by Satyajit Ray
‘I was on a lower berth. Mr Pakrashi was on the berth above mine. On the Other side, the man who gave me the apple sat on the upper berth and below him was the businessman who knew Mr Pakrashi.’
Feluda was silent for a few moments. Then he rubbed his hands together and said, ‘If you don’t mind. I am going to ask for some tea. Do have a cup if you want. Topshe, would you please go in?’
I ran in to tell our cook, Srinath, to bring the tea. When I returned, Feluda had opened the attaché case.
‘Wasn’t it locked?’ he asked.
‘No. Nor was mine. So whoever took it could easily have seen what was in it. This one is full of routine, ordinary stuff.’
True. It contained little besides two English dailies, a cake of soap, a comb, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a shaving kit, a handkerchief and a paperback.
‘Did your case contain anything valuable?’ Feluda wanted to know.
‘No, nothing. In fact, what my case had was probably of less value than what you see here. The only interesting thing in it was a manuscript. It was a travelogue, about Tibet. I had taken it with me to read on the train. It made very good reading.’
‘A travelogue about Tibet?’ Feluda was now clearly curious. ‘Yes. It was written in 1917 by a Shambhucharan Bose. As far as I can make out, my uncle must have brought it, since it was dedicated to him. His name was Satinath Lahiri. He had lived in Kathmandu for many years, working as a private tutor in the household of the Ranas. He returned home about forty-five years ago, a sick old man. In fact, he died shortly after his return. Among his belongings was a Nepali box. It lay in a corner of our box room. We had all forgotten its existence until recently, when I called the Pest Control. The room had to be emptied for the men to work in. It was then that I found the box and, in it, the manuscript.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘The day before I left for Delhi.’
Feluda grew a little thoughtful. ‘Shambhucharan?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Shambhucharan . . . Shambhucharan . . .’
‘Anyway,’ continued Mr Lahiri, ‘that manuscript does not mean very much to me. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really interested in getting my attaché case back. Besides, there was no guarantee that I would find the owner of the one that got exchanged with mine. So I gave this case to my nephew. But since last night, I have been thinking. These articles that you see before you may not be expensive, but for their owner they might have a great deal of sentimental value. Look at this handkerchief, for instance. It’s initialled “G”. Someone had embroidered the letter with great care. Who could it be? His wife? Perhaps she is no more. Who knows? Shouldn’t I try to return this attaché case to its rightful owner? I was getting worried, so I took it back from my nephew and came to you. Frankly, I don’t care if my own case does not come back to me. I would simply feel a lot more comfortable if this one could be restored to whoever owns it.’
Srinath came in with the tea. Feluda, of late, had become rather fussy about his tea. What he was now going to drink had come from the Makaibari tea estate of Kurseong. Its fragrance filled the room the instant Srinath placed the cups before us. Feluda took a sip quietly and said, ‘Did you have to open your case quite a few times in the train?’
‘No, not at all. I opened it only twice. I took the manuscript out soon after the train left Delhi, and then I put it back before going to sleep.’
Feluda lit a Charminar and blew out a couple of smoke rings. ‘So you’d like me to return this case to its owner and get yours back for you—right?’
‘Yes. But does that disappoint you? Do you think it’s all a bit too tame?’
Feluda ran his fingers through his hair. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I understand your sentiments. And I must admit that your case is different from the ones I usually handle.’
Dinanath Babu looked visibly relieved. ‘Your acceptance means a lot to me,’ he said, letting out a deep breath.
‘I shall, of course, do my best,’ Feluda replied, ‘but I cannot guarantee success. You must understand that. However, I should now like some information.’
‘Yes?’
Feluda rose quickly and went into the next room. He returned with his famous blue notebook. Then, pencil in hand, he began asking questions.
‘When did you leave Delhi?’
‘On 5 March at 6.30 p.m. I reached Calcutta the next morning at nine-thirty.’
‘Today is the 9th. So you arrived here three days ago, and you rang me yesterday.’
Feluda opened the attaché case and took out a yellow Kodak film container. As he unscrewed its lid, a few pieces of betel-nut fell out of it on the table. Feluda put one of these in his mouth and resumed speaking.
‘Was there anything in your case that might give one an idea of your name and address?’
‘No, not as far as I can recall.’
‘Hm. Could you now please describe your fellow passengers?’ Dinanath Babu tilted his head and stared at the ceiling, frowning a little.
‘Pakrashi would have been about the same age as me. Between sixty and sixty-five. He had salt-and-pepper hair, brushed back. He wore glasses and his voice was rather harsh.’
‘Good.’
‘The man who offered me the apple had a fair complexion. He was tall and slim, had a sharp nose, wore gold-framed glasses and was quite bald except for a few strands of black hair around his ears. He spoke to me only in English, with a flawless accent. And he had a cold. He kept blowing his nose into a tissue.’
‘A pukka sahib, I see! And the third gentleman?’
‘His appearance was really quite ordinary—there was nothing that one might have noticed in particular. But he was the only one who ordered a vegetarian thali.’
Feluda jotted all this down in his notebook. Then he looked up and asked, ‘Anything else?’
‘No, I can’t recall anything else worth reporting. You see, I spent most of the day reading. And I fell asleep soon after dinner. I don’t usually sleep very well in a train. But this time I slept like a baby until we arrived at Howrah. In fact, it was Mr Pakrashi who woke me.’
‘In that case, presumably you were the last person to leave the coach?’
‘Yes.’
‘By which time one of the other three had walked out with your attaché case?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hm,’ Feluda said, shutting his notebook, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Dinanath Babu rose.
‘I will, of course, pay your fee. But you will naturally need something to begin your investigation. I brought some cash today for this purpose.’ He took out a white envelope from his pocket and offered it to Feluda, who took it coolly with a casual ‘Oh, thanks’ and stuffed it into his own pocket, together with his pencil.
Dinanath Babu came out and began walking towards his car. ‘You will get my telephone number from the directory,’ he said, ‘please let me know if you hear anything. As a matter of fact, you can come straight to my house if need be. I am usually home in the evening.’
The yellow Hispano Suiza disappeared in the direction of Rashbehari Avenue, blowing its horn like a conch shell, startling all passers-by. We returned to the living-room. Feluda took the chair Dinanath Babu had occupied. Then he crossed his legs, stretched lazily and said, ‘Another twenty-five years . . . and people with such an aristocratic style will have vanished.’
The blue case was still lying on the table. Feluda took its contents out one by one. Each object was really quite ordinary. Whoever bought them could not have spent more than fifty rupees.
‘Let’s make a list,’ said Feluda. This was soon ready, and it contained the following:
Two English dailies from Delhi, neatly folded. One was the Sunday Statesman, the other the Sunday Hindustan Times.
A half-used tube of Binaca toothpaste. The empty portion had been rolled up.
A green Binaca toothbrush.
A Gillette safety razor.
Three thin Gillette blades in a packet.
An old and used Old Spice shaving crea
m. It was nearly finished.
A shaving brush.
A nail cutter—pretty old.
Three tablets of Aspro wrapped in a cellophane sheet.
A folded map of Calcutta. It measured 4’ x5’ when opened.
A Kodak film container with chopped betel-nuts in it.
A matchbox, brand new.
A Venus red-and-blue pencil.
A white handkerchief, with the letter ‘G’ embroidered in one corner.
A pen-knife, possibly from Moradabad.
A small face-towel.
A rusted old safety-pin.
Three equally rusted paper clips.
A shirt button.
A detective novel—Ellery Queen’s The Door Between.
Feluda picked up the book and turned a few pages.
‘No, there’s no mention of the owner’s name,’ he said, ‘but he clearly had the habit of marking a page by folding its corner. There are 236 pages in this book. The last sign of folding is at page 212. I assume he finished reading it.’
Feluda now turned his attention to the handkerchief.
‘The first letter of his name or surname must be “G”. No, it must be his first name, that’s far more natural.’
Then he opened the map of Calcutta and spread it on the table. ‘Red marks,’ he said, looking closely at it, ‘someone marked it with a red pencil . . . hmm . . . one, two, three, four, five . . . hm . . . Chowringhee . . . Park Street . . . I see. Topshe, get the telephone directory.’
Feluda put the map back into the case. Then he began turning the pages of the telephone directory. ‘P . . . here we are,’ he said. ‘There are only sixteen Pakrashis listed here. Two of them are doctors , so we can easily leave them out.’
‘Why?’
‘The man who recognized him in the train called him Mr Pakrashi, not Doctor, remember?’
‘Oh yes, that’s right.’
Feluda picked up the telephone and began dialling. Each time he got through, I heard him say, ‘Has Mr Pakrashi returned from Delhi? . . . Oh, sorry!’
This happened five times in a row. But the sixth number he dialled apparently got him the right man for, this time, he spoke for much longer. Then he said ‘Thanks’ and put the phone down.
‘I think I’ve got him,’ he said to me. ‘N.C. Pakrashi. He answered the phone himself. He returned from Delhi by Kalka Mail the day before yesterday. Everything tallies, except that his luggage didn’t get exchanged.’
‘Then why did you make an appointment with him this evening?’
‘Why, he can give us some information about the other passengers, can’t he? He appears to be an ill-tempered fellow, but it would take more than ill-temper to put Felu Mitter off. Come, Topshe, let’s go out.’
‘Now? I thought we were meeting Mr Pakrashi in the evening?’
‘Yes, but before calling on Pakrashi I think we need to visit your Uncle Sidhu. Now.’
Two
Uncle Sidhu was no relation. He used to be Baba’s next door neighbour when he lived in our old ancestral home, long before I was born. Baba treated him like a brother, and we all called him Uncle. Uncle Sidhu’s knowledge about most things was extraordinary and his memory remarkably powerful. Feluda and I both admired and respected him enormously.
But why did Feluda want to see him at this time? The first question Feluda asked made that clear. ‘Have you heard of a travel writer called Shambhucharan Bose? He used to write in English, about sixty years ago.’
Uncle Sidhu’s eyes widened.
‘Good heavens, Felu, haven’t you read his book on the Terai?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Feluda, ‘now I do remember. The man’s name sounded familiar, but no, I haven’t read the book.’
‘It was called The Terrors of Terai. A British publisher in London published it in 1915. Shambhucharan was both a traveller and a shikari. But by profession he was a doctor. He used to practise in Kathmandu. This was long before the present royal family came into power. The powerful people in Nepal then were the Ranas. Shambhucharan treated and cured a lot of ailments among the Ranas. He mentioned one of them in his book. Vijayendra Shamsher Jung Bahadur. The man was keen on hunting, but he drank very heavily. Apparently, he used to climb a machan with a bottle in one hand and a rifle in the other. But both his hands stayed steady when it came to pressing the trigger. Except once. Only once did he miss, and the tiger jumped up on the machan. It was Shambhucharan who shot the tiger from the next machan and saved the Rana’s life. The Rana expressed his gratitude by giving him a priceless jewel. A most thrilling story. Try and get a copy from the National Library. I don’t think you’ll get it easily anywhere else.’
‘Did he ever go to Tibet?’
‘Yes, certainly. He died in 1921, soon after I finished college. I saw an obituary on him, I remember. It said he had gone to Tibet after his retirement, although he died in Kathmandu.’
‘I see.’
Feluda remained silent for a few moments. Then he said, in a clear, distinct tone, ‘Supposing an unpublished manuscript was discovered today, written after his visit to Tibet, would that be a valuable document?’
‘My goodness!’ Uncle Sidhu’s bald dome glistened with excitement. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Felu! Valuable? I still remember the very high praise Terai had received from the London Times. It wasn’t just the stories he told, Shambhucharan’s language was easy, lucid and clear as crystal. Why, have you found such a manuscript?’
‘No, but there might be one in existence.’
‘If you can lay your hands on it, please don’t forget to show it to me, Felu. And in case it gets auctioned, let me know. I’d be prepared to bid up to five thousand rupees . . .’
We left soon after this, but not before two cups of cocoa had been pressed upon us.
‘Mr Lahiri doesn’t even know his attache case contains such hot stuff,’ I said as we came out. ‘Aren’t you going to tell him?’
‘Wait. There’s no need to rush things. Let’s see where all this leads to. In any case, I have taken the job, haven’t I? It’s just that now I feel a lot more enthusiastic.’
Naresh Chandra Pakrashi lived in Lansdowne Road. It was obvious that his house had been built at least forty years ago. Feluda had taught me how to assess the age of a house. For instance, houses built fifty years ago had a certain type of window, which was different from those built ten years later. The railings on verandas and terraces, patterns on gates, pillars at porticos—all bore evidence of the period a building was made. This particular house must have been built in the 1920s.
The first thing I noticed as we climbed out of our taxi was a notice outside the main gate: ‘Beware of the Dog’.
‘It would have made better sense,’ remarked Feluda, ‘if it had said, “Beware of the Owner of the Dog”.’
We passed through the gate and found a chowkidar standing near the porch. Feluda gave him his visiting card, which bore the legend: ‘Pradosh C. Mitter, Private Investigator’. The chowkidar disappeared with the card and reappeared a few minutes later.
‘Please go in,’ he said.
We had to cross a wide marble landing before we got to the door of the living-room. It must have been about ten feet high. We lifted the curtain and walked in, to be greeted by rows and rows of books, all stashed in huge almirahs. There was quite a lot of other furniture, a wall-to-wall carpet, pictures on the walls, and even a chandelier. But the whole place had an unkempt air. Apparently, no one cared to clean it regularly.
We found Mr Pakrashi in his study, hidden behind the living-room. The sound of typing had already reached our ears. Now we saw a man sitting behind an ancient typewriter, which rested on a massive table, covered with green rexine. The table was placed on the right. On our left, as we stepped in, we saw three couches and a small round table. On this one stood a chess board with all the chessmen in place, and a book on the game. The last thing my eyes fell on was a large dog, curled up and asleep in one corner of the room.
Th
e man fitted Dinanath Babu’s description. A pipe hung from his mouth. He stopped typing upon our entry, and his eyes swept over us both. ‘Which one of you is Mr Mitter?’ he finally asked.
Perhaps it was his idea of a joke, but Feluda did not laugh. He answered civilly enough, ‘I am Pradosh Mitter. This is my cousin.’
‘How was I to know?’ said Mr Pakrashi. ‘Little boys have gone into so many different things . . . music, acting, painting; why, some have even become religious gurus! So your cousin here might well have been the great sleuth himself. But anyway, tell me why you’re here. What do you want from a man who’s never done anything other than mind his own business?’
Feluda was right. If ever a competition was held in irascibility, this man would have been a world champion.
‘Who did you say sent you here?’ he wanted to know.
‘Mr Lahiri mentioned your name. He arrived from Delhi three days ago. You and he travelled in the same compartment.’
‘I see. And is he the one whose attaché case got lost?’
‘Not lost. Merely mistaken for someone else’s.’
‘Careless fool. But why did he have to employ you to retrieve it? What precious object did it contain?’
‘There was nothing much, really, except an old manuscript. There is no other copy.’
I could tell why Feluda mentioned the manuscript. If he told Mr Pakrashi the real reason why he had been employed, no doubt Mr Pakrashi would have laughed in derision.
‘Manuscript?’ he asked somewhat suspiciously.
‘Yes. A travelogue written by Shambhucharan Bose. Mr Lahiri had read it on the train, then put it back in the case.’
‘Well, the man is not just a fool, he seems to be a liar, too. You see, although I had an upper berth, I spent most of the day sitting right next to him. He never read anything other than a newspaper and a Bengali magazine.’
Feluda did not say anything. Mr Pakrashi paused for breath, then continued, ‘I don’t know what you’d make of it as a sleuth. I find the whole thing distinctly suspicious. Anyway, if you wish to go on a wild-goose chase, suit yourself. I cannot offer any help. I told you on the phone I have about three of those Air-India bags, but on this trip I didn’t take any with me.’
