The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (3 page)

Feluda started walking towards the front door. ‘A very interesting case,’ he muttered. Now he was talking like the detectives one read about.

We came out of the house. It was already dark outside. Lights had been switched on in every house nestling in the hills. A mist was rising from the Rangeet valley down below. Rajen Babu and Tinkori Babu both walked up to the gate to see us off. Rajen Babu lowered his voice and said to Feluda, ‘Actually, I have to confess that despite everything, I do feel faintly nervous. After all, something like this in this peaceful atmosphere was so totally unexpected . . .’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Feluda firmly. ‘I’ll definitely get to the bottom of this case.’

‘Thank you. Goodbye!’ said Rajen Babu and went back into the
house. Tinkori Babu lingered. ‘I am truly impressed by your power of observation,’ he said. ‘I, too, have read a large number of detective novels. Maybe I can help you with this case.’

‘Really? How?’

‘Look at the letter in your hand. Take the various printed words. Do they tell you anything?’

Feluda thought for a few seconds. ‘The words were cut out with a blade, not scissors,’ he said.

‘Very good.’

‘Second, each word has come from a different source—the typeface and the quality of paper vary from each other.’

‘Yes. Can you guess what those different sources might be?’

‘These two words—“prepared” and “pay”—appear to be a newspaper.’

‘Right.
Ananda Bazar.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Only
Ananda Bazar
uses that typeface. And the other words were taken out of books, I think. Not very old books, mind you, for those different typefaces have been in use over the last twenty years, and no more. Apart from this, does the smell of the glue tell you anything?’

‘I think the sender used Grippex glue.’

‘Brilliant!’

‘I might say the same for you.’

Tinkori Babu smiled. ‘I try, but at your age, my dear fellow, I doubt if I knew what the word “detective” meant.’

We said namaskar after this and went on our way. ‘I don’t yet know whether I can solve this mystery,’ said Feluda on the way back to our hotel, ‘but getting to know Tinkori Babu would be an added bonus.’

‘If he is so good at crime detection, why don’t you let him do all the hard work? Why waste your own time making enquiries?’

‘Ah well, Tinkori Babu might know a lot about printing and typefaces, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’d know everything!’

Feluda’s answer pleased me. I bet Tinkori Babu isn’t as clever as Feluda, I thought. Aloud, I said, ‘Who do you suppose is the culprit?’

‘The culp—’ Feluda broke off. I saw him turn around and glance at a man who had come from the opposite direction and had just passed us.

‘Did you see him?’

‘No, I didn’t see his face.’

‘The light from that street lamp fell on his face for only a second, and I thought—’

‘What?’

‘No, never mind. Let’s go, I feel quite hungry.’

Feluda is my cousin. He and I were in Darjeeling with my father for a holiday. Father had got to know some of the other guests in our hotel fairly well, and was spending most of his time with them. He didn’t stop us from going wherever we wished, nor did he ask too many questions.

I woke a little later than usual the next day. Father was in the room, but there was no sign of Feluda.

‘Felu left early this morning,’ Father explained. ‘He said he’d try to catch a glimpse of Kanchenjunga.’

I knew this couldn’t be true. Feluda must have gone out to investigate, which was most annoying because he wasn’t supposed to go out without me. Anyway, I had a quick cup of tea, and then I went out myself.

I spotted Feluda near a taxi stand. ‘This is not fair!’ I complained. ‘Why did you go out alone?’

‘I was feeling a bit feverish, so I went to see a doctor.’

‘Dr Phoni Mitra?’

‘Aha, you’re beginning to use your brain, too!’

‘What did he say?’

‘He charged me four rupees and wrote out a prescription.’

‘Is he a good doctor?’

‘Do you think a good doctor would write a prescription for someone in perfect health? Besides, his house looked old and decrepit. I don’t think he has a good practice.’

‘Then he couldn’t have sent that letter.’

‘Why not?’

‘A poor man wouldn’t dare.’

‘Yes, he would, if he was desperate for money.’

‘But that letter said nothing about money.’

‘There was no need to ask openly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How did Rajen Babu strike you yesterday?’

‘He seemed a little frightened.’

‘Fear can make anyone ill.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, seriously ill. And if that happened, he’d naturally turn to his doctor. What might happen then is something even a fathead like you can figure out, I’m sure.’

How clever Feluda was! But if Dr Mitra had really planned the whole thing the way Feluda described, he must be extraordinarily crafty, too.

By this time, we had reached the Mall. As we came near the fountain, Feluda suddenly said, ‘I feel a bit curious about curios.’ We were, in fact, standing quite close to the Nepal Curio Shop. Rajen Babu and Mr Ghoshal visited this shop every day. Feluda and I walked into the shop. Its owner came forward to greet us. He had a light grey jacket on, a muffler round his neck, and wore a black cap with golden embroidery. He beamed at us genially.

The shop was cluttered with old and ancient objects. A strange musty smell came from them. It was quiet inside. Feluda looked around for a while, then said, sounding important, ‘Do you have good
tankhas
?’

‘Come into the next room, sir. We’ve sold what was really good. But we’re expecting some fresh stock soon.’

‘What is a
tankha
?’
I whispered.

‘You’ll know when you see one,’ Feluda whispered back.

The next room was even smaller and darker. The owner of the shop brought out a painting of the Buddha, done on a piece of silk. ‘This is the last piece left, but it’s a little damaged,’ he said. So this was a
tankha
!
Rajen Babu had heaps of these in his house. Feluda examined the
tankha
like an expert, peering at it closely, and then looking at it from various angles. Three minutes later, he said, ‘This doesn’t appear to be more than seventy years old. I am looking for something much older than that, at least three hundred years, you see.’

‘We’re getting some new things this evening, sir. You might find what you’re looking for if you came back later today.’

‘This evening, did you say?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh, I must inform Rajen Babu.’

‘Mr Majumdar? He knows about it already. All my regular customers are coming in the evening to look at the fresh arrivals.’

‘Does Mr Ghoshal know?’

‘Of course.’

‘Who else is a regular buyer?’

‘There’s Mr Gilmour, the manager of a tea estate. He visits my shop twice a week. Then there’s Mr Naulakha. But he’s away in Sikkim at present.’

‘All right, I’ll try to drop in in the evening . . . Topshe, would you like a mask?’ I couldn’t resist the offer. Feluda selected one himself and paid for it. ‘This was the most horrendous of them all,’ he remarked, passing it to me. He had once told me there was no such word as ‘horrendous’. It was really a mixture of ‘tremendous’ and ‘horrible’. But I must say it was rather an appropriate word for the mask.

Feluda started to say something as we came out of the shop, but stopped abruptly. I found him staring at a man once again. Was it the same man he had seen last night? He was a man in his
early forties, expensively dressed in a well-cut suit. He had stopped in the middle of the Mall to light his pipe. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. Somehow he looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t recall ever having met him before.

Feluda stepped forward and approached him. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘are you Mr Chatterjee?’

‘No,’ replied the man, biting the end of his pipe, ‘I am not.’ Feluda appeared to be completely taken aback. ‘Strange! Aren’t you staying at the Central Hotel?’

The man smiled a little contemptuously. ‘No, I am at the Mount Everest; and I don’t have a twin,’ he said and strode off in the direction of Observatory Hill.

I noticed he was carrying a brown parcel, on which were printed the words ‘Nepal Curio Shop’.

‘Feluda!’ I said softly. ‘Do you think he bought a mask like mine?’

‘Yes, he may well have done that. After all, those masks weren’t all meant for your own exclusive use, were they? Anyway, let’s go and have a cup of coffee.’ We turned towards a coffee shop. ‘Did you recognize that man?’ asked Feluda.

‘How could I,’ I replied, ‘when you yourself failed to recognize him?’

‘Who said I had failed?’

‘Of course you did! You got his name wrong, didn’t you?’

‘Why are you so stupid? I did that deliberately, just to get him to tell me where he was staying. Do you know what his real name is?’

‘No. What is it?’

‘Prabeer Majumdar.’

‘Yes, yes, you’re right! Rajen Babu’s son, isn’t he? We saw his photograph yesterday. No wonder he seemed familiar. But of course now he’s a lot older.’

‘Even so, there are a lot of similarities between father and son. But did you notice his clothes? His suit must have been from London, his tie from Paris and shoes from Italy. In short, there’s no doubt that he’s recently returned from abroad.’

‘But does that mean Rajen Babu doesn’t know his own son is in town?’

‘Perhaps his son doesn’t even know that his father lives here. We should try to find out more.’

The plot thickens, I told myself, going up on the open terrace of the coffee shop. I loved sitting here. One could get such a superb view of the town and the market from here.

Tinkori Babu was sitting at a corner table, drinking coffee. He waved at us, inviting us to join him.

‘As a reward for your powerful observation and expertise in detection, I would like to treat you to two cups of hot chocolate. You wouldn’t mind, I hope?’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. My mouth began to water at the prospect of a cup of hot chocolate. Tinkori Babu called a waiter and placed his order. Then he took out a book from his jacket pocket and offered it to Feluda. ‘This is for you. I had just one copy left. It’s my latest book.’

Feluda stared at the cover. ‘Your book? You mean . . . you write under the pseudonym Secret Agent?’ Tinkori Babu’s eyes drooped. He smiled slightly and nodded. Feluda grew more excited. ‘But you’re my favourite writer! I’ve read all your books. No other writer can write mystery stories the way you do.’

‘Thank you, thank you. To tell you the truth, I had come to Darjeeling to chalk out a plot for my next novel. But I’ve now spent most of my time trying to sort out a real life mystery.’

‘I do consider myself very fortunate. I had no idea I’d get to meet you like this!’

‘The only sad thing is that I have to go back to Calcutta. I’m returning tomorrow. But I think I may be of some help to you before I leave.’

‘I’m very pleased to hear that. By the way, we saw Rajen Babu’s son today.’

‘What!’

‘Only ten minutes ago.’

‘Are you sure? Did you see him properly?’

‘Yes, I am almost a hundred per cent sure. All we need to do is check with the Mount Everest Hotel, and then there won’t be any doubt left.’

Suddenly, Tinkori Babu sighed. ‘Did Rajen Babu talk to you about his son?’ he asked.

‘No, not much.’

‘I have heard quite a lot. Apparently, his son had fallen into bad company. He was caught stealing money from his father’s cupboard. Rajen Babu told him to get out of his house. Prabeer did leave his home after that and disappeared without a trace. He was twenty-four at the time. A few years later, Rajen Babu began to regret what he’d done and tried to track his son down. But there was no sign of Prabeer anywhere. About ten years ago, a friend of Rajen Babu came and told him he’d spotted Prabeer somewhere in England. But that was all.’

‘That means Rajen Babu doesn’t know his son is here in Darjeeling.’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t. And I don’t think he should be told. After all, he’s already had one shock. Another one might . . .’ Tinkori Babu stopped. Then he looked straight at Feluda and shook his head. ‘I think I am going mad. Really, I should give up writing mystery stories.’

Feluda laughed. ‘You mean it’s only just occurred to you that the letter might have been sent by Prabeer Majumdar himself?’

‘Exactly. But . . . I don’t know . . .’ Tinkori Babu broke off absent-mindedly.

The waiter came back and placed our hot chocolate before us. This seemed to cheer him up. ‘How did you find Dr Phoni Mitra?’ he asked.

‘Good heavens, how do you know I went there?’

‘I paid him a visit shortly after you left.’

‘Did you see me coming out of his house?’

‘No. I found a cigarette stub on his floor. I knew he didn’t smoke, so I asked him if he’d already had a patient. He said yes, and from his description I could guess that it was you. However, I didn’t know then that you smoked. Now, looking at your slightly yellowish fingertips, I can be totally sure.’

‘You really are a most clever man. But tell me, did you suspect Dr Mitra as well?’

‘Yes. He doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, does he?’

‘You’re right. I’m surprised Rajen Babu consults him rather than anyone else.’

‘There’s a reason for it. Soon after he arrived in Darjeeling, Rajen Babu had suddenly turned religious. It was Dr Mitra who had found him a guru at that time. As followers of the same guru, they are now like brothers.’

‘I see. But did Dr Mitra say anything useful? What did you talk about?’

‘Oh, just this and that. I went there really to take a look at the books on his shelves. There weren’t many. Those that I saw were all old.’

‘Yes, I noticed it, too.’

‘Mind you, he might well have got hold of different books from elsewhere, just to get the right printed words. But I’m pretty certain that is not the case. That man seemed far too lazy to go to such trouble.’

‘Well, that takes care of Dr Mitra. What do you think of Mr Ghoshal?’