He had to get what he wanted. If it was not possible to fulfil his dream by fair means, he was prepared to adopt unfair ones. By a strange twist of fate, the Nepali box fell into his hands, like manna from heaven. In it he found a stone beautifully cut and sparkling bright. When he had it valued, it took his breath away; and his plans took a different shape. He would produce his own film, he decided, and take the lead role. No one—but no one—could have him dropped. What followed this decision was now history.
We handed him over to the Himachal Pradesh state police. It turned out that Feluda’s suspicions had fallen on Prabeer Babu as soon as we had found the diamond. So he had called Dinanath Lahiri immediately on arrival in Simla, and asked him to join us. Mr Lahiri was expected to reach Simla the next day. It would then be up to him to decide what should be done with his nephew. The diamond would probably return to Dinanath Babu, since it had been found amongst his uncle’s belongings.
‘That’s all very well,’ I said, after Feluda explained the whole story, ‘but what about Shambhucharan’s travelogue?’
‘That,’ said Feluda, ‘is mystery number two. You’ve heard of double-barrelled guns, haven’t you? This one’s a double-barrelled mystery.’
‘But are we anywhere near finding its solution?’
‘Yes, my dear boy, yes. Thanks to the newspapers and that glass of water.’
Feluda’s words sounded no less mysterious, so I decided not to probe any further. He, too, said nothing more.
We returned to the hotel without any other excitement on the way. A few minutes later, we were seated on the open terrace of the hotel under a colourful canopy, sipping hot chocolate. Seven other tables stood on the terrace. Two Japanese men sat at the next one and, at some distance, sat the old man who had travelled with us from Delhi. He had removed the cotton wool from his ears.
The sky was now clear, but the evening light was fading rather quickly. The main city of Simla lay among the eastern hills. I could see its streets and houses being lit up one by one.
Lalmohan Babu had been very quiet, lost in his thoughts. Now he took a long sip of his chocolate and said, ‘Perhaps it is true that there is an underlying current of viciousness in the mind of every human being. Don’t you agree, Felu Babu? When one blow from my boomerang made that man spin and fall, I felt so . . . excited. Even pleased. It’s strange!’
‘Man descended from monkeys,’ Feluda remarked. ‘You knew that, didn’t you? Well, a modern theory now says that it was really a special breed in Africa that was man’s ancestor. It’s well known for its killer instinct. So, if you are feeling pleased about having hit Prabeer Lahiri, your ancestors are to blame.’
An interesting theory, no doubt. But I was in no mood to discuss monkeys. My mind kept going back to Shambhucharan. Where was his manuscript? Who had got it? Or could it be that no one did, and the whole thing was a lie? But why should anyone tell such a lie?
I had to speak.
‘Feluda,’ I blurted out, ‘who is the liar? Dhameeja or Dinanath Babu?’
‘Neither.’
‘You mean the manuscript does exist?’
‘Yes, but whether we’ll ever get it back is extremely doubtful.’ Feluda sounded grave.
‘Do you happen to know,’ I asked tentatively, ‘who has got it?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s all quite clear to me now. But the man who has it is so remarkably clever that it would be very difficult indeed to prove anything against him. To tell you the truth, he almost managed to hoodwink me.’
‘Almost?’ The word pleased me for I would have hated to think Feluda had been totally fooled by anyone.
‘Mitter sahib!’
This came from a bearer who was standing near the door, glancing around uncertainly.
‘Here!’ Feluda shouted, waving. The bearer made his way to our table, clutching a brown parcel.
‘Someone left this for you in the manager’s room,’ he said. Feluda’s name was written on it in large bold letters: MR P. C. MITTER, CLARKES HOTEL.
Feluda’s expression had changed the minute the parcel was handed to him. Now he opened it swiftly and exclaimed, ‘What! Where did this come from?’
A familiar smell came from the parcel. Feluda held up its content. I stared at an ancient notebook, the kind that was impossible to find nowadays. The front page had these words written on it in a very neat hand:
A Bengalee in Lamaland
Shambhucharan Bose
June 1917
‘Good heavens! It’s that famous manusprint!’ said Lalmohan Babu.
I did not bother to correct him. I could only look dumbly at Feluda, who was staring straight at something specific. I turned my gaze in the same direction. The two Japanese had gone. There was only one other person left on the terrace, apart from ourselves. It was the same old man we had seen so many times before. He was still wearing a cap and dark glasses. Feluda was looking straight at him.
The man rose to his feet and walked over to our table. Then he took off his glasses and his cap. Yes, he certainly seemed familiar. But there was something odd . . . something missing . . . what had I seen before . . . ?
‘Aren’t you going to wear your false teeth?’ Feluda asked. ‘Certainly.’
The man took out a set of false teeth from his pocket and slipped it into his mouth. Instantly, his hollowed cheeks filled out, his jaw became firm and he began to look ten years younger. And it was easy to recognize him.
This was none other than that supremely irritable man we had visited in Lansdowne Road, Mr Naresh Chandra Pakrashi.
‘When did you get the dentures made?’ asked Feluda.
‘I had ordered them a while ago. But they were delivered the day after I returned to Calcutta from Delhi.’
That explained why Dinanath Babu had thought him old. He had not worn his dentures on the train. But he had started using them by the time we met him in his house.
‘I had guessed from the start that the attaché cases had been exchanged deliberately,’ Feluda told him. ‘I knew it was no accident. But what I did not know—and it took me a long time to figure that one out—was that you were responsible.’
‘That is natural enough,’ Mr Pakrashi replied calmly. ‘You must have realized that I am no fool.’
‘No, most certainly you are not. But do you know where you went wrong? You shouldn’t have put those newspapers in Mr Dhameeja’s attaché case. I know why you did it, though. Dinanath Lahiri’s case was heavier than Dhameeja’s because it had this notebook in it. So you stuffed the newspapers in Dhameeja’s case, so that its weight became more or less the same as Dinanath’s. When Dinanath Babu picked it up, naturally he noticed nothing unusual. But people don’t normally bother to pack their cases with papers they’ve read on the train, do they?’
‘You’re right. But then, you are more intelligent than most. Not many would have picked that up.’
‘I have a question to ask,’ Feluda continued. ‘Everyone, with the sole exception of yourself, slept well that night, didn’t they?’
‘Hmmm . . . yes, you might say that.’
‘And yet, Dinanath Lahiri says he cannot sleep in a moving train. Did you drug him?’
‘Right.’
‘By crushing a pill and pouring it into a glass of water?’
‘Yes. I always carry my sleeping pills with me. Everyone had been given a glass of water when dinner was served, and two of the passengers went to wash their hands. Only Dhameeja didn’t.’
‘Does that mean you couldn’t tamper with Mr Dhameeja’s drinking water?’
‘No, and as a result of that I couldn’t do a thing during the night. At six in the morning, Dhameeja got up to have a shave and then went to the bathroom. I did what I had to do before he came back Lahiri and the other one were still fast asleep.’
‘I see. You took one hell of a risk, didn’t you, with Dhameeja actually in the compartment, when you poured the pill into Dinanath’s water?’
‘I was lucky. He didn’t even glance
at me.’
‘Yes, lucky you certainly were. But, later, you did something that gave you away. It was a clever move, no doubt, but what made you offer me money even after you had got hold of Shambhucharan’s manuscript?’
Mr Pakrashi burst out laughing, but said nothing.
‘That phone call in Calcutta and that piece of paper in Delhi . . . you were behind both, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. I did not want you to go to Simla—at least, not at first. I knew a man like you would tear apart my perfect crime. So I rang your house and even slipped a written threat into your friend’s pocket when I found him sitting next to me in the plane. But then . . . slowly, I began to change my mind. By the time I reached Simla, I was convinced I should return the stolen property to you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you went back without the manuscript, you yourself might have been under suspicion. I did not want that to happen. I have come to appreciate you and your methods in these few days, you see.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pakrashi. One more question.’
‘Yes?’
‘You made a duplicate copy of the whole manuscript before returning it to me, didn’t you?’
All the colour from Mr Pakrashi’s face receded instantly. Feluda had played his trump card.
‘When we went to your house, you were typing something. It was the stuff in this notebook, wasn’t it? You were typing every word in it.’
‘But . . . you . . .’
‘There was a funny smell in your room, the same as the smell in Shambhucharan’s old Nepali box. And now I can see that this notebook has it, too.’
‘But the copy—’
‘Let me finish. Shambhucharan died in 1921. Fifty-one years ago. That means the fifty-year copyright period was over a year ago. So anyone can now have it printed, right?’
‘Of course!’ Mr Pakrashi shouted, displaying signs of agitation. ‘Are you trying to tell me I did wrong? Never! It’s an extraordinary tale, I tell you. Dinanath wouldn’t have known its value, nor would he have had it published. I am going to print it now, and no one can stop me.’
‘Oh, sure. No one can stop you, Mr Pakrashi, but what’s wrong with a bit of healthy competition?’
‘Competition? What do you mean?’
Feluda’s famous lopsided smile peeped out. He stretched his right hand towards Mr Pakrashi.
‘Meet your rival, Naresh Babu,’ he said. ‘When Dinanath Lahiri arrives tomorrow, I shall not ask for my fees with regard to this mysterious case. All I do want from him is this old notebook. And I happen to know a few publishers who might be interested. Now do you begin to see what I mean?’
Naresh Pakrashi glared in silence.
Lalmohan Babu, however, suddenly found his voice, and uttered one word, without any apparent rhyme or reason.
‘Boomerang!’ he yelled.
A Killer in Kailash
One
It was the middle of June. I had finished my school final exams and was waiting for the results to come out. Feluda and I were supposed to have gone to a film today, but ten minutes before we were to leave, it began raining so heavily that we had to drop the idea. I was now sitting in our living room, immersed in a Tintin comic (Tintin in Tibet). Feluda and I were both very fond of these comics which had mystery, adventure and humour, all in full measure. I already had three of these. This one was new. I had promised to pass it on to Feluda when I finished with it. Feluda was stretched out on the divan, reading a book called Chariots of the Gods? He had nearly finished it.
After a while, he shut the book, placed it on his chest and lay still, staring at the whirring ceiling fan. Then he said, ‘Do you know how many stone blocks there are in the pyramid of Giza? Two hundred thousand.’
Why was he suddenly interested in pyramids? He went on, ‘Each block weighs nearly fifteen tonnes. From what is known of ancient engineering, the Egyptians could not have polished to perfection and placed together more than ten blocks every day. Besides, the stone it’s made of had to be brought from the other side of the Nile. A rough calculation shows that it must have taken them at least six hundred years to build that one single pyramid.’
‘Is that what your book says?’
‘Yes, but that isn’t all. This book mentions many other wonders that cannot be explained by archaeologists and historians. Take our own country, for instance. There is an iron pillar at the Qutab Minar in Delhi. It is two thousand years old, but it hasn’t rusted. No one knows why. Have you heard of Easter Island? It’s a small island in the South Pacific Ocean. There are huge rocks facing the sea, on which human faces were carved thousands of years ago. These rocks were dragged from the middle of the island, taken to its edge and arranged in such a way that they were visible from the sea. Each weighs almost fifty tonnes. Who did this? How did the ancient tribal people get hold of adequate technology to do this? They didn’t have things like lorries, tractors, cranes or bulldozers.’
Feluda stopped, then sat up and lit a Charminar. The book had clearly stirred him in a big way. ‘In Peru,’ he went on, ‘there is an area which has geometric patterns drawn on the ground. Everyone knows about these patterns, they are visible from the air, but no one can tell when and how they came to be there. It is such a big mystery that scientists do not often talk about it.’
‘Has the author of your book talked about it?’
‘Oh yes, and he’s come up with a very interesting theory. According to him, creatures from a different planet came to earth more than twenty-five thousand years ago. Their technological expertise was much higher than man’s. They shared their knowledge with humans, and built structures like the pyramids—which, one must admit, modern man has not been able to match despite all his technical know-how. It is only a theory, mind you, and of course it need not necessarily be true. But it makes you think, doesn’t it? The weapons described in our Mahabharata bear resemblances to atomic weapons. So maybe . . .’
‘ . . . The battle of Kurukshetra was fought by creatures from another planet?’
Feluda opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted. Someone had braved the rain and arrived at our door, pressing the bell three times in a row. I ran and opened it. Uncle Sidhu rushed in, together with sprays of water. Then he shook his umbrella and shut it, sending more droplets flying everywhere.
Uncle Sidhu was not really a relation. He and my father used to be neighbours many years ago. Since my father treated him like an elder brother, we called him Uncle.
‘What a miserable day get me a cup of tea quick the best you’ve got,’ he said in one breath. I ran back inside, woke Srinath and told him to make three cups of tea. When I returned to the living room, Uncle Sidhu was seated on a sofa, frowning darkly and staring at a porcelain ashtray.
‘Why didn’t you take a rickshaw? In this weather, really, you shouldn’t have—’ Feluda began.
‘People get murdered every day. Do you know there’s a different type of murder that’s much worse?’ Uncle Sidhu asked, as if Feluda hadn’t spoken at all. We remained silent, knowing that he was going to answer his own question.
‘I think most people would agree that our present downfall notwithstanding, we have a past of which every Indian can be justly proud,’ Uncle Sidhu went on. ‘And, today, what do we see of this glorious past? Isn’t it our art, chiefly paintings and sculptures? Tell me, Felu, isn’t that right?’
‘Of course,’ Feluda nodded.
‘The best examples of these—particularly sculptures— are to be found on the walls of old temples, right?’
‘Right.’
Uncle Sidhu appeared to know about most things in life, but his knowledge of art was probably the deepest, for two out of his three bookcases were full of books on Indian art. But what was all this about a murder?
He stopped for a minute to light a cheroot. Then he coughed twice, filling the whole room with smoke, and continued, ‘Several rulers in the past destroyed many of our temples. Kalapahar alone was responsible for the des
truction of dozens of temples in Bengal. You knew that, didn’t you? But did you know that a new Kalapahar has emerged today? I mean, now, in 1973?’
‘Are you talking of people stealing statues from temples to sell them abroad?’ Feluda asked.
‘Exactly!’ Uncle Sidhu almost shouted in excitement. ‘Can you imagine what a huge crime it is? And it’s not even done in the name of religion, it’s just plain commerce. Our own art, our own heritage is making its way to wealthy Americans, but it’s being done so cleverly that it’s impossible to catch anyone. Do you know what I saw today? The head of a yakshi from the Raja-Rani temple in Bhubaneshwar. It was with an American tourist in the Grand Hotel.’
‘You don’t say!’
I had been to Bhubaneshwar when I was a child. My father had shown me the Raja-Rani temple. It was made of terracotta and its walls were covered by beautiful statues and carvings.
Uncle Sidhu continued with his story. ‘I had a few old Rajput paintings which I had bought in Varanasi in 1934. I took those to Nagarmal to sell. I have known him for years. He has a shop in the Grand Hotel arcade. Just as I was placing my paintings on the counter, this American arrived. It seemed he had bought a few things from Nagarmal before. In his hand was something wrapped in a newspaper. It seemed heavy. Then he unwrapped it, and—oh God!—my heart jumped into my mouth. It was the head of a yakshi, made of red stone. I had seen it before, more than once. But I had seen the whole body. Now the head had been severed.
‘Nagarmal didn’t know where it had come from, but could tell that it was genuine, not a fake. The American said he had paid two thousand dollars for it. If you added two more zeros after it, I said to myself, even then you couldn’t say it was the right value. Anyway, that man went up to his room. I was so amazed that I didn’t even ask him who had sold it to him. I rushed back home and consulted a few of my books just to make sure. Now I am absolutely positive it was from a statue on the wall of Raja-Rani. I don’t know how it was done—possibly by bribing the chowkidar at night. Anything is possible these days. I have written to the Bhubaneshwar Archaeological Department and sent it by express delivery, but what good is that going to do? The damage is already done!’