The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (37 page)

Feluda, Jatayu and I were sitting in Indian Airlines flight number 263, on our way to Delhi. The plane left at 7.30 a.m. Feluda had explained to Jatayu, while we were waiting in the departure lounge, about our visit to Pretoria Street and the ensuing events. Jatayu listened, round-eyed, occasionally breaking into exclamations like ‘thrilling!’ and ‘highly suspicious!’ Then he jotted down in his notebook the little matter of the thief and the mustard oil.

‘Have you flown before?’ I asked him.

‘If,’ he replied sagely, ‘a man’s imagination is lively enough, he can savour an experience without actually doing anything. No, I’ve never travelled by air. But if you asked me whether I’m feeling nervous, my answer would be “not a bit” because in my imagination, I have travelled not just in an aeroplane but also in a rocket. Yes, I have been to the moon!’

Despite these brave words, when the plane began to speed across the runway just before take-off, I saw Lalmohan Babu clutching the armrests of his seat so tightly that his knuckles turned white. When the plane actually shot up in the air, his colour turned a rather unhealthy shade of yellow and his face broke into a terrible grimace.

‘What happened to you?’ I asked him afterwards.

‘But that was natural!’ he said. ‘When a rocket leaves for outer space, even the faces of astronauts get distorted. The thing is, you see, as you’re leaving the ground, the laws of gravity pull you back. In that conflict, the facial muscles contract, and hence the distortion of the whole face.’

I wanted to ask if that was indeed the case, why should Lalmohan Babu be the only person to be singled out by the laws of gravity, why didn’t everyone else get similarly affected; but seeing that he had recovered his composure and was, in fact, looking quite cheerful, I said nothing more.

Breakfast arrived soon, with the cutlery wrapped in a cellophane sheet. Lalmohan Babu attacked his omelette with the coffee spoon, used the knife like a spoon to scoop out the marmalade from its little pot, putting it straight into his mouth without bothering to spread it
on a piece of bread; then he tried to peel the orange with his fork, but gave up soon and used his fingers instead.

Finally, he leant forward and said to Feluda, ‘I saw you chewing betel-nut a while ago. Do you have any left?’

Feluda took out the Kodak container from the blue attaché case and passed it to Lalmohan Babu. I couldn’t help glancing again at Mr Dhameeja’s case. Did it know that we were going to travel twelve hundred miles to a snow-laden place situated at a height of seven thousand feet, simply to return it to its owner and pick up an identical one? The thought suddenly made me shiver.

Feluda had said virtually nothing after we took off. He had taken out his famous blue notebook (volume seven) and was scribbling in it, occasionally looking up to stare out of the window at the fluffy white clouds, biting the end of his pen. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. I, for my part, had given up trying to think at all. It was all too complex.

We soon landed in Delhi and came out of the airport. There was a noticeable nip in the air. ‘This probably means there has been a fresh snowfall in Simla,’ Feluda observed. He was still clutching the blue case. Not for a second had he allowed himself to be separated from it.

‘I think I can get a room at the Agra Hotel,’ said Lalmohan Babu. ‘I will join you at the Janpath by noon. Then we can have lunch together and have a little roam around. The train to Simla doesn’t leave until eight this evening, does it?’

The Janpath was a fairly large hotel. We were given room 532 on the fifth floor. Feluda put our luggage on the luggage-rack and threw himself on the bed. I decided to take this opportunity to ask him something that I had been feeling curious about.

‘Feluda,’ I said, ‘in this whole business of blue cases and jumping hooligans, what strikes you as most suspicious?’

‘The newspapers.’

‘Er . . . would you care to elaborate?’ I asked hesitantly.

‘I cannot figure out why Mr Dhameeja folded the two newspapers so neatly and put them in his case with such care. A newspaper, once read, especially on a train, is useless. Most people would leave it behind without a second thought. Then why . . . ?’

This was Feluda’s technique. He would begin to worry about a seemingly completely irrelevant point that would escape everyone else. Certainly I couldn’t make head or tail of it.

In the remaining hours that we spent in Delhi, two things happened. The first was nothing remarkable, but the other was horrifying.

Lalmohan Babu turned up at about half past twelve. We decided to go to the Jantar Mantar, which was not far from our hotel. Jatayu and I were both keen to see this observatory built two hundred and fifty years ago by Sawai Jai Singh. Feluda said he’d much rather stay in the hotel, both to keep an eye on Dhameeja’s attaché case and to think more about the mystery.

The first incident took place within ten minutes of our arrival at the Jantar Mantar. We were strolling along peacefully, when suddenly Lalmohan Babu clutched at my sleeve and whispered, ‘I think . . . I think a rather suspicious character is trying to follow us!’

I looked at the man he indicated. It was an old man, a Nepali cap on his head, cotton wool plugged in his ears, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark glasses. It did appear as though he was interested in our movements. How very strange!

‘I know that man!’ said Jatayu.

‘What!’

‘He sat next to me on the plane. Helped me fasten my seat belt.’

‘Did he speak to you?’

‘No. I thanked him, but he said nothing. Most suspicious, I tell you!’

Perhaps the man could guess we were talking about him. He disappeared only a few minutes later.

By the time we returned to the hotel, it was almost half past three. I asked for our key at the reception, but the receptionist said he didn’t have it. This alarmed me somewhat, but then I remembered I had not handed it in at all. It was still in my pocket. Besides, it was rather foolish to worry about the key when Feluda was in the room to let us in. ‘Just goes to show you’re not used to staying in hotels,’ I told myself.

Our room was on the right, about thirty yards down the corridor. I knocked on the door. There was no response.

‘Perhaps your cousin is having a nap,’ remarked Lalmohan Babu. I knocked again. Nothing happened.

Then I turned the handle and discovered that the door was open. But I knew Feluda had locked it from inside when we left.

I pushed the door, but it refused to open more than a little. Something pretty heavy must be lying behind it. What could it be?

I peered in through the little gap, and my blood froze.

Feluda was lying on the floor, face down. His right elbow was what the door was knocking against.

I could hardly breathe, but knew that I must not panic. Together with Lalmohan Babu, I pushed the door harder and eventually we both managed to slide in.

Feluda was unconscious. But, possibly as a result of our pushing and heaving, he was beginning to stir and groan. Lalmohan Babu, it turned out, could keep a calm head in a crisis. It was he who splashed cold water on Feluda’s face and fanned him furiously until he opened his eyes.

Then he raised a hand gingerly and felt the centre of his head, making a face. ‘It’s gone, I assume?’ he asked. I had already checked.

‘Yes, Feluda,’ I had to tell him, ‘that attaché case has vanished.’ Feluda staggered to his feet, declining our offer of assistance. ‘It’s all right,’ he insisted, ‘I can manage. I’ve got a bump on my head, but I think that’s all. It might have been worse.’

It might indeed. Feluda took a few minutes to rest and to make sure nothing was broken. Then he rang room service, ordered tea for us all and told us what had happened.

‘I studied the entries in my notebook for about half an hour after you had gone. Then I began to feel tired. I hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours last night, you see. So I thought I’d have a little rest, but just at that moment the telephone rang.’

‘The telephone? Who was it?’

‘Wait, let me finish. It was the receptionist. He said, Mr Mitter, there’s a gentleman here who has recognized you. He says he’d like to take the autograph of such a brilliant sleuth as yourself. Shall I send him up?’

Feluda paused here, turned to me and continued, ‘I realized one thing today, Topshe, and I don’t mind admitting it—to give an autograph is as tempting as taking it. I shall, of course, be more careful in future. But I needed this lesson.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I felt so pleased that I told the receptionist to send the man up. He came, knocked on the door, I opened it, felt a sharp knock on my own head, and . . . everything went black. The man had covered his face with a large handkerchief, so I don’t even know what he looked like.’

‘Since we are in Delhi,’ suggested Jatayu, ‘wouldn’t it be a good idea to inform the Prime Minister?’

Feluda smiled wryly at this. ‘God knows what that man gained by stealing that blue case,’ he remarked, ‘but he has certainly put us in an impossible situation. What a reckless devil!’

For the next few minutes, no one spoke. All that could be heard in the room was the sound of sighs. At last, Feluda uttered a few significant words. ‘There is a way,’ he said slowly. ‘Not, I admit, a simple way. But it’s the only one I can think of, and we’ve got to take it because we cannot go to Simla empty-handed.’

He reached for his blue notebook, and ran his eyes through the list of contents in Dhameeja’s case.

‘There is nothing in this list,’ he said, ‘that we can’t get here in Delhi. We’ve got to get every item. I remember what each one looked like and what condition it was in. So that’s one thing we needn’t worry about. I could make the toothpaste and the shaving cream look old and used. And it should be possible to get hold of a white handkerchief and have it embroidered. I remember the pattern. The newspapers will, of course, have a different date, but I don’t think Mr Dhameeja will notice it. The only expensive thing would be a roll of Kodak film . . .’

‘Hey!’ Lalmohan Babu interrupted. ‘Hey, look, I completely forgot to give this back to you. You passed it to me on the plane, remember?’ He returned the Kodak container to Feluda.

‘Good, that’s one problem solved . . . but what is that sticking out of your pocket?’

A piece of paper had slipped out with the little box of betel-nuts. We could all see what was written on it:

‘Do not go to Simla if you value your life.’

It was now 9.30 p.m. Our train was rushing through the darkness in the direction of Kalka. We would have to change at Kalka to go on to Simla. There were only the three of us in our compartment. The fourth berth was empty. I couldn’t guess how the other two were feeling, but in my own mind there was a mixture of so many different emotions that it was impossible to tell which was the uppermost: excitement, pleasure, an eager anticipation or fear.

Lalmohan Babu broke the silence by saying, somewhat hesitantly,
‘Tel! me, Mr Mitter, the dividing line between a brilliant detective and a criminal with real cunning is really quite thin, isn’t it?’

Feluda was so preoccupied that he did not reply. But I knew very well what had prompted the question. It was related to a certain incident that took place during the evening. I should describe it in some detail, for it revealed a rather unexpected streak in Feluda’s character.

It had taken us barely half an hour to collect most of the things we needed to deceive Mr Dhameeja. The only major problem was the attaché case itself.

Where could we find a blue Air-India case? We didn’t know anyone in Delhi we could ask. It might be possible to get a similar blue case in a shop—but that wouldn’t have Air India written on it. And that would, naturally, give the whole show away.

In the end, however, in sheer desperation, we did buy a plain blue case and, clutching it in one hand, Feluda led us into the main office of Air-India.

The first person our eyes fell on was an old man, a Parsee cap on his head, sitting right next to the ‘Enquiries’ counter. On his left, resting against his chair, was a brand new blue Air India attaché case, exactly the kind we were looking for.

Feluda walked straight up to the counter and placed his own case beside the old man’s. ‘Is there an Air-India flight to Frankfurt from Delhi?’ he asked the man behind the counter. In a matter of seconds, he got the necessary information, said, ‘Thank you,’ picked up the old man’s case and pushed his own to the spot where it had been resting and coolly walked out. Lalmohan Babu and I followed, quite speechless. Then we returned to the hotel and Feluda began to work on the attaché case. By the time he finished, no one—not even Mr Dhameeja—could have said that it was not the one we had been given by Dinanath Lahiri. The same applied to its contents.

Feluda had been staring at his notebook. Now he shut it, rose and began pacing. ‘It was just like this,’ he muttered. ‘Those four men were in a coach exactly like this . . .’

I have always found it difficult to tell what would attract Feluda’s attention. Right now, he was staring at the glasses that stood inside metal rings attached to the wall. Why should these be of any interest to him?

‘Can you sleep in a moving train, or can’t you?’ he asked Lalmohan Babu, rather abruptly.

‘Well, I . . .’ Lalmohan Babu replied, trying to suppress a giant yawn, ‘I quite like being rocked.’

‘Yes. I know the rocking generally helps one sleep. But not everyone, mind you. I have an uncle who cannot sleep a wink in a train,’ said Feluda and jumped up on the empty berth. Then he switched on the reading lamp, opened the book that was in Dhameeja’s attaché case, and turned a few pages. We had bought a second copy at a book stall in the New Delhi railway station.

Laying the book aside, Feluda stretched on the upper berth and stared up at the ceiling. It was completely dark outside. Nothing could be seen except a few flickering lights in the distance.

I was about to ask Lalmohan Babu if he had remembered to bring his weapon and, if so, when would he show it to us, when he spoke unexpectedly.

‘We forgot one thing,’ he said, ‘betel-nuts. We must check with the fellow from the dining car if they have any. If not, we shall have to buy some at the next station. There’s just one left in this little box.’

Lalmohan Babu took out the Kodak container, the only original object left from Dhameeja’s attaché case, and tilted it on his palm. The betel-nut did not slip out.

‘How annoying!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can see it, but it won’t come out!’ He began to shake the container vigorously, showering strong words on the obstinate piece of betel-nut, but it refused to budge.

‘Give it to me!’ said Feluda and leapt down from the upper berth, snatching the container from Lalmohan Babu’s hand. Lalmohan Babu could only stare at him, completely taken aback.

Feluda slipped his little finger into the box and pushed at the small object, using a little force. It now came out like an obedient child. Feluda sniffed a couple of times and said, ‘Araldite. Someone used Araldite on this piece of betel-nut. I wonder why—? Topshe, shut the door.’ There were footsteps outside in the corridor. I did shut the door, but not before I had caught a glimpse of the man who went past our compartment. It was the same old man we had seen at the Jantar Mantar. He was still wearing the dark glasses and his ears were still plugged with cotton wool.

‘Sh-h-h-h,’ Feluda whistled.

He was gazing steadily at the little betel-nut that lay on his palm. I went forward for a closer look. It was clear that it was not a betel-nut at all. Some other object had been painted brown to camouflage it.

‘I should have guessed,’ said Feluda softly. ‘I should have known a long time ago. Oh, what a fool I have been, Topshe!’

Feluda now lifted one of the glasses from its ring, poured a little water from our flask and dipped the betel-nut in it. The water began to turn a light brown as he gently rubbed the object. Then he wiped it with a handkerchief and put it back on his palm.

The betel-nut had disappeared. In its place was a beautifully cut, brilliant stone. From the way it glittered even in our semi-dark compartment, I could tell it was a diamond. And it was pretty obvious that none of us had seen such a large one ever before. At least, Lalmohan Babu made no bones about it.

‘Is that . . .’ he gasped, ‘a d. . .di. . .di. . .?’

Feluda closed his fist around the stone, went over to the door to lock it, then came back and said, ‘We’ve already had warnings threatening our lives. Why are you talking of dying?’

‘No, no, not d-dying. I mean, is that a diam-m-m-?’

‘Very probably, or it wouldn’t be chased so persistently. But mind you, I am no expert.’

‘Well then, is it val-val-val-?’

‘I’m afraid the value of diamonds is something I don’t know much about. I can only make a rough guess. This one, I think, is in the region of twenty carats. So its value would certainly exceed half a million rupees.’

Lalmohan Babu gulped in silence. Feluda was still turning the stone between his fingers.

‘How did Dhameeja get hold of something so precious?’ I asked under my breath.

‘I don’t know, dear boy. All I know about Dhameeja is that he said he had an orchard and that he likes reading thrillers on trains.’

Lalmohan Babu, in the meantime, had recovered somewhat. ‘Will this stone now go back to Dhameeja?’ he asked.

‘If we can be sure that it is indeed his, then certainly it will go back to him.’

‘Does that mean you suspect it might actually belong to someone else?’

‘Yes, but there are other questions that need to be answered. For instance, I don’t know if people outside Bengal are in the habit of chewing chopped betel-nuts.’

‘But if that is so—’ I began.

‘No. No more questions tonight, Topshe. This whole affair has
taken another new turn. We have to take every step with extreme caution. I can’t waste any more time chatting.’

Feluda took out his wallet, put the sparkling stone away safely, pulled the zip and climbed on to his berth. I knew he didn’t want to be disturbed. Lalmohan Babu opened his mouth to speak, but I laid a finger against my lips to stop him. He glanced once at Feluda and then turned to me. ‘I think I’ll give up writing suspense thrillers,’ he confided.

‘Why?’

‘The few things that have happened in the last couple of days . . . they’re beyond one’s imagination, aren’t they? Haven’t you heard the saying, truth is stronger than fiction?’

‘Not stronger. I think the word is stranger.’

‘Stranger?’

‘Yes, meaning more . . . amazing. More curious.’

‘Oh really? I thought a stranger was someone one hadn’t met before. Oh no, no, I see what you mean. Strange, stranger, strangest . . .’

I decided to cheer him up. ‘We found the diamond only because of you,’ I told him. ‘If you hadn’t finished all the real betel-nuts, that diamond would have remained hidden forever.’

Lalmohan Babu grinned from ear to ear.

‘You mean to say even I have made a little contribution to this great mystery? Heh, heh, heh, heh . . .’ Then he thought for a minute and added, ‘You know what I really think? I am sure your cousin knew about the diamond right from the start. Or how could we have survived two attempts to steal it from us?’

This made me think. The thief had not yet managed to lay his hands on the real stuff. Not even by breaking into our hotel room. That precious stone was still with us. This meant we were probably still being followed, and therefore, in constant danger.

And we wouldn’t be safe even in Simla . . .

Heaven knows when I fell asleep. I woke suddenly in the middle of the night. It was totally dark in the compartment, which meant even Feluda had switched off the reading lamp and gone to sleep. Lalmohan Babu was sleeping on the lower berth opposite mine. I was about to switch on my own lamp to look at the time, when my eyes fell on the door. The curtain from our side was drawn partially over the frosted glass. But there was a gap, and on this gap fell the shadow of a man.

What was he doing there? It took me a few seconds to realize he was actually trying to turn the handle of the door. I knew the door was locked and would not yield to pressure from outside; but even so, I began to feel breathless with fear.

How long the man would have persisted, it is difficult to say. But, only a few seconds later, Lalmohan Babu shouted ‘Boomerang!’ in his sleep, and the shadow disappeared.

I realized that even in the cool night air, I had broken into a cold sweat.