by Satyajit Ray
‘Since we are in Delhi,’ suggested Jatayu, ‘wouldn’t it be a good idea to inform the Prime Minister?’
Feluda smiled wryly at this. ‘God knows what that man gained by stealing that blue case,’ he remarked, ‘but he has certainly put us in an impossible situation. What a reckless devil!’
For the next few minutes, no one spoke. All that could be heard in the room was the sound of sighs. At last, Feluda uttered a few significant words. ‘There is a way,’ he said slowly. ‘Not, I admit, a simple way. But it’s the only one I can think of, and we’ve got to take it because we cannot go to Simla empty-handed.’
He reached for his blue notebook, and ran his eyes through the list of contents in Dhameeja’s case.
‘There is nothing in this list,’ he said, ‘that we can’t get here in Delhi. We’ve got to get every item. I remember what each one looked like and what condition it was in. So that’s one thing we needn’t worry about. I could make the toothpaste and the shaving cream look old and used. And it should be possible to get hold of a white handkerchief and have it embroidered. I remember the pattern. The newspapers will, of course, have a different date, but I don’t think Mr Dhameeja will notice it. The only expensive thing would be a roll of Kodak film . . .’
‘Hey!’ Lalmohan Babu interrupted. ‘Hey, look, I completely forgot to give this back to you. You passed it to me on the plane, remember?’ He returned the Kodak container to Feluda.
‘Good, that’s one problem solved . . . but what is that sticking out of your pocket?’
A piece of paper had slipped out with the little box of betel-nuts. We could all see what was written on it:
‘Do not go to Simla if you value your life.’
Seven
It was now 9.30 p.m. Our train was rushing through the darkness in the direction of Kalka. We would have to change at Kalka to go on to Simla. There were only the three of us in our compartment. The fourth berth was empty. I couldn’t guess how the other two were feeling, but in my own mind there was a mixture of so many different emotions that it was impossible to tell which was the uppermost: excitement, pleasure, an eager anticipation or fear.
Lalmohan Babu broke the silence by saying, somewhat hesitantly, ‘Tel! me, Mr Mitter, the dividing line between a brilliant detective and a criminal with real cunning is really quite thin, isn’t it?’
Feluda was so preoccupied that he did not reply. But I knew very well what had prompted the question. It was related to a certain incident that took place during the evening. I should describe it in some detail, for it revealed a rather unexpected streak in Feluda’s character.
It had taken us barely half an hour to collect most of the things we needed to deceive Mr Dhameeja. The only major problem was the attaché case itself.
Where could we find a blue Air-India case? We didn’t know anyone in Delhi we could ask. It might be possible to get a similar blue case in a shop—but that wouldn’t have Air India written on it. And that would, naturally, give the whole show away.
In the end, however, in sheer desperation, we did buy a plain blue case and, clutching it in one hand, Feluda led us into the main office of Air-India.
The first person our eyes fell on was an old man, a Parsee cap on his head, sitting right next to the ‘Enquiries’ counter. On his left, resting against his chair, was a brand new blue Air India attaché case, exactly the kind we were looking for.
Feluda walked straight up to the counter and placed his own case beside the old man’s. ‘Is there an Air-India flight to Frankfurt from Delhi?’ he asked the man behind the counter. In a matter of seconds, he got the necessary information, said, ‘Thank you,’ picked up the old man’s case and pushed his own to the spot where it had been resting and coolly walked out. Lalmohan Babu and I followed, quite speechless. Then we returned to the hotel and Feluda began to work on the attaché case. By the time he finished, no one—not even Mr Dhameeja—could have said that it was not the one we had been given by Dinanath Lahiri. The same applied to its contents.
Feluda had been staring at his notebook. Now he shut it, rose and began pacing. ‘It was just like this,’ he muttered. ‘Those four men were in a coach exactly like this . . .’
I have always found it difficult to tell what would attract Feluda’s attention. Right now, he was staring at the glasses that stood inside metal rings attached to the wall. Why should these be of any interest to him?
‘Can you sleep in a moving train, or can’t you?’ he asked Lalmohan Babu, rather abruptly.
‘Well, I . . .’ Lalmohan Babu replied, trying to suppress a giant yawn, ‘I quite like being rocked.’
‘Yes. I know the rocking generally helps one sleep. But not everyone, mind you. I have an uncle who cannot sleep a wink in a train,’ said Feluda and jumped up on the empty berth. Then he switched on the reading lamp, opened the book that was in Dhameeja’s attaché case, and turned a few pages. We had bought a second copy at a book stall in the New Delhi railway station.
Laying the book aside, Feluda stretched on the upper berth and stared up at the ceiling. It was completely dark outside. Nothing could be seen except a few flickering lights in the distance.
I was about to ask Lalmohan Babu if he had remembered to bring his weapon and, if so, when would he show it to us, when he spoke unexpectedly.
‘We forgot one thing,’ he said, ‘betel-nuts. We must check with the fellow from the dining car if they have any. If not, we shall have to buy some at the next station. There’s just one left in this little box.’
Lalmohan Babu took out the Kodak container, the only original object left from Dhameeja’s attaché case, and tilted it on his palm. The betel-nut did not slip out.
‘How annoying!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can see it, but it won’t come out!’ He began to shake the container vigorously, showering strong words on the obstinate piece of betel-nut, but it refused to budge.
‘Give it to me!’ said Feluda and leapt down from the upper berth, snatching the container from Lalmohan Babu’s hand. Lalmohan Babu could only stare at him, completely taken aback.
Feluda slipped his little finger into the box and pushed at the small object, using a little force. It now came out like an obedient child. Feluda sniffed a couple of times and said, ‘Araldite. Someone used Araldite on this piece of betel-nut. I wonder why—? Topshe, shut the door.’ There were footsteps outside in the corridor. I did shut the door, but not before I had caught a glimpse of the man who went past our compartment. It was the same old man we had seen at the Jantar Mantar. He was still wearing the dark glasses and his ears were still plugged with cotton wool.
‘Sh-h-h-h,’ Feluda whistled.
He was gazing steadily at the little betel-nut that lay on his palm. I went forward for a closer look. It was clear that it was not a betel-nut at all. Some other object had been painted brown to camouflage it.
‘I should have guessed,’ said Feluda softly. ‘I should have known a long time ago. Oh, what a fool I have been, Topshe!’
Feluda now lifted one of the glasses from its ring, poured a little water from our flask and dipped the betel-nut in it. The water began to turn a light brown as he gently rubbed the object. Then he wiped it with a handkerchief and put it back on his palm.
The betel-nut had disappeared. In its place was a beautifully cut, brilliant stone. From the way it glittered even in our semi-dark compartment, I could tell it was a diamond. And it was pretty obvious that none of us had seen such a large one ever before. At least, Lalmohan Babu made no bones about it.
‘Is that . . .’ he gasped, ‘a d. . .di. . .di. . .?’
Feluda closed his fist around the stone, went over to the door to lock it, then came back and said, ‘We’ve already had warnings threatening our lives. Why are you talking of dying?’
‘No, no, not d-dying. I mean, is that a diam-m-m-?’
‘Very probably, or it wouldn’t be chased so persistently. But mind you, I am no expert.’
‘Well then, is it val-val-val-?’
Lalmohan Babu gulped in silence. Feluda was still turning the stone between his fingers.
‘How did Dhameeja get hold of something so precious?’ I asked under my breath.
‘I don’t know, dear boy. All I know about Dhameeja is that he said he had an orchard and that he likes reading thrillers on trains.’
Lalmohan Babu, in the meantime, had recovered somewhat. ‘Will this stone now go back to Dhameeja?’ he asked.
‘If we can be sure that it is indeed his, then certainly it will go back to him.’
‘Does that mean you suspect it might actually belong to someone else?’
‘Yes, but there are other questions that need to be answered. For instance, I don’t know if people outside Bengal are in the habit of chewing chopped betel-nuts.’
‘But if that is so—’ I began.
‘No. No more questions tonight, Topshe. This whole affair has taken another new turn. We have to take every step with extreme caution. I can’t waste any more time chatting.’
Feluda took out his wallet, put the sparkling stone away safely, pulled the zip and climbed on to his berth. I knew he didn’t want to be disturbed. Lalmohan Babu opened his mouth to speak, but I laid a finger against my lips to stop him. He glanced once at Feluda and then turned to me. ‘I think I’ll give up writing suspense thrillers,’ he confided.
‘Why?’
‘The few things that have happened in the last couple of days . . . they’re beyond one’s imagination, aren’t they? Haven’t you heard the saying, truth is stronger than fiction?’
‘Not stronger. I think the word is stranger.’
‘Stranger?’
‘Yes, meaning more . . . amazing. More curious.’
‘Oh really? I thought a stranger was someone one hadn’t met before. Oh no, no, I see what you mean. Strange, stranger, strangest . . .’
I decided to cheer him up. ‘We found the diamond only because of you,’ I told him. ‘If you hadn’t finished all the real betel-nuts, that diamond would have remained hidden forever.’
Lalmohan Babu grinned from ear to ear.
‘You mean to say even I have made a little contribution to this great mystery? Heh, heh, heh, heh . . .’ Then he thought for a minute and added, ‘You know what I really think? I am sure your cousin knew about the diamond right from the start. Or how could we have survived two attempts to steal it from us?’
This made me think. The thief had not yet managed to lay his hands on the real stuff. Not even by breaking into our hotel room. That precious stone was still with us. This meant we were probably still being followed, and therefore, in constant danger.
And we wouldn’t be safe even in Simla . . .
Heaven knows when I fell asleep. I woke suddenly in the middle of the night. It was totally dark in the compartment, which meant even Feluda had switched off the reading lamp and gone to sleep. Lalmohan Babu was sleeping on the lower berth opposite mine. I was about to switch on my own lamp to look at the time, when my eyes fell on the door. The curtain from our side was drawn partially over the frosted glass. But there was a gap, and on this gap fell the shadow of a man.
What was he doing there? It took me a few seconds to realize he was actually trying to turn the handle of the door. I knew the door was locked and would not yield to pressure from outside; but even so, I began to feel breathless with fear.
How long the man would have persisted, it is difficult to say. But, only a few seconds later, Lalmohan Babu shouted ‘Boomerang!’ in his sleep, and the shadow disappeared.
I realized that even in the cool night air, I had broken into a cold sweat.
Eight
I had seen snow-capped mountains before—Kanchenjunga in Darjeeling and the top of Annapurna from a plane; and certainly I had seen snow in films. But nothing had startled me as much as what I saw in Simla. If it wasn’t for other Indians strolling on the streets, I could have sworn we were in a foreign country.
‘This town was built by the British, like Darjeeling,’ Feluda told me, ‘so it does have the appearance of a foreign city. One Lt. Ross built a wooden cottage here in 1819 for himself. That was the beginning. Soon, the British turned this into their summer capital, since in the summer months life on the plains became pretty uncomfortable.’
We had taken a metre gauge train at Kalka to reach Simla. Nothing remarkable happened on the way, although I noticed that the old man with the earplugs travelled on the same train and checked in at the Clarkes just like us. Since the main season had not yet started, there were plenty of rooms available and Lalmohan Babu, too, found one at the Clarkes without any problem.
Feluda went looking for a post office soon after checking in. I offered to go with him, but he said someone should stay behind to guard the new attaché case; so Lalmohan Babu and I remained at the hotel. Feluda hadn’t made a single remark on the snow or the beautiful town. Lalmohan Babu, on the other hand, appeared to be totally overwhelmed. Everything he saw struck him as ‘fanastatic’. When I pointed out that the word was ‘fantastic’, he said airily that the speed with which he read English was so remarkable that not often did he find the time to look at the words carefully. Besides, there were a number of other questions he wanted answered—was it possible to find polar bears in Simla, did the Aurora Borealis appear here, did the Eskimos use the same snow to build their ilgoos (at which point I had to correct him again and say that it was igloos the Eskimos built, not ilgoos). The man was unstoppable.
The Clarkes Hotel stood on a slope. A veranda ran by the side of its second floor, which led to the street. The manager’s room, the lounge, as well as our own rooms, were all on the second floor. Wooden stairs ran down to the first floor where there were more rooms and the dining-hall.
Feluda got delayed on his way back, so it was past 2 p.m. by the time we finished our lunch. A band was playing in one corner of the dining-hall. Lalmohan Babu called it a concert. The old man with the earplugs was also having lunch in the same room, as were three foreigners—two men and a woman. I had seen a man with dark glasses and a pointed beard leave the room when we came in. It did not appear as though there was anyone else in the hotel apart from these people and ourselves.
‘We are going to see Mr Dhameeja today, aren’t we?’ I asked, slowly sipping the hot soup.
‘Yes, at four o’clock. We needn’t leave before three,’ Feluda replied.
‘Where exactly does he live?’
‘The Wildflower Hall is on the way to Kufri. Eight miles from here.’
‘Why should it take an hour to get there?’
‘Most of the way is snowed under. The car might skid if we try to do anything other than crawl.’ Then Feluda said to Lalmohan Babu, ‘Wear all your warm clothes. This place we’re going to is a thousand feet higher than Simla. The snow there is a lot worse.’
Lalmohan Babu put a spoonful of soup into his mouth, slurping noisily, and asked, ‘Is a sherpa going to accompany us?’
I nearly burst out laughing, but Feluda kept a straight face. ‘No,’ he said seriously, ‘there is actually a road that leads up there. We’ll be going in a car.’
We finished our soup and were waiting for the next course, when Feluda spoke again. ‘What happened to your weapon?’ he asked Lalmohan Babu.
‘I have it with me,’ Lalmohan Babu replied, chewing a bread stick, ‘haven’t had the chance to show it to you, have I?’
‘What is it?’
‘A boomerang.’
Ah, that made sense. I had been wondering why he had shouted ‘boomerang!’ in his sleep.
‘Where did you get a thing like that?’
‘An Australian was selling some of his stuff. He had put an advertisement in the paper. There were many other interesting things, but I couldn’t resist this one. I have heard th
at if you can throw it correctly, it would hit your target and return to you.’
‘No, that’s not quite true. It would come back to you only if it misses the target, not if it hits it.’
‘Well yes, you may be right. But let me tell you one thing. It’s damn difficult to throw it. I tried from my terrace, and it went and broke a flower pot on the balcony of the house opposite. Thank goodness, those people knew me and were kind enough to return my weapon without making a fuss about their flower pot.’
‘Please don’t forget to take it with you today.’
Lalmohan Babu’s eyes began to shine with excitement.
‘Are you expecting trouble?’
‘Well, I can’t guarantee anything, can I? After all, whoever has been trying to steal that diamond hasn’t yet got it, has he?’ Feluda spoke lightly, but I could see he was not totally easy in his mind.
At five to three, a blue Ambassador drove up and stopped before the main entrance. ‘Here’s our taxi,’ said Feluda and stood up. Lalmohan Babu and I followed suit. The driver was a local man, young and well built. Feluda joined him on the front seat, clutching Mr Dhameeja’s (fake) attaché case. Jatayu and I sat at the back. The boomerang was hidden inside Jatayu’s voluminous overcoat. I had taken a good look at it. It was made of wood and looked a bit like the bottom half of a hockey stick, although it was a lot thinner and smoother.
The sky had started to turn grey and the temperature dropped appreciably. But the clouds were not very heavy, so it did not seem as though it might rain. We left for the Wildflower Hall on the dot of 3 p.m.
Our hotel was in the main town. We hadn’t had the chance to go out of the hotel since our arrival. The true spirit of the cold, sombre, snow-covered mountains struck me only when our car left the town and began its journey along a quiet, narrow path.
The mountains rose on one side, on the other was a deep ravine. The road was wide enough to allow another car to squeeze past, but that was just about all it could do. A thick pine forest grew on the mountains.