by Satyajit Ray
Behind the Gateway was the Arabian Sea. I counted eleven ships in it, big and small. The road here was very wide. To the left, facing the Gateway, was a statue of Shivaji, astride his horse. To our left was the world-famous Taj Mahal Hotel. We could hardly leave without seeing it from inside. From the outside it was just awesome.
My head began reeling as we stepped into the cool lobby. Where had I come? I had never seen so many people from so many different communities. Arabs seemed to outnumber other foreign visitors. But why? When I asked Feluda, he said it was because they could not travel to Beirut. So they had all come to Bombay to have a holiday. Thanks to the oil in their country, money was not a problem for them.
We roamed in the lobby for about five minutes before returning to the car. By the time we finally reached Shivaji Castle and were pressing the button for the lift, it was two minutes past four.
We emerged on the twelfth floor. There were three doors on different sides. The one in the middle had a sign saying, ‘G. Gore’. On our ringing the bell, a bearer wearing a uniform opened the door.
‘Please come in!’ he said. Obviously, we were expected.
As we stepped in, we heard Mr Gore’s voice before he could be seen. ‘Come in, come in!’ his voice greeted us. Then we saw him coming down a narrow passage with a smile on his face. ‘How was your lunch?’
‘Very, very good!’ Lalmohan babu replied.
Mr Gore’s living room was amazing. It was so large that I think almost the entire ground floor of our house in Calcutta would have fitted into it. On one side was a row of windows through which one could watch the sea. All the furniture was expensive—each piece had probably cost two or three thousand rupees. Apart from those, there was wall-to-wall carpeting, paintings on the wall, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling. A huge bookcase took up one side of the room. The books in it looked so glossy that it seemed as if they had only just been bought.
Feluda and I took a settee with a soft, thickly padded seat. Lalmohan sat on a similarly padded chair. At once, a very large dog came into the room and stood in its centre, turning its head to look first at the chair, and then at the settee. Lalmohan babu turned visibly pale. Feluda stretched a hand and snapped his fingers. The dog went to him immediately. I learnt later that it was a Great Dane.
‘Duke! Duke!’
The dog left Feluda and went towards a door. Mr Gore had waited until we were seated, then he had left us for a few moments. Now he returned to the room with an envelope in his hand, and sat on another chair by Lalmohan babu’s side.
‘I had meant to keep this ready for you,’ he said to Lalmohan babu, ‘but I had to take three trunk calls, so I didn’t get the time.’
He offered the envelope to Lalmohan babu, who managed to steady his shaking hand and took it casually. Then he slipped his hand into it and took out a wad of hundred-rupee notes.
‘Please count them,’ Mr Gore advised.
‘C-count them?’
‘Of course. You must. There should be one hundred notes there.’ By the time Lalmohan babu finished counting, a silver tea service had been placed before us. One sip told me that it was the best quality Darjeeling tea.
‘I haven’t really learnt anything about you,’ Mr Gore turned to Feluda.
‘There’s nothing to learn. I am Mr Ganguli’s friend, that’s all.’
‘No, sir. That is not enough. You are no ordinary person. Your eyes, your voice, your height, walk, body—nothing is ordinary. If you don’t want to tell me about yourself, that’s fine. But if you say you are no more than Mr Ganguli’s friend, I cannot believe that!’
Feluda smiled, sipped his tea and changed the subject. ‘I see that you have a lot of books,’ he said.
‘Yes, but I do not read them. Those books are only for show. The Taraporewala Book Shop has a standing order . . . they send me a copy of every good book that comes out.’
‘I can even see a Bengali book there!’
Goodness, how sharp Feluda’s eyes were! Even from a distance he had spotted a solitary Bengali book amongst the rows of books in English.
Mr Gore laughed. ‘Not only Bengali, Mr Mitter, I have books in Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati—everything. I know a man who can read Hindi, Bengali and Gujarati. He reads novels in all those languages, and makes synopses for me. I have even read the outline of Mr Ganguli’s novel. You see, Mr Mitter, in order to make a film . . .’
The telephone began ringing, interrupting him. Mr Gore rose and walked over to answer a white telephone resting on a three-legged stool by the door.
‘Hello . . . yes, hold on. A call for you, Mr Ganguli.’
Lalmohan babu gave another start. I hoped these frequent starts were not going to damage his heart.
‘Is it Pulak?’ he asked on his way to the telephone.
‘No, sir. I don’t know this person,’ Mr Gore replied.
‘Hello,’ Lalmohan babu spoke into the receiver. Feluda cast him a sidelong glance.
‘Hello . . . hello . . . ?’
Lalmohan babu looked at us in puzzlement. ‘No one’s speaking up!’
‘The line must have got disconnected,’ Mr Gore said. Lalmohan babu shook his head. ‘No, I can hear various sounds, but no one’s saying anything.’
Now Feluda went and took the receiver from him. ‘Hello, hello!’
Then he, too, shook his head and said, ‘Whoever it was just put the phone down!’
‘How strange! Who could it have been?’ Lalmohan babu exclaimed.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Mr Gore told us, ‘That kind of thing happens all the time in Bombay.’
Feluda remained standing. We took our cue and rose. Lalmohan babu did not seem all that concerned about the mysterious phone call, possibly because of the ten thousand rupees nestling in his pocket.
‘We’re going to the Lotus to see one of Pulak’s films this evening,’ he remarked casually.
‘Yes, you must. Pulak babu is a very good director. I am sure Jet Bahadur will also be a great box office success!’
Mr Gore came to the front door to see us out. ‘Don’t forget about lunch tomorrow. I hope you’ve got transport?’
We assured him that Mr Ghoshal had made all the arrangements. We would have a car at our disposal all day.
We emerged on the landing and pressed the button for the lift. ‘Now you know how much money these people have!’ Feluda said to Lalmohan babu.
‘Yes. In fact, I’ve got some of it in my own pocket!’
‘True, but that’s peanuts. Even a hundred thousand rupees, to these people, is a laughably small amount. Did you notice that he didn’t ask you to sign a receipt? That means your pocket is filled with his black money. You have taken your first step into the world of darkness!’
The lift came down from upstairs and stopped with a clang. ‘Whatever you may say, Felu babu, if one has a lot of money in one’s pocket, be it black or white . . .’
Lalmohan babu broke off. Feluda had just opened the door of the lift to get into it. A strong scent wafted out—it was the scent of Gulbahar. All of us could recognize it, Lalmohan babu in particular. It rendered him speechless.
We followed Feluda into the lift, our hearts beating faster. ‘I am sure,’ I couldn’t help saying after a few moments, ‘plenty of people in this country use Gulbahar. Mr Sanyal cannot be the only one!’
Instead of replying, Feluda pressed the button for the seventeenth floor. We climbed another five floors.
Like the others, this floor had three doors near the lift. The one on the left said, ‘H. Hekroth’. ‘A German name,’ Feluda muttered. The door to our right said, ‘N.C. Mansukhani’. He had to be a Sindhi. The door in the middle bore no name at all.
‘That flat’s empty,’ said Lalmohan babu.
‘Not necessarily,’ Feluda replied, ‘Not everyone uses a name-plate. In fact, I think someone does live in this flat.’
Lalmohan babu and I looked at him curiously.
‘If a doorbell has not been used for some time, it
s switch should be dusty. But take a look at this one. Then take a look at the other two, and tell me if they are any different.’
I peered closely at the switch. Feluda was right. It was shining brightly, there was no trace of dust.
‘Are you going to press it?’ Lalmohan babu asked, his voice trembling a little.
Feluda did not ring the bell. What he did instead was even more puzzling. He threw himself down on the floor and began sniffing through the tiny gap between the door and the floor. I saw him inhale deeply a couple of times, after which he got back to his feet and said, ‘Coffee. I could smell strong coffee.’
Then he did something else that was no less surprising. Instead of taking the lift, he took the stairs to climb down to the ground floor. He stopped at every floor on his way, and spent at least half-a-minute, looking around. God knows what he was looking for.
When we finally came out of the building, it was ten minutes past five.
We had been in Bombay for only a short while, but most undoubtedly, we had already got entangled in a complex mystery.
Seven
‘If I asked you a few questions, would you mind?’ Feluda asked Lalmohan babu. We had returned to our hotel from Shivaji Castle about ten minutes ago. The receptionist had informed us that while we were out, someone had rung Lalmohan babu, but didn’t leave his name or a message.
‘It must be Pulak, trying to get hold of me every now and then,’ said Lalmohan babu. ‘It cannot be anyone else.’
Now he turned to Feluda and said, ‘If I could handle a police interrogation and come through with flying colours, why should I mind questions from you?’
‘Very well. You don’t know Sanyal’s first name, do you?’
‘No. I didn’t get round to asking him.’
‘Can you describe him? I want a full and clear description—not the slipshod type of description you use in your books!’
Lalmohan babu cleared his throat and frowned.
‘His height would be . . . let’s see . . .’
‘Do you always take in a person’s height before anything else?’
‘Yes, if he is exceptionally shorter or taller than average . . .’
‘Was Sanyal very short?’
‘No.’
‘Remarkably tall?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s not talk about his height right now. Tell me about his face.’
‘I saw him late in the evening. And the light bulb in my living room isn’t particularly strong, it’s only forty watts.’
‘Never mind. Tell me what you can remember.’
‘A broad face. His eyes . . . ah . . . he was wearing glasses. Had a beard—pretty thick—and a moustache, attached to his beard . . .’
‘You mean a French beard?’
‘N-no, it was different, I think. It was joined to his sideburns as well.’
‘All right, go on.’
‘His hair . . . salt-and-pepper. Yes, that’s what it was, and he had a right. . . no, no, a left parting.’
‘Teeth?’
‘Perfect. Didn’t appear to be false teeth.’
‘Voice?’
‘Neither too deep, nor too thin. Sort of medium.’
‘Height?’
‘Told you. Medium.’
‘Didn’t he give you a phone number? Didn’t he say it was his friend’s number in Bombay, and this friend was a very helpful man?’
‘Oh yes! I say, I’d forgotten all about it. I could have told the police, but even when that inspector was asking me all those questions, I clean forgot.’
‘No matter, you can tell me.’
‘Wait, let me see . . .!’ Lalmohan babu opened his wallet and took out a blue, folded piece of paper. Feluda examined it carefully, as the writing was Sanyal’s own. Then he put the paper away in his own wallet, and said to me, ‘Topshe, could you please ask for that number—tell the operator it’s 253418.’
I picked up the phone and spoke to the operator. Then I passed the phone to Feluda.
‘Hello,’ Feluda said, ‘Could I speak to Mr Desai, please?’
How perfectly weird! It turned out that no one called Desai had ever used that number. The man who answered it was called Parekh, and he had been using that same number for ten years, he said.
‘Lalmohan babu,’ said Feluda replacing the receiver, ‘forget about selling your next story to Sanyal. The man sounds decidedly fishy, and I think that packet he gave you is no less suspicious.’
Lalmohan babu scratched his head and sighed. ‘To tell you the truth, Felu babu,’ he muttered, ‘for some funny reason, I didn’t like the man, either!’
Feluda’s voice took on a sharp edge. ‘For some funny reason? I hate that expression. You should know the exact reason; don’t dismiss it as “funny”. Come on, try to explain. Why didn’t you like Sanyal?’
Lalmohan babu didn’t mind Feluda speaking to him sharply; he was quite used to it. In fact, he was the first to admit that his writing had improved chiefly because Feluda did not hesitate to point out his mistakes.
Now he sat up straight. ‘First,’ he said, ‘the fellow did not look straight at me when he spoke. Second, he spoke in a low voice—as if he had come to discuss some secret plan. Where was the need to speak so softly? Third . . .’
Here his voice trailed away. Over the next few minutes, Lalmohan babu tried very hard to remember the third reason, but failed.
The evening show at the Lotus was going to start at six-thirty. So we left the hotel at six o’clock. Only Lalmohan babu and I got into the car, as Feluda said he had some work to do. His blue notebook had emerged from his bag; I didn’t have to be told what ‘work’ was going to keep him busy.
The Lotus cinema was in Worli, so we had to go back there. Lalmohan babu was looking decidedly nervous. The film we were about to see would prove what kind of a director Mr Ghoshal was. ‘Well,’ he said to me, ‘if three of his films have been successful—one after the other—then he can’t be all that bad, can he? What do you think, Tapesh?’
What could I say? That was exactly what I was telling myself to find reassurance.
Mr Ghoshal had not forgotten to inform the manager. Three tickets had been reserved for us in the Royal Circle. However, as it was a repeat show, plenty of seats were empty in the main auditorium.
We realized, even before the intermission, that Teerandaj was the kind of film that would be liable to give one a severe headache. Lalmohan babu and I exchanged glances in the dark. I wanted to laugh, but at the same time, felt concerned each time I thought about the future of Jet Bahadur. What was Lalmohan babu going to do?
When the lights came on during the intermission, Lalmohan babu sighed. ‘Pulak,’ he said with a lot of feeling, ‘you and I come from the same city, same area. Is this all you’ve learnt to do in so many years?’ Then, after a pause, he turned to me and added, ‘Pulak used to put on a play every year during Durga Puja. As far as I can recall, he failed his B. Com. Well, what else can you expect from such a character?’
We left the auditorium as soon as the lights dimmed again. I was afraid we might find either Pulak Ghoshal himself, or one of his men, outside in the lobby. But there was no one.
‘If he asks me, I am going to say it was first-class,’ Lalmohan babu decided. ‘Frankly, Tapesh, I would have felt quite heartbroken, had I not received all those fresh, crisp notes from Gore!’
Our car was parked opposite the cinema. Lalmohan babu did not immediately make for the car. He walked over to a small grocery store instead, and bought a packet of savouries, two packets of biscuits, six oranges and a packet of lemon drops. ‘Sometimes I get quite hungry in my hotel room. These will come in handy,’ he confided.
We returned to the car, our hands laden with various packets. As soon as I opened the door, each of us received an enormous shock. The car was reeking with the scent of Gulbahar. It was certainly not there when we arrived here. It had appeared in the last one-and-a-half hours.
‘My head is reeling, Tap
esh. This is positively spooky, isn’t it? I’m sure Sanyal has been murdered. And we’re being haunted by his perfumed ghost!’ Lalmohan babu exclaimed.
I asked the driver if he knew anything. He said he was in the car most of the time, but he did leave it—only for about five minutes—to watch a Hindi programme (Phool Khile hain Gulshan Gulshan) on TV at a shop nearby. Yes, he could smell the perfume too, but had no idea how it had got there. It was like magic, he thought.
We told Feluda about it as soon as we got back to the hotel. ‘When the plot thickens, this kind of thing is bound to happen, Lalmohan babu! Or one can’t call it a real mystery; and if it isn’t a real mystery, then Felu Mitter cannot exercise his brain, can he?’ said Feluda.
‘But. . .’
‘I know what you’re going to ask me. No, I haven’t worked out the whole plot. All I’m doing right now is trying to understand its nature.’
‘It seems that you went out?’ I put in, sounding most sleuth-like. ‘Well done, Topshe. But I didn’t have to leave the hotel to get it. The receptionist gave it to me.’
The object in question was an Indian Airlines time-table, which was lying by Feluda’s side. ‘I wanted to find out how many flights go to Calcutta from Kathmandu, and what time they arrive,’ Feluda explained.
The mention of Kathmandu reminded me of something I wanted to ask Feluda.
‘Inspector Patwardhan mentioned a Nanasaheb. Which Nanasaheb did he mean?’
‘There is only one who is famous in Indian history.’
‘The one who fought against the British during the mutiny?’
‘Yes, but later he escaped and left India. He went all the way to Kathmandu, taking with him a lot of valuable jewels—including a necklace studded with diamonds and pearls. It was called the naulakha. Eventually, it went to Jung Bahadur of Nepal. In return, Jung Bahadur gave two villages to Nanasaheb’s wife, Kashi Bai.’
‘Has that famous necklace been stolen?’
‘Yes, so it would seem from what Patwardhan said.’
‘Oh my God, did I hand over that same necklace?’ Lalmohan babu’s voice rose with concern. He almost shouted.
