‘Hello!’ I gasped.
There was no response for a few seconds. Then I heard a faint click. Oh, I knew. Someone was calling from a public pay phone.
‘Hello?’ I said again. This time, I heard a voice, soft but distinct. ‘Going to Simla, are you?’
This was the last thing I’d have expected to hear from a strange voice. Rendered speechless, I could only swallow in silence.
The voice spoke again. It sounded harsh and the words it uttered chilled my blood. ‘Danger. Do you hear? You are both going to be in great danger if you go to Simla.’ This was followed by another click. The line was disconnected. But I didn’t need to hear any more. Those few words were enough. Like the Nepali Rana in Uncle Sidhu’s story, whose hand shook while shooting at a tiger, I replaced the receiver with a trembling hand.
Then I flopped down on a chair and sat very still. About half an hour later, I heard another ring. This nearly made me fall off the chair, but this time I realized it was the door bell, not the telephone. It was past eleven, so I opened the door myself and Feluda walked in. The huge packets in his hands meant that he had been to the laundry to collect our warm clothes.
Feluda gave me a sidelong glance and said, ‘Why are you licking your lips? Has there been a strange phone call?’
‘How did you guess?’ I asked, astonished.
‘From the way you’ve kept the receiver. Besides, the whole thing’s become so complicated that I’d have been surprised if we didn’t get a few weird calls. Who was it? What did he say?’
‘Don’t know who it was. He said going to Simla meant danger for both of us.’
Feluda pushed the regulator of the fan to its maximum speed and sat casually down on the divan.
‘What did you say to him?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Idiot! You should have said going to Simla cannot possibly be more dangerous than going out in the street in Calcutta. A regular battlefield is probably the only place that can claim to be more full of danger than the streets in this city.’
Feluda’s nonchalance calmed my nerves. I decided to change the subject.
‘Where did you go?’ I asked. ‘Apart from the laundry, I mean.’
‘To the office of S. M. Kedia.’
‘Did you learn anything new?’
‘Brijmohan seemed a friendly enough fellow. His family has lived in Calcutta for three generations. And yes, he knows Mr Pakrashi. I got the impression that Pakrashi still owes him some money. Brijmohan, too, had eaten the apple Dhameeja had offered him. But no, he doesn’t have a blue Air-India attaché case; and he had spent most of his time on the train either sleeping or just lying with his eyes closed.’
I told Feluda about Amar Kumar.
‘If he knows he has been dropped but is pretending he isn’t,’ remarked Feluda, ‘then the man is truly a fine actor.’
We finished our packing in the late afternoon. Since we were going for less than a week, I didn’t take too many clothes. At six-thirty in the evening, Jatayu rang us.
‘I am taking a new weapon,’ he informed us. ‘I’ll show it to you when we get to Delhi.’
We knew he was interested in collecting weapons of various kind. He had taken a Nepali dagger on our journey through Rajasthan, although he did not get the chance to use it.
‘I have bought my ticket,’ he added. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the airport.’
Our tickets arrived a couple of hours later, together with a note from Dinanath Babu. It said:
Dear Mr Mitter,
I am enclosing your air tickets to Delhi and train tickets to Simla. I have made reservations for you for a day in Delhi at the Janpath Hotel; and you are booked at the Clarkes in Simla for four days. I have just received a reply from Mr Dhameeja. He says he has my attaché case safe. He expects you to call on him the day after tomorrow at 4 p.m. You have got his address, so I will not repeat it here. I have not made a list of the items in my case because, thinking things over, it struck me that there is only one thing in it that is of any value to me. It is a bottle of enterovioform tablets. These are made in England and definitely more effective than those produced here. I should be happy simply to get these back. I hope you have a safe and successful visit.
Yours sincerely,
Dinanath Lahiri
We were planning to have an early night and go to bed by ten o’ clock, but at a quarter to ten, the door bell rang. Who could it be at this hour? I opened the door and was immediately struck dumb to find a man who I never dreamt would ever pay us a visit. If Feluda was similarly surprised, he did not show it.
‘Good evening, Mr Pakrashi,’ he said coolly, ‘please come in.’ Mr Pakrashi came in, a slightly embarrassed look on his face, a smile hovering on his lips. His ill-tempered air was gone. What had happened in a day to bring about this miraculous change? And what had he come to tell us so late in the evening?
He sat down on a chair and said, ‘Sorry to trouble you. I know it’s late. I did try to ring you, but couldn’t get through. So I thought it was best to call personally. Please don’t mind.’
‘We don’t. Do tell us what brings you here.’
‘I have come to make a request. It is a very special request. In fact, it may strike you as positively strange.’
‘Really?’
‘You said something about a manuscript in Dinanath Lahiri’s attaché case. Was it . . . something written by Shambhucharan Bose? You know, the same man who wrote about the Terai?’
‘Yes, indeed. An account of his visit to Tibet.’
‘My God!’
Feluda did not say anything. Naresh Pakrashi, too, was quiet for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Are you aware that my collection of travelogues is the largest and the best in Calcutta?’
‘I am fully prepared to believe that. I did happen to glance at those almirahs in your room; and I caught the names of quite a few very well-known travel writers.’
‘Your powers of observation must be very good.’
‘That is what I live by, Mr Pakrashi.’
Mr Pakrashi now took the pipe out of his mouth, looked straight at Feluda and said, ‘You are going to Simla, aren’t you.’
It was Feluda’s turn to be surprised. He did not actually ask, ‘How do you know.’ But his eyes held a quizzical look.
Mr Pakrashi smiled. ‘A clever man like you,’ he said, ‘would naturally not find it too difficult to discover that Dinu Lahiri’s attaché case had got exchanged with Dhameeja’s. I had seen Dhameeja’s name written on his suitcase. He did, in fact, take out his shaving things from the blue Air-India case, so I knew it was his.’
‘Why didn’t you say so yesterday?’
‘Isn’t it a greater joy to have worked things out for yourself? It is your case, after all. You will work on it and get paid for your pains. Why should I voluntarily offer any help?’
Feluda appeared to be in agreement. All he said was, ‘But you haven’t yet told me what your strange request is.’
‘I am coming to that. You will—no doubt—manage to retrieve Dinanath’s case. And the manuscript with it. I would request you not to give it back to him.’
‘What!’ This time Feluda could not conceal his surprise. Nor could I.
‘I suggest you pass the manuscript to me.’
‘To you?’ Feluda raised his voice.
‘I told you it would sound odd. But you must listen to me,’ Mr Pakrashi continued, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘Dinanath Lahiri cannot appreciate the value of that book. Did you see a single good book in his house? No, I know you did not. Besides, don’t think I’m not going to compensate you for this. I have got—’
Here he stopped and took out a long blue envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he opened it and offered it to Feluda. It was stuffed with new, crisp, sweet-smelling hundred-rupee notes. ‘I have two thousand here,’ he said, ‘and this is only an advance payment. I will give you another two thousand when you hand over the manuscript to me.
’
Feluda did not even glance at the envelope. He took out a cigarette from his pocket, lit it casually and said, ‘I don’t think it’s of any relevance whether Dinanath Lahiri appreciates the value of the manuscript or not. I have promised to collect his case from Dhameeja in Simla and return it to him, with all its contents intact. And that is what I am going to do.’
Mr Pakrashi appeared to be at a loss to find a suitable answer to this. After a few moments, he simply said, ‘All right. Let’s forget about your payment. All I am asking you to do is give me the manuscript. Tell Lahiri it was missing. Say Dhameeja said he didn’t see it.’
‘How,’ asked Feluda, ‘can I put Mr Dhameeja in a position like that? Can you think of the consequences? You can’t seriously expect me to tell lies about a totally innocent man? No, Mr Pakrashi, I cannot do as you ask.’
Feluda rose and added, perfectly civilly, ‘Good-night, Mr Pakrashi. I hope you will not misunderstand me.’
Mr Pakrashi continued to sit, staring into space. Then he replaced the envelope into his pocket, stood up, gave Feluda a dry smile and went out without a word. It was impossible to tell from his face whether he felt angry, disappointed or humiliated.
Would any other sleuth have been able to resist such temptation and behave the way Feluda had done? Perhaps not.
Six
Feluda, Jatayu and I were sitting in Indian Airlines flight number 263, on our way to Delhi. The plane left at 7.30 a.m. Feluda had explained to Jatayu, while we were waiting in the departure lounge, about our visit to Pretoria Street and the ensuing events. Jatayu listened, round-eyed, occasionally breaking into exclamations like ‘thrilling!’ and ‘highly suspicious!’ Then he jotted down in his notebook the little matter of the thief and the mustard oil.
‘Have you flown before?’ I asked him.
‘If,’ he replied sagely, ‘a man’s imagination is lively enough, he can savour an experience without actually doing anything. No, I’ve never travelled by air. But if you asked me whether I’m feeling nervous, my answer would be “not a bit” because in my imagination, I have travelled not just in an aeroplane but also in a rocket. Yes, I have been to the moon!’
Despite these brave words, when the plane began to speed across the runway just before take-off, I saw Lalmohan Babu clutching the armrests of his seat so tightly that his knuckles turned white. When the plane actually shot up in the air, his colour turned a rather unhealthy shade of yellow and his face broke into a terrible grimace.
‘What happened to you?’ I asked him afterwards.
‘But that was natural!’ he said. ‘When a rocket leaves for outer space, even the faces of astronauts get distorted. The thing is, you see, as you’re leaving the ground, the laws of gravity pull you back. In that conflict, the facial muscles contract, and hence the distortion of the whole face.’
I wanted to ask if that was indeed the case, why should Lalmohan Babu be the only person to be singled out by the laws of gravity, why didn’t everyone else get similarly affected; but seeing that he had recovered his composure and was, in fact, looking quite cheerful, I said nothing more.
Breakfast arrived soon, with the cutlery wrapped in a cellophane sheet. Lalmohan Babu attacked his omelette with the coffee spoon, used the knife like a spoon to scoop out the marmalade from its little pot, putting it straight into his mouth without bothering to spread it on a piece of bread; then he tried to peel the orange with his fork, but gave up soon and used his fingers instead.
Finally, he leant forward and said to Feluda, ‘I saw you chewing betel-nut a while ago. Do you have any left?’
Feluda took out the Kodak container from the blue attaché case and passed it to Lalmohan Babu. I couldn’t help glancing again at Mr Dhameeja’s case. Did it know that we were going to travel twelve hundred miles to a snow-laden place situated at a height of seven thousand feet, simply to return it to its owner and pick up an identical one? The thought suddenly made me shiver.
Feluda had said virtually nothing after we took off. He had taken out his famous blue notebook (volume seven) and was scribbling in it, occasionally looking up to stare out of the window at the fluffy white clouds, biting the end of his pen. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. I, for my part, had given up trying to think at all. It was all too complex.
We soon landed in Delhi and came out of the airport. There was a noticeable nip in the air. ‘This probably means there has been a fresh snowfall in Simla,’ Feluda observed. He was still clutching the blue case. Not for a second had he allowed himself to be separated from it.
‘I think I can get a room at the Agra Hotel,’ said Lalmohan Babu. ‘I will join you at the Janpath by noon. Then we can have lunch together and have a little roam around. The train to Simla doesn’t leave until eight this evening, does it?’
The Janpath was a fairly large hotel. We were given room 532 on the fifth floor. Feluda put our luggage on the luggage-rack and threw himself on the bed. I decided to take this opportunity to ask him something that I had been feeling curious about.
‘Feluda,’ I said, ‘in this whole business of blue cases and jumping hooligans, what strikes you as most suspicious?’
‘The newspapers.’
‘Er . . . would you care to elaborate?’ I asked hesitantly.
‘I cannot figure out why Mr Dhameeja folded the two newspapers so neatly and put them in his case with such care. A newspaper, once read, especially on a train, is useless. Most people would leave it behind without a second thought. Then why . . . ?’
This was Feluda’s technique. He would begin to worry about a seemingly completely irrelevant point that would escape everyone else. Certainly I couldn’t make head or tail of it.
In the remaining hours that we spent in Delhi, two things happened. The first was nothing remarkable, but the other was horrifying.
Lalmohan Babu turned up at about half past twelve. We decided to go to the Jantar Mantar, which was not far from our hotel. Jatayu and I were both keen to see this observatory built two hundred and fifty years ago by Sawai Jai Singh. Feluda said he’d much rather stay in the hotel, both to keep an eye on Dhameeja’s attaché case and to think more about the mystery.
The first incident took place within ten minutes of our arrival at the Jantar Mantar. We were strolling along peacefully, when suddenly Lalmohan Babu clutched at my sleeve and whispered, ‘I think . . . I think a rather suspicious character is trying to follow us!’
I looked at the man he indicated. It was an old man, a Nepali cap on his head, cotton wool plugged in his ears, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark glasses. It did appear as though he was interested in our movements. How very strange!
‘I know that man!’ said Jatayu.
‘What!’
‘He sat next to me on the plane. Helped me fasten my seat belt.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
‘No. I thanked him, but he said nothing. Most suspicious, I tell you!’
Perhaps the man could guess we were talking about him. He disappeared only a few minutes later.
By the time we returned to the hotel, it was almost half past three. I asked for our key at the reception, but the receptionist said he didn’t have it. This alarmed me somewhat, but then I remembered I had not handed it in at all. It was still in my pocket. Besides, it was rather foolish to worry about the key when Feluda was in the room to let us in. ‘Just goes to show you’re not used to staying in hotels,’ I told myself.
Our room was on the right, about thirty yards down the corridor. I knocked on the door. There was no response.
‘Perhaps your cousin is having a nap,’ remarked Lalmohan Babu. I knocked again. Nothing happened.
Then I turned the handle and discovered that the door was open. But I knew Feluda had locked it from inside when we left.
I pushed the door, but it refused to open more than a little. Something pretty heavy must be lying behind it. What could it be?
I peered in through the little gap, and my blood froze.
>
Feluda was lying on the floor, face down. His right elbow was what the door was knocking against.
I could hardly breathe, but knew that I must not panic. Together with Lalmohan Babu, I pushed the door harder and eventually we both managed to slide in.
Feluda was unconscious. But, possibly as a result of our pushing and heaving, he was beginning to stir and groan. Lalmohan Babu, it turned out, could keep a calm head in a crisis. It was he who splashed cold water on Feluda’s face and fanned him furiously until he opened his eyes.
Then he raised a hand gingerly and felt the centre of his head, making a face. ‘It’s gone, I assume?’ he asked. I had already checked.
‘Yes, Feluda,’ I had to tell him, ‘that attaché case has vanished.’ Feluda staggered to his feet, declining our offer of assistance. ‘It’s all right,’ he insisted, ‘I can manage. I’ve got a bump on my head, but I think that’s all. It might have been worse.’
It might indeed. Feluda took a few minutes to rest and to make sure nothing was broken. Then he rang room service, ordered tea for us all and told us what had happened.
‘I studied the entries in my notebook for about half an hour after you had gone. Then I began to feel tired. I hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours last night, you see. So I thought I’d have a little rest, but just at that moment the telephone rang.’
‘The telephone? Who was it?’
‘Wait, let me finish. It was the receptionist. He said, Mr Mitter, there’s a gentleman here who has recognized you. He says he’d like to take the autograph of such a brilliant sleuth as yourself. Shall I send him up?’
Feluda paused here, turned to me and continued, ‘I realized one thing today, Topshe, and I don’t mind admitting it—to give an autograph is as tempting as taking it. I shall, of course, be more careful in future. But I needed this lesson.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I felt so pleased that I told the receptionist to send the man up. He came, knocked on the door, I opened it, felt a sharp knock on my own head, and . . . everything went black. The man had covered his face with a large handkerchief, so I don’t even know what he looked like.’