Lalmohan babu refused to be reassured. ‘Never mind all that Felu babu,’ he muttered, ‘If my name and description have been found lying next to a corpse, I am most definitely going to be harassed. I can see it all happening. There is only one way out for me. Naturally, I cannot grow hair on my bald head. My height won’t change; nor will my complexion. That only leaves my moustache. I am going to get rid of it tomorrow.’
‘I see. And what do you think the people in our hotel are going to think? Do you suppose none of them reads the Evening News ? Most people—ninety per cent of them—will read any report that mentions a murder. That’s human nature. If you suddenly shave your moustache off, everyone’s eyes—and suspicion—will fall on you!’
By this time, the red sky had turned purple. When that faded to grey, and the evening star appeared through a chink in the clouds in the western sky, blinking alone in a brave attempt to vie with the thousands of glittering lights on Marine Drive, we rose from the sandy beach, dusted ourselves down and made our way back to the crowded stalls in Chowpatty. Then we walked over to the main road and caught a taxi back to the hotel.
We had to stop at the reception desk to collect our keys. I noticed that when he stretched his hand to take the key from the receptionist, Lalmohan babu kept his face firmly averted. But that did not help. Opposite the desk, seated in the lobby were seven people, some of them foreigners. Three of them were reading the Evening Standard. Its front page carried a report about the same murder, together with a picture of the victim. It seemed highly unlikely that the report in the Standard would make no mention of the short, bald, dark and moustachioed Mr Ganguli.
Five
In the end, Lalmohan babu did not shave off his moustache. When I asked him the following morning if he had slept well, he told me he hadn’t because each time he began nodding off, it seemed to him as if his entire room was moving up and down like a lift, and he woke with a start.
Mr Ghoshal had called us the previous night and told us that he’d collect us at ten o’clock to take us to his studio. We finished our breakfast at eight, then went for a walk down Peddar Road, where we found a paan shop. We bought some paan filled with sweet masala, and returned to the hotel. As soon as we entered the lobby, we could all feel an air of suppressed excitement.
The reason was simple. The local police had decided to pay a visit to our hotel. A man in uniform, who looked like an inspector, was standing at the reception desk. One of the men behind the counter made a gesture as we approached. The inspector wheeled around and glanced at Lalmohan babu. Although the look in his eyes wasn’t even remotely hostile, I heard a faint click beside me, which meant that Lalmohan babu’s knees were knocking against each other.
The inspector came forward, a smile on his face. Feluda placed a hand on Lalmohan babu’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze, to let him know that there was nothing to worry about.
‘I am Inspector Patwardhan from the CID. You are Mr Ganguli?’
‘Ye-ye-yess.’
Patwardhan looked at Feluda. ‘And you are—?’
Feluda took out one of his cards and handed it to Patwardhan. The inspector read it, then looked inquiringly at Feluda again. ‘Mitter? Are you the same Mitter who helped save that statue in Ellora?’
Feluda gave his famous lopsided smile and nodded.
‘Glad to meet you, sir,’ Patwardhan said, offering his hand, ‘you did a very good job there.’
Lalmohan babu could now relax a little. As Feluda’s friend, his status had certainly improved. Nevertheless, he had to answer a number of questions. We went to the manager’s room to have a chat.
Patwardhan told us that various fingerprints had been found on the body, but the police hadn’t yet made any arrests. The man in the red shirt had been traced back to the airport. The police had tracked down the taxi he had used, but did not know who the man was. They believed the murder had been committed by the same man, and the piece of paper with Lalmohan babu’s name on it had slipped out of his pocket. What Lalmohan babu told him simply confirmed this belief. Patwardhan said, ‘It was clear that he had gone to the airport to meet a Mr Ganguli. We checked the passenger list of every plane that landed at Santa Cruz yesterday, until we found your name on the Calcutta flight. Then we made enquiries at all the hotels, and finally learned that a Mr L. Ganguli had checked in at the Shalimar.’
What Patwardhan really wanted to do, of course, was find out how Lalmohan babu was connected to the whole business, and why his name and description appeared on that piece of paper. Lalmohan babu explained about Mr Sanyal. ‘Who is this Sanyal? How well do you know him?’ asked Patwardhan.
Lalmohan babu told him what little he knew, but had to admit, when asked, that he did not have Sanyal’s address.
Finally Inspector Patwardhan gave a little lecture, exactly as Feluda had done. ‘This is how,’ he said, ‘innocent people are being used these days to transfer smuggled goods. We’ve learned that some valuable jewels have arrived in India from Kathmandu, including the famous naulakha necklace that once belonged to Nanasaheb.’
I knew of one Nanasaheb who had fought against the British during the sepoy mutiny of 1857. Was Patwardhan talking of the same man?
‘It is my belief that the packet you were given contained some stolen object,’ Patwardhan told us. ‘Two gangs must be after the same thing. One sent it from Calcutta. Someone from the other gang, I suspect, learnt about its arrival and was hanging around Shivaji Castle. He attacked red shirt, and red shirt killed him.’
Lalmohan babu had assumed that he would either be hanged, or put behind bars for life, simply because the possible murderer was known to be carrying his name and description in his pocket. When all he got from the police was a piece of advice to be careful in future, Lalmohan babu’s demeanour changed at once. He perked up and his eyes sparkled once more.
Mr Ghoshal arrived at eleven o’clock instead of ten. When we told him about our encounter with the police, he said, ‘Yes, I was afraid of this. My heart sank the minute I read the evening papers yesterday. That piece of paper they found seemed to have every description that fits Laluda—yet the whole thing is a complete mystery to me!’
Lalmohan babu then told him about Mr Sanyal. ‘Which Sanyal is this?’ Mr Ghoshal asked, ‘Is it Ahi Sanyal? Medium height, sunken eyes, cleft on his chin?’
‘Don’t know. Didn’t see his chin, he had a beard. Perhaps he was clean shaven before.’
‘I saw him two years ago. God knows if it was the same man. He worked in Bombay for a while, even produced a couple of films. As far as I can remember, both films were flops.’
‘What was he like as a man?’
‘I have no idea, but I never heard anyone say anything bad about him.’
‘In that case, perhaps there was nothing wrong with that packet he gave me.’
‘Look, Laluda, we are all told to be careful only because these days you often hear about cases of smuggling. But in the past, didn’t we carry packets and parcels for other people? I mean, even people we didn’t know that well? There were never any problems, were there?’
The four of us went in the same car that we had used the day before, and soon reached the studio in Mahalakshmi. As we were getting out, Mr Ghoshal said, ‘We were running into problems with the railways over tomorrow’s shooting. So Mr Gore had to be informed, and he came from Calcutta by the evening flight yesterday. Come with me, I will introduce you to him.’
‘Will the shooting take place tomorrow?’ Lalmohan babu asked a bit uncertainly.
‘Of course. Most certainly. Don’t worry about it—everything has been sorted out.’
We were taken to what looked like a workshop with a tin roof. It was used for shooting at times; but today, a kung-fu session was in progress. On a huge mattress, under Victor Perumal’s guidance, a number of men were jumping, kicking and falling. About twelve feet away sat a man in a wicker chair. He was probably in his mid-forties.
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Mr Ghosh
al. ‘This is our producer, Mr Gore . . . and this is Mr Ganguli, the writer . . . and Mr Mitter, and . . . what is your name, dear boy?’
‘Tapeshranjan Mitter.’
Mr Gore’s cheeks looked like a pair of apples, in the centre of his head was a shiny bald patch, and his eyes were hazel. He had a sizeable paunch, too, but presumably that was a recent development. No one could possibly wear such tight clothes voluntarily. Mr Ghoshal disappeared as soon as the introductions were made, as he had a lot of things to attend to before the first day’s shooting. ‘I’ll come back at one-thirty,’ he said before leaving us, ‘you will all have lunch with me.’
Mr Gore asked for extra chairs and was most hospitable. He took a chair next to Lalmohan babu and said in Bengali, ‘Aapni elen bole aami khoob khushi holam. (I am very pleased that you could come.)’
‘I say, you speak fantastic Bengali!’ Lalmohan babu enthused, going slightly over the top in his praise, possibly because of the money Gore was about to pay him.
‘My father ran a business in Canning Street. I was a student in Don Bosco for three years. Then my father died, and I came to Bombay to live with my uncle. I’ve been here ever since. But this is my first venture in film-making,’ Mr Gore told us.
Perhaps because he was impressed by Mr Gore’s Bengali, Lalmohan babu told him all that had happened, starting from Sanyal’s visit and ending with his chat with Inspector Patwardhan. Mr Gore clicked his tongue in sympathy and said, ‘No one can be trusted these days, Mr Ganguli. You are an eminent writer; I am ashamed to think that you were used to cart smuggled goods!’
Feluda now joined the conversation.
‘You live in Shivaji Castle, I hear?’ he said.
‘Yes. I’ve been there for the last couple of months. Horrible murder. I returned by the evening flight yesterday, and got home at about eleven. Even at that time there was a large crowd in the street. If there’s a murder in a high-rise building, it’s always a big problem.’
‘Er . . . do you know who lives on the seventeenth floor?’
‘Seventeenth . . . seventeenth . . .’ Mr Gore failed to remember. ‘I know someone who lives on the eighth floor—N.C. Mehta; and there’s Dr Vazifdar on the second. My flat is on the twelfth floor.’
Feluda asked nothing more. In any case, Mr Gore seemed to want to leave. ‘I have a lot of things to see to,’ he said, ‘Producing a film is a complicated business, you see. There are always problems?’ From what we’d heard, the shooting planned for the next day was really going to be a complex affair. A train had been hired. It would start from Matheran and arrive at the level crossing between Khandala and Lonavala. Mr Gore had to go to Matheran to pay the railway company. Apparently, the train had an old-fashioned first-class compartment. Mr Gore would get into it and travel by the same train to the shooting spot. ‘I’d be delighted if you came along and had lunch with me on the train,’ he invited. ‘Are you vegetarians?’
‘No, no. Non-veg, non-veg!’ said Lalmohan babu.
‘What would you like? Chicken or mutton?’
‘We had chicken yesterday. Let’s have mutton tomorrow. What do you say, Felu babu?’
‘As you wish,’ Feluda replied.
Although Feluda was listening to Mr Gore’s conversation with Lalmohan babu, his eyes were straying frequently to the group practising kung-fu. Victor Perumal’s patience and perseverance were remarkable. It was clear that he wouldn’t give up until every movement was perfect. One or two trainees were already performing extremely well.
Victor was also glancing at Feluda from time to time, possibly encouraged by the admiration in Feluda’s eyes. When Mr Gore had gone, Victor beckoned Feluda and asked him to come closer. Feluda put out his cigarette and went over to Victor and his men.
‘Come on, Mr Mitter. Try it. It’s not so difficult!’ said Victor. The trainees moved away. Victor gave a slight jump, raising his right leg above his head before kicking it forward in a peculiar fashion. Had someone been standing in front of him, he would certainly have been hit and possibly knocked down. Feluda stepped onto the mattress, and jumped around a few times to get ready. Victor stood at a distance of about six feet, and said, ‘Try and kick your leg towards me!’
What Victor did not know was that, after seeing Enter the Dragon, Feluda had spent about a month at home, kicking his legs high in the air, every now and then, exactly as he had seen it being done by kung-fu fighters. He had done it purely for fun, but it had given him a certain amount of experience.
‘One - two - three!’ shouted Victor. At once, Feluda’s leg shot out horizontally, and Victor took a step back, falling on the mattress. I knew, however, that Feluda’s leg had not made contact with Victor’s body.
Over the next five minutes, everyone watched a kung-fu demonstration between Victor Perumal and Pradosh Mitter. I couldn’t help looking from time to time at Victor’s trainees, who had spent over six weeks learning how to jump, kick and fall. They knew how much effort it took to do all that. What was reassuring was that their faces registered more admiration than envy. When, at the end of those five minutes, the two participants shook hands and thumped each other on the back, their audience broke into spontaneous applause.
Six
Around two o’clock, we walked into the Copper Chimney restaurant in Worli to have lunch with Pulak Ghoshal and Tribhuvan Gupte, the dialogue writer. The place was packed, but Mr Ghoshal had reserved a table for us.
‘I say, Pulak,’ Lalmohan babu asked, ‘what is the name of your film?’
I, too, had wondered about the name, but hadn’t found the chance to ask Mr Ghoshal, All I knew for sure was that the film was not going to be called The Bandits of Bombay.
‘You cannot imagine, Laluda,’ said Mr Ghoshal, ‘the trouble we’ve had over the name. Whatever we chose had either already been used, or registered by some other party. You can ask Gupteji here how many sleepless nights he’s spent, puzzling over an appropriate name. Only three days ago—suddenly, out of the blue—it came. A high-voltage spark!’
‘High-voltage spark? Your film is called A High-Voltage Spark ?’ Lalmohan babu asked in a low-voltage voice.
Mr Ghoshal burst out laughing, making those sitting at neighbouring tables turn their heads and stare. ‘Are you mad, Laluda? You think a name like that would work? No, I was talking about a sudden flash of inspiration, a brain wave. It’s Jet Bahadur.’
‘Eh?’
‘Jet Bahadur. You’ll be able to see hoardings go up all over the city, even before you leave. You couldn’t find a better name for your story. Just think. Action, speed, thrill. . . you’ll find all three in the word “jet”. Plus you’ve got “bahadur”. We’ve sold the film—on all circuits—on the strength of that name and casting alone!’
Lalmohan babu had started to smile, but the joy on his face faded a little as he heard Mr Ghoshal’s explanation. Perhaps he was thinking: name and casting? Did only those things matter? Did no one appreciate the story?
‘Have you seen any of my previous films?’ asked Mr Ghoshal. ‘Teerandaj is running at the Lotus. You could catch the evening show today. I will tell the manager, he will keep three tickets for you in the Royal Circle. It’s a good film, it did a silver jubilee.’
None of us had seen any of his films. Lalmohan babu was naturally curious, so we accepted Mr Ghoshal’s offer. If one didn’t have friends in Bombay, the evenings sometimes became long and boring. The car would remain with us. It would take us to the Lotus whenever required.
While we were eating, one of the men from the restaurant came and said something to Mr Ghoshal. Judging by the warm smile on every waiter’s face since we arrived, Mr Ghoshal was a frequent visitor here. Clearly, in a place like Bombay, a successful director was a welcome figure.
Mr Ghoshal turned quickly to Lalmohan babu. ‘You’re wanted on the telephone, Laluda.’
Lalmohan babu had justed lifted a spoonful of pulao. Thank goodness he hadn’t yet put it in his mouth. If he had, he’d certainly have choked. As it happe
ned, when he gave a start, a few grains of rice jumped out of the spoon and landed on the tablecloth; but there was no further damage.
‘Mr Gore wants to speak to you,’ Mr Ghoshal explained, ‘He may have some good news for you.’
Lalmohan babu left, and returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Mr Gore asked me to go to his house at four o’clock,’ he told us, picking up his knife and fork, ‘Looks like I’m about to come into some money—heh heh!’
That meant ten thousand rupees would make their way to Lalmohan babu’s pocket by the evening. ‘You’re buying us lunch tomorrow!’ Feluda told him, ‘And a copper chimney won’t do, let me tell you. We should look for a golden one!’
By the time we finished our meal of rumali roti, pulao, nargisi kofta and kulfi, and left the restaurant, it was a quarter to three. Mr Ghoshal and Mr Gupte returned to the studio. Some of the dialogue still remained to be written. Writing the dialogue always took time, Mr Ghoshal informed us, as every word had to shine and sparkle. Mr Gupte simply smiled, without removing the cigar from his mouth. I noticed that although he wrote all the dialogue in a film, he spoke very little himself.
We bought some paan and climbed back into the car. ‘Shalimar?’ asked our driver.
‘It would be silly,’ Feluda remarked, ‘to return to Calcutta without having seen the Gateway to India. Please take us to the Taj Mahal Hotel.’
‘Very well, sir,’ the driver replied. He could tell we had all the time in the world, and were interested only in seeing the place. So he drove around the city and showed us Victoria Terminus, Flora Fountain, the television station and the Prince of Wales Museum, before reaching the Gateway to India at around half past three. We got out of the car.