The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (24 page)

There were two routes to Pemiangchi. Unfortunately, we couldn’t take the shorter one as the main road had been damaged. Taking the longer route meant spending at least eight hours on the journey. Pemiangchi was a hundred and twenty-seven miles away. But it couldn’t be helped. Our hotel had given us packed lunches, and we had two flasks. One was full of hot coffee, the other had water. So there was no need for us to stop anywhere for lunch, which would have taken up a lot of time.

Helmut was carrying only one camera today. Mr Sarkar, I noticed, had packed a pair of galoshes. ‘No point in taking risks,’ he told me. ‘This is cent per cent safe.’

‘Cent per cent? What if a leech fell on your head from a tree?’

‘No, that’s not likely. That happens in July and August. Leeches are normally to be found on the ground at this time of the year.’

Mr Sarkar didn’t know we were going in search of a criminal. He was therefore perfectly happy and relaxed.

We reached Singtham at a quarter past six. We had passed through this town on our way to Gangtok. A left turn brought us to the river Tista again. We crossed it and found ourselves on a road none of us knew. This led straight to Pemiangchi. The jeep we were in wasn’t new, but was in reasonably good condition. Its driver looked like a bandit from a Western film. He was dressed purely in black—the trousers, shirt and the leather jerkin he wore were all black. Even the cap on his head was dark enough to qualify as black. He was too tall to be a Nepali, but I couldn’t figure out where he was from. Feluda asked him his name. ‘Thondup,’ he replied.

‘That’s a Tibetan name,’ said Mr Sarkar, looking knowledgeable. We drove in silence for about twenty kilometres. The next town on the way to Pemiangchi was Namchi. Just as we got close to it, a jeep behind us started blowing its horn loudly. Thondup made no attempt to let it pass.

‘Why is he in such a hurry?’ Feluda asked.

‘No idea, sir. But if we let it go ahead, it’ll only blow up clouds of dust.’

Thondup increased his speed. But the sound of the horn from the other jeep got more insistent. Mr Sarkar turned around irritably to see who it was. Then he exclaimed, ‘Why, look, it’s that same gentleman!’

‘Who?’ Feluda and I turned and saw, to our amazement, that Mr Bose was in the other jeep, still honking and waving madly.

‘You’ll have to stop for a minute, Thondupji,’ Feluda said. ‘That’s a friend of ours.’

Thondup pulled up by the side of the road. Mr Bose came bounding out of the other jeep. ‘Are you deaf or what?’ he demanded. ‘I yelled myself hoarse in Singtham, but none of you heard me!’

‘Sorry, very sorry, Mr Bose. If we knew you were back, we wouldn’t have left without you,’ Feluda apologized.

‘I could hardly stay on in Bombay after receiving your telegram. I’ve been following your jeep for miles.’

Thondup was absolutely right about the dust. Mr Bose was covered with it from head to foot, like an ash-smeared sadhubaba, thanks—no doubt—to the wheels of our own jeep.

‘In your telegram you said you were suspicious about something. So where are you off to now? Why did you leave Gangtok?’

Instead of giving him a straight answer, Feluda asked, ‘Do you have a lot of luggage?’

‘No, just a suitcase.’

‘In that case, why don’t we move our own luggage into your jeep, and you can climb in with us? I’ll fill you in.’

It took only a couple of minutes to transfer all the luggage. Mr Bose climbed in at the back with Mr Sarkar and Helmut, and we set off again. Feluda told Mr Bose briefly what had happened over the last two days. He even revealed that Helmut was Mr Shelvankar’s son. Mr Bose frowned when Feluda finished. ‘But who is this Dr Vaidya? He’s bound to be a fraud. You should not have allowed him
to get away, Mr Mitter. You could have—’

Feluda interrupted him. ‘My suspicions fell on him when I learnt about Helmut’s true identity. You are partly to blame, Mr Bose. You should have told us your partner’s first wife was a German.’

‘How was I to know that would matter? Besides, all I knew was that she was a foreigner. I had no idea about her nationality. Shelvankar married her about twenty-five years ago. Anyway, I just hope that Vaidya hasn’t left Pemiangchi. Or our entire journey will come to nothing!’

We reached Namchi a little after ten. Here we stopped for a few minutes, to pour cold water into the engine, and hot coffee into ourselves. I could see clouds gathering in the sky, but wasn’t unduly worried since I’d heard Namchi was considered by many to be the driest and cleanest place in Sikkim. Helmut was taking photographs, more out of habit than any real interest. He had hardly spoken since we left.

Now that Mr Sarkar had learnt the real reason for going to Pemiangchi, he seemed faintly uneasy; but the prospect of having an adventure was obviously just as appealing. ‘With your cousin on one side, and the German Virendra on the other, I see no reason to worry,’ he declared to me.

We left Namchi after ten minutes. The road went down from here, towards another river called Rangeet. This river was very different from the Tista. Its water was clear, with a greenish tinge, and it flowed with considerable force. Pools of foam formed where it struck against stones and rocks. I had never seen such a beautiful river in the hills. We had to cross another bridge and climb up the hill again to get to Pemiangchi, which was at a height of 9,000 feet.

As we wound our way up, I could see evidence of landslides almost everywhere. The thick green foliage on the hills had large gaps here and there. Great chunks of the hill had clearly slid down towards the river. Heaven knew how long it would take nature to repair the damage caused by these ‘young mountains’!

We passed a gumpha on the way. Outside its entrance were a lot of flags strung from a thin rope, to ward off evil spirits. Each of them looked clean and fresh. ‘Preparations for Buddha Purnima,’ explained Mr Bose.

‘When is it?’ asked Feluda absent-mindedly.

‘Buddha Purnima? Tomorrow, I think. On seventeenth April.’

‘Seventeenth April . . . on the Indian calendar that would be the fourth of Baisakh . . . hmm . . . Baisakh . . . ’

I looked at Feluda in surprise. Why was he suddenly so concerned about dates? And why was he looking so grim? Why was he cracking his knuckles?

There was no opportunity to ask him. Our jeep had entered a forest. The road here had been badly damaged by the recent rains. Thondup crawled along with extreme care, despite which there were a few nasty bumps. One of these resulted in Mr Sarkar banging his head against the roof of the jeep. ‘Bloody hell!’ I heard him mutter.

The forest grew thicker and darker. Helmut pointed at a tall tree with dark green leaves and a light bark, and said, ‘That’s a birch. If you ever went to England, you’d get to see a lot of them.’ There were trees on both sides. The road coiled upwards like a snake. It wasn’t just dark inside the forest, but also much more damp. From somewhere came the sharp cry of a strange bird.

‘Th-thrilling, isn’t it?’ said Mr Sarkar. Suddenly, without any warning, the trees cleared. We found ourselves in front of a hillock, under an overcast sky. A few moments later, the tiled roof of a bungalow came into view, followed by the whole building.

This was the famous dak bungalow of Pemiangchi. Built during British times, it stood at a spot that was truly out of this world. Rows and rows of peaks rose behind the bungalow, their colours ranging from lush green to a hazy blue.

Our jeep stopped outside the front door. The chowkidar came out. On being told who we were, he nodded and confirmed that rooms had been booked for us.

‘Is there anyone else staying here?’ asked Mr Bose.

‘No, sir. The bungalow’s empty.’

‘Empty? Why, did no one come here before us?’ Feluda asked anxiously.

‘Yes, but he left last night. A man with a beard, and he wore dark glasses.’

The chowkidar’s words appeared to disappoint Helmut the most. He sat down on the grass outside, placing his camera beside him.

Mr Bose said, ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do immediately, can we? Let’s have lunch. I’m starving.’

We went into the bungalow carrying our luggage. It was obvious that the bungalow had been built several decades ago. The wooden floor and ceiling, the wide verandas with wooden railings and old-fashioned furniture all bore evidence of an era gone by. The view from the veranda was breathtaking. If the sky wasn’t cloudy, we would have been able to see Kanchenjunga, which was twenty-two miles away. There was no noise anywhere except the chirping of birds.

We crossed the veranda and went into the dining hall. Mr Bose found an easy chair and took it. He said to Feluda, ‘I wasn’t too sure about Vaidya before, although you did tell me you had your suspicions. But now I’m convinced he’s our man. SS should never have shown him such a valuable object as that statue.’

Helmut had risen to his feet, but hadn’t joined us. I could see him pacing in the veranda outside. Mr Sarkar went inside, possibly to look for a bathroom. Feluda began to inspect the other rooms in the bungalow. I sat quietly in the dining hall, feeling most depressed. Was our journey really going to turn out to be a complete waste of time?

There were two doors on one side, leading to two bedrooms. Feluda came out of one of these with a walking-stick in his hand. ‘Dr Vaidya most certainly visited this place,’ Feluda said, ‘and he left this stick to prove it. How very strange!’ Feluda’s voice sounded different. I looked up quickly, but said nothing. Mr Sarkar returned, wiping his face with a handkerchief. ‘What a weird place!’ he exclaimed, taking the chair next to mine, yawning noisily. Feluda did not sit down. He stood before the fireplace, tapping the stick softly on the ground. His mouth was set in a grim line.

‘Mr Sarkar!’ called Mr Bose. ‘Where are those packed lunches your hotel gave you? Let’s eat.’

‘No!’ said Feluda, his voice sounding cold and remote. ‘This is not the time to eat.’

Mr Sarkar had started to rise. He flopped back in his chair at Feluda’s words. Mr Bose and I both looked at him in surprise. But Feluda’s face remained without expression.

Then he sat down, lit a Charminar and inhaled deeply. ‘Mr Bose,’ he said conversationally, ‘you know someone in Ghatshila, you said. Isn’t that where you were before you caught a flight from Calcutta?’

‘Yes. A nephew of mine got married.’

‘You are a Hindu, aren’t you, Mr Bose?’

‘Why? What do you mean?’

‘You heard me. What are you? A Hindu, or a Muslim, or a Christian, or what?’

‘How does that—?’

‘Just tell me.’

‘I’m a Hindu, of course.’

‘Hm.’ Feluda blew out two smoke rings. One of them wafted towards Mr Bose, getting larger and larger, until it disappeared in front of his face.

‘But,’ Feluda frowned, ‘you and I travelled together in the same plane. You had just got back from Ghatshila, hadn’t you?’

‘Yes, but why is that causing you such concern? I can’t understand this at all, Mr Mitter. What has my nephew’s wedding in Ghatshila got to do with anything?’

‘It has plenty to do with things, Mr Bose. Traditionally, no Hindu would get married in the month of Chaitra. We left Calcutta on fourteenth April, which was the first of Baisakh. Your nephew’s wedding took place before that, so it must have been in the preceding month, which was Chaitra. How did you allow this to happen?’

Mr Bose was in the middle of lighting a cigarette. He stopped, his hands shaking a little. ‘What are you implying, Mr Mitter? Just what are you trying to say?’

Feluda looked steadily at Mr Bose, without giving him an immediate answer. Then he said, slowly and deliberately, ‘I am implying a lot of things, Mr Bose. To start with, you are a liar. You never went to Ghatshila. Secondly, you betrayed someone’s trust—’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ Mr Bose shouted.

‘We have all heard how depressed Mr Shelvankar had been before he died. He had even mentioned it to Helmut, though he did not specify the reason. It is easy enough to get totally broken in spirit if one is betrayed by a person one has trusted implicitly. I believe you were that person. You were his partner, weren’t you? Mr Shelvankar was a simple, straightforward man. You took full advantage of this and cheated him endlessly. But one day, he came to know of what you had done. When you realized this, you decided to get him out of the way forever. That wasn’t possible in Bombay, so you had to wait until he came to Sikkim. You were not supposed to be here. But you came—possibly the next day—disguised as Dr Vaidya. Yes,
you
were Dr Vaidya! You met Shelvankar and impressed him a great deal by telling him a few things about his life that you knew already. Then you told him about the possibility of finding Virendra in a gumpha, and left with him that morning in the same jeep. On the way, you hit his head with this heavy stick. This made him unconscious, but he did not die. You went ahead with your plan, and had the jeep pushed into the gorge. The driver had, no doubt, been bribed; that must have been easy enough to do. Then you threw that stone from the hill, using the same heavy stick to dislodge it from the ground. In spite of all this, Mr Shelvankar remained alive for a few hours, long enough to mention your name. Perhaps he had recognized you at the last minute.’

‘Nonsense! What utter rubbish are you talking, Mr Mitter?’ shouted Mr Bose. ‘Where is the proof that I am Dr Vaidya?’

In reply, Feluda asked him a strange question. ‘Where is your ring, Mr Bose?’

‘My ring?’

‘Yes, the one with “Ma” engraved on it. There’s a white mark on your finger, but you’re not wearing your ring. Where did it go?’

‘Oh, that . . .’ Mr Bose swallowed. ‘I took it off because . . . because it felt too tight.’ He took the ring out of his pocket to show us he still had it with him.

‘When you changed your make-up and your costume, you forgot to put it back on. I had noticed that mark that evening when you were supposed to be talking to the departed soul of Shelvankar. I found it odd then, but did not pay enough attention at the time.’

Mr Bose began to rise, but Feluda’s voice rang out again, cold as steel, ‘Don’t try to move, Mr Bose. I haven’t finished.’ Mr Bose quickly sat down again, and began wiping his face. Feluda continued, ‘The day after Mr Shelvankar died, Dr Vaidya said he was going to Kalimpong. He didn’t. He shed his disguise, became Sasadhar Bose and returned to Calcutta. He had already sent a telegram to Shelvankar saying “Arriving Fourteenth”. This upset him very much since Mr Bose wasn’t supposed to be in Sikkim at all. Anyway, he came here on the fourteenth just to create an alibi for himself. Then he pretended to be greatly distressed by his partner’s death and said he would go back to Bombay the next day. Again, he didn’t. He remained in hiding somewhere near Gangtok. He returned as Dr Vaidya just to add to the confusion, and pretend he could speak to the dead. But by then he had come to know that I was
a detective. So he tried to remove me from the scene, too, by throwing another boulder at me. He must have seen me walking towards Nathula Road, and had probably guessed what I was going to do. And it was he who had followed us to Rumtek—’ Feluda was interrupted suddenly by a high-pitched wail. To my surprise, I discovered it was coming from Mr Sarkar.

‘All right, Mr Sarkar,’ said Feluda. ‘Out with it! And I want the truth. Why did you go to the spot where the murder had taken place?’

Mr Sarkar raised his hands as though someone had shouted, ‘Hands up!’ Then he croaked, ‘I d-didn’t know, you see, how val-valuable that statue was. When they t-told me—’

‘Was it you who went to the Tibetan Institute?’

‘Yes. They s-said it was totally unique. So I th-thought—’

‘So you thought there was no harm in stealing from a dead man if the statue was still lying at the accident site? Especially when it had once belonged to you?’

‘Y-yes, something like th-that.’

‘But didn’t you see anyone at that particular spot?’

‘No, sir.’

‘All right. But it appears that someone did see you and was afraid that you had seen him. Hence the threats you received.’

‘Yes, that explains it.’

‘Where’s the statue?’

‘Statue? But I didn’t find it!’

‘What? You—?’ Feluda was interrupted again, this time by Mr Bose. He jumped to his feet, overturning his chair, and rushed out of the room. Helmut, who was standing at the door, was knocked down by him. Since there was only one door that led to the veranda outside, and this exit was blocked for a few moments by Helmut, who had fallen to the ground, we were delayed by about ten seconds.

By the time all of us could get out, Mr Bose had climbed back into his jeep, and its engine had already roared into life. No doubt his driver had been warned and prepared for such an eventuality. His jeep made a quick about turn and began moving towards the forest. Without a word, Thondup, who was standing by our own jeep, threw himself back in it and started the engine, assuming we would want to follow Mr Bose. As it turned out, however, there was no need to do that. Feluda took out his revolver from his pocket and fired at the rear wheels of Mr Bose’s jeep. The tyres burst instantly,
making the jeep tilt to one side, run into a tree, and finally come to a halt. Mr Bose jumped out, and vanished among the trees. His driver came out, too, clutching the starting handle of his jeep. Feluda ignored him completely. He ran after Mr Bose, with Helmut, Mr Sarkar and me right behind him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thondup pick up his own starting handle and move forward steadily, to deal with the other driver.

The four of us shot off in different directions to look for Mr Bose. I heard Helmut call out to us about ten minutes later. By the time I found him, Feluda and Mr Sarkar had joined him already. Mr Bose was standing under a large tree a few feet away. No, he wasn’t just standing. He was actually hopping around, stamping his feet and wriggling in what appeared to be absolute agony.

The reason became clear as we got closer to him. He had been attacked by leeches. At least two hundred of them were clinging to his body, some on his legs, others on his neck, shoulders and elbows. Helmut pointed at a thick root that ran across the ground near the tree. Obviously, Mr Bose had stumbled against it and fallen flat on the ground.

Feluda caught him by his collar and pulled him out in the open. ‘Get those sticks with the bundles of salt and tobacoo,’ he said to me. ‘Quick!’

We had finished eating, and were sitting on the veranda of the dak bungalow. Helmut was taking photographs of orchids. Thondup had gone and informed the police in the nearest town. Mr Bose had been handed over to them. The statue of Yamantak had been found amongst his belongings. He had forgotten to take it from Mr Shelvankar on the day of the murder. He went back later to look for it where the jeep had fallen, and found it behind a bush. As he was climbing up the hill, he saw Mr Sarkar going down, with the same purpose in mind. Fearing that he might have been seen, he started threatening and frightening Mr Sarkar.

It also turned out that Mr Bose had an accomplice in Bombay, with whom he had stayed in touch. It was this man who had answered Feluda’s call, received his telegram and informed Mr Bose in Gangtok.

Having explained these details, Feluda turned to Mr Sarkar. ‘You are a small-time crook yourself, aren’t you? You’re lucky you
couldn’t retrieve that statue. If you had, we’d have had to find a suitable punishment for you.’

‘I’ve been punished adequately, believe me!’ Mr Sarkar said, looking profusely apologetic. ‘I found as many as three leeches in one of my socks. They must have drunk gallons of my blood. I feel quite weak, as a matter of fact.’

‘I see. Anyway, I hope you’ll have the sense not sell anything else that belonged to your grandfather. And look, here’s your button.’

I noticed for the first time that the last button on Mr Sarkar’s shirt was missing. Mr Sarkar took the button from Feluda and, after a long time, smiled his old smile.

‘Th-thanks,’ he said.