very good. Allow me to make a proposal, Mr Mitter. Why don’t you go to Simla with your cousin? I shall, of course, pay all your expenses. It’s snowing in Simla, I hear. Have you ever seen it snow, Khoka?’
At any other time, I would have been affronted at being called a child. But now it did not seem to matter at all. Go to Simla? Oh, how exciting! My heart started to race faster.
But Feluda’s next words were most annoying. ‘You must think this one through, Mr Lahiri,’ he said. ‘It’s just a matter of taking an attaché case to Simla, and bringing one back, isn’t it? So anyone can do the job. It doesn’t necessarily have to be me.’
‘No, no, no,’ Dinanath Babu protested rather vehemently, ‘where will I find anyone as reliable as you? And since you began the investigation, I think you should end it.’
‘Why, you have a nephew, don’t you?’
A shadow passed over Dinanath Babu’s face.
‘He is no good, really. I’m afraid my nephew’s sense of responsibility is virtually nonexistent. Do you know what he has done? He’s gone into films! No, I cannot rely on him at all. I’d rather the two of you went. I’ll tell my travel agents to make all arrangements. You can fly up to Delhi and then catch a train. When you’ve done your job, you can even have a holiday in Simla for a few days. It would give me a lot of pleasure to be of service to a man like you. What you’ve done in just a few hours is truly remarkable!’
The tea arrived, together with cakes and sandwiches. Feluda picked up a piece of chocolate cake and said, ‘Thank you. There is one little thing I am still feeling curious about. The Nepali box in which you found the manuscript. Is it possible to see it?’
‘Of course. That’s not a problem at all. I’ll get my bearer to bring it.’
The box appeared in a few moments. About two feet in length and ten inches in height, its wooden surface was covered by a sheet of copper. Red, blue and yellow stones were set on the lid. The smell that greeted my nostrils as soon as the lid was lifted was the same as that in Naresh Pakrashi’s study. Dust-covered old furniture and threadbare curtains gave out the same musty smell.
Dinanath Babu said, ‘As you can see, there are two compartments in the box. The manuscript was in the first one, wrapped in a Nepali newspaper.’
‘Good heavens, it’s stuffed with so many different things!’ exclaimed Feluda.
‘Yes,’ Dinanath Babu smiled. ‘You might call it a mini curio shop. But it’s so filthy I haven’t felt tempted to handle anything.’
It turned out that the compartments could be removed. Feluda brought out the second one and inspected the objects it contained. There were stone necklaces, little engraved discs made of copper and brass, two candles, a small bell, a couple of little bowls, a bone of some unknown animal, a few dried herbs and flowers, reduced to dust—truly a little junk shop.
‘Did this box belong to your uncle?’
‘It came with him, so I assume it did.’
‘When did he return from Kathmandu?’
‘In 1923. He died the same year. I was seven.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Feluda. Then he took a last sip from his cup and stood up. ‘I accept your proposal, Mr Lahiri,’
he said, ‘but we cannot leave tomorrow. We’ll have to collect our warm clothes from the dry-cleaner’s. The day after tomorrow might be a better idea. And please don’t forget to cable Dhameeja.’
We returned home at around half-past-eight to find Jatayu waiting for us in the living-room, a brown parcel on his lap.
‘Have you been to the pictures?’ he asked with a smile.
Four
Jatayu was the pseudonym of Lalmohan Ganguli, the famous writer of best-selling crime thrillers. We had first met him on our way to the golden fortress in Rajasthan. There are some men who appear strangely comical without any apparent reason. Lalmohan Babu was one of them. He was short—the top of his head barely reached Feluda’s shoulder; he wore size five shoes, was painfully thin, and yet would occasionally fold one of his arms absentmindedly and feel his biceps with the other. The next instant, he would give a violent start if anyone so much as sneezed loudly in the next room.
‘I brought my latest book for you and Tapesh,’ he said, offering the brown parcel to Feluda. He had started coming to our house fairly regularly ever since our adventure in Rajasthan.
‘Which country did you choose this time?’ Feluda asked, unwrapping the parcel. The spine-chilling escapades of Lalmohan Babu’s hero involved moving through different countries.
‘Oh, I have covered practically the whole world this time,’ Lalmohan Babu replied proudly, ‘from the Nilgiris to the North Pole.’
‘I hope there are no factual errors this time?’ Feluda said quizzically, passing the book to me. Feluda had had to correct a mistake in his last book, The Sahara Shivers, regarding a camel’s water supply.
‘No, sir,’ Lalmohan Babu grinned. ‘One of my neighbours has a full set of the “Encyclopaedia Britannia”. I checked every detail.’
‘I’d have felt more reassured, Lalmohan Babu, if you had consulted the Britannica rather than the Britannia.’
But Jatayu ignored this remark and went on, ‘The climax comes— you’ve got to read it—with my hero, Prakhar Rudra, having a fight with a hippopotamus.’
‘A hippo?’