The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (68 page)

In the end, Lalmohan babu did not shave off his moustache. When I asked him the following morning if he had slept well, he told me he
hadn’t because each time he began nodding off, it seemed to him as if his entire room was moving up and down like a lift, and he woke with a start.

Mr Ghoshal had called us the previous night and told us that he’d collect us at ten o’clock to take us to his studio. We finished our breakfast at eight, then went for a walk down Peddar Road, where we found a paan shop. We bought some paan filled with sweet masala, and returned to the hotel. As soon as we entered the lobby, we could all feel an air of suppressed excitement.

The reason was simple. The local police had decided to pay a visit to our hotel. A man in uniform, who looked like an inspector, was standing at the reception desk. One of the men behind the counter made a gesture as we approached. The inspector wheeled around and glanced at Lalmohan babu. Although the look in his eyes wasn’t even remotely hostile, I heard a faint click beside me, which meant that Lalmohan babu’s knees were knocking against each other.

The inspector came forward, a smile on his face. Feluda placed a hand on Lalmohan babu’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze, to let him know that there was nothing to worry about.

‘I am Inspector Patwardhan from the CID. You are Mr Ganguli?’

‘Ye-ye-yess.’

Patwardhan looked at Feluda. ‘And you are—?’

Feluda took out one of his cards and handed it to Patwardhan. The inspector read it, then looked inquiringly at Feluda again. ‘Mitter? Are you the same Mitter who helped save that statue in Ellora?’

Feluda gave his famous lopsided smile and nodded.

‘Glad to meet you, sir,’ Patwardhan said, offering his hand, ‘you did a very good job there.’

Lalmohan babu could now relax a little. As Feluda’s friend, his status had certainly improved. Nevertheless, he had to answer a number of questions. We went to the manager’s room to have a chat.

Patwardhan told us that various fingerprints had been found on the body, but the police hadn’t yet made any arrests. The man in the red shirt had been traced back to the airport. The police had tracked down the taxi he had used, but did not know who the man was. They believed the murder had been committed by the same man, and the piece of paper with Lalmohan babu’s name on it had slipped out of his pocket. What Lalmohan babu told him simply confirmed this belief. Patwardhan said, ‘It was clear that he had gone to the airport to meet a Mr Ganguli. We checked the passenger list of every plane
that landed at Santa Cruz yesterday, until we found your name on the Calcutta flight. Then we made enquiries at all the hotels, and finally learned that a Mr L. Ganguli had checked in at the Shalimar.’

What Patwardhan really wanted to do, of course, was find out how Lalmohan babu was connected to the whole business, and why his name and description appeared on that piece of paper. Lalmohan babu explained about Mr Sanyal. ‘Who is this Sanyal? How well do you know him?’ asked Patwardhan.

Lalmohan babu told him what little he knew, but had to admit, when asked, that he did not have Sanyal’s address.

Finally Inspector Patwardhan gave a little lecture, exactly as Feluda had done. ‘This is how,’ he said, ‘innocent people are being used these days to transfer smuggled goods. We’ve learned that some valuable jewels have arrived in India from Kathmandu, including the famous naulakha necklace that once belonged to Nanasaheb.’

I knew of one Nanasaheb who had fought against the British during the sepoy mutiny of 1857. Was Patwardhan talking of the same man?

‘It is my belief that the packet you were given contained some stolen object,’ Patwardhan told us. ‘Two gangs must be after the same thing. One sent it from Calcutta. Someone from the other gang, I suspect, learnt about its arrival and was hanging around Shivaji Castle. He attacked red shirt, and red shirt killed him.’

Lalmohan babu had assumed that he would either be hanged, or put behind bars for life, simply because the possible murderer was known to be carrying his name and description in his pocket. When all he got from the police was a piece of advice to be careful in future, Lalmohan babu’s demeanour changed at once. He perked up and his eyes sparkled once more.

Mr Ghoshal arrived at eleven o’clock instead of ten. When we told him about our encounter with the police, he said, ‘Yes, I was afraid of this. My heart sank the minute I read the evening papers yesterday. That piece of paper they found seemed to have every description that fits Laluda—yet the whole thing is a complete mystery to me!’

Lalmohan babu then told him about Mr Sanyal. ‘Which Sanyal is this?’ Mr Ghoshal asked, ‘Is it Ahi Sanyal? Medium height, sunken eyes, cleft on his chin?’

‘Don’t know. Didn’t see his chin, he had a beard. Perhaps he was clean shaven before.’

‘I saw him two years ago. God knows if it was the same man. He worked in Bombay for a while, even produced a couple of films. As far as I can remember, both films were flops.’

‘What was he like as a man?’

‘I have no idea, but I never heard anyone say anything bad about him.’

‘In that case, perhaps there was nothing wrong with that packet he gave me.’

‘Look, Laluda, we are all told to be careful only because these days you often hear about cases of smuggling. But in the past, didn’t we carry packets and parcels for other people? I mean, even people we didn’t know that well? There were never any problems, were there?’

The four of us went in the same car that we had used the day before, and soon reached the studio in Mahalakshmi. As we were getting out, Mr Ghoshal said, ‘We were running into problems with the railways over tomorrow’s shooting. So Mr Gore had to be informed, and he came from Calcutta by the evening flight yesterday. Come with me, I will introduce you to him.’

‘Will the shooting take place tomorrow?’ Lalmohan babu asked a bit uncertainly.

‘Of course. Most certainly. Don’t worry about it—everything has been sorted out.’

We were taken to what looked like a workshop with a tin roof. It was used for shooting at times; but today, a kung-fu session was in progress. On a huge mattress, under Victor Perumal’s guidance, a number of men were jumping, kicking and falling. About twelve feet away sat a man in a wicker chair. He was probably in his mid-forties.

‘Let me introduce you,’ said Mr Ghoshal. ‘This is our producer, Mr Gore . . . and this is Mr Ganguli, the writer . . . and Mr Mitter, and . . . what is your name, dear boy?’

‘Tapeshranjan Mitter.’

Mr Gore’s cheeks looked like a pair of apples, in the centre of his head was a shiny bald patch, and his eyes were hazel. He had a sizeable paunch, too, but presumably that was a recent development. No one could possibly wear such tight clothes voluntarily. Mr Ghoshal disappeared as soon as the introductions were made, as he had a lot of things to attend to before the first day’s shooting. ‘I’ll come back at one-thirty,’ he said before leaving us, ‘you will all have lunch with me.’

Mr Gore asked for extra chairs and was most hospitable. He took a chair next to Lalmohan babu and said in Bengali,
‘Aapni elen bole aami khoob khushi holam.
(I am very pleased that you could come.)’

‘I say, you speak fantastic Bengali!’ Lalmohan babu enthused, going
slightly over the top in his praise, possibly because of the money Gore was about to pay him.

‘My father ran a business in Canning Street. I was a student in Don Bosco for three years. Then my father died, and I came to Bombay to live with my uncle. I’ve been here ever since. But this is my first venture in film-making,’ Mr Gore told us.

Perhaps because he was impressed by Mr Gore’s Bengali, Lalmohan babu told him all that had happened, starting from Sanyal’s visit and ending with his chat with Inspector Patwardhan. Mr Gore clicked his tongue in sympathy and said, ‘No one can be trusted these days, Mr Ganguli. You are an eminent writer; I am ashamed to think that
you
were used to cart smuggled goods!’

Feluda now joined the conversation.

‘You live in Shivaji Castle, I hear?’ he said.

‘Yes. I’ve been there for the last couple of months. Horrible murder. I returned by the evening flight yesterday, and got home at about eleven. Even at that time there was a large crowd in the street. If there’s a murder in a high-rise building, it’s always a big problem.’

‘Er . . . do you know who lives on the seventeenth floor?’

‘Seventeenth . . . seventeenth . . .’ Mr Gore failed to remember. ‘I know someone who lives on the eighth floor—N.C. Mehta; and there’s Dr Vazifdar on the second. My flat is on the twelfth floor.’

Feluda asked nothing more. In any case, Mr Gore seemed to want to leave. ‘I have a lot of things to see to,’ he said, ‘Producing a film is a complicated business, you see. There are always problems?’ From what we’d heard, the shooting planned for the next day was really going to be a complex affair. A train had been hired. It would start from Matheran and arrive at the level crossing between Khandala and Lonavala. Mr Gore had to go to Matheran to pay the railway company. Apparently, the train had an old-fashioned first-class compartment. Mr Gore would get into it and travel by the same train to the shooting spot. ‘I’d be delighted if you came along and had lunch with me on the train,’ he invited. ‘Are you vegetarians?’

‘No, no. Non-veg, non-veg!’ said Lalmohan babu.

‘What would you like? Chicken or mutton?’

‘We had chicken yesterday. Let’s have mutton tomorrow. What do you say, Felu babu?’

‘As you wish,’ Feluda replied.

Although Feluda was listening to Mr Gore’s conversation with Lalmohan babu, his eyes were straying frequently to the group practising kung-fu. Victor Perumal’s patience and perseverance were
remarkable. It was clear that he wouldn’t give up until every movement was perfect. One or two trainees were already performing extremely well.

Victor was also glancing at Feluda from time to time, possibly encouraged by the admiration in Feluda’s eyes. When Mr Gore had gone, Victor beckoned Feluda and asked him to come closer. Feluda put out his cigarette and went over to Victor and his men.

‘Come on, Mr Mitter. Try it. It’s not so difficult!’ said Victor. The trainees moved away. Victor gave a slight jump, raising his right leg above his head before kicking it forward in a peculiar fashion. Had someone been standing in front of him, he would certainly have been hit and possibly knocked down. Feluda stepped onto the mattress, and jumped around a few times to get ready. Victor stood at a distance of about six feet, and said, ‘Try and kick your leg towards me!’

What Victor did not know was that, after seeing
Enter the Dragon
, Feluda had spent about a month at home, kicking his legs high in the air, every now and then, exactly as he had seen it being done by kung-fu fighters. He had done it purely for fun, but it had given him a certain amount of experience.

‘One - two - three!’ shouted Victor. At once, Feluda’s leg shot out horizontally, and Victor took a step back, falling on the mattress. I knew, however, that Feluda’s leg had not made contact with Victor’s body.

Over the next five minutes, everyone watched a kung-fu demonstration between Victor Perumal and Pradosh Mitter. I couldn’t help looking from time to time at Victor’s trainees, who had spent over six weeks learning how to jump, kick and fall. They knew how much effort it took to do all that. What was reassuring was that their faces registered more admiration than envy. When, at the end of those five minutes, the two participants shook hands and thumped each other on the back, their audience broke into spontaneous applause.

Around two o’clock, we walked into the Copper Chimney restaurant in Worli to have lunch with Pulak Ghoshal and Tribhuvan Gupte, the dialogue writer. The place was packed, but Mr Ghoshal had
reserved a table for us.

‘I say, Pulak,’ Lalmohan babu asked, ‘what is the name of your film?’

I, too, had wondered about the name, but hadn’t found the chance to ask Mr Ghoshal, All I knew for sure was that the film was not going to be called
The Bandits of Bombay.

‘You cannot imagine, Laluda,’ said Mr Ghoshal, ‘the trouble we’ve had over the name. Whatever we chose had either already been used, or registered by some other party. You can ask Gupteji here how many sleepless nights he’s spent, puzzling over an appropriate name. Only three days ago—suddenly, out of the blue—it came. A high-voltage spark!’

‘High-voltage spark? Your film is called A High-Voltage Spark ?’ Lalmohan babu asked in a low-voltage voice.

Mr Ghoshal burst out laughing, making those sitting at neighbouring tables turn their heads and stare. ‘Are you mad, Laluda? You think a name like that would work? No, I was talking about a sudden flash of inspiration, a brain wave. It’s
Jet Bahadur.
’

‘Eh?’

‘Jet Bahadur.
You’ll be able to see hoardings go up all over the city, even before you leave. You couldn’t find a better name for your story. Just think. Action, speed, thrill. . . you’ll find all three in the word “jet”. Plus you’ve got “bahadur”. We’ve sold the film—on all circuits—on the strength of that name and casting alone!’

Lalmohan babu had started to smile, but the joy on his face faded a little as he heard Mr Ghoshal’s explanation. Perhaps he was thinking: name and casting? Did only those things matter? Did no one appreciate the story?

‘Have you seen any of my previous films?’ asked Mr Ghoshal.
‘Teerandaj
is
running at the Lotus. You could catch the evening show today. I will tell the manager, he will keep three tickets for you in the Royal Circle. It’s a good film, it did a silver jubilee.’

None of us had seen any of his films. Lalmohan babu was naturally curious, so we accepted Mr Ghoshal’s offer. If one didn’t have friends in Bombay, the evenings sometimes became long and boring. The car would remain with us. It would take us to the Lotus whenever required.

While we were eating, one of the men from the restaurant came and said something to Mr Ghoshal. Judging by the warm smile on every waiter’s face since we arrived, Mr Ghoshal was a frequent visitor here. Clearly, in a place like Bombay, a successful director was a welcome figure.

Mr Ghoshal turned quickly to Lalmohan babu. ‘You’re wanted on the telephone, Laluda.’

Lalmohan babu had justed lifted a spoonful of pulao. Thank goodness he hadn’t yet put it in his mouth. If he had, he’d certainly have choked. As it happened, when he gave a start, a few grains of rice jumped out of the spoon and landed on the tablecloth; but there was no further damage.

‘Mr Gore wants to speak to you,’ Mr Ghoshal explained, ‘He may have some good news for you.’

Lalmohan babu left, and returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Mr Gore asked me to go to his house at four o’clock,’ he told us, picking up his knife and fork, ‘Looks like I’m about to come into some money—heh heh!’

That meant ten thousand rupees would make their way to Lalmohan babu’s pocket by the evening. ‘You’re buying us lunch tomorrow!’ Feluda told him, ‘And a copper chimney won’t do, let me tell you. We should look for a golden one!’

By the time we finished our meal of rumali roti, pulao, nargisi kofta and kulfi, and left the restaurant, it was a quarter to three. Mr Ghoshal and Mr Gupte returned to the studio. Some of the dialogue still remained to be written. Writing the dialogue always took time, Mr Ghoshal informed us, as every word had to shine and sparkle. Mr Gupte simply smiled, without removing the cigar from his mouth. I noticed that although he wrote all the dialogue in a film, he spoke very little himself.

We bought some paan and climbed back into the car. ‘Shalimar?’ asked our driver.

‘It would be silly,’ Feluda remarked, ‘to return to Calcutta without having seen the Gateway to India. Please take us to the Taj Mahal Hotel.’

‘Very well, sir,’ the driver replied. He could tell we had all the time in the world, and were interested only in seeing the place. So he drove around the city and showed us Victoria Terminus, Flora Fountain, the television station and the Prince of Wales Museum, before reaching the Gateway to India at around half past three. We got out of the car.

Behind the Gateway was the Arabian Sea. I counted eleven ships in it, big and small. The road here was very wide. To the left, facing the Gateway, was a statue of Shivaji, astride his horse. To our left was the world-famous Taj Mahal Hotel. We could hardly leave without seeing it from inside. From the outside it was just awesome.

My head began reeling as we stepped into the cool lobby. Where had I come? I had never seen so many people from so many different communities. Arabs seemed to outnumber other foreign visitors. But why? When I asked Feluda, he said it was because they could not travel to Beirut. So they had all come to Bombay to have a holiday. Thanks to the oil in their country, money was not a problem for them.

We roamed in the lobby for about five minutes before returning to the car. By the time we finally reached Shivaji Castle and were pressing the button for the lift, it was two minutes past four.

We emerged on the twelfth floor. There were three doors on different sides. The one in the middle had a sign saying, ‘G. Gore’. On our ringing the bell, a bearer wearing a uniform opened the door.

‘Please come in!’ he said. Obviously, we were expected.

As we stepped in, we heard Mr Gore’s voice before he could be seen. ‘Come in, come in!’ his voice greeted us. Then we saw him coming down a narrow passage with a smile on his face. ‘How was your lunch?’

‘Very, very good!’ Lalmohan babu replied.

Mr Gore’s living room was amazing. It was so large that I think almost the entire ground floor of our house in Calcutta would have fitted into it. On one side was a row of windows through which one could watch the sea. All the furniture was expensive—each piece had probably cost two or three thousand rupees. Apart from those, there was wall-to-wall carpeting, paintings on the wall, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling. A huge bookcase took up one side of the room. The books in it looked so glossy that it seemed as if they had only just been bought.

Feluda and I took a settee with a soft, thickly padded seat. Lalmohan sat on a similarly padded chair. At once, a very large dog came into the room and stood in its centre, turning its head to look first at the chair, and then at the settee. Lalmohan babu turned visibly pale. Feluda stretched a hand and snapped his fingers. The dog went to him immediately. I learnt later that it was a Great Dane.

‘Duke! Duke!’

The dog left Feluda and went towards a door. Mr Gore had waited until we were seated, then he had left us for a few moments. Now he returned to the room with an envelope in his hand, and sat on another chair by Lalmohan babu’s side.

‘I had meant to keep this ready for you,’ he said to Lalmohan babu, ‘but I had to take three trunk calls, so I didn’t get the time.’

He offered the envelope to Lalmohan babu, who managed to steady his shaking hand and took it casually. Then he slipped his hand into it and took out a wad of hundred-rupee notes.

‘Please count them,’ Mr Gore advised.

‘C-count them?’

‘Of course. You must. There should be one hundred notes there.’ By the time Lalmohan babu finished counting, a silver tea service had been placed before us. One sip told me that it was the best quality Darjeeling tea.

‘I haven’t really learnt anything about you,’ Mr Gore turned to Feluda.

‘There’s nothing to learn. I am Mr Ganguli’s friend, that’s all.’

‘No, sir. That is not enough. You are no ordinary person. Your eyes, your voice, your height, walk, body—nothing is ordinary. If you don’t want to tell me about yourself, that’s fine. But if you say you are no more than Mr Ganguli’s friend, I cannot believe that!’

Feluda smiled, sipped his tea and changed the subject. ‘I see that you have a lot of books,’ he said.

‘Yes, but I do not read them. Those books are only for show. The Taraporewala Book Shop has a standing order . . . they send me a copy of every good book that comes out.’

‘I can even see a Bengali book there!’

Goodness, how sharp Feluda’s eyes were! Even from a distance he had spotted a solitary Bengali book amongst the rows of books in English.

Mr Gore laughed. ‘Not only Bengali, Mr Mitter, I have books in Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati—everything. I know a man who can read Hindi, Bengali and Gujarati. He reads novels in all those languages, and makes synopses for me. I have even read the outline of Mr Ganguli’s novel. You see, Mr Mitter, in order to make a film . . .’

The telephone began ringing, interrupting him. Mr Gore rose and walked over to answer a white telephone resting on a three-legged stool by the door.

‘Hello . . . yes, hold on. A call for you, Mr Ganguli.’

Lalmohan babu gave another start. I hoped these frequent starts were not going to damage his heart.

‘Is it Pulak?’ he asked on his way to the telephone.

‘No, sir. I don’t know this person,’ Mr Gore replied.

‘Hello,’ Lalmohan babu spoke into the receiver. Feluda cast him a sidelong glance.

‘Hello . . . hello . . . ?’

Lalmohan babu looked at us in puzzlement. ‘No one’s speaking up!’

‘The line must have got disconnected,’ Mr Gore said. Lalmohan babu shook his head. ‘No, I can hear various sounds, but no one’s saying anything.’

Now Feluda went and took the receiver from him. ‘Hello, hello!’

Then he, too, shook his head and said, ‘Whoever it was just put the phone down!’

‘How strange! Who could it have been?’ Lalmohan babu exclaimed.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Mr Gore told us, ‘That kind of thing happens all the time in Bombay.’

Feluda remained standing. We took our cue and rose. Lalmohan babu did not seem all that concerned about the mysterious phone call, possibly because of the ten thousand rupees nestling in his pocket.

‘We’re going to the Lotus to see one of Pulak’s films this evening,’ he remarked casually.

‘Yes, you must. Pulak babu is a very good director. I am sure
Jet Bahadur
will also be a great box office success!’

Mr Gore came to the front door to see us out. ‘Don’t forget about lunch tomorrow. I hope you’ve got transport?’

We assured him that Mr Ghoshal had made all the arrangements. We would have a car at our disposal all day.

We emerged on the landing and pressed the button for the lift. ‘Now you know how much money these people have!’ Feluda said to Lalmohan babu.

‘Yes. In fact, I’ve got some of it in my own pocket!’

‘True, but that’s peanuts. Even a hundred thousand rupees, to these people, is a laughably small amount. Did you notice that he didn’t ask you to sign a receipt? That means your pocket is filled with his black money. You have taken your first step into the world of darkness!’

The lift came down from upstairs and stopped with a clang. ‘Whatever you may say, Felu babu, if one has a lot of money in one’s pocket, be it black or white . . .’

Lalmohan babu broke off. Feluda had just opened the door of the lift to get into it. A strong scent wafted out—it was the scent of Gulbahar. All of us could recognize it, Lalmohan babu in particular. It rendered him speechless.

We followed Feluda into the lift, our hearts beating faster. ‘I am sure,’ I couldn’t help saying after a few moments, ‘plenty of people in this country use Gulbahar. Mr Sanyal cannot be the only one!’

Instead of replying, Feluda pressed the button for the seventeenth floor. We climbed another five floors.

Like the others, this floor had three doors near the lift. The one on the left said, ‘H. Hekroth’. ‘A German name,’ Feluda muttered. The door to our right said, ‘N.C. Mansukhani’. He had to be a Sindhi. The door in the middle bore no name at all.

‘That flat’s empty,’ said Lalmohan babu.

‘Not necessarily,’ Feluda replied, ‘Not everyone uses a name-plate. In fact, I think someone does live in this flat.’

Lalmohan babu and I looked at him curiously.

‘If a doorbell has not been used for some time, its switch should be dusty. But take a look at this one. Then take a look at the other two, and tell me if they are any different.’

I peered closely at the switch. Feluda was right. It was shining brightly, there was no trace of dust.

‘Are you going to press it?’ Lalmohan babu asked, his voice trembling a little.

Feluda did not ring the bell. What he did instead was even more puzzling. He threw himself down on the floor and began sniffing through the tiny gap between the door and the floor. I saw him inhale deeply a couple of times, after which he got back to his feet and said, ‘Coffee. I could smell strong coffee.’

Then he did something else that was no less surprising. Instead of taking the lift, he took the stairs to climb down to the ground floor. He stopped at every floor on his way, and spent at least half-a-minute, looking around. God knows what he was looking for.

When we finally came out of the building, it was ten minutes past five.

We had been in Bombay for only a short while, but most undoubtedly, we had already got entangled in a complex mystery.