The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (71 page)

Sanyal flopped down on a bench. He was trembling once more—but with fear this time, not rage. He knew there could be no escape.

In the meantime, someone must have realized there was something wrong and pulled the cord, for the train came to an unexpected halt. It wouldn’t have stopped unless the cord had been pulled.

Within seconds, we could hear a confused babel. Several voices were shouting the same name: ‘Victor! Victor! Where have you gone, Victor?’

I could hear Mr Ghoshal’s voice. Victor Perumal had messed things up. He was supposed to jump on the roof of the train. Instead of doing that, he had jumped into our compartment.

Feluda leant out of the door and called, ‘Mr Ghoshal! Over here!’ Mr Ghoshal arrived, looking profoundly distressed and harassed. That was hardly surprising as any hold-up in shooting such a complex scene would be liable to cause heavy losses, perhaps to the tune of thirty thousand rupees.

‘What’s the matter with you, Victor? Have you gone completely mad?’ he demanded.

‘Mr Ghoshal,’ said Feluda, ‘if anyone in your film deserves to be called jet Bahadur, it is Victor Perumal.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Mr Ghoshal asked. He was now looking perplexed, but perplexity was still outweighed by annoyance.

‘Besides,’ Feluda went on, ‘the role of that smuggler should have gone to this man here, not your actor called Paramesh Kapoor.’

‘What rubbish are you talking, Mr Mitter? Who is this man?’ Mr Ghoshal glanced at Sanyal.

By this time, two vehicles had appeared on the road. One was a police jeep, and the other was a police van. The jeep pulled up next to our compartment. Inspector Patwardhan climbed out of it.

In reply to Mr Ghoshal’s question, Feluda walked up to Sanyal, grabbed his beard and moustache and yanked them off, before pulling off his wig and glasses.

‘I would have been delighted,’ Feluda remarked, ‘if I could remove
that scent from your body, Mr Gore. Sadly, that’s something even Felu Mitter cannot do.’

‘Laluda, who told you a film would remain incomplete if its producer was arrested?’

The question came from Mr Ghoshal. To tell the truth, Lalmohan babu hadn’t spoken at all. He was simply sitting there, looking pensive and morose. Anyone could guess that he was worried about the future of
Jet Bahadur.

‘No one,’ Mr Ghoshal continued, ‘can stop our film. Gore might go to prison—or hell—or wherever—but don’t you see, he wasn’t the only producer in Bombay? There’s Chuni Pancholi; he’s been pestering me for over a year to make a film for him. I’ll get things going again, you mark my words. Even before you leave Bombay, you’ll see me shooting the film under a new banner.’

That day, however, all shooting had ground to a halt at half past one. Gore and Nimmo were arrested and handcuffed. Nanasaheb’s naulakha necklace was in police custody.

Feluda had anticipated trouble during the first day’s shooting. When he’d told us in the morning that he was going out to buy cigarettes, he had actually gone to speak to Patwardhan. Gore, apparently, had spent twelve years in Calcutta. He had been not just to Don Bosco, but also to St. Xavier’s. Hence he could speak Bengali very well, although in Bombay he was heard speaking only Hindi and Marathi besides English.

We were sitting on the veranda of a dak bungalow in Khandala. It was a beautiful place and there was a decided nip in the air. People from Bombay often went to Khandala for a change of air, I had heard. We had already finished the food (naan and mutton do-pyaza) we’d found in those boxes, provided by the Safari Restaurant. It was now four-thirty, so we were having tea and pakoras.

Mr Ghoshal had joined us for a while, then moved to a different table where Arjun Mehrotra was seated. Mehrotra was looking a little crestfallen, perhaps because most undoubtedly, the real hero that day was Pradosh Mitter. Plenty of people from the unit— including Micky, the villain—had asked Feluda for his autograph.

There was a second hero, and unquestionably that was Victor Perumal. It turned out that Feluda had spoken to him before the
shooting started. ‘When you come riding down the hill and get close to the train,’ he had said, ‘keep an eye on the first-class compartment. If you see anything suspicious, come in through the door.’ Victor had seen Feluda standing with his arms raised. That had told him instantly that help was required, and he had swung into action.

Strangely enough, even after a heroic act like that, Victor was quite unmoved. He was back with his men, practising kung-fu, in the little field opposite the bungalow, as if nothing had happened.

‘The thing is, you see . . .’ Lalmohan babu finally opened his mouth. But Feluda interrupted him. ‘The thing is that you are still totally in the dark, is that it?’

Lalmohan babu smiled meekly and nodded.

‘It shouldn’t be difficult to throw light on everything. But, before I do that, you must be told about Gore, and understand how he functioned.

‘The first thing to remember is that he was really a smuggler, though he was trying to pass himself off as a respectable film producer. He decided to make a film from your story. You wrote in that story that a smuggler lived in a building called Shivaji Castle. Naturally, that caused some concern. Gore wanted to find out how much you knew about the real occupants of Shivaji Castle, since he was one of them, and he was a smuggler. So he dressed as Sanyal and went to your house. But, having spoken to you, he realized that you were completely innocent and harmless, and your entire story was purely imaginary. The reference to Shivaji Castle was just a coincidence.

‘Gore felt reassured, but then it occurred to him that he could use you to transfer the stolen necklace. So he hid it in a book, and tried to pass it to someone in his own gang—possibly someone who lived on the seventeenth floor in Shivaji Castle. If you were caught, you would blame Sanyal, not Gore. Isn’t that right? So Gore could safely hide behind the figure of Sanyal.

‘However, things went wrong. What you handed over to Gore’s man was not a necklace worth five million, but one of your own books worth five rupees. Mr Red Shirt—or Nimmo, if you like— went to Shivaji Castle, and was taking that packet to a flat on the seventeenth floor, when he was attacked in the lift by a man from a rival group. Nimmo killed him and took the packet up, as instructed. Then, whoever opened it realized that the necklace wasn’t in it. Gore was informed, and he returned at once.
He
knew what had happened. So he had to accomplish two things—one, he had to get the necklace
back; and two, he had to get rid of us. Luckily for him, we hadn’t handed the necklace over to the police. As soon as he’d met us, Gore realized that, somehow, Sanyal must reappear. If Sanyal had given you that packet, then only Sanyal could recover it from you. No one would then suspect Gore.’

‘But that perfume . . .?’

‘Wait, wait, I am coming to that. Using Gulbahar was just an example of Gore’s cunning. He had prepared the ground in Calcutta. Whenever you would smell that perfume, you’d think of Sanyal, and automatically associate the two. You were convinced, weren’t you, that Sanyal was following you everywhere in Bombay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Now, just think back a little. That day, when we went to his flat, Gore left us in the living room and disappeared for a few minutes. It seemed as if he had gone to fetch your money. Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘It couldn’t have been difficult, could it, to slip out in that time and sprinkle a few drops of that perfume in the lift? When I went to every floor from top to bottom, sniffed everywhere and still found no trace of that scent outside the lift, I knew at once that no one wearing it had used the lift. It was planted there deliberately. Similarly, when our car was parked outside the Lotus cinema, Gore could have asked one of his men to slip a hand through a window and spray a few drops on the seats. It was easy!’

Yes, everything seemed easy once Feluda had explained it. Lalmohan babu had clearly grasped the whole story by now, but even so, he did not look very happy. That surprised me. Why was there no smile on his face? Eventually, a question from Mr Ghoshal changed everything.

Tea was over, and the whole unit was getting ready to go back. The sun had disappeared behind the hills and now it was really quite cold. I felt myself shiver, and saw Mr Ghoshal striding towards us busily.

‘Laluda, all the posters and hoardings for
Jet Bahadur
are going up on Friday. But there’s something I need to know now,’ he said.

‘What is it?’

‘How do you wish to be named? I mean, should we use your real name, or your pseudonym?’

‘The “pseudo”
is
the real name, my friend!’ replied Lalmohan babu with a huge grin. ‘And it should be spelt J-a-t-a-y-u!’

‘D
idn’t you once tell me you knew someone in Gosaipur?’ Feluda asked Lalmohan Babu.

We—the Three Musketeers—had just visited the Victoria Memorial and come walking to the river. We were now sitting under the domes near Princep Ghat, enjoying the fresh breeze and munching daalmut. It was five o’clock in the evening.

‘Yes,’ Lalmohan Babu replied, ‘Tulsi Babu. Tulsicharan Dasgupta. He used to teach mathematics and geography in my school. Now he’s retired and lives in Gosaipur. He’s asked me to visit him more than once. He loves my books. In fact, he writes for children himself. A couple of his stories were published in
Sandesh.
But why are you suddenly interested in Gosaipur?’

‘Someone called Jeevanlal Mallik wrote to me from there. His father’s called Shyamlal Mallik. I believe the Malliks were once the zamindars of Gosaipur.’

‘What did Jeevanlal Mallik write?’

‘He is worried about his father. He thinks someone is planning to kill him. If I can go and throw some light on the matter, he’ll be very grateful and he’ll pay me my fee.’

I knew the letter had arrived this morning, but had no idea about its contents. Now I remembered seeing Feluda looking thoughtful and smoking quietly after he had finished reading it.

‘Why don’t we all go?’ Lalmohan Babu sounded quite enthusiastic. ‘Look, we are both free at this moment, aren’t we? Besides, I think we’ll enjoy a visit to a small village after all the hectic travelling we have done in the past.’

‘To be honest, I was thinking of going, too. Mr Mallik said he could not have me stay in his house—there is some problem, apparently. He’s spoken to a relative who lives three miles away. I could stay with him, but then I’d have to travel in a rickshaw every day. It struck me that it might be simpler to stay somewhere within walking distance. That’s why I thought of your friend.’

‘My friend will be delighted, especially if he hears you are going to join me. He’s a great admirer of yours.’

Lalmohan Babu wrote to his friend the next day, and Feluda answered Jeevanlal’s letter. Tulsi Babu was so pleased that he wrote
back instantly, saying that the Gosaipur Literary Society wanted to give a joint reception to Lalmohan Babu and Feluda. Lalmohan Babu was thrilled by the idea, but Feluda put his foot down. ‘Leave me out of receptions, please,’ he said firmly. ‘No one must know who I really am and why I’m visiting Gosaipur. Please tell your friend not to tell anyone.’

Rather reluctantly, Lalmohan Babu passed the message on, adding that he was perfectly happy about the reception. With this event in mind, he even packed a blue embroidered kurta.

We had to take a train to Katwa Junction, and then a bus to get to Gosaipur, which was seven miles from Katwa. Tulsi Babu was going to wait for us at a provision store near the bus stop. His house was just ten minutes away.

On our way there, I saw a palanquin from the bus. This surprised me very much for I didn’t know palanquins were still in use. Feluda and Lalmohan Babu were similarly taken aback.

‘I wonder which century these people think they live in?’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘I hope Gosaipur has electricity. I had no idea the area was so remote.’

The conductor of the bus knew where we wanted to get off. He stopped the bus before the provision store, shouting, ‘Gosaipur! Go-o-sai-pu-u-r!’ We thanked him and got down quickly.

The elderly gentleman who came forward to greet us with a smile had the word ‘ex-schoolmaster’ written all over him. In his hand was an ancient patched-up black umbrella, on his feet were brown canvas shoes, on his nose were perched his glasses and under his arm was a very old copy of the
National Geographic
magazine. He was wearing a kurta and a short dhoti. On being introduced to Feluda, he winked and said, ‘I did what you said. I mean, I didn’t tell anyone about you. You are only a tourist, you’ve lived in Canada for years, now you want to see an Indian village. I thought of this because it occurred to me that you might have to ask questions, or visit places unseen. A tourist can claim to be both curious and ignorant. No one’s going to be offended by what you say or where you go.’

‘Good. I hope you have books on Canada I can read?’ Feluda asked with a smile.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Tulsi Babu grinned. Then he turned to Jatayu. ‘For you, my friend, I have arranged a function on Friday. It’s going to be a small informal affair—a couple of songs and dances, then you’ll be presented with a citation, and there’ll be
speeches. The barrister, Suresh Chakladar, will preside. The citation is being written out by a young boy, but its contents—I mean the actual words—are mine, heh heh.’

‘There was no need . . . you didn’t have to . . .’ Lalmohan Babu tried to look modest.

‘We wanted to. It isn’t every day that a celebrity deigns to visit us!’

‘We saw a palanquin on the way,’ Feluda said. ‘Is that still used here as a mode of transport?’

Tulsi Babu stopped to prod a young calf with his umbrella to get it out of the way. Then he looked at Feluda and replied, ‘Oh yes. If you want a palanquin, you’ll get it here. But that isn’t all. We specialize in providing all sorts of things from the past. Do you want guards in uniform, carrying spears and shields? You’ll find them here. A man who spends his time getting hookahs ready? You’ll find him here. A punkha-puller? Oil lamps? Yes, we’ve got those, too!’

‘But you’ve got electric connections, haven’t you?’

‘Oh yes. Every house has electricity, except the one where it’s most needed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The house where Mr Mallik lives.’

All of us stared at him in surprise.

‘Shyamlal Mallik?’ Feluda asked.

‘Yes, sir. There’s no other Mallik in Gosaipur. They used to be local zamindars. Shyamlal’s father, Durlabh Singh, was an utterly ruthless man. People were terrified of him. Shyamlal himself did not stay a zamindar long, for by then the government had changed the laws regarding the zamindari system. However, he went to Calcutta, built a plastic factory and made a lot of money. Then, one day, he came home in the dark and tried to switch on the light. He did not know that there was a loose, exposed wire in the switchboard. He nearly got electrocuted! After spending a few weeks in a hospital, he handed over his business to his son, returned to Gosaipur and removed the electric connection to his house. If he had stopped there, it might have made some sense. But he decided to remove everything that was modern, or “Western”. He gave up smoking cheroots, and went back to hookahs. He stopped using fountain pens, his toothbrush was replaced by neem twigs, every book in his house that was written in English was thrown out, as were all the medicines. Now he relies purely on ayurvedic stuff. The only man to benefit from all this was the local ayurvedic doctor, called Tarak Kaviraj.
And yes, Shyamlal’s car has been sold as well. What he uses is a palanquin. There was an old palanquin in his house. He simply had it repaired and painted. He’s appointed four bearers to carry it for him. There are many other things that he’s started to do . . . you’ll get to see everything for yourself, I am sure.’

‘Yes, I probably shall. I am here because his son asked me to come.’

‘I know his son is visiting him, but why did he want you here?’

‘Are you aware that someone is planning to kill Shyamlal Mallik? Have you heard any rumours or gossip?’

Tulsi Babu appeared quite taken aback by this. ‘Why, no! I’ve certainly heard nothing. But if someone wants to get rid of him, you shouldn’t have to look very far to see who it is.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The same man who wrote to you. He and his father don’t get along at all. Mind you, I don’t blame Jeevanlal. It can’t be easy to deal with a father who has such perfectly weird ideas. After all, Jeevanlal has to stay in the same house when he visits. It’s enough to drive one mad.’

We reached Tulsi Babu’s house just before four o’clock. His wife had died a few years ago, and his sons worked in Calcutta. He had only one daughter, who was married. She lived in Azimganj. Tulsi Babu lived here alone, with a servant called Ganga. ‘In a place like this,’ he told us with a smile, ‘one may live alone, but there’s no chance of being lonely. My neighbours and other friends in the village drop in at all times. We look after one another very well.’

Ganga was told to make tea as soon as we arrived. Feluda had brought a packet of good quality tea. That was the only thing he was really fussy about. A few minutes later, Ganga served us tea on the front veranda, with plates of beaten-rice and coconut, a typical evening snack in rural Bengal.

There were two bedrooms on the ground floor, one of which was Tulsi Babu’s. We were given a much bigger room on the first floor. Three beds had been placed in it. One of its doors opened on to a terrace.

‘I told Jeevanlal I’d call on him at five-thirty,’ Feluda said, sipping his tea, ‘so I’ll have to find his dark and dingy house.’

‘I’ll take you there myself, don’t worry. Shyamlal’s house is only five minutes from here. But I hope you’ll come back soon? I am expecting a few people later in the evening. They want to talk to
Lalmohan Babu, and then I’d like to take you to see Atmaram Babu.’

‘Atmaram Babu? Who’s he?’

‘That’s what some people call him. His real name is Mriganka Bhattacharya. He can speak to the dead, get souls and spirits to visit him in seances . . . you know, that kind of thing. He’s one of our local attractions. But I think he’s really got a certain power. I don’t laugh the whole thing off.’

I wanted to ask what had made him think so, but couldn’t, for at this moment we saw the palanquin again. Tulsi Babu’s veranda overlooked the main road. The palanquin was making its way to the village. As it got closer, Tulsi Babu said, ‘Why, Jeevanlal appears to be in it!’

A man was peering out of the window. The bearers were carrying the palanquin in exactly the same style that one reads about, making a strange rhythmic noise. The noise stopped as they put the palanquin down. The man inside got out with some difficulty. Clad in trousers and a shirt, he looked terribly incongruous as he emerged.

‘Mr Mitter?’ he asked, looking at Feluda with a smile.

‘Yes.’

‘I am Jeevanlal Mallik.’

‘Namaskar. This is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli, and that’s my cousin, Tapesh. You know Tulsi Babu, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Namaskar. Er . . . do you think you could come to my house?’

Lalmohan Babu stayed back to wait for his visitors. Feluda and I went with Jeevanlal Mallik. He left the road and began walking through a bamboo grove, possibly to take a short cut.

‘I had to go to the station to make a phone call,’ he said.

‘Is that why you had to take the palanquin?’

Jeevanlal gave Feluda a sidelong glance. ‘Did Tulsi Babu tell you everything about my father?’

‘Yes, we learnt what an electric shock did to him.’

‘Things were not so bad in the beginning. He simply did not want to have anything to do with electricity. That was understandable. But now . . . he’s become absolutely impossible. You’ll soon see what I mean.’

‘Do you come here often?’

‘Once every two months, to talk about business matters.’

‘You mean your father still takes an interest in his business?’

‘Oh no. But I don’t want to give up. I keep trying to bring him
back to normal.’

‘Have you had any luck?’

‘No, not so far.’