The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘And aren’t there real guards outside the main door?’ Feluda asked.

  ‘Oh yes, you’ll find those as well.’

  In less than two minutes, we were standing outside Maganlal’s house. Two armed guards were painted on the wall, but there was no one in sight. The street, unlike the ones we had passed through, was remarkably quiet. Not even a goat or a lamb could be seen.

  The front door was wide open. How very strange! Where had the guards gone? Were they perhaps having their lunch? Feluda sniffed a couple of times and said, ‘I can smell tobacco.’ Then he looked around and added, ‘Come on, let’s go in. If we’re stopped, we can always say we’re new and slipped in by mistake, thinking it was a temple.’

  Lalmohan Babu and I followed him in. Goodness, was this where the great Maganlal lived, I thought in wonder, staring at the cows that stood in the dark, damp courtyard. Our appearance did not bother them at all. Each continued to chew the cud, gazing at us calmly.

  ‘This is quite common here,’ Feluda whispered. ‘Very few people have any open space to keep their cows in. So they keep them in their courtyard inside the house, for they can’t do without large quantities of milk and ghee.’

  On our right and left were corridors, leading to nothing but darkness, as far as I could see. Presumably, there was a staircase somewhere, for I had noted outside that the house had three floors.

  As we stood debating what to do next, my eyes suddenly fell on a figure that had emerged silently from the dark depths and was standing on our right.

  It was a middle-aged man, of medium height, clad in a green kurta-pyjama, an embroidered white cotton cap on his head. A thick moustache drooped down, brushing against his chin. When he spoke, his voice sounded like an old, worn out gramophone record.

  ‘Sethji would like to meet you,’ he said. ‘Which Sethji?’

  ‘Seth Maganlalji.’

  ‘All right. Let’s go.’

  Six

  ‘Jai Baba Vishwanath!’

  I couldn’t see the look on Lalmohan Babu’s face, but I could tell from his voice how he felt.

  ‘Do you really have a lot of faith in Vishwanath?’ asked Feluda. I couldn’t imagine how he could speak so lightly.

  ‘Jai Baba Felunath!’ whispered Lalmohan Babu.

  ‘That’s better!’

  We were groping our way upstairs, climbing a series of stairs that were amazingly high. Everything was in total darkness. The man who had come to fetch us hadn’t bothered to bring a light. Lalmohan Babu was still muttering under his breath. I caught the word ‘black hole’ a couple of times.

  At last, we reached the top floor. Our emissary passed through a door. We followed him. He then took us through a room, a narrow passage, another chamber, and finally stopped before a small door, motioning us to go in.

  We stepped into the room. At first I could see nothing except some coloured glass. Then I realized I was looking at a window. The light from outside was shining through its colourful panes.

  ‘Namaskar, Mr Mitter,’ said a deep, gruff voice.

  A few things became visible. A thick mattress, covered with a white sheet, was spread on the floor. On it were four bolsters, also covered in white. The figure that sat leaning on one of these was that of the man we had seen from the rear at Abhay Chakravarty’s house.

  With a faint click, a light on the ceiling came on. We were finally face to face with Maganlal Meghraj. The eyes that regarded us solemnly were sunk in, set under thick, bushy eyebrows. A blunt nose, thick lips and a pointed chin completed the picture. He too was wearing a kurta-pyjama. The buttons on his kurta might well have been diamonds. Besides these, on eight of his ten fingers flashed other stones of every possible colour.

  ‘Why are you standing? Do sit down,’ he invited. ‘Take a chair, if you like.’

  There were low, Gujarati chairs placed by the side of the mattress. We took three of these.

  ‘I wanted to meet you, Mr Mitter. I would have invited you properly, but luckily you came here yourself.’ After a moment’s pause he added, ‘You may not know me, Mr Mitter, but I know all about you.’

  ‘I have heard your name,’ Feluda replied politely. ‘You’re pretty well known yourself.’

  ‘Well known?’ Maganlal laughed loudly, displaying paan-stained teeth. ‘Not well known, Mr Mitter. What you mean is infamous. Notorious. Come on, admit it!’

  Feluda remained silent. Maganlal’s eyes turned towards me. ‘Is this your brother?’

  ‘My cousin.’

  ‘And who is this? Your uncle?’ Maganlal was smiling.

  ‘This is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli.’

  ‘Very good! Lalmohan, Mohanlal, Maganlal . . . it’s all just the same, isn’t it? What d’you say, eh?’

  Lalmohan Babu had been shaking his legs with an ‘I-don’t-feel-nervous-at-all’ air. Maganlal’s words made his knees knock against each other. At this point, Maganlal suddenly brought his hand down on a bell, making it ring sharply. This startled Lalmohan Babu so much that he choked and began to splutter.

  ‘Does your throat feel a bit . . . dry?’ queried Maganlal.

  The man who had brought us upstairs reappeared silently. ‘Bring some sherbet,’ ordered Maganlal.

  It was now possible to see everything quite clearly. There were two steel almirahs in one corner. Behind Maganlal, the wall was covered with pictures of Hindu gods and goddesses. On the mattress, on his right, were a few papers and files, a small metal cash-box and a red telephone. On his left was a silver box stuffed with paan, and a silver spittoon.

  ‘Well, Mr Mitter,’ he asked gravely, ‘have you come to Banaras on holiday?’

  ‘That was my original plan,’ Feluda replied, looking straight at him.

  ‘Then . . . why . . . are . . . you . . . wasting . . . your . . . time?’ Maganlal spoke through clenched teeth, uttering each word distinctly.

  ‘Have you been to Sarnath?’ he went on. ‘Ramnagar? Durga Bari, Man Mandir, Hindu University? No, I know you haven’t seen any of these famous places. You walked past the Vishwanath temple today, but did not go in. Yet, you keep going back to Umanath Ghoshal’s house. Why? Forget what he told you. I can make your stay in Kashi so much more enjoyable. I have my own barge, did you know that? Come any day to the river. I’ll take you on a cruise from one side to the other. You’d love it!’

  ‘You seem to be forgetting,’ said Feluda, still speaking calmly, ‘that I am a professional investigator. Mr Ghoshal has given me a specific task. I cannot think about having a holiday or going on a cruise on your boat until that task has been completed.’

  ‘What is your fee?’

  Feluda was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, ‘That depends—’

  ‘Here, take this!’

  I gave an involuntary gasp. Maganlal had opened the cash-box and taken out a large fistful of hundred rupee notes. He was now offering these to Feluda. Feluda’s lips became set. ‘I do not,’ he said clearly, ‘accept a fee without having done anything to earn it.’

  ‘I see, I see!’ Maganlal bared his paan-stained teeth again. ‘But how will you earn it, Mr Mitter? How can you catch a thief when there has been no theft?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ This time even Feluda sounded surprised. ‘If no one stole anything, where has it gone?’

  ‘It,’ said Maganlal, ‘was sold to me. I paid Umanath thirty thousand for it.’

  ‘What rubbish is this?’

  How could Feluda talk like this? My hands began to feel clammy. Lalmohan Babu, too, was looking decidedly pale.

  Maganlal had started to laugh, but Feluda’s words instantly wiped the laughter from his face. A deep frown creased his brow, his eyes glinted under the light. ‘Rubbish? Maganlal doesn’t talk rubbish, Mr Mitter. Obviously, you don’t know enough about Umanath and his affairs. Did you know his business isn’t doing well? Are you aware how much he owes people? Did anyone tell you Umanath himself called me over to his house and took the Ganesh out of the chest? How do you propose to catch
the culprit when it is none other than your client himself?’

  ‘I still don’t understand, Maganlalji,’ Feluda answered. ‘Why should Mr Ghoshal have to steal the Ganesh? Why couldn’t he simply take it out openly if he had decided to sell it to you?’

  ‘That Ganesh did not belong only to Umanath. It was the property of his family. His brother—who lives in England—and his father had an equal claim on it. It was his father who had had it all along, and he has certainly been lucky. Just look at how much money he’s earned, and what comfort he lives in. Umanath would never have dared tell his father he was selling their most precious heirloom!’

  Feluda appeared to be thinking. Was he beginning to believe Maganlal?

  ‘I’ll tell you.’ Maganlal sat up. ‘He called me over to his house on the tenth of October, and offered to sell the Ganesh. I agreed. I have recently had a run of bad luck, as you may have heard. So I thought the Ganesh would help change my luck. Umanath knows nothing of the value of that green diamond. It’s actually worth far more than what I paid. Anyway, we had a chat on the tenth. He said he needed a little time to get things organized. So I said fine, take your time. On the fifteenth, he rang me again and said he had actually got the Ganesh. I told him to come to Machchli Baba’s meeting. We both arrived with a little bag in our pockets. His had the Ganesh. Mine had thirty thousand in hundred rupee notes. It didn’t take us long to exchange the bags. And that’s all. End of story.’

  If what Maganlal was saying was true, then one had to admit Mr Ghoshal had deceived not just us but also the police. Perhaps he had hired Feluda only as a cover-up. But why was Maganlal telling us all this? What did he stand to gain?

  To my surprise, Feluda asked him the same question. Maganlal’s small eyes narrowed further. ‘I know you are an intelligent man, Mr Mitter,’ he proclaimed. ‘In fact, your intelligence is reputed to be extraordinary. If you began an investigation, would you not have discovered the truth? And if you did, how do you suppose Umanath and I would have looked? The police would have driven us mad! After all, our dealing wasn’t exactly legal and above board, was it? Surely you can see that?’

  Feluda did not say anything immediately. While Maganlal was talking, a man had brought in three glasses of sherbet, which were placed before us on a low table. Feluda picked up a glass and said, ‘That means you have got the Ganesh. May I see it? I am naturally curious to have a look at this object that’s created such a furore.’

  Maganlal shook his head regretfully. ‘Very sorry, Mr Mitter, I do not have it here. You know this house was raided once. So I couldn’t keep it here. I’ve had to send it to a safer place.’

  ‘All right,’ Feluda spoke casually. ‘You did what you thought best, and I shan’t argue with that. But don’t you see that I have to carry on with my investigation simply to find out if you’re telling the truth? If you are, we have nothing to worry about. But what if you’re not?’

  Maganlal’s eyes virtually disappeared. His lips curled ominously. ‘You mean you don’t believe me?’

  Feluda raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. Then he said, ‘You told me yourself I didn’t know you. So how can you expect me to believe all that you’ve just said? Would you believe everything a man told you the first time you met him? Especially if he clearly appeared to be tampering with the truth?’

  Maganlal went on staring at him. In the silence, all I could hear was a clock ticking somewhere, but couldn’t see it. Then Maganlal raised his right arm and extended it towards Feluda. He was still clutching the money. ‘I have three thousand here,’ he said. ‘Take it, Mr Mitter, and enjoy yourself. Have a good holiday with your cousin and your uncle.’

  ‘No, Maganlalji, I do not take money like this.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll continue working on this case?’

  ‘Yes. I have to.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Maganlal struck the bell again. The same man came back. Maganlal said, without even looking at him, ‘Call Arjun. And get that box—number thirteen. And the wooden board.’

  The man disappeared. God knew what he would come back with. Maganlal now turned towards Lalmohan Babu, a smile hovering on his lips. Lalmohan Babu’s right hand was curled around a glass, but it looked as though he couldn’t bring himself to drink from it.

  ‘What is it, Mohanbhog Babu, don’t you like my sherbet?’

  ‘No, no, I mean . . .’ Lalmohan Babu quickly brought the glass to his lips and swallowed some of its contents.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mohan Babu, that sherbet hasn’t been poisoned.’

  ‘No, no—’

  ‘I don’t like poison.’

  ‘Yes, of course. P-poison is,’ Lalmohan Babu gulped, ‘very bad.’

  ‘There are other things far more effective.’

  ‘Other things?’

  ‘I’ll show you what I mean.’

  Lalmohan Babu choked again. There were footsteps outside. A strange creature entered the room. It was a man, I had to admit, but I had never seen a man like him. About five feet in height, he was remarkably thin. Every vein in his body stood out. His eyes suggested he might have been a Nepali, but his nose was long and sharp. His hair was cut very short, and his ears stuck out. There was not a single hair on his body. I could see his arms and legs and chest, for he was wearing a dirty, torn sleeveless vest and an old pair of shorts. It was impossible to guess his age.

  The man gave Maganlal a salute, then stood waiting for instructions.

  Two men now came in carrying a long wooden box. This was probably the box number thirteen Maganlal had mentioned. The noise it made when set down on the floor suggested that its contents were made of either iron or brass.

  A large wooden board was then brought in and placed against the closed door behind us. Maganlal opened his mouth once more.

  ‘Do you know what knife-throwing is, Mr Mitter? Have you ever seen it in a circus?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  I hadn’t, but I knew what it was. A man stood with his back to a board. Another threw knives at him which, instead of hitting him, hit the board, just a few inches away from his body. Even a slight mistake made by the thrower could result in serious—even fatal—injury. Was this creature called Arjun going to throw knives? At whom?

  One of the men opened the box. It was filled with knives, each with an ivory handle, an identical pattern at one end.

  ‘The king of Harbanspur had a private circus. Arjun used to perform in it. Now he performs for me, in my own circus . . . ha ha ha!’

  Twelve knives had been selected from the box and spread out on a marble table like a Japanese fan. ‘Come on, Uncle!’ said Maganlal.

  Lalmohan Babu gave a violent start, spilling most of the remaining liquid in his glass on the floor. Feluda spoke this time. ‘Why are you calling him?’ he asked, ice in his voice.

  Maganlal’s fat body rocked with laughter. ‘Who else can stand before the board, tell me? If I asked you to stand there, you couldn’t see the game, could you? No, don’t say another word. You have insulted me today by calling me a liar. Let me warn you that I have other weapons, too. I don’t use just knives. Look at those small windows. Two guns are, at this moment, pointed at you. If you behave and don’t start an argument, you’ll come to no harm. Nor will your friend. Arjun is a master in this game, believe me.’

  I didn’t dare look at the windows. A moment later, Lalmohan Babu rose shakily to his feet, saying, ‘If I l-live, no wo-worries about a p-plot . . .’ A couple of men grabbed him and took him to stand before the board. He closed his eyes. I couldn’t bear to look any more.

  Lalmohan Babu was standing behind me. Before me stood Arjun, picking up the knives one by one, slowly but steadily. Each one flew over the top of my head and hit the board with a faint swish. Feluda must have been facing Lalmohan Babu and actually watching the show, or no doubt one of the guns would have been fired.

  At last, the last knife was thrown. Arjun stood mutely before the empty table, breathing heavily. Maganlal s
aid, ‘Well done!’ The invisible clock ticked away.

  No one else spoke. Nobody moved. Then, a few seconds later, just as my own breathing was beginning to get normal, Lalmohan Babu staggered forward, and grabbed Arjun’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

  Then he swayed from side to side, and fell down on the mattress, unconscious.

  Seven

  It was nearly 2 p.m. The sky had turned grey. There were very few people left at Dashashwamedh Ghat. The three of us were sitting near the water.

  It was almost an hour since our horrific experience in Maganlal’s house. Two of his men had splashed cold water on Lalmohan Babu’s face to help him regain consciousness. Then Maganlal himself had offered him a glass of milk and brandy, and said, ‘Uncle, you are a brave man.’

  We were allowed to leave shortly after this, but not before Maganlal had made it obvious that Feluda’s life was in danger if he insisted on continuing with his investigation. Feluda did not argue, but managed to get a small concession. ‘I must go back to Mr Ghoshal’s house at least once more,’ he said, ‘if only to tell him I’m opting out. If I disappear without a word, it’s not going to do much good to my image, is it?’

  To my surprise, Maganlal agreed. ‘Just one more visit,’ he said. ‘Remember, Mr Mitter, if you step out of line, you do so at your own risk. I don’t need to tell you I’ve got the means to keep an eye on everything you do.’

  I felt awful thinking Maganlal had had the last word. Feluda had, so far, never been defeated by an adversary. But then, none had been quite so cruel and powerful as Maganlal.

  Lalmohan Babu had said very little after we came away. The only thing he asked was whether all his hair had turned grey, at which both Feluda and I assured him that not a single new grey hair could be seen on his head.

  After a few minutes of silence, Feluda said with a sigh, ‘The Ganesh hasn’t left Mr Ghoshal’s house. I am now certain of that. If Maganlal had already got it, he would not offer me money to get off the case. The big question is, where has it gone? Why hasn’t Maganlal been able to lay his hands on it? Besides, who took it out, and who in that house is acting for Maganlal?’