The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II

by Satyajit Ray

  Four

  I was not sure that 133/2 Boubazar was really more than a hundred and fifty years old. But most undoubtedly it was the oldest house in Calcutta I had ever stepped into. The entrance was through an archway between two shops on the main road. There was a narrow passage beyond the archway, which led to a flight of wooden stairs. We climbed these up to the second floor, and turned right, to find ourselves facing a door with a brass name-plate on it. ‘R.D. Pestonji’, it said.

  Feluda rang the bell. A bearer opened the door almost instantly. Feluda handed him one of his cards. He disappeared to inform his master. In about three minutes, he was back. ‘You may come in, but Mr Pestonji cannot give you more than five minutes of his time,’ he said.

  Feluda agreed. We followed the bearer into the drawing room.

  It was a large room, but dark and stuffy. I could dimly see the figure of a man sitting on a sofa, a bottle and a glass resting on a low table before him. As we got closer, I could see him more clearly. His skin was pale, and his nose hooked like a parrot’s. His wide forehead was covered with freckles. Hazel eyes stared at us through the golden frames of his glasses. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh.

  ‘But you are not one man, you are a crowd!’ he complained. Feluda apologized for our presence, and explained quickly that he was the one who would do the talking. Mr Pestonji could ignore us completely. This seemed to mollify the old man.

  ‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe you knew Parvaticharan Haldar.’

  ‘My God, not again!’ Mr Pestonji exclaimed, his tone indicating both horror and disapproval. Feluda raised a reassuring hand.

  ‘I am not from the police. Please don’t worry on that score, sir. It so happens that I was there when Mr Haldar’s body was found. I therefore got involved in this case purely by chance. All I want to know from you is what you really think about the stolen letter.’

  Pestonji was quite for a few seconds. Then he said, ‘Have you seen that letter?’

  ‘No, sir. How could I? Mr Haldar was dead by the time I reached his house, and the letter had gone.’

  ‘But surely you have read about Napoleon?’

  ‘Yes, a little.’

  I began to wish Feluda wouldn’t be so modest. He had spent the last two days reading as much as he could about Napoleon’s life, as well as art and antiques. Uncle Sidhu had lent him a lot of books.

  ‘Then you must know about his exile in St Helena.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was he exiled?’

  ‘In 1815.’

  Pestonji smiled faintly, as though he was impressed by Feluda’s answers.

  ‘This letter that Parvati had in his collection was written in 1814. Napoleon was not allowed to write to anyone during the six years of his exile in St Helena. This would mean that that letter was among the very last Napoleon wrote before he died. It’s not known to whom it was addressed. The salutation simply said “mon cher ami”—my dear friend. But the contents of the letter and his language showed that even after he had lost everything, he was still fully prepared to stand by his beliefs. His spirit had remained unbroken. That is why that letter is so precious. Parvati had bought it for a song from some drunken fool in Zurich. It was going to come to me, for a mere twenty thousand rupees. Just imagine!’

  ‘How?’ Feluda’s voice echoed the surprise we all felt. ‘You mean Mr Haldar had agreed to sell that letter to you for that paltry sum?’

  ‘Oh no, no. Parvati didn’t agree to sell it. He was a most determined fellow. I used to respect him for it.’

  ‘Well then?’

  Pestonji poured himself a drink. Then he said, ‘Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee? Beer?’

  ‘No, thank you. We ought to be leaving soon.’

  ‘All right,’ Pestonji took a sip from his glass, ‘I’ll tell you what happened. I didn’t tell the police because the way they showered me with questions, my blood pressure shot up dangerously. I’m prepared to tell you, for you look like a gentleman. Yesterday, I received an anonymous phone call. Someone asked me straightaway if I would buy that letter for twenty thousand. I said yes, and told him to come here with it in the evening. He then said he wouldn’t come himself, but would send someone else. I must pay this man, and if I tried to inform the police, I’d end up just like Parvati Haldar.’

  ‘Did anyone come?’ we asked in unison.

  ‘No. Nobody came.’

  There seemed to be no point in asking anything more. We rose to take our leave. Suddenly, Feluda’s eyes fell on a vase kept on a high shelf. ‘Would that be a Ming vase?’ he asked.

  Pestonji smiled more openly, casting him a look of appreciation. ‘You do seem to know about these things. Good, very good. Yes, that’s a Ming vase. Absolutely exquisite.’

  ‘Could I . . .?’

  ‘Of course, of course. You cannot see the details unless you hold it in your hand.’

  Pestonji got up, and stretched an arm towards the shelf. The next instant, he let it drop, wincing in pain.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Why, what’s the matter?’ Feluda asked anxiously.

  ‘Old age. That’s what’s the matter. It’s arthritis. I cannot raise my arm even up to my shoulder.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Feluda himself took the vase down, inspected it briefly, then said ‘Superb!’ before putting it back.

  ‘I had to check if what I had heard about his arthritis was true,’ he told us when we were out in the street.

  ‘Ah. I did wonder why you were so keen on looking at that vase. Honestly, Felu Babu, what a clever man you are! Anyway, where are we going now?’

  ‘Cornwallis Street. It’s quite far from here, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So what? Yes, yes, petrol is expensive, but then so is everything else. Just don’t worry about it.’

  From Bowbazar Street, we made our way to the new theatre, Nobo Rangamanch, in Cornwallis Street. The proprietor was called Abhilash Poddar. He called us to his office as soon as Feluda sent his card in.

  ‘Do come in, Mr Mitter. I am honoured by your visit. How may I serve you?’

  Mr Poddar was plump and dark. A gold watch graced his left wrist, his lips were bright red. He had just stuffed a paan into his mouth. The whole room reeked with the scent of attar. Somehow, his appearance seemed to match the slightly theatrical way in which he spoke.

  Feluda introduced Lalmohan Babu as the ‘great thriller writer’. ‘Really?’ Mr Poddar turned his gaze on Jatayu.

  ‘Yes. A Hindi film was made from one of my stories. The Buccaneer of Bombay.’

  ‘Why don’t you send a copy of your giant omnibus to Poddar?’ Feluda suggested.

  ‘Sure, I’d love to see your book, Mr Ganguli. Mind you, I’m not much of a reader myself. I pay people to read stuff for me, and then they let me know what they think. Anyway, what brings you here?’

  ‘I need some information regarding one of your leading men.’

  ‘Our leading men? Who do you mean? Manas Banerjee?’

  ‘No. Achintya Haldar.’

  ‘Achintya? I don’t think . . . no, wait, wait. I do remember now. A young man by that name has been trying to get a good role. His appearance is all right, but his voice isn’t suitable for the stage. He might do better in films. I’ve told him so, for all I could offer him was a small role, and that, too, was a long time ago. But in fact, he has offered me money for the lead role in my latest play.’

  ‘What! He has offered you money?’

  ‘There’s nothing to feel so surprised about. It’s quite common in this line.’

  ‘But did you agree?’

  ‘No, of course not. Ours is a new company, Mr Mitter, we cannot afford to get into shady dealings. I told him there was no question of my accepting his proposal. Now, what would you like to have? A cold drink, or . . .?’

  ‘No, nothing, thanks. Thank you for your time.’

  We got up and left. It was nearly one-thirty. I was feeling quite hungry.
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br />   Luckily, Feluda didn’t suggest going anywhere else. We went straight to our favourite restaurant. After the food had been ordered, Feluda made a draft of the advertisement we had decided to put in regarding the missing chandana. Feluda knew a few people in the press. The ad would come out tomorrow, or at the latest by the day after. It said: ‘If anyone sold a chandana to Tinkori Babu in New Market, could he/they please contract P.C. Mitter at the following address . . .’

  Feluda helped himself to some biriyani. Then he cracked open a bone to get at the marrow inside, and said, ‘If we keep getting one new mystery after another, heaven knows where all this will finally end.’

  ‘Another new mystery? Wait, wait, let me guess, Felu Babu, you’re talking of this man who offered to bring Pestonji the stolen letter, aren’t you, and you can’t figure out why he didn’t come?’

  ‘Right. All it can mean is that the man was hoping to get hold of the letter, but couldn’t.’

  ‘That means the man who rang Pestonji was not the actual thief, but someone else.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what it looks like.’

  ‘Good heavens, now we’ll have to look for one more criminal!’ Lalmohan Babu stopped chewing for a minute.

  ‘Feluda,’ I began, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you hit someone on the head with a heavy paperweight, you are certainly likely to hurt him; but is there any guarantee that the man will die?’

  ‘Good question. The answer to that is simple. There is no guarantee at all. But, in this case, whoever struck Parvaticharan must have been pretty sure about his death.’

  ‘Or . . . maybe . . . he thought he’d just knock him unconscious. Perhaps he didn’t think the man would die.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a possibility. I didn’t know the food here would act as a brain tonic, Topshe! But even so, we’re not really getting anywhere, are we? Whether the killer had actually wanted to kill or not is not the issue. The point is, where did he go? How did he vanish? It almost seems like magic.’

  That same evening, we learnt the answer to this question. It came in a rather dramatic manner.

  At around four-thirty, Inspector Hajra rang to tell us that they still hadn’t found Sadhan Dastidar. Lalmohan Babu stayed on at our house. At seven-thirty, we were chatting over a cup of coffee, when suddenly the doorbell rang. This startled all of us, since it was unusual for anyone to call at this hour on a winter evening. I opened the door, to find Hrishikesh Datta standing outside.

  ‘Do forgive me,’ he said, stepping into the room. ‘I know this is hardly a suitable time for a visit, and I should have called. But the telephone has been in constant use since Mr Haldar’s death, I just couldn’t find a free moment . . .’

  ‘Never mind all that. You appear greatly disturbed. Please sit down, try to relax and tell us what’s happened.’

  Srinath appeared with a fresh cup of coffee. He no longer waited to be told. The sound of a new voice was enough to warn him. Feluda passed the cup to Mr Datta.

  He took a long sip and began talking. ‘You didn’t see my room the other day, did you? Well, I can tell you it takes a lot of courage to live in that room. I am the only one living in the ground floor. All the other bedrooms are upstairs. The servants have their own quarters behind the main house. Even after all this time, I feel slightly uneasy being entirely on my own, specially at night. Anyway, last night, I returned to my room after dinner at around half past ten. I shut the door, pulled down the mosquito-net and was about to go to bed, when someone knocked on my door. This was most unusual, for nobody in that house bothers with knocking. If people want to see me, they simply stand outside the door and call out my name. So my suspicions were aroused at once. I said, “Who is it?”, but no one answered. A little later, there was another knock. At first I thought I wouldn’t open the door; but then I realized whoever it was might continue to knock, and that would be even worse. So I went and opened it, telling myself to be brave. A man came in quickly, and shut the door behind him. I didn’t see his face immediately, but a second later he turned to face me.

  He had a thick beard, so there was no problem in recognizing him. Before I could say a single word, he began talking. In his hand he held a huge knife. He kept that pointed at me until he had finished.’

  Lalmohan Babu gasped. Even I felt goose pimples breaking out on my arms.

  ‘What did Sadhan Dastidar tell you?’ Feluda asked calmly. ‘Something terrible. You see, he obviously knows quite a lot about what is in Mr Haldar’s collection. He said there was a golden snuff box studded with emeralds. It used to belong to Bahadur Shah Zafar. He had found a buyer for it, so I would have to get it for him. He said he’d wait for me near the broken indigo factory, not far from the house. There’s a lake there, called Madhumurali Deeghi. I should get the snuff box and meet him there at eleven tonight. He told me to stand under a particular tree.’

  ‘And what would be your reward? Would he share his profits with you?’

  ‘Forget it. He wouldn’t share a penny. His only intention was to frighten me into doing what he wanted. He said going to the police would mean death. He’d kill me, just as he killed Mr Haldar.’ Mr Datta’s voice shook slightly as he spoke.

  Feluda frowned. ‘Don’t you have a night watchman at the gate?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure. I think he jumped over the wall to get in.’

  ‘How did he know which room you were in?’

  ‘That was easy. Sadhu Dastidar used to live in the same room.’

  ‘Sadhu? Is that his pet name?’

  ‘I don’t know but Mr Haldar used to refer to him by that name.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I said I couldn’t do it. The police were coming to the house every day, and keeping a careful eye on things. So how could I possibly steal anything? He said that shouldn’t be a problem at all. Since I was Mr Haldar’s secretary, I could easily get into his room by saying I needed to look at some papers, or something. He wasn’t going to listen to my excuses, he said, and then he left. I know you’ll now get cross with me, and say I should have gone to the police, or at least informed Amitabh Haldar. But can’t you see how frightened I was? I mean, my life was at stake! So I decided to come to you, Mr Mitter. I don’t think Sadhu knows about your involvement in the case. You are my only hope. Please save me!’

  ‘You didn’t get that snuff box, did you?’

  ‘No, no, certainly not.’

  ‘I see. So are you suggesting that we should all go wherever he’s asked you to meet him?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t you think it’s a golden opportunity to catch him red-handed? You could go a little early and hide somewhere. I would go at eleven, and then . . . well, I guess you’d know what to do if you saw him.’

  ‘You don’t think going to the police might be a good idea?’

  ‘No, no, no. Please don’t do that. You must go alone, or with your friend and your cousin here, if you like, but please don’t even mention the police. He’ll kill me, I tell you! In fact, you ought to be armed yourself. Sadhu Dastidar is a dangerous man.’

  ‘Go on, Felu Babu, say yes,’ Lalmohan Babu said without a moment’s hesitation. ‘If the dacoits of Rajasthan couldn’t frighten us, what chance does this man have? None at all!’

  ‘I’ll show you the place. It’s about four miles from the station.’ Feluda agreed. Mr Datta finished his coffee, and stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Mitter. Will you please meet me at ten o’clock tonight?’

  ‘All right. Where should we meet you?’

  ‘If you go past our house, a couple of furlongs later you’ll find a crossing where three roads meet. There is a sweet shop on one side. That is where I’ll be waiting for you.’

  Five

  Although the traffic was not likely to be heavy at that time of night, we left a little before nine, giving ourselves more than an hour to reach Barasat. We had our dinner before leaving, which felt slightly strange because none of us was us
ed to eating so early. ‘If we start to feel peckish a little later,’ Lalmohan Babu observed, ‘we can always go to that sweet shop where Mr Datta is meeting us. I’m sure they’ll have kachauris and aloo-sabzi.’

  Lalmohan Babu’s driver was greatly excited on being told why we were returning to Barasat. Luckily for us, he was a great admirer of Feluda, and quite fond of watching action-packed Hindi films. Any other driver would have been cross at being told to drive out of town late at night. But Lalmohan Babu’s driver, Haripada, seemed to get new life in his tired limbs when Feluda explained the situation.

  When we reached VIP Road, Lalmohan Babu decided to burst into song. ‘Everyone has gone to the wood, on this moonlight night . . .’ he began, but one look from Feluda stopped him immediately. The sky was totally dark. There was no sign of the moon. But it was a clear night. Perhaps the faint light from the stars would be of some use. In accordance to Feluda’s instructions, I was wearing a dark shirt; and Lalmohan Babu had put on Feluda’s raincoat over his light yellow pullover. Although it wasn’t possible to see it in the car, I knew that when he got out, one of his pockets would hang heavy under its load. He had borrowed the iron rod of Srinath’s hand-grinder and stuffed it into his pocket. Feluda, too, was armed, but not with an iron rod. In his jacket pocket lay his Colt revolver.

  We reached the crossing just before ten. Mr Datta was standing in front of a paan stall next to the sweet shop. Haripada stopped the car. Mr Datta got in swiftly, and said, ‘Please take the next right turn.’ Only a few minutes later, the number of houses grew appreciably less. The streetlights disappeared. I realized we had left the town of Barasat behind us and were in the country.

  ‘The first indigo factory was built in Barasat,’ Mr Datta told us. ‘If you ever come this way in daylight, you’ll be able to see broken old houses in which the British owners of these factories used to live.’

  We drove in silence for another twenty minutes. Then, suddenly, Mr Datta said, ‘Here we are. Stop the car.’

  Our car came to a halt. All of us trooped out.