The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘Yes, but I consulted a dictionary and worked out what it meant. What it’s saying is, “Wife Vittoria and son, Rajsekhar, announce with deep regret the loss of Rudrasekhar Niyogi.”’

  ‘You mean it’s an announcement of his death?’ Feluda frowned. ‘What! Rudrasekhar dead?’ Lalmohan Babu jumped up in surprise.

  ‘So it seems. And he died in 1955. This also tells us he had married and had a son called Rajsekhar.’

  ‘My God! What a villain that other man must be! I did have my suspicions, but never thought we’d find such irrefutable evidence. When did you find this?’

  ‘Only this afternoon.’

  ‘What a pity! If only you’d found it earlier . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know. He did behave strangely, didn’t he? Each time I asked him a question, he either didn’t answer at all, or gave me the wrong answer. So I had actually stopped trying to get him to talk.’

  ‘Anyway, please keep this to yourself for the moment. We’ve got to find the man. You’ve been a real help. Thank you very much.’

  Robin Babu smiled and went out. Yes, he had given us a new lead. But . . . why did I still feel uncomfortable about him? And why did his shirt have bloodstains on one side?

  I had to mention this to Feluda. Lalmohan Babu, too, had noticed the stains. ‘Highly suspicious!’ he proclaimed.

  Feluda looked grave. All he said was, ‘Yes, I saw it, too.’

  We left Baikunthapur at around 7 p.m. Nobo Kumar did something totally unexpected just before we left. He thrust a white envelope into Feluda’s hands and said, ‘Please take this, especially if you go to Hong Kong. Treat this as an advance payment. After all, you are doing this for our family. One mustn’t forget that.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘I’ll cable Purnendu tomorrow. If you do decide to go, just send a telegram to this address. He’ll take care of everything.’ Nobo Kumar handed a piece of paper to Feluda.

  The envelope contained a cheque for five thousand rupees. ‘How will you go about tracking down the impostor?’ Lalmohan Babu asked in the car.

  ‘It’s going to be most difficult, especially if he’s left the country.’

  ‘How do we find out if he has?’

  ‘We can’t, for he’ll obviously travel under a different name and a different passport. The one he had shown Nobo Kumar’s father was undoubtedly a false one. It must have been easy to deceive an old man with bad eyesight.’

  ‘What do we do then?’

  ‘Well, as far as I can see, Mr Fake would have to contact Somani to get the name and address of the Armenian buyer. From what I’ve seen and heard of Somani, he’d never pass on the details to another soul. I think he’d try and get the painting somehow from Rudrasekhar and go to Hong Kong himself.’

  ‘In that case we have to look for Somani’s name on flights to Hong Kong!’

  ‘Yes, our going would depend on whether or not we find his name on a passenger list.’

  Lalmohan Babu quickly raised his eyes heavenward. I could tell he was sending up a silent prayer for a visit abroad.

  ‘I say,’ he said after a while, ‘do you think we might have to learn Chinese?’

  ‘Chinese? Are you aware how many letters there are in the Chinese alphabet?’

  ‘No. How many?’

  ‘Ten thousand. You could never speak the language unless you had plastic surgery done to your tongue.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  Feluda got to work the next morning. Only Air-India and Thai Airways ran flights to Hong Kong from Calcutta. The Air-India flight went every Tuesday; Thai Airways ran three flights a week—on Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays—but only up to Bangkok. One had to transfer to another aircraft to get to Hong Kong.

  Today being Saturday, Feluda rang Thai Airways. They looked up their passenger list in five minutes.

  Hiralal Somani had left for Hong Kong that morning.

  The earliest flight we could take was on Tuesday, by which time Somani would undoubtedly have passed on the painting to the Armenian.

  Was there any point in our following him?

  We looked at each other in silence. Then Lalmohan Babu took out a small notebook and a pen from his pocket and began scribbling in it. I looked on in puzzlement and Feluda with an amused smile, until he finished and looked up. ‘One hundred and fifty-six,’ he said, putting away his notebook. ‘Add one plus five plus six. That’s twelve. Add two plus one. That’s three. Well, it’s all settled. Tintoretto’s name adds up to three. I mean, if you substitute the letters with numbers.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked, even more mystified. ‘Numerology, dear boy. “T” is the twentieth letter in the alphabet, “i” is the ninth . . . and so on. If you add it all up, you get 156, which finally gives you three. Now, if that is the case and I am going to be with you—considering the number three is supposed to bring me luck—our mission has got to be successful!’

  ‘Bravo, Lalmohan Babu!’ Feluda slapped him on the back. ‘I did think a visit to Hong Kong was important, but I could never have found enough justification for it, the way you just did!’

  Ten

  We were booked to travel to Hong Kong by Air-India flight number 316. We had flown before in Boeing 707s and 737s. This was the first time we would travel in a jumbo jet.

  As we got into the aircraft, it seemed impossible to see how such a huge plane would actually lift itself off the ground.

  ‘Good God! Such a lot of people!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed, looking around. ‘All these passengers in the economy class alone would fill the Netaji Indoor Stadium!’

  This struck me as an exaggeration, but certainly there were enough people to fill the balcony of a medium-sized cinema hall.

  Feluda had already cabled Purnendu Pal. We were scheduled to reach Hong Kong the next morning at 7.45 a.m.

  It was normal practice with Feluda to get some reading done about any new place he was going to visit. He had gone to a bookshop yesterday and bought a book on Hong Kong. I had leafed through it briefly, but what I saw in the glossy photos was enough to convince me that there could be few cities as lively and colourful as Hong Kong. Lalmohan Babu was bursting with excitement, but appeared to know very little about what to expect.

  ‘Will we get to see the Wall of China?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘The Wall of China,’ Feluda had to explain, ‘is in the People’s Republic of China, near Peking. Hong Kong is at least a thousand miles from Peking.’

  Our plane took off on time. I noticed how smoothly it flew, especially since the weather outside was good. It reached Bangkok at midnight; but passengers to Hong Kong weren’t allowed to get off the plane. So I promptly went back to sleep.

  When I woke in the morning, I saw that we were flying over the sea. Gradually, little islands in the water became visible, standing out like the backs of giant turtles. As the plane began losing height, these grew larger and larger, and I realized many of them were really the tops of mountains submerged in water.

  Soon, we were flying over real mountains. There were white dots among the green foliage on the mountains which, later, turned out to be massive highrise buildings, all built close to the hills. They glittered in the sun.

  I had heard that landing an aeroplane at the Hong Kong airport called for special skill. The runway seemed to be stretched out on the water. Even a slight mistake could result in either a loud splash in the sea or a big crash in the mountains.

  Luckily, neither of these things happened. The plane landed where it was supposed to, and then stopped before a terminal building. Two chutes on wheels came out and fitted perfectly with the two main exits of the plane. We could, therefore, walk through these and go straight into the terminal without having to go down a flight of stairs. Lalmohan Babu was completely round-eyed. ‘This isn’t exclusive to Hong Kong, Lalmohan Babu,’ Feluda told him. ‘All major airports in the world have this system.’

  Since we did not have much luggage, it did not take us long to clear cus
toms. We were out in less than half an hour. Just outside customs was a large group of people. One of them was holding a large board with ‘P. Mitter’ written on it. This must be Purnendu Pal. He was about the same age as Nobo Kumar—a man in his early forties, smart and well-dressed. Nobo Kumar had been right in saying his friend was doing well.

  ‘Welcome to Hong Kong!’ he said, leading us to his car. It was a dark blue German Opel. Feluda got in beside him, Lalmohan Babu and I climbed in at the back. ‘The airport,’ Mr Pal said, starting his car, ‘is in Kowloon. I live and work in Hong Kong. So we have to cross the bay to get there.’

  ‘We’re really sorry to trouble you like this,’ Feluda began. Mr Pal raised a hand to stop him.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all, I assure you. You can’t imagine how happy it makes me feel to meet fellow Bengalis. There are quite a number of Indians in Hong Kong, but not too many people from Bengal.’

  ‘Our hotel booking—?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve arranged that. But let us first go to my flat. You are a detective, I believe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you here on business?’

  ‘Yes. It shouldn’t take more than a day. We intend taking the Air-India flight back to Calcutta tomorrow evening.’

  ‘What exactly are you looking for, may I ask?’

  ‘An Armenian. You see, a most valuable painting was stolen from Nobo Kumar’s house and brought here. We suspect a man called Hiralal Somani has brought it here and will pass it on to a wealthy Armenian. It will sell for—I think—more than a million rupees.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘We have to recover that painting.’

  ‘My goodness, this sounds like something out of a film! But where does this Armenian live?’

  ‘I have his office address.’

  ‘I see. Is Somani from Calcutta?’

  ‘Yes. He arrived in Hong Kong last Saturday. Chances are, he’s already sold that painting to the Armenian.’

  ‘But that’s terrible! What are you going to do?’

  ‘All we can do is meet the buyer and explain the situation to him. He must be made to realize that it’s not safe for him to have a stolen object in his possession.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Mr Pal, looking concerned.

  Lalmohan Babu, too, was looking thoughtful.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I whispered.

  ‘Can . . . can one say Hong Kong is like England?’

  ‘No, how can you do that? England is in the West. This is the Far East.’

  Feluda’s sharp ears did not miss our conversation. ‘Don’t worry, Lalmohan Babu,’ he said without turning his head. ‘Tell your friends back home that Hong Kong is also known as the London of the East. I’m sure they’ll be sufficiently impressed.’

  ‘London of the East? Oh good. London . . . of the East . . . ah, very nice indeed . . . ’

  As he continued to mutter, our car suddenly slipped into a large tunnel. There were rows of lights on both sides, spreading an orangish glow inside. Mr Pal said we were passing through an under-water tunnel, and would emerge in the city of Hong Kong.

  ‘Such a beautiful city, but why does its name sound like whooping cough?’ asked Lalmohan Babu.

  ‘Do you know what Hong Kong means?’ Mr Pal said. ‘Perfumed port,’ Feluda replied. He must have learnt this from that book he bought yesterday.

  A few minutes later, we came out of the tunnel. The entire port, with its vast collection of ships and boats of all shapes and sizes, lay on one side. Behind it was Kowloon, which we had just left.

  On our left were endless skyscrapers. Some were offices, others hotels. Each had shops on its ground floor, stacked from floor to ceiling with the most tempting objects. I came to realize later that the whole city was like a colossal departmental store. There was apparently nothing that you couldn’t get in Hong Kong.

  A little later, we turned left and joined a high street. I had never seen anything like it before. A stream of humanity flowed down the pavement. The street was filled with buses, taxis, private cars and double-decker trams. Both sides of the street were lined with shops. Their signboards hung so closely together that it was difficult to see the sky. Since Chinese is written vertically, all the signboards hung in a vertical line.

  Our car moved slowly in the traffic, giving us the chance to take in everything. I had seen crowded streets in Calcutta enough times, but everyone there moved slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. Here, each person was in a hurry, trying to move as quickly as possible. Most of them were Chinese. But there were also a number of people from the West. From the way they carried their cameras, casting curious glances about them, it was easy to tell they were tourists.

  At last, we came out of the high street and found ourselves in a relatively quiet area, on a street called Patterson Street. This was where Mr Pal lived, in a flat in a tall building with thirty-two floors. His flat was on the seventh.

  As we were getting out, a black car shot past us and disappeared round the corner. I saw Feluda stiffen. That car had been behind us for some time, but could it actually have been following us deliberately? There was nothing we could do, anyway. So we followed Mr Pal in.

  ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ Mr Pal said, ushering us into his living room. ‘My wife and children are away—I took them back to Calcutta only a few weeks ago to attend a nephew’s wedding—so please forgive me if there are lapses in my duties as host. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘I think tea would be best, thank you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind tea bags, would you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Mr Pal left to make the tea. Lalmohan Babu moved to the window to look at the view. There was a television in the room and a video player. Stacks of video cassettes, most of them of Hindi films, stood on a shelf. A small table beside these was littered with film magazines. Feluda picked up a few of these and began leafing through them. I seized this opportunity to ask him, ‘Who was in the car, Feluda?’

  ‘The man we’re after.’

  ‘What! Somani?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he learn about our arrival?’

  ‘Very simple. He did exactly what we had done—checked the passenger list. He must have been at the airport and followed us from there.’

  Lalmohan Babu came back from the window. ‘If he’s already sold the painting, why should he still be interested in us?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know!’ Feluda said.

  Mr Pal came in with the tea. He set the tray down, saw what Feluda was reading and laughed. ‘What are you doing with those ancient magazines?’

  ‘Oh, just glancing at them. Look, would you mind if I kept this issue of Screen World? It’s a year old.’

  ‘No, not at all. I never look at them myself. It’s my wife who’s passionately interested in Hindi films.’

  ‘Thank you. Topshe, go and put this magazine in my bag. Mr Pal. when do offices open here?’

  ‘They should be open in about ten minutes. You want to ring your Armenian friend, don’t you? Do you have his number?’

  ‘Yes,’ Feluda took out his notebook, ‘it’s 5311686.’

  ‘Hm. It’s a Hong Kong number. Where’s his office?’

  ‘Hennessey Street. Number 14.’

  ‘OK. I think you’ll get him soon after ten.’

  ‘Thanks. Tell me, which hotel are we booked in?’

  ‘Pearl Hotel. Less than ten minutes if you go by car. But why are you in such a hurry to get to your hotel? Why don’t you have lunch with me? There’s a very good Cantonese restaurant just down the road. If your mission is successful today, tomorrow I shall take you to a restaurant in Kowloon and introduce you to something I bet you have never had before!’

  ‘What is that?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, sounding a little apprehensive. ‘I’ve heard the Chinese eat cockroaches.’

  ‘And many other things, Lalmohan Babu,’ Feluda told him. ‘Shark fins, monkey brains, and even
dog flesh, at times.’

  ‘No, what you’ll taste is quite different, I mean fried snake,’ said Mr Pal with a grin.

  ‘S-s-s-nake?’ Lalmohan Babu gasped.

  ‘Yes. You can get snake soup, snake meat, fried snake, everything.’

  ‘How does it taste?’

  ‘Delicious. You must try it.’

  ‘Ah . . . very well,’ Lalmohan Babu replied, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  Feluda rose. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Pal, may I use your phone?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Feluda dialled Krikorian’s number.

  ‘May I speak to Mr Krikorian?. . . Went out of town? When?. . . Last Friday?And he’ll be back this evening? Thank you.’

  Feluda replaced the receiver and looked at us.

  ‘It can only mean,’ said Mr Pal slowly, ‘that Somani has still got the painting.’

  ‘Yes, so it would seem. Now I am really glad we came.’

  Eleven

  We had lunch at Yung Ki restaurant. The food was heavenly.

  ‘You needn’t check into your hotel before three,’ Mr Pal said. ‘If you want to do any shopping, I suggest you do it now, although you may well have a little time tomorrow. Your flight isn’t till 10 p.m., is it?’

  ‘That’s right. Yes, I would like to look at a few shops,’ Feluda admitted.

  ‘Let me take you to Lee Brothers. I know them well. You’ll get good quality stuff, and at a reasonable price.’

  Lalmohan Babu wanted to buy a pocket calculator. ‘It might come in handy,’ he said to me as an aside, ‘to calculate the royalty from all my books.’ He found what he wanted—a calculator so small and so flat that I failed to figure out where the battery went in. I bought a few rolls of film for Feluda’s Pentax; and Feluda bought a mini Sony audio cassette recorder. ‘From now on,’ he told me, ‘remember to switch this on when a new client visits us. It will make life a lot easier if we can record conversations.’

  We returned to Mr Pal’s flat at three. He couldn’t take us to the hotel himself since he had to go to his shop. ‘That’s all right, Mr Pal,’ Feluda said to him. ‘You have already done so much for us. We’ll take a taxi, don’t worry.’