The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I

by Satyajit Ray

  He greeted us with a smile.

  ‘I got Rajen to take out the books by Gaboriau. I knew you could do it,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it is for you to decide whether I’ve got the right number. 340910. Is that it?’

  ‘Well done!’ Mr Majumdar’s voice held both pleasure and admiration. ‘Go on, take those books and put them in your bag. And please take another look at those marks on the chest. I had a look myself. They didn’t strike me as anything to worry about.’

  ‘Well then, that settles it. If you’re not worried about it, nothing else matters.’

  Feluda thanked him once more before collecting the four books written by the first writer of detective fiction.

  ‘Have you had tea?’ Mr Majumdar asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I told the driver to bring the car out. Vishwanath left very early this morning. He said he wanted to reach Calcutta by ten. Rajen has gone to the local market. Gokul will help you with your luggage. Would you like to go for a drive before you catch your train?’

  ‘I was actually thinking of going by an earlier train. We don’t really have to wait until ten-thirty. If we left immediately, perhaps we could catch the 372 Down.’

  ‘Very well. I have no wish to keep anyone from the city in this small village any longer than is necessary. But I’m really pleased that you could come. I mean that.’

  Soon, we were on our way to the railway station. The road went through rice fields, which glistened in the early morning sun after a rainy night. I was looking at these with admiration, when I heard Feluda ask a question. ‘Is there any other way to get to the station?’

  ‘No, sir, this is the only way,’ Monilal replied.

  Feluda was suddenly looking rather grave. I wanted to ask him if he had noticed anything suspicious, but didn’t dare open my mouth.

  The road being wet and muddy, it took us longer to reach the station. Feluda took the luggage out of the car and thanked the driver, who then drove off. But Feluda made no attempt to go to the ticket counter to buy tickets for our return journey. He found the stationmaster’s room instead and left our luggage with him. Then he came out once more and approached one of the cycle-rickshaws that were waiting outside.

  ‘Do you know where the local police station is?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Can you take us there? We’re in a hurry.’

  We climbed into the rickshaw quickly. The driver began pedalling fast, honking as loudly as he could, weaving his way through the milling crowds, narrowly avoiding collisions more than once. We reached the police station in five minutes. The officer left in charge was Sub-inspector Sarkar. It turned out that he knew Feluda’s name. ‘We have heard a lot about you, sir,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘What can you tell me about Kalikinkar Majumdar of Ghurghutia?’

  ‘Kalikinkar Majumdar? As far as I know, he is a perfect gentleman, who keeps himself to himself. Why, I’ve never heard anything nasty said about him!’

  ‘What about his son, Vishwanath? Does he live here?’

  ‘No. I think he lives in Calcutta. Whatever’s the matter, Mr Mitter?’

  ‘Can you take your jeep and come with me? There’s something seriously wrong.’

  Mr Sarkar did not waste another minute. We began bumping our way back to Ghurghutia in a police jeep, splashing mud everywhere. Feluda’s face held a look of suppressed excitement, but he opened his mouth only once. I was the only one who could hear his words:

  ‘Arthritis, those marks on the chest, the late dinner, the hoarseness in Rajen Babu’s voice, the naphthalene . . . every little piece has fallen into place, Topshe. I tend to forget sometimes that there are other people just as clever as Felu Mitter.’

  The first thing that I noticed with considerable surprise on reaching the old mansion was a black Ambassador standing outside the main gate. It obviously belonged to Vishwanath Majumdar. ‘Look at its wheels,’ Feluda said as we got out of the jeep. ‘There is no trace of mud anywhere. This car has only just come out of a garage.’

  A man—possibly its driver, whom I hadn’t seen before—was standing near the car. He turned visibly pale and frightened at the sight of our jeep.

  ‘Are you the driver of this car?’ Feluda asked him.

  ‘Y-yes, s-sir.’

  ‘Is Vishwanath Majumdar at home?’

  The man hesitated. Feluda ignored him and walked straight into the house, followed closely by the inspector, me and a constable.

  Together, we ran up the stairs, and down the long passage that led to Kalikinkar’s room. It was empty. The blanket lay on the bed, all the furniture was in place, but its occupant had vanished.

  ‘Oh no!’ Feluda exclaimed. I found him staring at the chest. It was open. Judging by its gaping emptiness, nearly all of its contents had been removed.

  Gokul came and stood outside the door. He was trembling violently. There were tears in his eyes. He looked as though he might collapse any minute. Feluda caught him by his shoulders.

  ‘Gokul, where is Vishwanath Majumdar?’

  ‘He . . . he ran out of the back door!’

  ‘Mr Sarkar!’

  The inspector left with the constable without a word.

  ‘Listen,’ Feluda shook Gokul gently, ‘if you tell me a single lie, you will go to prison. Do you understand? Where is your master?’

  Gokul’s eyes widened in fear, looking as though they would soon pop out of their sockets.

  ‘He . . . he has been murdered!’ he gasped.

  ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘Chhoto Babu.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day he arrived, that same night. He had an argument with his father, and asked for the numbers to open the chest. The master said, “I am not going to give it to you. Ask my parrot.” Then . . . a while later . . . Chhoto Babu and his driver . . . they got together . . .’ Gokul choked. He uttered the next few words with great difficulty: ‘The two of them dropped the dead body into the lake behind the house. They . . . they tied a stone round its neck. And Chhoto Babu said if I breathed a word to anyone, he’d k-kill me, too!’

  ‘I see,’ Feluda helped him sit down. ‘Now tell me, am I right in thinking there is no one called Rajen Babu at all?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We did once have a manager by that name, but he died two years ago.’

  Feluda and I leapt out of the room, and began running down the stairs. There was a door to the left where the stairs ended, which led to the rear of the house. We heard Mr Sarkar’s voice as we emerged through this door.

  ‘It’s no use trying to escape, Mr Majumdar. I have a gun in my hand!’ he shouted.

  This was followed immediately by a loud splash and the sound of a revolver going off.

  We continued running, jumping over small bushes and crashing through thick foliage. Eventually, we found Mr Sarkar standing under a large tamarind tree, with a revolver in his hand. Behind the tree was the lake we had glimpsed last night through our window. Its surface was covered almost totally with weed and algae.

  ‘He jumped before I could fire,’ Mr Sarkar said, ‘but he cannot swim. Girish, see if you can drag him out.’

  Vishwanath Majumdar was fished out in a few minutes by the constable, and transferred behind bars, very much like his father’s parrot. The money and the jewellery he had stolen from the chest were recovered by the police. It appeared that although he ran a successful business, he used to gamble rather heavily, and was up to his neck in debt.

  Feluda explained how he had arrived at the truth. ‘Rajen Babu came to our room twenty minutes after we left Kalikinkar; and we saw Vishwanath Majumdar half an hour after Rajen Babu’s departure. Then Rajen Babu came back briefly after dinner. Not once did we see father and son and their manager together. This made me wonder whether there were indeed three different people, or whether one single person was playing different roles. Then I remembered the books on drama and acting. Perhaps those books belonged to Vishwanath Majumdar? Maybe he was
interested in acting and was good at putting on make-up? If so, it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to wear a false beard and different wigs and change his voice, to fool a couple of visitors in a dark house. He had to hide his hands, though, for presumably his knowledge of make-up wasn’t adequate to turn his own hands into those of a seventy-three-year-old man. But my suspicions were confirmed when I noticed this morning that although he was supposed to have left quite early, there were no tyre marks on the ground.’

  ‘But who had actually written to you, asking you to come here?’ I put in.

  ‘Oh, that letter was written by Kalikinkar himself, I am sure. His son knew about it. So he did nothing to stop our arrival, for he knew he could use me to find out the combination numbers.’

  In the end we got so delayed that we couldn’t catch a train before half past ten. Before we left, Feluda took out the eight books he had been given and handed them to me. ‘I have no wish to accept gifts from a murderer,’ he said. ‘Topshe, go and put these back.’

  I replaced the books, filling each gap in the shelves and came out quietly. The parrot’s cage was still hanging outside in the veranda.

  ‘Shut the door!’ it said to me. ‘Shut the door . . . O big fat hen!’

  The Mystery of the Elephant God

  One

  Lalmohan Babu—alias Jatayu—broke open a groundnut carefully, and promptly transferred its contents into his mouth. Then he dropped the shell into an ashtray, rubbed his hands and asked, ‘Have you ever seen the Vijaya Dashami celebrations in Varanasi? You know, when Durga Puja ends and all the idols are immersed in the river at Dashashwamedh Ghat?’

  Feluda was sitting with a chessboard in front of him, and a book called Great Games of Chess by his side. He had recently started playing chess by himself. Jatayu had arrived when he was almost halfway through the game. He told Srinath, our cook, to bring a fresh pot of tea and began answering Jatayu’s questions between moves.

  ‘No,’ he replied briefly.

  ‘Oh, it’s . . . it’s really a spectacular affair! You can’t imagine what it’s like!’

  Feluda made the last move, stared for a second at the board and asked, ‘Are you trying to . . . tempt me?’

  ‘Well, yes, you’ve guessed it. Heh heh!’

  ‘In that case, Lalmohan Babu, you’ll have to describe the scene much better than that. What you just said won’t do at all.’

  ‘Why?’ Lalmohan Babu raised his eyebrows.

  Feluda began putting the chessmen away. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘the word “spectacular” does not, by itself, evoke an image. It doesn’t explain why Vijaya Dashami is special. You are a writer, Lalmohan Babu. You should be able to be a bit more graphic.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course,’ said Lalmohan Babu quickly. ‘It was nearly twenty-five years ago, you see, when I saw the celebrations. So the details are a little hazy in my mind. But I still remember both my eyes and ears being dazzled by what I saw.’

  ‘There you are! You said it. Eyes and ears. Your description should have something that appeals to one’s senses.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes. Try to think of exactly what you saw or heard or even smelt! Don’t look so surprised. A particular place has a particular smell, haven’t you noticed? The little alley that leads to the Vishwanath temple in Varanasi smells of incense, flowers, cow dung, dust and sweat. If you came out of the alley and began walking towards the river, you’d pass through a relatively smell-free zone, until you came face to face with a herd of goats. The smell would then be most unpleasant, I can tell you. But then you’d walk on and would soon be greeted with another scent which would be a mixture of the scent of the earth, water, oil, sandalwood, flowers and more incense.’

  ‘Hey, that means you’ve been to Banaras!’

  ‘Yes, when I was in college. I’d gone to play in a cricket match with the Hindu University.’

  Lalmohan Babu began fishing in his pocket.

  ‘The paper cutting you’re looking for,’ said Feluda, ‘slipped out of your pocket and fell on the floor as soon as you walked in. There it is, near that stool.’

  ‘Eh heh . . . when I took my handkerchief out, it must have . . .’

  I picked it up and handed it to Lalmohan Babu.

  ‘Is it that story about the sadhubaba in Banaras?’ asked Feluda. ‘You knew!’ Lalmohan Babu complained. ‘Why didn’t you say something? Isn’t it a strange story? All very mysterious.’

  I took the cutting back from him and read it. It said:

  Machchli Baba in Varanasi

  The arrival of a certain holy man in Varanasi last Thursday has created quite a stir. A senior resident of the city, Abhaycharan Chakravarty, was the first to meet this sadhu at Kedar Ghat and discover that he possessed very special supernatural powers. The sadhu has since been staying in Abhaycharan’s house. His devotees call him ‘Machchli Baba’. According to them, he arrived in Varanasi from Prayag, floating on the river.

  Yet another Wonder Man. The report did not strike me as anything extraordinary, but Lalmohan Babu was clearly very excited about it.

  ‘Just imagine!’ he said. ‘Maybe he began his journey from Tibet, right from the source of the Ganges. Oooh, the very thought gives me goosepimples!’

  ‘Who told you the source of the Ganges was in Tibet?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Do I mean the Brahmaputra? But never mind. The Ganges starts from the Himalayas, doesn’t it? Isn’t that good enough?’

  ‘Would you like to meet this man?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? I mean, can’t you smell a mystery in all this? Machchli Baba—even the name is unique!’

  ‘Yes, the name is somewhat unusual, I admit,’ said Feluda, ‘but that’s about the only thing in that story that makes an impression. If one must go to Banaras, why should it be because of a certain sadhu? I would go back just to taste the rabri you can get in Kachauri Gali.’

  ‘And suppose you found that the man who makes the rabri was murdered by a person or persons unknown . . . and his blood had splashed on the white rabri and turned it pink—well, that would make your day, wouldn’t it? You’d have a case in Kashi, and earn some cash, ha ha! You haven’t been very busy lately, have you?’

  This was true. For about three months Feluda had not accepted a single case, because none had been challenging enough. He had spent the time reading, doing yoga, trying to cut down on smoking, playing chess and seeing films. He even tried growing a beard for a week. On the eighth day, he had taken one look at himself in the mirror and reached for his razor.

  ‘Look,’ Lalmohan Babu continued, ‘you haven’t got a case, and I haven’t got a plot. For the first time, I couldn’t think up a plot good enough for the Puja sales. For the first time, there won’t be a new book by Jatayu for the pujas. I could have lifted ideas from foreign books and films and produced something anyhow, but I knew you would have caught me out. So I thought that if we could get out of Calcutta, maybe a few original ideas for a story would come floating along.’

  ‘All right. I’ll go with you. But there is a risk.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Have you considered the possibility that a visit to Varanasi may well fail to provide you with a plot, and me with a case?’

  Feluda was proved wrong. Lalmohan Babu did find a plot, although when his book eventually came out, the story sounded suspiciously like a certain Tintin comic.

  And Feluda? He got a case that pitted him against the most cunning opponent he had ever had to deal with. He told me afterwards, ‘All my life, Topshe, I had been waiting for a man like this. Fighting against such a man—and winning—worked like a tonic!’

  The Calcutta Lodge stood by the side of a road that led to Dashashwamedh Ghat. It was a fifty-year-old hotel, run by Bengalis. Lalmohan Babu’s cousin knew the manager and had made reservations for us. We arrived at about ten in the morning.

  The manager, Niranjan Chakravarty, happened to be away. Another gentleman helped us check in, and a bearer too
k our luggage up to our room. The room turned out to be a mini-dormitory, with four beds in it. One of them had a suitcase under it, a bedroll carelessly rolled up, and a few clothes on a rack by the bed.

  Feluda glanced at these objects and said, ‘Lalmohan Babu, the sound of snoring doesn’t disturb your sleep, I hope?’

  ‘Why? You don’t snore.’

  ‘I’m not talking of myself. I mean our roommate.’

  ‘You mean you have deduced that the man snores just by looking at his clothes and his suitcase?’

  ‘No, I’m only making a guess. You see, usually it’s large men who tend to snore. The size of this man’s clothes suggests that his build isn’t slight. And look, on that shelf over there is a bottle of nasal drops. So perhaps the man gets a blocked nose occasionally. That increases the chances of snoring.’

  ‘My goodness! Is there anything else you’ve guessed about this man in these few seconds?’

  ‘Well, you’ll see that there isn’t a shaving kit in sight. So unless he’s hidden it somewhere, I’d say the fellow has a beard.’

  A few minutes later, the bearer brought us tea. We took our cups and came out on the balcony. The road to Dashashwamedh Ghat stretched before us.

  ‘If you were asked to leave Calcutta and come and settle here, do you think you could?’ Feluda asked me.

  I thought for a moment and said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘And yet, you’re quite excited to be here, aren’t you?’

  Feluda was right. I wouldn’t wish to spend my whole life in Banaras, but knowing that I would be spending only a little more than a week here, it seemed a very nice place to be in.

  ‘Do you know why you feel like this? It’s because you’re thinking of the ancient traditions we associate with Banaras. Kashi, Banaras, Varanasi—each name evokes a special feeling, doesn’t it? Not just because it’s considered a holy place, but also because of the age of the city. Every old building could tell a story of its own. To a newcomer, that is what counts, no matter how dirty or filthy the place might be. That is the magic of Varanasi.’