by Satyajit Ray
‘Yes, it’s really a thrilling affair.’
‘Where does this fight take place?’
‘Why, in the North Pole, of course. A hippo, didn’t I say?’
‘A hippopotamus in the North Pole?’
‘Yes, yes. Haven’t you seen pictures of this animal? It has whiskers like the bristles of a garden broom, fangs that stick out like a pair of white radishes, it pads softly on the snow . . .’
‘That’s a walrus, surely? A hippopotamus lives in Africa!’ Jatayu turned a deep shade of pink and bit his lip in profound embarrassment. ‘Eh heh heh heh!’ he said. ‘Bad mistake, that! Tell you what, from now on I’ll show you my manuscript before giving it to the publisher.’
Feluda made no reply to this. ‘Excuse me,’ he said and disappeared into his room.
‘Your cousin appears a little quiet,’ Lalmohan Babu said to me. ‘Has he got a new case?’
‘No, it’s nothing important,’ I told him. ‘But we have to go to Simla in the next couple of days.’
‘A long tour?’
‘No, just about four days.’
‘Hmm . . . I’ve never been to that part of the country . . .’ Lalmohan Babu grew preoccupied. But he began to show signs of animation the minute Feluda returned.
‘Tapesh tells me you’re going to Simla. Is it something to do with an investigation?’
‘No, not exactly. It’s just that Tom’s case has got exchanged with Dick’s. So we have to return Dick’s case to him and collect Tom’s.’
‘Good lord, the mystery of the missing case? Or, simply, a mysterious case?’
‘Look, I have no idea if there is any real mystery involved. But one or two things make me wonder . . . just a little . . .’
‘Felu Babu,’ Jatayu interrupted, ‘I have come to know you pretty well in these few months. I’m convinced you wouldn’t have taken the case unless you felt there was . . . well, something in it. Do tell me what it is.’
I could sense Feluda was reluctant to reveal too much at this stage. ‘It’s difficult to say anything,’ he said guardedly, ‘without knowing for sure who is telling lies, and who is telling the truth, or who is simply trying to conceal the truth. All I know is that there is something wrong somewhere.’
‘All right, that’s enough!’ Jatayu’s eyes began to shine. ‘Just say the word, and I’ll tag along with you.’
‘Can you bear the cold?’
‘Cold? I went to Darjeeling last year.’
‘When?’
‘In May.’
‘It’s snowing in Simla now.’
‘What!’ Lalmohan Babu rose from his chair in excitement. ‘Snow? You don’t say! It was the desert the last time and now it’s going to be snow? From the frying pan into the frigidaire? Oh, I can’t imagine it!’
‘It’s going to be an expensive business.’
I knew Feluda was trying gently to discourage him, but Jatayu paid no attention to his words.
‘I am not afraid of expenses,’ he retorted, laughing like a film villain. ‘I have published twenty-one thrillers, each one of which has seen at least five editions. I have bought three houses in Calcutta, by the grace of God. It’s in my own interest that I travel as much as possible. The more places I see, the easier it is to think up new plots. And not everyone is clever like you, so most people can’t see the difference between a walrus and a hippo, anyway. They’ll happily swallow what I dish out, and that simply means that the cash keeps rolling in. Oh no, I am not bothered about the expenses. But if you give me a straight “no”,’ then obviously it’s a different matter.’
Feluda gave in. Before taking his leave, Jatayu took the details of when and how we’d be leaving and for how long, jotted these down in his notebook and said, ‘Woollen vests, a couple of pullovers, a woollen jacket and an overcoat . . . surely that should be enough even for Simla?’
‘Yes,’ said Feluda gravely, ‘but only if you add to it a pair of gloves, a Balaclava helmet, a pair of galoshes, woollen socks and something to fight frostbite. Then you may relax.’
I hate exams and tests in school, but I love the kind of tests Feluda sets for me. These are fun and they help clear my mind.
Feluda told me to come to his room after dinner. There he lay on his bed, flat on his stomach, and began throwing questions at me. The first was, ‘Name all the people we’ve got to know who are related to this case.’
‘Dinanath Lahiri.’
‘OK. What sort of a man do you think he is?’
‘All right, I guess. But he doesn’t know much about books and writers. And I’m slightly doubtful about the way he is spending such a lot of money to send us to Simla.’
‘A man who can maintain a couple of cars like that doesn’t have to worry about money. Besides, you mustn’t forget that employing Felu Mitter is a matter of prestige.’
‘Well, in that case there is nothing to be doubtful about. The second person we met was Naresh Chandra Pakrashi. Very ill-tempered.’
‘But plain spoken. That’s good. Not many have that quality.’
‘But does he always tell the truth? I mean, how do we know that Dinanath Lahiri really used to go to the races?’
‘Perhaps he still does. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s a crook.’
‘Then we met Prabeer Lahiri, alias Amar Kumar. Didn’t seem to like his uncle.’
‘That’s perfectly natural. His uncle is a stumbling block in his way forward in films, he gives him an attaché case full of things one day, and then takes it back without telling him . . . so obviously he’s annoyed with his uncle.’
‘Prabeer Babu seemed pretty well built.’
‘Yes, he has strong and broad wrists. Perhaps that’s why his voice sounds so odd. It doesn’t match his manly figure at all. Now tell me the names of the other passengers who travelled with Dinanath Lahiri.’
‘One of them was Brijmohan. And his surname was . . . let me see . . .’
‘Kedia. Marwari.’
‘Yes. He’s a moneylender. Nothing remarkable in his appearance, apparently. Knew Mr Pakrashi.’
‘He really does have an office in Lenin Sarani. I looked it up in the telephone directory.’
‘I see. Well, the other was G. C. Dhameeja. He lives in Simla. Has an orchard.’
‘So he said. We don’t know that for sure.’
‘But it is his attaché case that got exchanged with Mr Lahiri’s. Surely there is no doubt about that?’
The case in question was lying open next to Feluda’s bed. He stared absentmindedly at its contents and muttered, ‘Hm . . . yes, that is perhaps the only thing one can be . . .’ He broke off and picked up the two English newspapers that were in the case and glanced at them. ‘These,’ he continued to mutter, ‘are the only things that . . . you know . . . make me feel doubtful. They don’t fit in somehow.’
At this point, he had to stop muttering for the phone rang. Feluda had had an extension put in his own room.
‘Hello.’
‘Is that you, Mr Mitter?’
I could hear the words spoken from the other side, possibly because it was quiet outside.
‘Yes, Mr Lahiri.’
‘Listen, I have just received a message from Dhameeja.’
‘You mean he’s replied to your telegram? Already?’
‘No, no. I don’t think I’ll get a reply before tomorrow. I am talking about a phone call. Apparently, Dhameeja had gone to the railway reservation office and got my name and address from them. But because he had to leave very suddenly, he could not contact me himself. He left my attaché case with a friend here in Calcutta. It was this friend who rang me. He’ll return my case to me if I bring Dhameeja’s. So, you see . . .’
‘Did you ask him if the manuscript was still there?’
‘Oh yes. Everything’s fine.’
‘That’s good news then. Your problem’s solved.’
‘Yes, most unexpectedly. I’m leaving in five minutes. I’ll collect Dhameeja’s case from you and then
go to Pretoria Street.’
‘May I make a request?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Why should you take the trouble of going out? We were going to go all the way to Simla, weren’t we? So we’d quite happily go to Pretoria Street and collect your case for you. If you let me keep it tonight, I can skim through Shambhucharan’s tale of Tibet. You may treat that as my fee. Tomorrow morning I shall return both the case and the manuscript to you.’
‘Very well. I have no objection to that at all. The man who rang me is a Mr Puri and his address is 4/2 Pretoria Street.’
‘Thank you. All’s well that ends well.’
Feluda replaced the receiver and sat frowning. I, too, sat silently, fighting a wave of disappointment. I did so want to go to Simla and see it snow. Now I had missed the chance and would have to rot in Calcutta where it was already uncomfortably hot, even in March. Well, I suppose I ought to be with Feluda in this last chapter of the story.
‘Let me go and get changed, Feluda,’ I said. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
‘All right. Hurry up.’
Twenty minutes later, we were in a taxi, cruising up and down Pretoria Street. It was a quiet street and, it being nearly half past eleven at night, not a soul was to be seen. We drove from one end of the street to the other, but it was impossible to see the numbers on the houses from the car. ‘Please wait here, Sardarji,’ Feluda said to the driver. ‘We’ll find the house and come back. We simply have to drop this case. It won’t take long.’
An amiable man, the driver agreed to wait. We got out of the taxi at one end of the road and began walking. Beyond the wall on our left stood the tall and silent Birla building, dwarfing every other building in its vicinity with all its twenty-two floors. I had often heard Feluda remark that the creepiest things in a city after nightfall were its skyscrapers. ‘Have you ever seen a corpse standing up?’ he had asked me once. ‘These buildings are just that in the dark—just a body without life or soul!’
A few minutes later, we found a house with ‘4’ written on its gate. The next house, which was at some distance, turned out to be number 5. So 4/2 was probably in the little lane that ran between numbers 4 and 5. It was very difficult to see anything clearly. The few dim streetlights did nothing to help. We stepped into the lane, walking cautiously. How quiet it was!
Here was another gate. This must be 4/1. Where was 4/2? Somewhere further down, hidden in the dark? There didn’t seem to be another house in the lane and, even if there was, it certainly did not have a light on. There were walls on both sides of the lane. Overgrown branches of trees on the other side hung over these. A very faint noise of traffic came from the main road. A clock struck in the distance. It must be the clock in St Paul’s Church. It was now exactly half past eleven. But these noises did nothing to improve the eerie silence in Pretoria Street. A dog barked nearby. And, in that instant—
‘Taxi! Sardarji, Sardarji!’ I screamed, quite involuntarily.
A man had jumped over the wall on our right and fallen over Feluda. He was followed by another. The attaché case Feluda was carrying was no longer in his hand. He had dropped it on the ground and was trying to tackle the first man. I could feel the two men struggling with each other, but could see nothing. The blue case was lying on the road, right in front of me. I stretched my hand to pick it up, but the second man turned around at this moment and knocked me aside. Then he snatched the case and rushed to the entrance of the lane, through which we had just stepped. On my left, Feluda and the other man were still grappling with each other, but I could not figure out what the problem was. Feluda, by this time, should have been able to overpower his opponent.
‘God!’
This exclamation came from our driver. He had heard me scream and rushed out to help. But the man who was making off with the case knocked him down and vanished. I could see the poor driver lying flat on the ground under a streetlight. In the meantime, the first man managed to wriggle free from Feluda’s grasp and climbed over the wall.
Feluda took out his handkerchief and began wiping his hands. ‘That man,’ he observed, ‘had oiled himself rather well. Must have rubbed at least a kilo of mustard oil on his body, making him slippery as an eel. I believe it’s an old trick with thieves.’
True. I had smelt the oil as soon as the two men arrived, but had not been able to guess where it was coming from.
‘Thank God!’
For the life of me, I could not understand why Feluda said this. How could he, even after such a disaster? ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, puzzled. Feluda did not reply at once. He helped the driver, who appeared unhurt, to his feet. Then he said, as the three of us began walking towards the taxi, ‘You don’t think what those scoundrels got away with was Dhameeja’s property, do you?’
‘Wasn’t it?’ I was even more mystified.
‘What they took was the property of Pradosh C. Mitter. And what it contained were three torn vests, five threadbare handkerchiefs, several pieces of rag and a few old newspapers, torn to shreds. I rang telephone enquiries when you went to change. They told me there was no telephone at 4/2 Pretoria Street. But, of course, I didn’t know that even the address was a fake one.’
My heart started pounding once more. Something told me the visit to Simla was now imperative.
Five
We rang Dinanath Babu as soon as we got home. He was completely nonplussed. ‘Goodness me!’ he exclaimed, ‘I had no idea a thing like this could happen! One possible explanation is, of course, that those two men were just ordinary thieves without any particular motive to steal Dhameeja’s attaché case. But even so, the fact remains that both this man called Puri and the address he gave, were totally fictitious. That means Mr Dhameeja never really went to the railway reservation office. Who, then, made the phone call?’
‘If we knew that, there would be no need for further investigations, Mr Lahiri.’
‘But tell me, what made you suspicious in the first place?’
The fact that the man rang you so late in the night. Mr Dhameeja went back yesterday. So why didn’t Mr Puri give you a call yesterday or during the day today?’
‘I see. Well, it looks as though we have to go back to our original plan of sending you to Simla. But considering the turn this whole business is taking, frankly I am now scared to send you anywhere.’
Feluda laughed, ‘Don’t worry, Mr Lahiri. I can’t call your case tame and insipid any more. It’s definitely got a taste of excitement. And I am glad, for I would have felt ashamed to take your money otherwise. Anyway, I would now like you to do something for me, please.’
‘Yes?’
‘Let me have a list of the contents of your case. It would make it easier for me to check when Dhameeja returns it.’
‘That’s easy since there wasn’t anything much, anyway. But I’ll let you have the list when I send you your tickets.’
Feluda left home early the next morning. His whole demeanour had changed in just a few hours. I could tell by the way he kept cracking his knuckles that he was feeling restless and disturbed. Like me, he had not been able to work out why anyone should try to steal a case that contained nothing of value. He had examined each item carefully once more, going so far as squeezing some of the toothpaste out and feeling the shaving cream by pressing the tube gently. He even took out the blades from their container and unfolded the newspapers. Still, he found nothing suspicious. Feluda left at about 8 a.m. ‘I will return at eleven,’ he said before leaving. ‘If anyone rings the calling bell in the next three hours, don’t open the door yourself. Get Srinath to do it.’
I resigned myself to wait patiently for his return. Baba had gone out of town. So I wrote a letter for him, explaining why Feluda and I had to go to Simla before he got back. Having done this, I settled down on the settee in the living-room with a book. But I could not read. The more I thought about Feluda’s new case, the more confused I felt. Dinanath Babu, his nephew who acted in films, the irascible Mr Pakrashi, Mr Dhameeja of Simla,
the moneylender called Brijmohan . . . everyone seemed unreal, as though each was wearing a mask. Even the contents of the Air-India case seemed false. And, on top of everything else, was last night’s frightening experience . . .
No, I must stop thinking. I picked up a magazine. It was a film magazine called Sparkling Stars. Ah yes, here was the photograph of Amar Kumar I had seen before. ‘The newcomer, Amar Kumar, in the latest film being made by Sri Guru Pictures’, said the caption. Amar Kumar was staring straight into the camera, wearing a cap very much in the style of Dev Anand in Jewel Thief, a scarf around his throat, a cruel smile under a pencil-thin moustache. There was a pistol in his hand, very obviously a fake, possibly made of wood.
Something made me suddenly jump up and turn to the telephone directory. Here it was—Sri Guru Pictures, 53 Bentinck Street. 24554.
I dialled the number quickly. It rang several times before someone answered at the other end.
‘Hello.’
‘Is that Sri Guru Pictures?’
My voice had recently started to break. So I was sure whoever I was speaking to would never guess I was really no more than fifteen-and-a-half.
‘Yes, this is Sri Guru Pictures.’
‘This is about Amar Kumar, you know . . . the newcomer in your latest film—’
‘Please speak to Mr Mallik.’ The telephone was passed to another man.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Mallik?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Is there someone called Amar Kumar working in your latest film? The Ghost, I think it’s called?’
‘Amar Kumar has been dropped.’
‘Dropped?’
‘Who am I speaking to, please?’
‘I . . . well, I . . .’
Like a fool, I could think of nothing to say and put the receiver down hurriedly.
So Amar Kumar was no longer in the cast! It must have been because of his voice. How unfair, though, to reject him after his picture had been published in a magazine. But didn’t the man know, or did he simply pretend to us that he was still acting in the film?
I was lost in thought when the telephone rang, startling me considerably.