The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (77 page)

‘Why didn’t you ask him about Victoria?’ I said to Feluda, on our way to Chowringhee. We were in Lalmohan Babu’s car, and he was determined to take us to the Blue Fox for tea and sandwiches. Who knew a visit to that restaurant would change everything?

Feluda replied, ‘Well, I don’t think Mr Biswas would have been pleased to learn that I had gone through his papers and read those words. They may not be a secret code or anything dramatic like that, but certainly abbreviations had been used for personal reference. It could well be that they weren’t meant to be seen by anyone else.’

‘Yes, there is that.’

Lalmohan Babu was looking a bit withdrawn. Feluda hadn’t failed
to notice it. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, ‘why do your eyes look so distant?’

Lalmohan Babu sighed. ‘I had thought up a wonderful plot for Pulak. It was bound to be another successful film—but he wrote today saying that in Hindi films these days, thrill and fighting are not drawing enough crowds. Everyone wants a devotional theme. The trend started after Jai Santoshi Ma became so successful. Just imagine!’

‘So what? Where’s your problem? Haven’t you got any feelings for God and religion?’

Lalmohan Babu did not find it necessary to make a reply. He simply made a face, said, ‘Hell! Hell!’ and fell silent. The reason for that was not Pulak Ghoshal’s letter, but what we could see on our left. Our car had, by now, passed Birla Planetarium and entered Chowringhee. A veritable mountain of earth was hiding the maidan from sight. Of late, Lalmohan Babu had started referring to the underground railway as ‘hell rail’.

The car kept hitting potholes, one after another. Each time that happened, Lalmohan Babu shuddered. ‘The springs in my car aren’t really as bad as you might think,’ he offered eventually. ‘When we go down Red Road—and that’s totally without potholes—you’ll see that the car is not to be blamed for these jerks.’

‘No, we shouldn’t complain. At least we’re on a paved road. Two hundred years ago, these roads were like country lanes, not one was paved. Can you imagine that?’

‘There were no Ambassadors running on the roads then. And the roads were not so crowded.’

‘No. There weren’t quite so many people, but what could be seen in large numbers were scavenger birds.’

‘Scavenger birds?’

‘Yes. They were as common in those days as crows and sparrows are today. They were big birds, about four and a half feet high. They went about pecking at all the rubbish they could find in the streets. If they saw a corpse floating down the Ganges, they would perch themselves on it and get a free ride down the river.’

‘Oh, that’s awful! It must have been all quite wild and barbaric. How terrible.’

‘Yet, in the same city, where those birds roamed, there was the house of the Governor-General, St John’s Church, the Park Street Cemetery, theatres in Theatre Road, and a lot of other buildings where the British lived. That area was known as White Town. Native
Indians were not allowed to live there. North Calcutta was known as Black Town.’

‘Oh, that makes my blood boil!’ Lalmohan Babu declared.

As we turned into Park Street, Feluda asked the driver to stop before we could reach the Blue Fox. ‘I have to check something at that bookshop,’ he explained.

Lalmohan Babu was not interested in Oxford Book Company, as they did not sell his books. ‘Long live the shops in College Street and Black Bookshop in Ballygunj,’ he told us.

Feluda went into the shop, glanced briefly at the shelves, then went and stood at a counter. Rows of stationery were displayed on it—red and blue notebooks, files, diaries, engagement pads. Feluda picked up a blue notebook and looked at its price. Rs 12.50. We had seen an identical notebook on Naren Biswas’s desk.

‘May I help you?’ A shop assistant came forward.

‘Would you have a collection of Queen Victoria’s letters?’ Feluda asked.

‘Queen Victoria? No, sir. But if you can let us know the name of the publisher, we can get it for you. If it’s either Macmillan or Oxford University, we can ask their Calcutta office.’

Feluda thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘All right. I’ll get back to you.’

We came out on Park Street again. Our car was now parked in front of the Blue Fox. We began walking towards the restaurant.

‘Stop!’ Feluda said, taking out his own notebook from his pocket. ‘I can’t read if I have to keep walking in this crowd.’

A few seconds later, he shut the notebook and resumed walking. ‘Did you find anything?’ I asked.

‘Let’s first go and sit down,’ Feluda replied.

When we were finally seated, Lalmohan Babu told us why he had chosen that restaurant. It was only because he liked the name ‘Blue Fox’, he said. He’d never been there before; in fact, he’d never eaten at any restaurant in Park Street. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I live in Gorpar. My publishers are in College Street. Where is the opportunity—or the need—for me to come and eat somewhere in this area?’

When the waiter had taken our order for tea and sandwiches, Feluda took out his notebook again and placed it on the table. Then he opened it and said, ‘The first line continues to mystify me. But I think I’ve worked out the second line. All these letters stand for names of foreign publishers.’

‘Which letters?’ I asked.

‘MM, OU, GAU, SJ and WN are Macmillan, Oxford University Press, George Allen and Unwin, Sidgewick and Jackson, Weidenfeld and Nicholson.’

‘Good heavens!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘How did you manage to rattle off so many foreign names without stumbling even once? God bless your tongue!’

‘It’s obvious that Mr Biswas had either already written, or was going to write to these publishers about a collection of Queen Victoria’s letters. But he needn’t have gone to such trouble. It would have been far simpler to go to the British Council or the National Library and ask them to help. He might have been able to read some of the letters straightaway.’

Feluda put the notebook back in his pocket in order to make room on the table for our sandwiches. Then he lit a Charminar. Lalmohan Babu began humming a western tune, marking time with his fingers. Then he stopped and said, ‘Let’s go out somewhere. I mean, out of town. Every time we do that, you get a case to work on, and I get wonderful plots. But where can we go? It would have to be somewhere rough and wild. Not anywhere on the plains—nowhere that is green, soggy, lazy and quiet. What we need is a . . .’

Our sandwiches arrived at this moment, so Lalmohan Babu could not finish his sentence. We were all quite hungry. Lalmohan Babu bit into a huge sandwich, chewed three times, and stopped abruptly. Then I saw his eyes widen as he muttered, ‘God be praised! God be praised!’ As a result, little pieces of bread shot out of his mouth and fell on the table.

What had happened was this: Feluda and I were facing the street outside. Lalmohan Babu was looking into the restaurant. At the back, there was a low platform. Clearly, a live band played there in the evenings. On the platform stood a signboard. It was this board that had so amazed Lalmohan Babu. It bore the name of the band. Underneath were the words: Guitar—Chris Godwin.

Feluda snapped his fingers to call a waiter.

‘Do you have live music at night?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘May I speak to your manager?’

It was his intention to get hold of Chris Godwin’s address, and he had already made up a story. When the manager came to our table, Feluda said, ‘There’s a wedding in Mr Mansukhani’s house in
Ballygunj Park. They’re looking for a band. I’ve heard so much about the one that plays in your restaurant. Do you think they’ll agree to play at a wedding?’

‘Why not? That’s how they make a living!’

‘Does Chris Godwin lead the band? Could you please give me his address?’

The manager wrote the address on a piece of paper and gave it to Feluda. It said: 14/1 Ripon Lane.

On any other day, we would have taken much longer to finish our food and chat for a while afterwards. Today, we spent very little time. Feluda only ate one sandwich. He was not hungry any more, he said. Lalmohan Babu worked at enormous speed and gobbled the two remaining sandwiches on Feluda’s plate as well as the three on his own. ‘Why waste good food when we’re going to pay for all of it?’ he said as he finished.

My heart sank as we approached 14/1 Ripon Lane. I hadn’t been able to forget the stories of opulence of Sadat Ali’s court. The exterior of the house in Ripon Lane was so ugly and uninviting that the contrast struck me as horrific. Feluda said I should not feel surprised. In four or five generations, a wealthy and affluent family could sink to abject poverty; there was no end to the hardships they might have to suffer. The houses in the street were not small—each had three or four floors. But I just didn’t feel like stepping into any of them. Lalmohan Babu said it was obvious to him that every house was haunted. Feluda decided to speak to a paan-wala outside 14/1, just to make sure we had come to the right place.

‘Does anyone called Godwin live in this house?’

‘Goodin sahib? Which one? The one who plays music?’

‘Yes, but is there another one?’

‘There’s the old man. Markis sahib. Markis Goodin.’

‘Which floor. . .?’

‘Second. There’s Arkis sahib on the third.’

‘Arkis and Markis? Are they brothers?’ Lalmohan Babu wanted to know.

‘No, babu. Arkis sahib is Arkis sahib. Markis is Goodin . . . go to the second floor. You’ll find him.’

Feluda left the discussion on Arkis and Markis and walked into
the building. We followed him.

I was right. The interior of the building was no better than its exterior. Since it was an evening in June, it was still bright outside at half-past six; but near the staircase, it was pitch dark. Undaunted, Feluda quickly began climbing the stairs. He has a special gift—he can see in the dark, far better than most people. Lalmohan Babu clutched the railing and proceeded with considerable difficulty. ‘Cat burglars I had heard of,’ he muttered. ‘This is the first time I have seen a cat detective!’

The second floor was surprisingly quiet. All that we could hear— very faintly—was music, possibly being played on a radio. There was a door where the stairs ended, behind which was a balcony. A certain amount of daylight was coming in through the door. The pattern on the mosaic floor was visible in that light. To our left was a room, but it was empty and dark. Further down, there was another room. The light in it was on and falling across the threshold into the passage outside. A black cat was sitting curled up where the light fell, looking straight at us. Above us, from the third floor, came the sound of a man’s voice. Then I thought I heard someone cough rather chestily.

‘Let’s go home!’ Lalmohan Babu urged. ‘This is the cemetery of Ripon Lane!’

Feluda went towards the second room.

‘Anyone home?’ he called.

For a few seconds, there was silence. Then someone said, ‘Who is it?’

Feluda hesitated before speaking again. The same voice rang out, this time with a hint of impatience. ‘Come in! I can’t get out.’

‘You want to go in? Or should we just leave?’

Feluda ignored Lalmohan Babu’s question and crossed the threshold. He was like a kite. We were only his tail. He went; we followed, zigzagging on the way.

‘Come in!’ the voice commanded.

The three of us stepped in. It was a medium-sized living room. Opposite the door was an old sofa, torn in three places, its coir stuffing exposed through the gaps. A table with a marble top was placed in front of the sofa. At least, once upon a time it must have looked like
marble. To our left was an ancient book case, which contained about fifteen ancient books. On top of this case sat a brass vase with a bunch of dusty plastic flowers in it. It was impossible to guess their colours. A framed picture hung on the wall, but the glass had such a thick layer of dust on it that the picture had become quite indistinct. It might have been the picture of a horse, or it might have been a train.

A Philips radio—possibly older than Feluda—stood on another table next to the sofa. Strangely enough, it still worked, for that faint music was coming from it. Now, a thin, pale hand, with rather prominent veins, reached out and turned a knob to switch it off. The owner of that hand was seated on the sofa, gazing steadily at us. On his lap was a cushion. His left leg was resting on a stool. It was evident from the colour of his skin that one of his ancestors must have been British. The few strands of his hair that had not yet turned grey were blond. It was difficult to see the colour of his eyes, as the bulb that hung from the ceiling was probably no more than twenty-five watts.

‘I suffer from gout, so I can’t move,’ explained the man. ‘I have to take the help of my servant, and that idiot slips away whenever he can.’

Feluda introduced us, and got straight down to business. If the other man was annoyed by our sudden arrival, he did not show it.

‘We have come only for some information. Are you a descendant of Thomas Godwin, who came to India in the early nineteenth century?’

The man raised his eyes and looked directly at Feluda. Now I could see that his eyes were faded blue. He stared hard for a few seconds, then he said, ‘Now, how the hell do you know about my great-great-grandfather?’

‘So my assumption is correct?’

‘Yes, but there’s more. In fact, I have got something that once belonged to Thomas Godwin. At least, that’s what my grandmother told me. One hundred and fifty years . . . oh hell!’

‘Why, what’s wrong?’

‘That scoundrel, Arakis—cheat, bloody fraud! He took it from me only last night. Said he’d return it today. They’re going to have their meeting this evening. It’s Thursday, isn’t it? Right. You’ll hear all kinds of strange noises from upstairs. Give it a few more minutes, then it’ll start.’

The room seemed darker than before. Was it because I was feeling quite confused? Or because night had fallen? No, there was a rumble of thunder. The sky had become overcast. No wonder the room had grown darker.

Feluda was seated in an armless chair, facing Mr Godwin. Lalmohan Babu had taken an easy chair by his side, but did not appear to be at his ease. He was restless and kept shifting in his chair, which probably meant that it was infested by bugs. Feluda was staring straight at Mr Godwin. Even without uttering a word, he seemed to be saying, ‘You can tell me whatever you want. I am here to listen.’

‘It’s an ivory casket,’ said Mr Godwin, ‘and there are a few things in it. Two old pipes, a silver snuff box, a pair of spectacles, and a parcel wrapped with silk. Perhaps it contains a book—I have never bothered to look. We had plenty of other antiques. My son—that vagabond—has sold everything. He dropped out of college, began smoking ganja, and then started removing various things from this house. I don’t know why he didn’t take the casket. Perhaps he would have, but his luck changed, so he didn’t really have to. He’s formed a music group. We live on what he earns, if you can call this living. But who am I to talk, or blame my son? Much of it was my own fault. I have heard that Thomas Godwin lost his possessions in gambling. I had the same problem.’

Mr Godwin stopped. He was breathing hard, possibly because he had talked at such length. Then he winced. His gout was clearly bothering him. But he resumed talking:

‘When I was a young man, once I went to England. My uncle was a cashier with the Midland Bank in London. Three months—that’s all I could take. I couldn’t bear the cold. I couldn’t stand the food. I was used only to Indian food. So I returned to Calcutta. Then I got married. My wife died ten years ago. Now I only have Christopher. I see him—maybe just once every day. Sometimes not even that. He stays in his room when he’s at home, and strums his guitar. Yes, he plays well.’

A peculiar noise had started above our heads. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap. It would stop from time to time, then start again. The shadows began moving, because with the noise, the light hanging from the ceiling had started to sway. Now I was feeling as frightened as Lalmohan Babu. I had never been to such a house, or seen such a room; nor had I heard such tales from anyone. What on earth was going on upstairs?

Mr Godwin did not bother to look up. ‘It’s that table,’ he told us simply, ‘it’s jumping. Four frauds are sitting around it. They claim it’s been possessed by the soul of some dead person, that’s why it’s jumping.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Cronies of Arakis. Society for Spook Studies. Two Jews, one Parsee, and Arakis. They tried to rope me in, but I refused. One day, in front of Arakis, I had mentioned something about Thomas Godwin. So he said he could arrange a conversation with him. I said, certainly not! Sooner or later, I am going to meet him, anyway. Then, yesterday, Arakis said . . .’

Mr Godwin stopped. The table was jumping again.

‘But why did he take that casket from you?’

‘Yes, I’m coming to that. He said they could contact Thomas Godwin’s soul even without my presence. All they needed was some object that had once belonged to him. Judging by that noise, they’ve succeeded.’

Tap, tap, tap . . . the table jumped again.

‘Is this whole business carried out in the dark?’ Feluda wanted to know.

‘Every fraudulent business is carried out in the dark,’ Mr Godwin replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

‘Could we go upstairs?’

Lalmohan Babu heard these words, and promptly grabbed the arms of his chair to indicate his disapproval. Mr Godwin’s reply seemed to reassure him.

‘They won’t let you go into that room,’ Mr Godwin said. ‘That privilege is for members only. Arakis has a servant; he guards the entrance. But, of course, if someone wants their help in contacting a spirit, then he’s allowed in. Twenty rupees in advance, and another hundred if the spirit turns up.’

‘I see . . .’

Feluda rose. ‘Thank you, Mr Godwin. You’ve been most helpful. Thank you very much. Sorry if we disturbed you.’

‘Good night.’

Mr Godwin’s pale, thin arm reached out once more towards the radio.

We came out on the landing. What Feluda did next took me completely by surprise. It was too dark to see the expression on Lalmohan Babu’s face and gauge his reaction. Instead of going down, Feluda began climbing the stairs to the next floor.

‘What are you doing, Felu Babu? Those stairs go up, not down!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed hurriedly.

‘Come on, don’t be afraid!’ came the answer.

We found Mr Arakis’s servant at the door, clad in a lungi.

‘Are you looking for someone?’ he asked.

‘We are here,’ Feluda said, ‘only to help you.’ I saw that he had taken out a five-rupee note and was offering it to the man, who looked quite taken aback. Feluda went a little closer and whispered into his ear: ‘Just tell me if that room is locked, from all sides—I mean the one where your master is sitting with his friends.’

Perhaps the magic of money had started to work. The man told us there were two doors. The one facing the passage was locked, but the other opened into the bedroom. That door was open.

‘You don’t have to do anything,’ Feluda went on. ‘Just show us where the bedroom is. If you don’t, there will be trouble. We are from the police. This gentleman here is an inspector.’

Lalmohan Babu quickly stood on his toes and added two inches to his height. There was a light on this landing. Feluda thrust the note into the servant’s hand, which automatically closed around it.

‘Come with me. But . . .’

‘No buts. We are after one of those friends of your master, so we’ve got to talk to him. You or Mr Arakis won’t come to any harm, I promise you.’

‘Follow me, please.’

The bedroom was dark, as was the next room on the other side of the open communicating door. We made our way to it. All was silent. But, only a little while ago, we had heard the table jump three times. It was clear that the group holding the seance was waiting with bated breath for the arrival of Thomas Godwin’s spirit. Lalmohan Babu was gasping so loudly and painfully that I felt afraid it might alert the group to our presence. Feluda had probably moved closer to the door. A smell of kerosene was coming from somewhere. A cat meowed. Perhaps it was that black cat on the floor below.

‘Tho-mas Godwin! Tho-o-mas Godwin!’

The name was called out twice in a voice that was hoarse and distorted. It sounded like a groan. Obviously, that was how they invited a spirit.

‘Are you with us? Are you with us?’

No answer. No sound. Half a minute passed. Then the same question was repeated, this time more urgently:

‘Thomas Godwin . . . are you with us?’

‘Ye-es! Ye-es!’

Next to me, I could feel a leg shaking violently. No, not the leg of a table, but that of a man. To be precise, it was Lalmohan Babu’s knee.

‘Yes. I have come. I am here!’

Although the voice said ‘here’, it sounded as if it was speaking from quite far.

The group resumed asking questions. ‘Are you happy? Are you in peace?’

‘No-o-o!’ came the answer.

‘Why are you unhappy?’

Silence fell again. Mr Arakis and his friends waited for nearly a whole minute before repeating the question: ‘Why are you unhappy?’

‘I . . . I. . . want . . . I want . . . I want my . . . my casket!’

This remark was followed by some strange happenings. Someone let out a bloodcurdling scream from the next room—a scream born out of pure terror—and, the next instant, someone pulled hard at my sleeve. A voice whispered in my ear: ‘Come on, Topshe!’

The guard outside was so perplexed to see us rush out that he did nothing to either stop us or follow us down the stairs. A minute later, we had left Ripon Lane behind us and were moving towards our car parked on Royd Street.

‘That,’ Lalmohan Babu declared, ‘was a special show. If anyone showed a similar thing in a film, it would crash all box-office records!’

The reason for this praise was simple. Feluda was now clutching an ivory casket, given to Thomas Godwin by Nawab Sadat Ali.