The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (79 page)

Then we went round New Market, looking at all the shops, and came out on Moti Sheel Street to go back to Suren Banerjee Road. Feluda was waiting by the car near Bourne & Shepherd’s. He had finished his work sooner than he’d expected.

I told him about our meeting with Girin Biswas. ‘Really?’ Feluda raised an eyebrow. ‘What did he say?’

I knew it wouldn’t do to be vague, so I told Feluda in detail about our conversation. I even mentioned the parcel from the drycleaners. Feluda heard me in silence.

‘Did you get your work done? All went well, I hope?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

‘Oh yes, first class. That place is a veritable goldmine. And I rang Mr Choudhury from the shop. His voice was as smooth as velvet. He’s returned home and we now have a firm appointment.’

I had heard chiming clocks before, but as soon as we stepped into Mahadev Choudhury’s house at six o’clock, various clocks began striking the hour. The sound that came from one clock after another was quite extraordinary. I had never heard anything like it.

‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu. ‘Are we slipping through the gates of heaven? What an incredible reception!’

We could not meet Mr Choudhury straightaway. One of his employees took us to a small office and told us we would have to wait, as Mr Choudhury was busy. There were two fancy clocks even in that small room—one on the wall, and the other on a bookshelf.

When the last chime had died away, a somewhat eerie silence gripped the whole house. It was a huge, modern building. The marble floor shone so brightly that, if I looked down, I could see my own face reflected in it.

After a few moments, I became aware of a voice. It was coming from somewhere within the house. Feluda said it was Mahadev Choudhury’s, though it was difficult to tell whether or not it could be termed as velvety. However, when it suddenly rose and began shouting, all traces of velvet disappeared.

Mahadev Choudhury was scolding someone furiously. The three of us held our breath and were more or less forced to eavesdrop. The second person was still speaking gently, so we could not hear what he was saying. But soon, Choudhury’s voice boomed out again: ‘I never pay an advance in matters like this, but I paid you because you insisted. And now you’re telling me you’ve already spent that money? Honestly, I don’t believe a word you’re saying. Besides, why should I have to pay such a lot of money for such a small job? I don’t understand at all! But . . . all right, I’ll pay. I want that stuff within two days. No excuses this time. Is that clear?’

Complete silence followed these remarks. Then we heard footsteps, which seemed to be going towards the front door. A minute later, Mr Choudhury’s employee came back. ‘Please follow me,’ he said.

Mr Choudhury’s appearance—from head to toe—was truly like velvet. Even at six in the evening, his cheeks were smooth and shiny. ‘I bet he shaves twice a day!’ I thought to myself. Lalmohan Babu told us later, ‘If a fly had gone and sat on his cheek, it would have slipped off!’

The huge living room we were in was as shiny and polished as its
owner. There was not even a speck of dust anywhere, and its nooks and corners certainly seemed free of ants and cockroaches.

Mr Choudhury raised a gold cigarette holder to his lips, inhaled and glanced at Feluda. ‘Well? Have you brought that clock?’ he asked.

We were all startled by the question. ‘Clock? What clock?’ Feluda said.

‘Didn’t you say you wanted to see me regarding a clock? I thought you had seen my ad in the papers and that’s why you were calling.’

‘Forgive me, Mr Choudhury,’ Feluda told him, ‘I did not see your advertisement. I need some information. It may be related to a clock. I was told you know a lot about the subject, so I . . .’

Creases appeared on the velvety surface. Mr Choudhury shifted in his chair, looking faintly irritated. ‘I haven’t got a lot of time, Mr Mitter. I am about to leave town. Please try to be brief.’

‘What is a Perigal repeater? That’s all I want to know.’

The velvet suddenly turned to stone. The cigarette-holder was poised a couple of inches from his mouth. Mr Choudhury’s eyes were still, fixed unblinkingly on Feluda.

‘Where did you find that name?’

‘In a nineteenth-century English novel.’

There were times when Feluda did not hesitate to lie, if it helped in getting results. I had seen him do it before. ‘I know that a repeater can be either a gun or a clock. I saw that in a dictionary. But no one can tell me anything about Perigal.’

Mr Choudhury was still staring at Feluda. When he spoke, the velvet in his voice had taken on a sharp edge. ‘If you come across an unfamiliar word, Mr Mitter, do you always visit complete strangers just to learn its meaning?’

‘Yes, if need be.’

I thought Mr Choudhury would want to know what the pressing need was in this particular case. But, instead of asking such a question, he continued to stare at Feluda. The remark he made a few seconds later made my heart race faster, thudding loudly in my ears, matching the loud ticking of the clock kept on a side table.

‘You are a detective, aren’t you?’

I had to marvel at Feluda’s steady nerve. There was a delay of about five seconds before his reply came. But when he spoke, his own voice sounded perfectly smooth. ‘I see that you are well informed!’

‘I have to be, Mr Mitter. I have people who gather information
and pass it on to me.’

‘You seem to have forgotten the question I just asked you. Perhaps you don’t know the answer. If you do know it, but do not wish to tell me, I will take your leave. There’s no point in wasting your time any further.’

‘Sit down, Mr Mitter!’

Feluda had risen to his feet, hence that command. I glanced quickly at Lalmohan Babu. He looked as if he had no strength left in his body, and would need assistance to get up.

‘Sit down, please,’ said Mr Choudhury

Feluda sat down.

‘A repeater is a gun,’ Mahadev Choudhury informed us. ‘However, if you add “Perigal” to it, it becomes a watch. A pocket watch. Francis Perigal. An Englishman. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, there were few watchmakers in the world as skilled as Perigal. Two hundred years ago, the best watches were made in England, not Switzlerland.’

‘How much would a Perigal repeater be worth today?’

‘You could never afford to buy such a watch, Mr Mitter.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I could.’

‘I know that, too.’

‘Then why do you wish to know its price?’

‘Simple curiosity.’

‘Idle curiosity. It’s useless.’

Mr Choudhury took one last puff from his cigarette, took it out of its holder and stubbed it out in a glass ashtray. Then he stood up.

‘You have got the information you wanted. You may leave now. There is only one Perigal repeater in Calcutta. I am going to get it, not you . . . Pyarelal!’

The same man returned, who had met us on arrival. As we were leaving the room, the smooth, velvety voice spoke once more: ‘I have a different kind of repeater, Mr Mitter. The sound it makes isn’t as melodious as a clock.’

‘That man appears to be the hero of this story!’ remarked Lalmohan Babu.

We were on our way back from Alipore Park. The windows of the
car had been rolled up, as it was raining again. The rain had started as soon as we reached Judges Court Road.

Feluda did not reply. He was staring out of the window. Lalmohan Babu could never remain silent for long. He began speaking again. ‘Perhaps I should call him a villain rather than a hero. But you have often told me that, in a crime investigation, no one is above suspicion. Anyone can be a villain. So I didn’t use that word. Mind you, I’m not quite sure why I should be suspicious. A grave has been dug up—but is that a criminal act?’

Still Feluda said nothing. Lalmohan Babu became a little impatient. ‘What’s the matter with you, Felu Babu? Are you giving up? If you do, what’s going to happen to us? To start with, that man’s behaviour was such . . . such . . . that it froze my limbs! And then there were all those clocks, chiming away. Now you’re not saying a word, the weather’s foul, there are potholes in the roads . . .!’

Feluda opened his mouth at last. ‘You are quite wrong, Mr Ganguli. I haven’t given up. If you found a way out of a complex maze, would you give up?’

‘You’ve found a way out?’

‘Yes, but I still don’t know what lies at the other end. Nothing is simple and straightforward. We shall have to proceed, and tackle all the twists and turns, before we get to the end.’

It continued to drizzle even after we reached home. Lalmohan Babu left with a promise to return early the following morning. ‘I don’t think you can do without my help, Felu Babu,’ he said. ‘Just think how much time you’d waste if you had to travel in buses!’

Earlier in the day, when we were having lunch, I had noticed Feluda scribbling something in his notebook. I went to his room after dinner, and discovered what it was. I had to talk to him, anyway, as I was feeling quite concerned about him. Having seen and heard Mahadev Choudhury, I had reason to feel worried. Every time I recalled his face, my heart gave a tiny jump. It hardly mattered what Lalmohan Babu called him—hero or villain. To me, he was a dreadful character. His appearance might be smooth as velvet. But on the inside, he seemed as rough and prickly as a cactus bush in a desert.

Feluda, however, did not appear concerned at all. He was staring hard at a diagram in his notebook. When I entered his room, he offered it to me, saying, ‘Look at this tree and its branches!’ This is what it looked like:

‘Doesn’t it look kind of empty on the right hand side?’ Feluda asked.

‘But of course it would. Charlotte did not marry, did she?’

‘No, it’s not Charlotte I’m thinking of. Her case is pretty straightforward. The problem is with the man called John. That particular branch is hidden from sight. But I’ve seen something from the reverse. If I could see it properly, that might throw some light on this matter. Tomorrow morning, perhaps.’

Feluda was talking in riddles again. It was typical of him. I knew he would not explain anything even if I asked him.

The rain had stopped while we were talking. Suddenly, to my surprise, Feluda sprang to his feet.

‘Are you going out?’ I asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What! Where?’

‘I have to be on duty.’

‘Duty?’

‘Yes, I am keeping guard tonight.’

Suddenly I realized Feluda had taken out his hunting boots. Every time I see those boots, I break into goose-pimples as they are linked with each of Feluda’s past adventures. Tonight, if he was planning to visit the cemetery, those boots would make the most suitable footwear.

‘Are you . . . are you . . . going to the graveyard?’ I asked. My voice croaked a little.

‘Yes, where else?’

‘Are you going alone?’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll take a companion. My repeater.’

Feluda took out his Colt .32 and put it in his pocket. I didn’t like it at all. ‘What do you think is going to happen there? That grave’s been dug up already. If anyone found a watch, they took it away.’

‘No. Whoever tried digging the grave ran away the minute they saw that skull. They were too frightened to carry on. Or else, they wouldn’t have left their spade behind. They’d have either taken it back, or hidden it somewhere.’

Such an idea had simply not occurred to me.

Heaven knows when Feluda returned home. When I got up the next morning and came downstairs, it was a quarter past seven. Feluda’s door was shut. Perhaps he was still asleep. After all, he hadn’t slept for two nights in a row.

He opened his door at nine. He’d had a shower and shaved. There was not even a trace of tiredness on his face. When he saw me, he simply shook his thumb to indicate that nothing had happened during the night at the cemetery.

Lalmohan Babu arrived at half-past nine.

‘See if you like it!’ he said.

As promised, he had brought his grandfather’s watch. It was a silver watch, attached to a silver chain.

‘It’s beautiful!’ exclaimed Feluda, taking the watch from Lalmohan Babu. ‘At one time, Cooke-Kelvey as watchmakers were quite well known.’

‘But it’s not what you’re after, is it?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, a hint of regret in his voice. ‘This watch was made in Calcutta.’

‘Yes, but do you really want to give it to me?’

‘With my blessings and my compliments. I am older than you by three and a half years, so you shouldn’t object to my blessings!’

‘Thank you.’

Feluda wrapped the watch in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Then he took a step towards the telephone, but before he
could get to it, someone rattled the knocker on our door.

I opened it to find Girin Biswas standing outside. He had dropped a hint the day before, but I had not really expected him to turn up— and so soon, at that. He was dressed to go to work, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase in his hand.

‘Please don’t mind my barging in like this,’ he said, ‘I tried calling your number, but just couldn’t get through. I must have spent at least ten minutes dialling!’ Mr Biswas sounded a bit nervous and agitated.

‘No, why should I mind.’ It’s a miracle if a telephone works, isn’t it? What brings you here?’

Mr Biswas sat on a chair. Lalmohan Babu and I went back to the divan, and Feluda took the settee.

‘I couldn’t decide who to turn to,’ Mr Biswas remarked, wiping his damp forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I haven’t got a lot of faith in the police, frankly speaking. Since you happened to visit us. . .’

‘What is the problem?’

Mr Biswas cleared his throat. Then he said, ‘My brother was not hit by a tree.’

The next few moments passed in silence. Feluda finally broke it by saying, ‘No? What exactly happened?’

‘He was struck deliberately. That blow to his head was an attempt to kill him.’

Calmly, Feluda took out his packet of Charminar and offered it to Mr Biswas, who declined politely. Feluda then took one out for himself, and said, ‘But your brother seems convinced that it was a tree.’

‘That’s because he would rather die than name his son.’

‘His own son?’

‘Prashanta. His elder son. The younger one is in England.’

‘What does Prashanta do?’

‘It would be easier to tell you what he does not do. He’s involved in every possible illegal activity. He changed over the last three or four years. My sister-in-law—Prashanta’s mother, that is—died in 1970. About a month ago, my brother got fed up with Prashanta’s behaviour and threatened to cut him out of his will. He said he’d leave all his property to his other son, Sushanta.’

‘I see. Prashanta lives in the same house as you, I take it?’

‘He could—certainly he has the right to live with us, and there’s even a room meant for his use. But he doesn’t. It’s difficult to tell where he does live. He’s part of a gang. Low-down criminals, each one of them. I think he would have killed his father that day if that
terrible storm hadn’t started.’

‘What does your brother have to say about all this?’

‘He insists it was a tree. He just doesn’t want to believe that his son might be responsible for his injury. But I have to say this. Prashanta may be my nephew, but if you don’t do something to stop him, he’ll try to kill again.’

‘If Naren Biswas makes a new will, his son will gain nothing by killing him, surely?’

‘No, but a financial gain can’t always be the only motive. He might just get furious and lose his head. People kill so often to take revenge and settle scores, don’t they? Besides, my brother won’t change his will. He cannot think straight. You have no idea, Mr Mitter, how far parental love can go.

‘I was at home all this while, but today I have to go out of town for a few days. That’s in connection with my business. So I came to you. Now if you will kindly . . .’

‘Mr Biswas,’ Feluda flicked the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray, ‘I am very sorry to tell you that I’m already involved in a different case. Certainly your brother should receive some form of protection, but if he continues to insist that he was hit by a tree, no police force on earth can do anything to help him.’

Girin Biswas left. Until his arrival, we had all been feeling quite cheerful as the sun had come out after many grey and wet days. Girin Biswas had managed to spoil our mood.

‘How very strange!’ Feluda remarked when he’d gone, and finally made the phone call he was about to make when Mr Biswas arrived.

‘Hello, Suhrid? This is Felu.’

Suhrid Sengupta and Feluda were classmates in college.

‘Listen. Once I saw a copy of the Presidency College magazine in your house. It was a special issue, to mark its centenary. I think it belonged to your brother. Published possibly in 1955. Do you think he might still have it? . . . Oh good. Can you leave it with your servant before you go to work? I’ll drop by at around half-past ten and collect it. All right? Thanks a lot.’

We finished our tea and left. Feluda had three ports of call—Naren Biswas, Bourne & Shepherd, and the Park Street cemetery. I was surprised to hear him mention Naren Biswas. ‘That’s because,’ Feluda explained, ‘I can’t really dismiss what his brother just told us. So I ought to visit Mr Biswas once more. You two needn’t go to the cemetery afterwards, but I think I’ll ask you to come along for tonight’s
vigil. You must see and feel the atmosphere there, in the middle of the night. Or you’ll miss an extraordinary experience.’

‘Jai Santoshi Ma!’ said Lalmohan Babu. A little later, he added, ‘Tell me, can’t one make Son of Santoshi, like Son of Tarzan?’ That could only mean that he was still thinking of Pulak Ghoshal’s offer.

Naren Biswas was physically a lot better. He told us he was no longer in pain, and his bandage would come off in a few days. Nevertheless, he did not look very happy. In fact, he looked decidedly morose and depressed.

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Feluda said, ‘I won’t take long.’ Mr Biswas cast a suspicious glance at him and asked, ‘If you don’t mind my asking, are you conducting an investigation? I know you are a detective, so . . .’

‘Yes, you are quite right. It will help me a lot if you don’t try to hide the truth.’

Mr Biswas closed his eyes, as if he was trying to deal with some inner pain. Perhaps he had guessed that it would not be easy for him to answer Feluda’s questions.

‘When you regained consciousness in the hospital,’ Feluda began, ‘you mentioned a will.’

Mr Biswas did not open his eyes.

‘Why did you do that?’

This time, Naren Biswas opened his eyes. His lips moved and trembled a little, before he spoke. ‘I am not obliged to answer your question, am I?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘In that case, I won’t.’

Feluda remained silent. So did we. Mr Biswas looked away. ‘Very well,’ Feluda said after a few moments, ‘let me ask you something else.’

‘I reserve the right to remain silent.’

‘Yes, you certainly have that right.’

‘Well?’

‘Who is Victoria?’

‘Victoria?’

‘Er . . . I have to make a confession here. I looked at the contents of your wallet. There was a piece of paper . . .’

‘Ah . . . ha ha ha!’ To our amazement, Mr Biswas suddenly burst out laughing. ‘That’s a very old story. I’d almost forgotten all about it. You see, when I was still working, one of my colleagues was an
Anglo-Indian. His name was Norton, Jimmy Norton. He once told me he had several letters in his house, all written by his grandmother. I never saw them. Apparently, his grandmother was in Behrampore at the time of the mutiny—she was only about seven. The letters were written much later, but she referred to her childhood experiences. Since there’s some interest these days in such matters, and books are being written, I’d told Norton that I’d let him have the addresses of a few foreign publishers. Norton himself knew nothing about such things. Wait, let me get hold of that piece of paper.’

Mr Biswas stretched an arm to open the top drawer of a table and took out his wallet. There he found the slip of paper.

‘Here, look! Bourne & Shepherd. I wanted to tell Jimmy to find out from Bourne & Shepherd if they had any old photos of his grandmother. And the rest are the initials of various publishers. I never got the chance to pass this piece of paper to Jimmy Norton. He went down with jaundice, and was off sick for six weeks. After that he left his job.’

Feluda rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Biswas, that will be all. There’s just one thing, though, that I think is most regrettable.’

‘What is it?’

‘In future, if you work in a library, please do not tear or cut anything out of an old book or magazine. That’s my only request. Goodbye.’

We left the room. Mr Biswas could not bring himself to look anyone in the eye.

From Naren Biswas, we went to Feluda’s friend, Suhrid Sengupta’s house in Beni Nandan Street. His servant handed a huge tome to Feluda. It was the special centenary issue of the Presidency College magazine. On the way to Bourne & Shepherd, Feluda went through the magazine very carefully and, for some reason I failed to fathom, said, ‘Just imagine!’ at least three times.

It took Feluda only ten minutes to finish his business at Bourne & Shepherd. He came out carrying a large red envelope. Obviously, it contained an enlarged photograph, or perhaps there was more than one photo in it.

‘Whose photo is that?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

‘Mutiny,’ Feluda replied. Lalmohan Babu and I exchanged glances. Feluda’s reply clearly meant that the photo—or photos—were not meant for the public.

‘Let’s go to the cemetery,’ Feluda said, ‘but you two don’t have to go in with me. I’ll just check if everything is all right.’

Lalmohan Babu’s driver parked the car in front of the cemetery. As Feluda passed through its gate, I saw the chowkidar, Baramdeo, give him a smart salute.

Feluda returned in a few minutes and got back into the car. ‘Okay,’ he said. It was decided then that we would go back to the cemetery that night, at half-past ten.

Something told me that we were very close to the final act in our play.