The Complete Adventures of Feluda Vol 1 by Satyajit Ray (z-lib.org)

‘Yes. The Doon Express was about to arrive. There were a lot of people here. I didn’t leave the room at all.’ ‘Perhaps you didn’t notice him again.’ ‘Well—all right, perhaps I didn’t.’ But the man looked as though what he really wanted to say was that if the sadhubaba had come out of the bathroom, he would certainly have seen him. If that was the case, where had the sadhu disappeared? We came out of the station. Here, too, stood a row of tongas. We got into one. I was beginning to look upon these contraptions with a new respect. The last one had taken exactly seven minutes and fifty-seven seconds to reach the station. I couldn’t help asking another question as we set off. ‘Did the sadhubaba simply vanish in the bathroom?’ ‘Yes, he might have done,’ said Feluda. ‘Sadhus and sannyasis in the olden days could disappear at will—or so I’ve heard.’ I knew he wasn’t serious, but he spoke with such a perfectly straight face that it was impossible to tell. A funny no ise g r eeted us as we r eached the main r o ad. It so unded like a band, and it was co ming closer. Bang, bang, twiddle-dee-dum! Then we saw it was a tonga like ours, with the difference that this one was decorated with artificial flowers, balloons and colourful flags. The music was coming from a loudspeaker, and a man wearing a fool’s cap was throwing great fistfuls of printed paper at people. ‘Advertisement for a Hindi film,’ Feluda said. He was right. I could see, as the other tonga went past us, that a brightly painted poster was pasted o n its side. The film was called Daku Mansoor. A co uple o f handbills landed in o ur to ng a, and with them, came a white sheet of paper, screwed into a ball. It hit against Feluda’s chest and fell on the floor. ‘I saw the man who threw it, Feluda,’ I yelled, ‘he was dressed like an Afghan. But—’ Before I could finish speaking, Feluda had picked up the piece of paper, clambered down and started to run in the man’s direction. I simply watched with amazement the speed at which he ran, despite jostling crowds, without colliding into anyone. The driver, by this time, had stopped the tonga. I could do nothing but wait. The music from the lo udspeaker had g r o wn faint, altho ug h a few ur chins wer e still busy co llecting the handbills. Feluda r etur ned a few mo ments later, panting . He jumped into the to ng a, g estur ed to the dr iver to star t, and said, ‘He managed to escape only because I wasn’t familiar with the little alleyways of this place!’ ‘Did you actually see him?’ I asked. ‘How could I have missed him when even you saw him?’ I said nothing more. If Feluda hadn’t already seen the man, I would have said that although he was dressed like one, the man was remarkably short for an Afghan. Feluda now took out the screwed-up piece of paper, smoothed it out and read its contents. Then he folded it three times and put it in his wallet. I did not dare ask what was written on it.

We r etur ned ho me to disco ver that Dhir u Kaka had co me back, and with him was Sr ivastava. T he latter did not appear to be too upset by the loss of his ring. ‘That ring had a jinx on it, I tell you,’ he said, ‘it caused trouble everywhere it went. You were lucky it was stolen in your absence. Suppose they had broken into your house at night? Suppose they had turned violent?’ Dhiru Kaka smiled at this. ‘That would have made more sense,’ he said. ‘This man simply made a fool of me. It is this that I find so hard to accept!’ ‘Stop worrying, Dhiru Babu. That ring would have gone, anyway, even if I didn’t part with it. And please don’t go to the police. That would make matters worse. Whoever it was might try to attack you again!’ All this while, Feluda was leafing through a copy of Life magazine. He now laid it aside, leant back in the sofa and asked, ‘Does Mahabir know about this ring?’ ‘You mean Pyarelal’s son?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, I don’t know for sure. He used to be in Doon School. Then he joined the military academy, but left it eventually and went off to Bombay. Now he’s become an actor, I believe.’ ‘Did Pyarelal approve of his son acting in films?’ ‘He never mentioned anything to me. But I know he was very fond of his son.’ ‘Was Mahabir in Lucknow when Pyarelal died?’ ‘No, he was in Bombay. He arrived as soon as he heard the news.’ Dhiru Kaka said, ‘Good heavens, Felu, you are asking questions like the police!’ ‘He’s an amateur detective, you see,’ Baba explained. ‘He has a positive . . . er. . . knack in these matters.’ Dr Srivastava looked at Feluda with undisguised surprise. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘very good indeed.’ Only Dhir u Kaka r emar ked, a little dr yly, I tho ug ht: ‘And the thief to o k so mething fr o m the ver y house where we have a detective staying! That is regrettable, isn’t it?’ Feluda made no comment. Instead, he turned to Srivastava and asked another question. ‘Is Mahabir earning enough from films?’ ‘I don’t know about that. He went to Bombay only two years ago.’ ‘He does have plenty of money, doesn’t he? I mean . . .’ ‘Yes. Pyarelal left him all his property. Acting in films is more or less just a pastime for him.’ ‘Hm,’ said Feluda and picked up the Life again. Srivastava suddenly looked at his watch and exclaimed, ‘My God, is that the time? I forgot all about my patient! Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me.’ Dhiru Kaka and Baba went out with him. Feluda dropped the magazine on a table and asked, ‘Where would you like to go—the moon or Mars?’ ‘At this moment,’ I replied, ‘I’d like to do just one thing.’ Feluda paid no attention to me. ‘I’ve just seen a picture of the surface of the moon in that magazine. It didn’t seem very interesting. I feel curious about Mars.’

I rose from my chair. ‘Feluda,’ I said, ‘what I am curious about is that piece of paper in your wallet.’ ‘Oh that! Here, look!’ He flicked the neatly fo lded paper to war ds me as tho ug h he was playing car r o m. I o pened it and found just two words: Watch Out! The wr iter had used a r ed liquid o f so me kind. It wasn’t ink. What co uld it be? Feluda must have guessed what I was thinking, for he said: ‘Sometimes, after a paan has been stuffed with masala, some of its juice overflows on to the stalk. Those words were written with the red juice from a paan.’ I brought the paper close to my nose. It smelt distinctly of paan. ‘But who could have written it?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Why should anyone tell you to watch out? You didn’t steal the ring!’ Feluda burst out laughing. ‘The culpr it do esn’t g et war ning s and thr eats, silly! They ar e g iven to the culpr it’s enemy. And a detective is always an enemy. So whoever chases a criminal has to risk his life!’ My hear t beat faster and my thr o at star ted to g o dr y. I swallo wed har d and said, ‘In that case, we should perhaps take some steps to protect ourselves.’ ‘And who told you I haven’t taken those steps already?’ said Feluda and took out a small round tin from his pocket. ‘Denticare,’ it said. Why, it was only a tin of toothpowder. I had seen my grandfather use it years ago. Surprised, I asked, ‘What would you do with tooth-powder, Feluda?’ ‘Don’t be silly! It’s not toothpowder.’ ‘What is it then?’ Feluda widened his eyes, stretched his neck and proclaimed proudly, ‘It’s Powdered Thunder!’

Five That night, after dinner, Feluda said suddenly, ‘Topshe, what do you make of all this?’ ‘All what?’ ‘Everything that’s happened so far.’ ‘Why, you should know! You’re the detective! Besides, how can I draw any conclusions until we find out who that sannyasi was?’ ‘But surely certain things are quite clear? For instance, the fact that the sannyasi went into the bathroom and didn’t come out. Now that is pretty revealing, isn’t it?’ ‘What does it reveal?’ ‘Can’t you figure that out?’ ‘Well, all it can mean is that the chowkidar wasn’t paying enough attention.’ ‘No, no, you ass!’ ‘What, then?’ ‘If the sannyasi had indeed come out, that chowkidar would definitely have seen him.’ ‘You mean he never did?’ ‘Do you remember what he was carrying?’ ‘Look, I wasn’t . . . oh yes, he had a small attaché case.’ ‘Have you ever seen a sannyasi with an attaché case?’ ‘No, can’t say I have.’ ‘Well, I think that’s distinctly suspicious.’ ‘What do you suspect?’ ‘That sannyasi was no more than a non-sannyasi just like you and me. And his normal clothes were in that attaché case. The saffron robe was a disguise. Possibly the beard was false, too.’ ‘Oh, I see. You mean he changed into different clothes, stuffed his robe into the case and came out looking totally different. No wonder the chowkidar couldn’t recognize him!’ ‘Yes, now you’re talking!’ ‘But who threw that piece of paper at you?’ ‘Either the fake sannyasi himself, or one of his men. He must have heard us making enquiries at the station, so he decided to give us a warning.’ ‘All right. But are there any more mysteries?’ ‘There is no end to them, my boy! Who followed Dr Srivastava in that black car? Who was watching us fr o m the g ate, smo king a Char minar and chewing a paan? Was it the same sannyasi, o r was it someone else? What “spy” did Pyarelal talk about? Why does Bonobihari Babu keep wild animals in his ho use? Wher e had Mahabir seen Bo no bihar i Babu befo r e? Ho w much do es he kno w about the ring?’

I lay awake that night, thinking these things over. Feluda was scribbling something in a blue notebook. Then he put it away and went to bed at half past ten. Soon, he was fast asleep. Drums beat in the distance. Oh yes, Ram Lila. I heard an animal at some stage—it might have been a dog or a jackal, but it sounded like a hyena. Why was Feluda puzzled by Bonobihari Babu’s wild animals? One didn’t always have to do things for a specific reason, did one? People had strange hobbies. So perhaps keeping wild animals was just a hobby for him? It’s difficult to tell when I fell asleep; nor can I tell what woke me. It was still dark. And everything was very quiet. The drums were silent, as were the animals. All I could hear was Feluda breathing heavily in his sleep next to me and the alarm clock ticking behind my head. Then my eyes fell on the window. Normally, I could see a fair bit of the starry sky through the open window. Tonight, something blocked most of it. As the last remnants of sleep cleared from my eyes, I realized with a shock what it was. A man was standing outside at the window, holding its bars, and staring into our room. My heart stood still. Yet, I couldn’t take my eyes off that figure. The room was utterly dark and the starlight outside was not good enough to see the man’s face. But I could make out that the lower half of his face was covered by a dark cloth. Now he put a hand through the bars in the window. But no, it wasn’t just his hand. He was holding a rod. A sweet, yet strong smell hit my nostrils. I was already breathless with fear. Now my limbs began to go numb. I tried to muster all my will power. Then slowly, without moving my body, I stretched out my left arm towards Feluda. He was still asleep. My eyes hadn’t moved from the window. The man was still holding the rod and that smell was getting stronger. I began to feel giddy. At this moment, my hand brushed against Feluda’s waist. I gave him a nudge. Feluda moved slightly and his bed creaked noisily with the movement. In that instant, the man vanished from the window. ‘Why are you poking at me?’ asked Feluda sleepily. I swallowed and tried to speak. ‘Window,’ I managed. ‘What abo ut the windo w? Who ’s . . . Go d, what’s that smell?’ Fully awake, Feluda jumped up and ran to the window. He stared out of it for a few moments, then turned back to me. ‘Tell me exactly what you saw.’ I was still finding it difficult to talk. ‘A man . .’ I croaked, ‘with a rod . . . inside . . . ‘Did he stretch the rod out into our room?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I see. He must have had chloroform dabbed on that rod. He wanted us to faint.’ ‘But why?’ ‘It could be a different thief. May be he thought the ring was still in our house. Never mind. Go back to sleep now, and please don’t tell you father or Dhiru Kaka about this. They’ll only get nervous and spoil all my work.’

The next morning, both Baba and Dhiru Kaka appeared more relaxed. The police had been informed and Inspector Gargari had already started working on the case. So it wasn’t likely that there would be any further problem. I sent up a silent prayer for Feluda. Dear God, don’t let the police win. Let it be Feluda who finds the ring. May the full credit go to him, not the police. Baba said, ‘I’m thinking of taking you out today to a few other places.’ We decided to leave after lunch. But before a final decision could be taken on where we should go, Bonobihari Babu turned up at the house. It was he who eventually settled the matter. ‘I had to come when I heard of the daylight robbery,’ he said. ‘If only you had a hound, Dhiru Babu, this wouldn’t have happened. A well-trained pedigree hound would have taken just five seconds to figure out what the sadhu’s intentions were. But what’s the use of offering you advice now? The damage is done! Never mind. Have one of these,’ he added, unwrapping the small packet he was carrying, ‘these are the best paan in Lucknow. Banaras is the only other place where you can find such good quality paan.’ I began to feel slightly uneasy. If Bonobihari Babu stayed for too long, our plans for the afternoon would be spoilt. But he asked at this point, ‘Are you planning to go out or will you stay in?’ Baba said, ‘Well, these fellows haven’t seen anything except the Imambara. So I was thinking of taking them somewhere else.’ ‘Haven’t you seen the Residency?’ Bonobihari Babu asked me. I shook my head. ‘Then allow me to show it to you. You won’t find a guide like me. I have a thorough knowledge of the Mutiny.’ Then he turned to Dhiru Kaka and said, ‘There is only one thing I’m feeling curious about. Where did you keep the ring? In a chest?’ ‘No, I haven’t got one in my house. The thief took it from my Godrej almirah. The key, of course, was in my pocket. He must have used a duplicate.’ ‘I believe he left the box behind?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Very strange! Was the box in a drawer?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you searched the drawer thoroughly, I presume?’ ‘Every inch of it.’ ‘You could check for fingerprints, couldn’t you? I mean, on the handle of the almirah and that little box . . . ?’ ‘That wouldn’t help. Both are full of my own fingerprints.’ Bo no bihar i Babu sho o k his head and said, ‘Pyar elal was a str ang e man. He didn’t even bo ther to have the ring insured. And the person he gave it to was just as foolish. However, I hope he’s now learnt a lesson.’ We didn’t get the chance to take a tonga this time. All of us got into Bonobihari Babu’s car. Feluda and I sat in the front. As we were passing through Clive Road, Bonobihari Babu asked us, ‘Did you ever think you’d get involved in such a mysterious event in Lucknow?’

I shook my head. Feluda chuckled. Baba spoke for him. ‘Felu is thrilled to be here,’ he said, ‘because he’s very interested in such things. He’s an amateur sleuth, you see.’ ‘Indeed?’ Bonobihari Babu sounded both surprised and pleased, ‘It’s an excellent way of exercising the brain. Well, Felu Babu, how far have you got?’ ‘I’ve only just started.’ ‘I don’t know what you’d call a mystery. But certainly I am mystified by many things.’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked Dhiru Kaka. ‘Well, ho w do yo u suppo se that sannyasi g o t ho ld o f a duplicate key? Besides, yo ur ho use wasn’t totally empty. How could he go into your bedroom knowing that the bearer and the cook were in the house? In any case, one little thing has always worried me.’ ‘What is that?’ ‘Did Pyarelal really give that ring to Dr Srivastava, or did Sri—?’ ‘What are you saying, Bonobihari Babu? Surely you don’t suspect poor Dr Srivastava!’ ‘Why not? Everyone is under suspicion until this matter gets cleared up. And that includes you and me. Isn’t that right, Felu Babu?’ ‘Certainly. We mustn’t forget that Dr Srivastava and that sadhu had both gone to our house that evening,’ said Feluda. ‘Exactly!’ Bonobihari Babu seemed to grow positively excited. Baba spoke a little haltingly. ‘But . . . if Srivastava had indeed used unfair means to get hold of that ring, why should he give it to us for safe keeping? And then why should he steal it again?’ Bonobihari Babu laughed out loud. ‘That’s simple! His house was burgled. So he got frightened and passed the ring on to you. But temptation didn’t leave him, so he stole it back, fooled the real thief and killed two birds with one stone!’ I began to feel quite confused. How could an amiable gentleman like Srivastava be a thief? Was Feluda in agreement with what had just been said? Or had his suspicion fallen on Dr Srivastava only after Bonobihari Babu began speaking? In fact, he hadn’t finished. ‘Srivastava is a nice enough man, I agree,’ Bonobihari Babu went on. ‘But just think for a minute—he’s built his own house, stuffed it with expensive furniture and he certainly lives in style. Now, how could he have done that? I mean, how much does he earn as an osteopath in a small town like Lucknow?’ Dhiru Kaka said, ‘Who knows, perhaps his father left him some money?’ ‘No. His father was just a clerk in a post office in Allahabad.’ At this point, Feluda suddenly asked something completely irrelevant. ‘Have you ever been bitten by any of your animals?’ ‘No, never.’ ‘What is that mark on your right wrist?’ ‘Oh ho ho—you do have sharp eyes, I must say! That mark normally stays hidden under my sleeve. It’s the result of fencing. My opponent’s sword scratched my wrist.’ The Residency was really worth seeing. It was a beautiful place—there were trees everywhere and, amidst them, a few broken old British houses, all built in the mid-nineteenth century. On the trees sat

lar g e g r o ups o f mo nkeys. Luckno w, I had hear d, was well kno wn fo r its mo nkeys. No w I co uld see for myself what these creatures could get up to. A few street-urchins were firing stones at the monkeys from their catapults. Bonobihari Babu went across and gave them a nasty earful. Then he returned to us and said, ‘I cannot stand cruelty to animals. Unfortunately, there’s plenty of it to be seen in our country.’ I had r ead abo ut the Sepo y Mutiny. Go ing thr o ug h the Residency made tho se events pass thr o ug h my mind like pictures on a screen. Bonobihari Babu, in the meantime, had begun his commentary. ‘During the time of the Mutiny, Lucknow was ruled by the Nawab. The British forces were all stationed in the Residency here. Henry Lawrence was their Commander-in-Chief. When trouble started, most of the other British men and women in Lucknow went and took refuge in a hospital. Sir Henry fought bravely, but was eventually killed by the sepoys. What happened to the British after that is obvious from the state of this building. If Sir Colin Campbell hadn’t arrived with reinforcements, heaven kno ws what g r eater ho r r o r s the Br itish in Luckno w wo uld have had to endur e . . . This was their billiard room. Just look what those cannon balls did to it!’ Baba and Dhiru Kaka had gone for a walk since they had both seen the Residency before. Only Feluda and I wer e inside, to tally eng r o ssed in what Bo no bihar i Babu was saying , and lo o king at the remains of the broken buildings, all built two hundred years ago. Suddenly, through a hole in the wall, something came flying in. It shot past Feluda’s ear, bumped against the opposite wall and fell on the ground with a thud. It turned out to be a stone. In the next instant, I saw Bonobihari Babu pull Feluda sharply to one side, just as another stone came in and fell on the floor. There was no doubt that both had been thrown with a catapult. Bonobihari Babu, despite his age, moved with remarkable agility. He jumped through a bigger gap in the wall and landed on the grass outside. Feluda and I joined him almost immediately. We all saw a bearded man running away. He was wearing a black coat and a red fez cap. Feluda rose to his feet without a word and ran after him. I was about to follow, but Bonobihari Babu pulled me back, saying: ‘You are still only a schoolboy, Tapesh. It’s better that you stay out of this.’ Feluda returned in a few minutes. ‘Did you catch him?’ asked Bonobihari Babu. ‘No,’ said Feluda, ‘I was too far behind. He got into a black Standard car and fled.’ ‘Scoundrel!’ Bonobihari Babu muttered. ‘Come on now, we’d better get out of here.’ A little later, we met Baba and Dhiru Kaka. ‘Why are you panting, Felu?’ Baba asked. ‘Perhaps he should give up being a sleuth,’ said Bonobihari Babu, ‘I think a goonda’s after him!’ Both Baba and Dhiru Kaka began to look rather alarmed when they heard our story. But, in the end, Bonobihari Babu laughed. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said, ‘I was only joking. Those stones were actually meant for me, not Felu. Didn’t you see me yell at those boys? It was simply their way of paying me back.’ Then he turned to Feluda and said, ‘Even so, Felu Babu, I would say that you really must be more careful. After all, you are young and new to this place. Why get involved in something that doesn’t concern you?’ Feluda remained silent. We began walking back to the car. ‘Was it really him they were trying to hit? Or was it you?’ I whispered to Feluda.

‘Do yo u think he’d have taken it so quietly if he was their tar g et? Wo uldn’t he have scr eamed the roof down—or what’s left of it?’ ‘I agree with you.’ ‘But I’ve got hold of one little thing. That man dropped it.’ Feluda took out a small black object from his pocket. It was a false moustache. One side still showed traces of gum. He put it back in his pocket and said, ‘Bonobihari Babu knows very well those stones had been thrown at me.’ ‘Then why didn’t he say so?’ ‘Well, either because he didn’t want us to get worried, or . . .’ ‘Or what?’ Feluda didn’t reply. Instead, he inclined his head, snapped his fingers and said, ‘The plot gets thicker and thicker, Topshe! You’re not to disturb me at all!’ He did not speak to me again that day. On returning home, he spent most of his time either pacing up and down in the garden or scribbling in his blue notebook. I took a quick look at what he’d written when he went out into the garden; but I couldn’t read a single word, for the script used was something I had never seen before.

Six Feluda got into the tonga and said to the driver: ‘Hazratganj.’ ‘Where is that?’ I asked. ‘It is the Chowringhee of Lucknow. There’s lots to see in this town, beside royal palaces. I want to look at the shops today.’ Yesterday, from the Residency, we had gone to Bonobihari Babu’s house for coffee, and taken a look at all the animals once more—the hyena, the rattle-snake, the spider, the wild cat and the scorpion. While having coffee in the living-room, Feluda had looked at a locked door and said to Bonobihari Babu, ‘I had noticed it was locked the last time we were here. Where does it lead to?’ ‘Oh yes—it’s just a spar e r o o m. I’ve kept it lo cked ever since I mo ved in. Didn’t want to take the trouble of having it cleaned, you see.’ ‘In that case, the padlock on it must have been recently changed—for it isn’t rusted at all.’ Bonobihari Babu’s smile did not falter, but he gave Feluda a very sharp look. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the old one got so rusty that I was obliged to change it.’ Baba changed the subject. ‘We were thinking of going to Haridwar and Laxmanjhoola,’ he said. Bonobihari Babu lit his pipe and blew out a pungent-smelling smoke. ‘When would you like to go?’ he asked. ‘If you leave the day after tomorrow, I can come with you. I told you about that twelve-foot python, didn’t I? I really must take a look at it. Besides, our sleuth has turned so active that it might be a good idea for all of us to go out of town for a while.’ Dhiru Kaka said, ‘I cannot do that quite so easily. But there’s no reason why the three of you can’t go. Felu and Tapesh mustn’t go back without having seen Laxmanjhoola.’ ‘If you come with me,’ said Bonobihari Babu, ‘I can arrange for you to stay at a dharamshala I know; and get a car to take you to Laxmanjhoola from Haridwar. I know a lot of people there. Now you must decide what you want to do.’ We decided to go with Bonobihari Babu on Friday, which was the day after tomorrow. Even a couple of days ago, I would have been quite pleased to have Bonobihari Babu accompany us. But the incident at the Residency had made me feel doubtful about the man. But Feluda didn’t seem to mind, so I told myself not to worry. This morning, Feluda said, ‘I’ve run out of razor blades. Let’s go and get some.’ And so we were out in a tonga, going to Hazratganj. Apparently, you could get anything you wanted in Hazratganj. Feluda had been totally silent since yesterday regarding the matter of the ring. When he had gone fo r his bath this mo r ning , I had tr ied to r ead his scr ibbles o nce mo r e, but they still didn’t make any sense. One or two letters appeared to be English, but the rest were all totally strange.

Sitting beside him in the to ng a, I co uldn’t co ntain my cur io sity any lo ng er, and to ld him what I’d done. He was furious at first. ‘What you’ve done is despicable!’ he said sternly. ‘Why, one could call you a criminal!’ Then he relented a little. ‘You could never read those words,’ he said more amiably, ‘because you don’t know the script.’ ‘What script is it?’ ‘Greek.’ ‘And the language? Is that Greek, too?’ ‘No, it’s English.’ ‘Where did you learn to write in Greek?’ ‘A lo ng time ag o , when I had just jo ined co lleg e. So me o f tho se letter s, o f co ur se, I had lear nt in my maths class. Yo u kno w, thing s like alpha, beta, g amma, delta, mu, pi, upsilo n. I lear nt the o ther s fr o m the Encyclo paedia Br itannica. If yo u wr ite so mething in Eng lish using Gr eek letter s, it so unds like a code. No one could possibly make any sense of it!’ ‘How would you spell Lucknow in Greek?’ ‘Lambda upsilon kappa nu omicron upsilon. The letters “c” and “w” do not exist in Greek, so the spelling would be LUKNOU.’ ‘And how would you spell Calcutta?’ ‘Kappa alpha lambda kappa upsilon tau tau alpha.’ ‘Good heavens—it would take an hour to spell just three words!’ Hazratganj wasn’t exactly Chowringhee, but it had some nice shops. We paid the tonga off and began walking. ‘Look, Feluda, there’s a stationery shop. They’ll have blades.’ ‘Wait. There’s something else I need to do.’ Feluda suddenly sto pped befo r e a sho p. ‘Malkani & Co ., Antique & Cur io Dealer s’, its sig nbo ar d proclaimed in large letters. One lo o k at the sho wcase o utside to ld me it was a sho p that so ld o ld thing s. Inside, it was packed with ancient jewellery, carpets, clocks, furniture, chandeliers, framed photographs and heaven knows what else. A silver-haired gentleman in gold-framed glasses came forward to greet us. ‘Do you have any jewellery dating back to the Mughal times?’ ‘No, I’m afraid not. But I could show you shields and armours of that period. Will that do?’ Feluda picked up an attardaan (perfume container) and turned it in his hand. ‘I had seen some old jewellery in Pyarela’s house,’ he remarked casually. ‘He was a regular customer here, wasn’t he?’ The man seemed taken aback. ‘Who? Which Pyarelal are you talking about?’ ‘Pyarelal Seth. The one who died a few months ago?’ Mr Malkani shook his head and said, ‘No, he never bought anything from us, although ours is the biggest shop of this kind in Lucknow.’ ‘I see. In that case he must have bought those things in Calcutta.’ ‘Probably.’

‘Who are your biggest buyers here?’ It was obvious from Mr Malkani’s expression that he didn’t have too many big buyers. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘to ur ists fr o m abr o ad so metimes buy thing s fr o m us at a g o o d pr ice. Amo ng the locals is Mr Mehta who buys a few things occasionally; and there’s Mr Pestonji, who’s one of my oldest customers. He bought a real Persian carpet only the other day for three thousand rupees.’ Feluda suddenly pointed at a barge and asked, ‘Isn’t that from Bengal?’ ‘Yes, Murshidabad.’ ‘Just look at it, Topshe. Isn’t it beautiful?’ It was. Made of ivory, it was perfect in every detail. A nawab sat on its roof under a canopy, smoking from a hubble-bubble, courtiers sat by his side and, before him, stood a group of musicians and dancer s. Sixteen o ar smen wer e r o wing and o ne man sat at the r udder. Besides these, ther e wer e guards and messengers and every other personage necessary in a royal entourage. I couldn’t take my eyes away. ‘Where did you get that?’ Feluda asked. ‘Mr Sarkar sold it to me.’ ‘Which Mr Sarkar?’ ‘Mr B. Sarkar who lives in Badshah Nagar. He, too, has occasionally bought a few things from me. He’s got a good collection.’ ‘I see. Well, all right then. You’ve got a nice little shop here. I’m glad to have seen it. Thank you.’ ‘Good day, sir.’ We came out of the shop. ‘That means Bonobihari Sarkar frequents these shops,’ said Feluda. ‘I had had my suspicions all along.’ ‘But he said he wasn’t interested in such things!’ ‘If he wasn’t, how could he tell at one glance whether a stone was real or fake?’ A shop called The Empire Book Stall was next door to Malkani & Co. Feluda wanted to buy a book on Haridwar and Laxmanjhoola. So we went in, and found Pyarelal’s son, Mahabir. Feluda whispered softly, ‘I can see he’s buying a book on cricket. Very good.’ Mahabir was standing with his back to us. Feluda went up to the man behind the co unter and said, ‘Do you have anything by Neville Cardus?’ Mahabir spun round immediately. I knew Cardus had written some very good books on cricket. ‘Are you looking for a particular book?’ asked the bookseller. ‘Yes, the one called Centuries.’ ‘No, I’m afraid we don’t have that one. Shall I show you some other book?’ Mahabir came forward with a smile. ‘Are you a cricket enthusiast?’ he asked. ‘Yes. So, apparently, are you!’ Feluda replied. Mahabir looked at the book he was holding. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I had ordered this one. It’s Bradman’s autobiography.’ ‘Oh, I see. I’ve read that one. A brilliant book!’ ‘Who do yo u think was a g r eater cr icketer —Ranji o r Br adman?’ So o n, bo th wer e invo lved in an animated discussion. After a few minutes, Mahabir said, ‘The Kwality restaurant isn’t far from here. Why don’t we sit down and have a cup of tea?’

Feluda agreed. The three of us trooped into the restaurant. I ordered a Coca-Cola and the others asked for tea. ‘Do you play yourself?’ Mahabir asked. ‘I used to,’ Feluda said. ‘I have played here in Lucknow. How about you?’ ‘I was in the first eleven at the Doon School. My father, too, was a good player in school.’ A shadow passed over his face. Feluda began pouring the tea. ‘You must have heard about the ring,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ Mahabir replied. ‘I went to visit Dr Srivastava. He told me.’ ‘Did you know your father had that ring and that he wanted to give it to Dr Srivastava?’ ‘My father had told me a long time ago that he wanted to give something of value to Srivastava for making me well. I did not come to know what it was until after his death. Dr Srivastava himself told me.’ Then he looked straight at Feluda. ‘Why are you taking such an interest?’ Feluda smiled. ‘It’s . . . just a sort of hobby.’ Mahabir sipped his tea and said nothing. ‘Who else is there in your house?’ Feluda asked quietly. ‘An old aunt and some servants.’ ‘Have they been with you for some time?’ ‘All from even before I was born. Pritam Singh, our bearer, was with my father in Calcutta, thirty- five years ago.’ ‘Did your father have any other articles like that ring?’ ‘I do n’t kno w. In fact, I had quite fo r g o tten abo ut this inter est my father had. He beg an co llecting antiques when I was very small. I opened an old chest only the other day. There were some other things of that period, but none as valuable as the ring.’ I sipped my Coca-Cola through a straw. Mahabir paused, then lowered his voice. ‘Pritam Singh told me something rather strange.’ Feluda waited for him to continue. Mahabir looked around carefully and leant forward, still speaking softly. ‘He said he had heard my father scream that morning before he had his second attack.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘Pritam Singh didn’t, at first, pay much attention since my father used to suffer from backache, and often cried out in pain while rising from a chair or his bed. Yet, he would never allow anyone to help him up. Pritam Singh thought it was his backache that was bothering him again that morning. But now he says he might have been mistaken because apparently my father had screamed very loudly.’ ‘Do yo u happen to kno w if anyo ne had visited yo ur father that day? Can Pr itam Sing h r emember anything?’ ‘That’s something I’ve already asked him, but he cannot say anything definitely. Father did o ccasio nally have visito r s in the mo r ning , but Pr itam can’t no w r ecall whether anyo ne in par ticular had visited him that day. When he eventually went into my father ’s room, he found him in pretty bad shape; but he was alone. Pritam then rang Dr Srivastava as the doctor who normally treated Father— Dr Graham—was away in Allahabad, attending a conference.’

‘And what about the spy?’ ‘Spy? What spy?’ Mahabir sounded profoundly startled. ‘Oh, clearly you haven’t heard this one. Your father had started to tell Dr Srivastava about a spy, but died before he could finish speaking.’ Mahabir shook his head, ‘I had no idea. And I cannot imagine what my father could possibly have had to do with a spy!’ I had just finished my drink and twisted the straw when I noticed a tall and hefty man having tea at the next table, staring at us. He rose and came forward as he caught my eye. ‘Namaskaar,’ he said to Feluda, ‘hope you remember me?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ I hadn’t recognized him at first, but now I could. We had seen this man in Bonobihari Babu’s house. He was supposed to be in charge of the zoo. Today, he had a piece of cotton stuck on his chin, held in place by two strips of sticking plaster. Perhaps he had cut himself while shaving. ‘Do sit down,’ Feluda invited. ‘Meet Mahabir Seth. This is Ganesh Guha.’ Now I noticed a scratch on his neck, although it was clearly an old one. ‘What happened to your chin?’ asked Feluda. Ganesh Babu picked up his cup fr o m the next table and jo ined us. ‘Do n’t r emind me!’ he winced. ‘I’m surprised my whole body hasn’t been torn apart. You know about my job, don’t you?’ ‘Yes. But I thought it was a job you’d taken on willingly.’ ‘You’re joking! I do it because I have to—simply for the money. I was once the keeper of a tiger in a circus. But that tiger was drugged most of the time. I tell you, compared to the animals I handle in Bonobihari Babu’s zoo, that tiger was little more than a baby! The wild cat clawed me the other day, and now the hyena slaps me on the chin! I couldn’t take it any more. So I told Mr Sarkar this morning I had made up my mind. I want to go back to that circus. He agreed to let me go.’ ‘What!’ Feluda sounded surprised. ‘You’ve given up your job? Why, we were at your zoo only yesterday!’ ‘Yes, I know. And no doubt many other people would like to go and visit my zoo. But I am clearing out! I’ll go straight to the station from here and buy myself a ticket to Howrah. Then I’ll soon be home, away from it all. The thing is—’ he stooped and spoke into Feluda’s ear, ‘That man is not . . . as straightforward as he might seem.’ ‘You mean Bonobihari Babu?’ ‘He was all right, I guess, until he laid his hands on something. Then he lost his head.’ ‘What thing?’ ‘No, I’ve already said too much!’ Ganesh Guha dropped a few coins on the next table and disappeared. Feluda turned to Mahabir and said, ‘Have you ever seen Bonobihari Babu’s zoo?’ ‘No. I’d have liked to have seen it, but my father was dead against the idea. He hated the kind of animals that zoo is reported to be filled with. In fact, the sight of a cockroach would have given him palpitations! But now . . . yes, I think I’ll go and see it.’ Mahabir snapped his fingers at a waiter. Feluda had already offered to pay, but Mahabir would not let him. Well, I thought to myself, a film actor was supposed to make a lot of money. So paying for a

cup of tea and a cold drink couldn’t hurt him much. After paying the bill, he took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to Feluda. I noticed they were Charminars. ‘How long are you here for?’ he asked. ‘Tomorrow we’re going to Haridwar for a couple of days, but after that we’re here until next month.’ ‘Are you all going to Haridwar?’ ‘No, Dhiru Kaka cannot get away. So we three are going, and possibly Bonobihari Babu. He’s going to look for a python in Laxmanjhoola.’ We went out of the restaurant. ‘I have a car,’ Mahabir offered, ‘I could give you a lift.’ ‘No, thanks,’ said Feluda. ‘We can ride in a motor car any time in Calcutta. A tonga is a new experience, and an enjoyable one!’ Mahabir took Feluda’s hand and clasped it warmly. ‘It really was a pleasure to meet you,’ he said. ‘Let me tell yo u just o ne thing —if I g et evidence that my father did no t die a natur al death and that someone was responsible for it, I will not rest until I have tracked down the criminal and settled scores with him. I may be young, but I did spend four years in the Military Academy. I have a licensed revolver, and I am a crack shot . . . good-bye!’ He crossed the road, got into his black Standard and drove off. Feluda simply said, ‘Bravo!’ Yes, the plot had certainly thickened. There appeared to be a puzzle within a puzzle, a maze within a maze. We began walking in search of a tonga. Feluda didn’t really need blades, I realized.

Seven We had to take the Doon Express to get to Haridwar. It left Lucknow in the evening and reached Haridwar at 4.30 a.m. When Baba had mentioned a possible visit to Haridwar before we left Calcutta, I had been pleased. Puri was the only holy place I had seen. So the thought of seeing another was quite exciting. But now, after all this hullabaloo over the stolen ring, I did not feel like leaving Lucknow. Feluda, however, had not lost his enthusiasm. ‘You’ll see how interesting it is to go from Haridwar to Hr ishikesh and then to Laxmanjho o la. The r iver is differ ent in each place. The fur ther no r th yo u go, the stronger it gets. In Laxmanjhoola, it gushes with such powerful turbulence that it’s practically impossible to have a conversation by its side.’ ‘Have you been to all these places?’ ‘Yes, I went to all three after my last visit to Lucknow.’ Dhiru Kaka himself drove us to the station. Almost as soon as we had moved into our coach with our baggage, Dr Srivastava turned up. Nice of him to have come to see us off. But no, a coolie was carrying his suitcase! We stared at him. ‘I had asked Dhiru Babu not to tell,’ Dr Srivastava laughed, as the coolie put the suitcase down. ‘He knew I wanted to go with you. Gave you a surprise, didn’t I?’ Baba seemed very pleased. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d be able to come away, or I’d have asked you myself.’ Srivastava dusted one corner of a seat and sat down. ‘To tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘I’ve tried not to show it, but I have been upset by the loss of Pyarelal’s gift. So I thought, getting away from it all might do me some good.’ Bonobihari Babu arrived within five minutes, with rather a lot of luggage. He greeted everyone with a smile and said, ‘Stand by now for a spectacular event. Pavitrananda Swami is travelling in this train. His followers are coming to bid him farewell. Witness their devotion!’ A plump, saffr o n-clad fig ur e ar r ived a little later, lo ng hair flo wing do wn his sho ulder s. He was accompanied by dozens of people with garlands in their hands. He got into the first-class coach next to ours. A few others crowded round the doorway. Presumably, all these were his devotees. There were just five minutes left before the train’s departure. We had all climbed into our own carriage. Dhiru Kaka was standing on the platform, chatting with Baba through an open window, when o ne o f the men in saffr o n detached himself fr o m the g r o up and came walking to war ds Dhir u Kaka, a big smile on his face, his arm outstretched. ‘Dhiru? Do you remember me?’ Dhir u Kaka star ed dumbly fo r a few seco nds, then with a sho ut o f jo y str o de fo r war d and near ly hugged the other man. ‘Ambika! Is it really you? Goodness—why are you wearing these clothes?’

‘Why, I’ve been in saffron now for seven years!’ Dhiru Kaka introduced him. ‘Ambika and I were classmates in school. We last met each other about fifteen years ago.’ The guard blew his whistle. The wheels creaked into motion and we heard Ambika Babu tell his friend, ‘I went to your house the other day. You weren’t in, so I waited for nearly half-an-hour. Didn’t your bearer tell you?’ We couldn’t hear what Dhiru Kaka said in reply, for the train had gathered speed. Amazed, I looked first at Feluda, and then at Baba. Feluda’s brows were knitted in a deep frown. ‘Very strange!’ Baba said. ‘Had you been suspecting that gentleman of having stolen the ring?’ asked Bonobihari Babu. ‘Yes, but obviously that must now be ruled out. But then who took the ring? Where did it go?’ The train clanked out of the platform. I stared with unseeing eyes at the minarets on top of the statio n. They wer e beautiful, but I was in no mo o d to admir e them. All my tho ug hts wer e co nfused. What was Feluda thinking? Was he feeling a little embarrassed? After all, he had run all the way to the station to trace the sadhubaba. But if the man we just saw talking with Dhiru Kaka was a perfectly genuine sannyasi, who was that other man with an attaché case? Had he been loitering outside Dhiru Kaka’s house the same evening? If so, was it because he knew about the ring, or was there a different reason? And who had thrown that piece of paper at Feluda with ‘Watch Out!’ written on it? Was Feluda asking himself the same questions? I looked at him again and found him deeply engrossed in reading his blue notebook with the Greek scribbles and, occasionally, making further notes. Bo no bihar i Babu suddenly tur ned to Dr Sr ivastava and asked, ‘Tell me, Do cto r, wer e yo u the last person to see Pyarelal alive?’ Dr Srivastava was in the process of taking out oranges from a bag. ‘Yes,’ he replied, offering them to everyone, ‘I was certainly by his bedside when he died. So were his widowed sister, his bearer and another servant.’ ‘Hm,’ Bonobihari Babu said gravely. ‘Were you informed after he suffered the attack?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you treat ailments of the heart as well?’ ‘Ther e is no r easo n why an o steo path canno t lo o k at a hear t patient, if need be. Besides, his o wn doctor—Dr Graham—was out of town that day. So they called me.’ ‘Who did?’ ‘His bearer.’ ‘Bearer?’ Bonobihari Babu raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes. Pritam Singh. He’s been with the family for years. A very sensible and trustworthy man.’ Bonobihari Babu took the pipe out of his mouth and popped a piece of orange into it. ‘Yo u to ld us Pyar elal g ave yo u that r ing after his fir st attack. When he had his seco nd, yo u wer e called, but he died.’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘Was anyone else present in the room when you were given that ring?’

‘How could that be, Bonobihari Babu? One doesn’t give away precious and valuable things in front of an audience. Besides, you know what kind of a man Pyarelal was. He would never have wanted to publicize a noble deed. Do you know how many charities he supported secretly? He donated very heavily to hospitals and orphanages, yet it was never reported in the press. He wouldn’t allow it!’ ‘Hm.’ Srivastava stared at Bonobihari Babu. ‘Do you have . . . reservations about what I’ve just said?’ he asked. ‘The thing is, you see,’ said Bonobihari Babu, ‘I do think it would’ve been sensible if you had got someone to witness the event. Such a valuable object changed hands, and yet no one can testify . . .’ Srivastava was still staring, speechless. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Tr emendo us!’ he exclaimed. ‘This r eally takes the cake. What yo u’r e implying is that I sto le the ring from Pyarelal, then I gave it to Dhiru Babu, and then I went along and stole in back! Wonderful!’ The expression on Bonobihari Babu’s face did not change. ‘You acted sensibly,’ he said coolly, ‘I would’ve done the same. You took the ring over to Dhiru Babu to keep it safe from the burglar who had broken into your house. Then you took it back and thought the burglars wouldn’t attack your house again. Tell me, Felu Babu, I am not too bad at detection, am I?’ Feluda shut his notebook and began peeling an orange. ‘Surely,’ he asked, ‘there are plenty of witnesses to testify that Dr Srivastava did indeed save Mahabir ’s life?’ ‘Yes, there probably are,’ Bonobihari Babu had to admit. ‘In that case, it is my belief that no matter how valuable that ring was, its value could not have been more than that of a child’s life. If Dr Srivastava did steal that ring, he is certainly an offender. But those who are now after it are real criminals; and dangerous ones, at that.’ ‘I see,’ Bo no bihar i Babu said g r avely, ‘yo u do n’t believe that Sr ivastava has still g o t the r ing , do you?’ ‘No, I don’t, because I have evidence to the contrary.’ Everyone in the coach was silent. I stared at Feluda. Bonobihari Babu was the first to speak. ‘May I ask what evidence it is?’ ‘Yes, you certainly may, but you won’t get an answer, for the right time to discuss it hasn’t yet come.’ I had never heard Feluda speak with such authority. Bonobihari Babu spoke again, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, ‘Let’s hope I live to see the day!’ ‘It shouldn’t take long,’ Feluda said. ‘There is only that matter of the spy to be cleared up.’ ‘Spy?’ asked Bonobihari Babu, surprised. ‘What spy?’ Dr Srivastava spoke this time. ‘I think Felu Babu is referring to Pyarelal’s last words. Just before he died, he did say the word “spy”. In fact, he said it twice.’ Bonobihari Babu’s frown went deeper. ‘Strange! A spy in Lucknow?’ Then, pipe in hand, he stared at the floor. ‘Yes, it could be . . . I did suspect . . .’ he muttered. ‘What?’

‘No, never mind. I may be wrong.’ Clear ly he did no t wish to talk abo ut it. In any case, we had r eached Har do i, so o ur co nver satio n came to a halt. ‘A cup of tea might be a good idea,’ said Feluda and went down on to the platform. I joined him for I couldn’t see the point in sitting inside a train when it was standing at a station. Just as I climbed down from our coach, another man in saffron clothes turned up from somewhere and got in. ‘This is reserved,’ said Bonobihari Babu quickly, ‘there’s no room.’ ‘Please, sir,’ pleaded the man, ‘allo w me to tr avel up to Bar eilly. Then I’ll g o elsewher e. I wo n’t disturb you at night.’ Rather reluctantly, Bonobihari Babu made room for him to sit. ‘These sannyasis will drive me mad,’ said Feluda, waving at the chaiwalla. The man with the tea came running. ‘Would you like some?’ ‘Yes, why not?’ Feluda asked the others, but they all declined. I was soon handed an earthen pot, filled with hot, steaming tea. I shifted it from one hand to the other, waiting for it to cool, and said, ‘If Dr Srivastava turns out to be the thief, I shall be very upset.’ ‘Why?’ Feluda asked, casually sipping the hot tea. ‘Because I like him—he seems such a nice man!’ ‘You’re a fathead! Haven’t you read whodunits? The person who appears to be the least suspicious always turns out to be the culprit.’ ‘But this is not a story.’ ‘So what? Don’t writers base their stories on what they see in real life?’ This annoyed me very much. ‘In that case,’ I asked, ‘when Dr Srivastava came to our house with the ring, who was watching him from the gate and smoking a Charminar?’ ‘That might have been the burglar—or his accomplice.’ ‘You mean to say, Srivastava is a criminal and so are the burglars, which would make everyone a villain because Ganesh Guha said Bonobihari Babu wasn’t simple, either!’ Feluda took another sip. But before he could reply, another screwed up piece of paper came flying, hit him on the forehead and fell into his earthen pot. Feluda retrieved it instantly, scanned it and glanced at the crowd on the platform. Then we heard the guard’s whistle. There was no time now to look for the person who threw it. Before getting back to our compartment, Feluda looked once more at what was written on the paper and showed it to me before screwing it up again and throwing it away on the track. It said: ‘Watch Out!’ and the words were written with the same red juice of a paan. The thrilling and mysterious affair of the Emperor ’s ring had not been left behind in Lucknow at all. It was travelling with us.

Eight It was getting dark. The lights in the train had just come on. We were speeding on our way to Bareilly. There were seven people in all. Feluda and I had one berth, Baba and Srivastava had another and on the third sat Bonobihari Babu and the sannyasi. Bonobihari Babu had placed a large trunk and a wo o den packing cr ate o n the bunk o ver the ber th Baba and Sr ivastava wer e shar ing . A str ang er was sleeping in the berth over mine. He was all wrapped up in a sheet. All I could see were his toes. He had not stirred since we left Lucknow. I looked around. Bonobihari Babu was sitting crosslegged, smoking his pipe, Srivastava was reading the Gitanjali, and Baba looked as though he was trying very hard to keep awake. He kept rubbing his eyes as he tried to sit up straight. The sannyasi didn’t seem interested in us at all. He was turning the pages of a Hindi newspaper. Feluda was singing a song in Urdu, tapping his feet to the rhythm of the wheels: Jab chhor chaley Lucknow nagari Kahen haal ke hum par kya guzri. He hummed the rest of it. I could tell he didn’t know the words beyond the first two lines. Bonobihari Babu spoke unexpectedly. ‘How do you happen to know this song of Wajid Ali Shah?’ ‘An uncle of mine used to sing it,’ Feluda replied. ‘He was a very talented thumri singer.’ Bonobihari Babu inhaled deeply, stared out at the red western sky and said, ‘Nawab Wajid Ali Shah was an amazing man. He was both a singer and a composer. He composed the first Indian opera— very much in the style of Western operas. But he was not a warrior. So the British took Lucknow, and the Nawab left for Bengal. His last days were spent in Matiaburuz, where all the Muslim tailors of Calcutta now live. What was most interesting was that Wajid Ali got together with Rajen Mullik, who was well known for his wealth, and planned the first zoo in Calcutta.’ He rose to his feet and opened his trunk. Then he took out a tape-recorder. ‘Allow me to play some of my favourite music,’ he said. He lifted the top and pressed a key. Something inside the recorder began whirring. ‘If you really wish to enjoy this music, look out of the window.’ I did. In the quickly gathering dusk, I saw a whole jungle rush past our window, and from its depths came the harsh cry of a wild cat. Or so it seemed. ‘I have kept the volume low,’ said Bonobihari Babu, ‘so it would seem as though the sound was coming from afar.’ The cat was followed by the hyena. It was fascinating. The train was tearing through a jungle, and it seemed as though the hyena’s laugh was coming from outside, echoing through the trees. Then came

a different sound. ‘Kir-r-r-r-r-r-r kit kit! Kir-r-r-r-r-r-r kit kit!’ My heart beat faster. Even the sannyasi had sat up and was listening intently. ‘Rattle-snake,’ Bonobihari Babu explained. ‘That noise might frighten you, but the snake makes it simply to let the other animals know of its existence, so that it doesn’t get trampled on.’ ‘You mean it wouldn’t normally attack man?’ Baba asked. ‘No, not normally. But then, nor would any other snake. But if it was cornered or provoked, most certainly it would turn aggressive. For instance, if it was held captive in a small room and you happened to be in it, I’d say your chances of being attacked would be pretty strong. There is one other thing. These snakes can see in the dark.’ He switched the recorder off, and said, ‘Unfortunately, the other inmates of my zoo are not r epr esented her e. Two o f them—the spider and the sco r pio n—ar e, o f co ur se, to tally silent. No w if I get that python, I’m going to record its hiss.’ ‘It felt weird to hear those sounds,’ said Baba. ‘Yes, it must have done. But it is different for me, you see. What you just heard, to my ears, is sweeter than music. Since I cannot take my animals with me when I travel, I carry their voices—so to speak.’ The train pulled in at Bareilly. A waiter came in with our dinner, and the sannyasi left. Having finished what was on his own plate, Feluda coolly helped himself to a leg of chicken from mine. ‘Chicken is good for the brain when it’s being exercised so much,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I see. And am I not exercising my brain?’ ‘No. For you the whole thing’s no more than a game.’ ‘So where have you got to, with all your brain power?’ Feluda lowered his voice, so that only I could hear what he said. ‘I have got an idea which spy Pyarelal had tried to talk about.’ He refused to say any more. The train left Bareilly. ‘We have to get up at four in the morning,’ said Baba. ‘It’s time for bed, I think.’ Bonobihari Babu switched the lights off. ‘I shan’t sleep,’ he said. ‘But rest assured, I’ll wake you before we get to Haridwar.’ I stretched out on one half of our berth, leaving the other for Feluda. Looking out of the window, I could see the moon. It seemed to be travelling with us. What wer e we g o ing to do in Har idwar ? The mo o n, fo r so me o dd r easo n, made me think. Ther e was plenty to see in Haridwar, I knew. But if we came away simply after a look at the Ganges and the temples, it would all be rather tame. Something had to happen. I wanted something exciting to happen. The train was making such a racket. How could anyone sleep in this? But, of course, people did. It was strange. If, at home, there was a constant clanking noise and someone kept shaking my bed, would I ever be able to sleep a wink? I had to ask Feluda. ‘If a particular noise goes on for a long time,’ he replied, ‘the ears get used to it; so after a point, it doesn’t disturb. And the rocking actually helps one to sleep. Haven’t you seen babies being rocked to

sleep? As a matter of fact, if the noise or the movement stopped, you’d wake instantly, which is why, very often, one wakes when a train stops at a station.’ Feluda was r ig ht. So o n, my eyes g r ew heavy with sleep and I beg an to see thing s. Fo r a minute, I thought the man who was sleeping on the upper berth climbed down and moved around in the co mpar tment. Then I hear d a laug h—it co uld have been a man o r a hyena. But ther e was no time to think for I was lost in the Bhoolbhulaia, going crazy trying to find my way out. Each time I turned a corner, there was a huge spider blocking my way and staring at me through green, luminescent eyes. Then it lifted one of its large hairy legs and laid it on my shoulder. At that moment, I opened my eyes and found Feluda shaking me by the shoulder. ‘Get up, Topshe. Here’s Haridwar!’

Nine ‘Panda? Would you like a panda?’ ‘May I have your name, babu? Where are you from?’ ‘This way, babu. Which dharamshala are you booked at?’ ‘You will go to the temple of Baba Daksheshwar, won’t you?’ I had no idea the group of pandas waiting on the platform would surround us like this, even though Feluda had warned me of the possibility. These pandas apparently kept huge ledgers that held records of one’s ancestors—those who had visited Haridwar, that is—going back several hundred years. My g r eat-g r eat-g r andfather was suppo sed to have left ho me to beco me a sannyasi. He had spent a lo ng time in Har idwar. Per haps o ne o f tho se ledg er s co ntained his name and addr ess, o r maybe even his handwriting? Who could tell? ‘There is no need for a panda,’ said Bonobihari Babu, ‘that would only add to the confusion. Let’s go to Sheetal Das’s dharamshala. I know the place. We could be together, and the food’s not too bad. It’s just a matter of one night, anyway. Tomorrow we leave for Hrishikesh and Laxmanjhoola.’ A coolie picked up our luggage. We came out of the station and hired three tongas. Feluda and I got into one, Baba and Dr Srivastava got into another and Bonobihari Babu took the third. It was still dark. ‘A holy place,’ said Feluda, ‘is always dirty. But once you’re by the river, it feels quite pleasant.’ Our tonga rattled along the lanes of Haridwar. Not a single shop was open yet. There were men sleeping on string beds by the roadside wrapped in blankets. Kerosene lamps flickered here and there. A few o ld men went past, metal po ts in hand. They wer e g o ing to the r iver, Feluda explained. They wo uld stand immer sed in waist-deep water and wait fo r sunr ise, chanting hymns to welco me a new day. The rest of the town was still asleep. Bonobihari Babu’s tonga was leading us. It stopped in front of a white single-storeyed house, with large pillars. This clearly, was Sheetal Das’s dharamshala. There was a courtyard as we went in through the gate. Corridors ran round its sides and the rooms stood in neat rows. A man from the dharamshala came out and took our luggage in. We were about to follow him through a door when another tonga came and stopped at the front gate. The sadhu who had travelled with us up to Bareilly climbed down from it. I tugged at Feluda’s sleeve. ‘Look, it’s the same man! The one in the train . . .’ Feluda gave the man a sidelong glance and said, ‘Do you mean to say even this man is a suspect?’ ‘Well, this is the second time . . .’ ‘Sh-h-h. Not a word. Let’s go in.’

Baba, Feluda and I wer e g iven o ne r o o m. Ther e wer e fo ur beds in it. The o ccupant o f the fo ur th bed was fast asleep. Bonobihari Babu and Dr Srivastava were given the room next to ours. The sadhu joined them. By the time all o f us had had a wash and tea had been o r der ed, it was fair ly br ig ht. A number o f people were now awake and the whole place had become quite noisy. I now realized what a wide variety of people were staying at the dharamshala. There were Bengalis, Marwaris, people from Uttar Pradesh, Gujaratis, Maharashtrians—all contributing equally to the general cacophony. ‘Are you thinking of going out?’ asked Baba. ‘Yes, I’d like to go to the river,’ Feluda said. ‘All right. I’m going with Bonobihari Babu to arrange two taxis for tomorrow. And if you’re g o ing anywher e near a mar ket, g et an Ever eady to r ch. After all, this is no t a place like Luckno w. A torch may come in handy.’ We left. Feluda said the place was too small for a tonga ride. It was better to walk. I so o n beg an to feel the differ ence in temper atur e. Har idwar was definitely co o ler than Luckno w and, possibly because it was so close to a river, covered by a misty haze. ‘It’s more smoke than mist,’ Feluda said, ‘the smoke comes from angeethees.’ We stopped to ask our way a little later. ‘Half a mile from here,’ we were told. A different cacophony greeted us from a distance even before we reached the river. It turned out to be groups of bathers. Besides, hawkers and beggars lined the path running to the river bank, and they were no less noisy. We pushed through the crowd and made our way to the steps that led to the edge of the water. The scene that met my eyes was o ne I have never witnessed since. It was as tho ug h a car nival was being held by the riverside. Bells pealed within a temple that stood by the steps. A Vaishnav sat singing a bhajan near the temple, sur r o unded by a g r o up o f o ld men and wo men. Co ws, g o ats, do g s and cats moved about freely, in happy conjuction with the humans. Feluda found a relatively quiet spot on the steps and we sat down. ‘If you want a glimpse of ancient India,’ he said, ‘just watch the scene below.’ The whole thing was so different from Lucknow that I nearly forgot the stolen ring. Did Feluda feel the same way, or was his mind still working on the case? I looked at Feluda, but didn’t dare ask him. He was taking out his cigarettes and a matchbox from his pocket with a contented air. This was clearly good opportunity to have a smoke since he couldn’t when Baba was present. He put a cigarette between his lips and pushed open the matchbox. Something flashed brightly. Startled, I asked, ‘What was that, Feluda?’ By then, he had shut the box again. ‘What was what?’ he asked, apparently taken aback. ‘That . . . object that’s in your matchbox. I saw it flash.’ Feluda cupped his mouth with both hands to light his cigarette and inhaled. Then he blew the smoke out and said, ‘Matchsticks have phosphorus in them, don’t you know? That’s what flashed in the sun.’ I co uldn’t ask anything fur ther, but that seemed an unlikely sto r y. Matchsticks didn’t g litter in the sun! We stayed by the river a little longer and then went to see the temple of Daksheshwar. By the time we were out of the temple, buying a torch in a stationery shop, it was nearly ten-thirty. But no matter

what we did or saw, I simply could not get the matchbox out of my mind. Somehow, I felt convinced what I had seen shining in the sun was the diamond in Aurangzeb’s ring. If Feluda had said it was a coin, I might have believed him. But his tale of phosphorus in matchsticks was pure nonsense, and I knew it. But what if it was the ring? Did the burglars know Feluda had it with him? Was that why they were threatening him and trying to hurt him? Why, they had even tried to chloroform us! Feluda, however, appeared quite unperturbed. He was humming, quietly. ‘There is a raga called Khat,’ he stopped at one point to explain, ‘it has to be sung in the morning. What I am humming is the same raga.’ I wanted to say, ‘Keep your ragas to yourself. I am not interested and, in fact, I am very cross with you. Why did you tell me a lie?’ But I couldn’t utter these words for we had reached the dharamshala. I decided to tackle Feluda on the subject in the evening. Baba, Bonobihari Babu and Dr Srivastava were sitting on the veranda, talking to another gentleman, who was wearing a dhoti and kurta and appeared to be another Bengali. ‘We’ve arranged a couple of taxis,’ Baba said upon our arrival, ‘and we’re leaving tomorrow morning at six. Bonobihari Babu knew those fellows, so we’ve been given a concession.’ The Bengali gentleman, called Bilash Babu, was from Allahabad. He turned out to be a palmist. Bonobihari Babu offered his palm and asked, ‘Is there any chance of my being bitten to death by an animal?’ Bilash Babu ran a clove on the lines of Bonobihari Babu’s hand and said, ‘Why, no! It looks like a natural death to me!’ My eyes fell o n the palmist’s feet. They wer e distinctly o dd. The big to e o n each fo o t was lo ng er than the others by at least half-an-inch. I could have sworn I had seen these feet—or feet like these— quite recently. But where might that have been? I simply couldn’t remember. Bonobihari Babu gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness!’ he said. ‘Why do you say that? Are you a shikari? Do you go tiger hunting, or what?’ Bilash Babu seemed puzzled. ‘No , no ,’ Bo no bihar i Babu r eplied, ‘but it’s just as well to make sur e. A co usin o f mine o nce g o t bitten by a mad dog. You know, purely out of the blue. The poor chap died of hydrophobia. So I thought . . .’ ‘Did you use to live in Calcutta?’ ‘Good heavens, is even that written in my hand?’ ‘Yes, so it would seem. And . . . are you interested in collecting antiques?’ ‘Antiques? Who, me? Oh no. It was Pyarelal who did that. I am interested in animals.’ ‘Are you? Is that why you were talking about getting bitten? But . . .’ ‘But what?’ Bonobihari Babu asked eagerly. ‘Have you recently been under stress?’ ‘How recently?’ ‘Say in the last thirty days?’ Bonobihari Babu laughed.

‘No, sir. I have not a care in the world, and I haven’t been worried. My only anxiety is about whether I shall find that python tomorrow in Laxmanjhoola.’ Bilash Babu lo o ked as tho ug h he wo uld have liked to have peer ed at his palms a little lo ng er, but Bonobihari Babu withdrew them abruptly and yawned. ‘The truth is,’ he said, ‘I don’t really believe in palmistry. Please don’t mind my saying this, but I don’t think what we make of ourselves has anything to do with the lines on our hands. The only thing I believe in is man’s own strength and his ability to succeed.’ So saying, he rose and went into his room. My eyes went once more to Bilash Babu’s feet. But no, I still could not recall where I had seen them.

Ten I didn’t get the chance at all that day to speak to Feluda about his dazzling matchbox. Baba wanted us to go to bed early since we had to be up at the crack of dawn the following morning; but by the time we finished dinner and were able to go to bed, it was past 10 p.m. As I got into bed, I could hear someone snore very loudly through the communicating door between our room and the next. ‘Bilash Babu,’ said Feluda briefly. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Why, he was snoring in the train yesterday. Didn’t you hear him?’ In the train? Was Bilash Babu in the train with us? Of course! One little piece of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place. ‘Those big toes!’ Feluda gently patted my shoulder. ‘Good!’ he said. Yes, that was r ig ht. Bilash Babu was the man who had lain o n the upper ber th, wr apped in a sheet from head to toe. But I had seen his toes. It was now time to ask Feluda the question that had been bothering me all day. But I had to wait until Baba was asleep. I could tell by his movements that he was still awake. The dharamshala was gradually falling silent, as was the whole town. It was the beginning of winter, so peo ple wo uld, in any case, r etir e ear ly. It was dar k inside o ur r o o m, but a lig ht fr o m the courtyard outside fell on the threshold. What was that noise under the bed? A rat or a mouse, probably. Baba was now asleep. I could hear his deep, regular breathing. Turning to Feluda, I whispered, ‘It was the ring, wasn’t it?’ Feluda said nothing for a few moments. Then he sighed and whispered back, ‘All right. Since you have guessed it already, there’s no point in hiding things from you. I have had the ring from the very first day. When all of you—including Dhiru Kaka—had gone to sleep, I saw that his trousers were hang ing fr o m a r ack. I knew the keys o f his almir ah wer e in o ne o f its po ckets. So I to o k them o ut, opened the almirah and removed the ring. I didn’t take the box deliberately, so that there would be no doubt that only the ring had gone.’ ‘But why?’ ‘Because I knew that would only provoke the real thief. And then it would be easier to catch him.’ ‘Does it mean that the sannyasi had turned up simply to steal the ring?’ ‘Yes, but it wasn’t Ambika Babu. It was the other fake one, who had an attaché case in his hand. He must have had the shock of his life when he saw another sannyasi in the living-room! I bet that’s when he went to the station and changed his clothes.’

‘Who is this fake sannyasi?’ ‘I have my suspicions, but not enough evidence—yet.’ ‘You mean you’ve been carrying that ring in your pocket all these days?’ ‘No.’ ‘What did you do then?’ ‘I kept it in a safe place.’ ‘Where?’ ‘In the Bhoolbhulaia. In one of those little niches.’ Go o d Go d! What a clever mind! No w I co uld see why he had disappear ed in that maze fo r a few minutes. ‘But how could you have gone back to find it? You didn’t know how the maze had been built? I mean, its plan . . .’ ‘I had made an arrangement for that. You may have noticed that the little finger on my left hand has a long nail. I had scratched numbers with it on the walls of those passages. The ring was in the seventh passag e. I went back befo r e leaving Luckno w and to o k it o ut. I didn’t like the idea o f the r ing lying there while I went out of town.’ My heartbeat grew faster again. ‘What if those burglars suspect that you’ve got the ring?’ ‘So what? They couldn’t prove it. Anyway, I don’t think they’re clever enough to guess where the ring is.’ ‘In that case why are they threatening you?’ ‘Because they haven’t given up hopes of getting hold of it. And they know very well that I am capable of ruining all their plans.’ ‘But—’ my throat was so badly parched I could hardly speak, ‘you might be in great danger!’ ‘Felu Mitter thrives on risks and danger.’ ‘But—’ ‘No more buts. Go to sleep.’ Feluda yawned and turned to his side. The dhar amshala was no w to tally quiet. A do g bar ked so mewher e. The sno r ing in the next r o o m continued non-stop. I could not get the matchbox and its content out of my mind. One had to marvel at the courage Feluda had shown. If it wasn’t for what he had done, the ring would have been stolen and the thief would have got away with it. ‘Kir-r-r-r-r-r kit kit kit! Kir-r-r-r-r-r-r kit kit kit!’ From the next room came the faint noise of the rattle-snake; but it sounded as though it was coming from a distance. Bonobihari Babu must be listening to his favourite music. Strangely enough, this funny noise soon soothed me to sleep. Baba had set the alarm on his travelling clock for 5 a.m. I woke a little before it went off. It did not take us long to get ready after a cup of tea. ‘We needn’t worry about taking food,’ said Dr Srivastava, ‘there are shops at the foot of the bridge in Laxmanjhoola that sell very good puri-subzi.’ We were all wearing our woollens. Laxmanjhoola was further up in the hills and was bound to be cooler.

The two taxis ar r ived at a quar ter to six and sto pped by the fr o nt g ate. Bilash Babu came o ut and joined us. It turned out that he, too, was going to Laxmanjhoola and would travel with us. As I stood debating o n which car to g et into , Bo no bihar i Babu said, ‘Thr ee in each car, o bvio usly. I co uld tell you some interesting stories about animals, Tapesh. Would you like to join me?’ ‘Yes, why not? I’m sure Feluda would like to come along, too.’ Feluda didn’t seem to mind. So Bo no bihar i Babu, Feluda and I g o t into o ne taxi and Baba g o t into the o ther with Dr Sr ivastava and Bilash Babu, who seemed to have struck up a friendship already. Bonobihari Babu placed the wooden packing crate on the front seat beside the driver. ‘For my python, if I can find it,’ he said. Feluda sat in the middle in the back seat. I sat on his left and Bonobihari Babu went over to his right. Both cars left at 6.15. Five minutes later, we were out of the main town and into the open countryside. The hills rose before us. If I looked out of the right window, I could catch an occasional glimpse of the Ganges. My heart suddenly felt light. Bonobihari Babu, too, appeared to be in a good mood, for he was humming under his breath, possibly at the thought of his python. Feluda, however, did not utter a word. What was he thinking? Was the ring still in that matchbox in his pocket? There was no way of telling, for I knew he wouldn’t smoke before Bonobihari Babu. The other taxi was right in front of us. I could see Bilash Babu talking to Dr Srivastava. Perhaps the latter had seized this opportunity to have his palm read. ‘The roads aren’t dusty because of the early morning dew,’ said Bonobihari Babu. ‘But very soon, yo u’ll see that o ther car thr o w up clo uds o f dust. I think we o ug ht to let them g o ahead. Dr iver, will you please slow down a bit?’ The bearded Sikh driver reduced the speed of our taxi and the distance between Baba’s car and ours grew considerably. I had wanted both cars to travel together, never mind about the dust. But I didn’t dare say anything to Bonobihari Babu. When would he start on his stories? There was a car behind ours, apparently in a hurry to overtake us. Annoyed by its honking, Bonobihari Babu said to the driver, ‘This will drive me mad. Let it go, driver. Give way.’ The driver very obediently moved a little to the left and an old-fashioned Chevrolet taxi shot past us. Its passenger leant out of the window and gave us a quick look. I recognized him instantly—it was the sannyasi from the train!

Eleven It had already been decided that we would first go to Laxmanjhoola, spend most of the day there and stop at Hrishikesh on our way back. To tell the truth, I wasn’t too keen on going to Hrishikesh, which I knew would be crowded and dirty like any other holy place. Only the river was likely to be a little different. Bonobihari Babu was now singing the same Urdu song Feluda had been singing in the train: Jab chhor chaley Lucknow nagari Kahen haal ke hum par kya guzri . . . He stopped abruptly and asked, ‘Have you heard of Jim Corbett?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘He killed man-eater s in these valleys, but like me, he under sto o d animals and lo ved them. I have always admired him for that.’ Bonobihari Babu started singing again. Our car sped towards Laxmanjhoola through the hills. On our right, the river occasionally showed itself through stretches of dense jungle. The sky was clouding over. The breeze seemed to grow cooler each time the sun got blocked out by a cloud. I began to think about the stolen ring again. I had learnt quite a few things in the last few days, but there was such a lot that still remained unexplained. Why did Mahabir think Pyarelal’s death had not been a natural one? Why had Pyarelal screamed? Which spy had he tried to talk about? Was it someone we knew, or was it an outsider? All these thoughts chased one another in my mind, as I glanced about idly. My eyes suddenly fell on the r ear -view mir r o r. I saw Feluda in it, lo o king intently in fr o nt o f him. I tur ned my head. He was staring at the driver. My eyes turned automatically in the same direction. Then my heart seemed to stand still. On the driver ’s neck, between his turban and shirt-collar, was a long scratch. We had seen someone recently with an identical mark. It had been Ganesh Guha. I looked at Feluda again. He was now gazing out of the window. I had never seen him look so grim. Sitting with us in the Kwality restaurant, Ganesh Guha had said he had left his job and was leaving for Calcutta the same day. Today he was dressed like a Sikh and taking us to Laxmanjhoola. What could it mean? Then it occurred to me that this taxi had been arranged by Bonobihari Babu himself. Oh God . . . in that case . . . ? I could think no more. My head began to reel. Where were we going? Was it Laxmanjhoola or was it somewhere else? What did Bonobihari Babu intend to do? He appeared calm enough and certainly did not look as though he had any ill-intent. At this point, he startled me by speaking abruptly.

‘We shall no w tur n left. T her e is a path that g o es thr o ug h the jung le. T hen we’ll co me to a ho use where I expect to find the python. Let’s just have a look now, then we can collect it on our way back. All right, Felu Babu?’ ‘Yes, fine,’ said Feluda with remarkable composure. But I couldn’t help ask, ‘Didn’t you say the python was in Laxmanjhoola?’ Bonobihari Babu burst out laughing. ‘And who,’ he asked, ‘told you this is not Laxmanjhoola? Howrah doesn’t simply mean the Howrah Bridge, does it? It means a whole region. Laxmanjhoola begins from here. The bridge over the Ganges is more than a mile from here.’ Our car took a left turn into the jungle. The path, covered with overgrown wild bushes, was virtually invisible. I noticed that the driver didn’t even wait for instructions. He drove as though he knew where he was going. ‘How do you find this place, Felu Babu?’ Bonobihari Babu asked. His voice sounded different. There appeared to be a suppressed excitement behind those simple words. ‘Beautiful!’ said Feluda and gently pressed my right hand with his left. I knew it was his way of saying—‘Don’t be afraid, I’m here.’ ‘Have you brought a handkerchief, Topshe?’ asked Feluda. I wasn’t prepared for such a question at all. So I could only stammer, ‘H-h-andkerchief?’ ‘Don’t you know what it is?’ ‘Yes, of course. But . . . I forgot to bring one.’ Bonobihari Babu said, ‘Are you worried about the dust? It’s not going to be all that dusty in here.’ ‘No , it’s no t the dust,’ Feluda r eplied and stuffed a handker chief into my po cket. I to tally failed to see why he did this. Bonobihari Babu’s tape-recorder was lying on his lap. He now switched it on. A hyena started laughing amongst the trees. The jungle was getting denser and darker. In any case, the sun was probably hiding behind clouds. I wondered where Baba’s car might be. Could they have reached Laxmanjhoola already? If anything happened to us, they wouldn’t even get to know. Was that why Bonobihari Babu had allowed them to go ahead? I tried to muster all my courage. Although I had every faith in Feluda, something told me every bit of his own courage and presence of mind was about to be tested. Our car was now crawling along in deep jungle. Bonobihari Babu had turned the recorder off; nor was he singing himself. All I could hear was a cricket and the crunch of leaves under the wheels. After abo ut ten minutes, thr o ug h the tr ee tr unks and o ther fo liag e, we saw a ho use. Who o n ear th could have built a house in a place like this? Then I remembered an uncle of mine who was a forest o fficer. He was suppo sed to live in a ho use in the middle o f a fo r est, with just tig er s and o ther wild animals for company. Perhaps this was a house like his? As we went closer to the house, I realized it was made of wood and had been built on a raised platfo r m. A wo o den stair case went up to the fr o nt do o r. It was clear ly ver y o ld and cer tainly didn’t look as though anyone lived in it.

Our taxi stopped before this house. ‘I don’t think Pandeyji is at home,’ said Bonobihari Babu, ‘but let’s go in and wait since we have travelled all this way. He may have stepped out only for a few minutes to gather firewood or something. He lives alone, you see, and has to do everything all by himself. But, like me, he’s not afraid of animals. So come in, both of you. You’ve seen fake sannyasis, haven’t you? Now you’ll see a perfectly genuine one and perhaps learn something about how he lives.’ The three of us got out of the car. I cannot tell how I might have kept my nerve if it wasn’t for Feluda’s r eassur ing pr esence. In fact, his unr uffled calm made me wo nder if the who le thing wasn’t just my imag inatio n—what if the dr iver was an o r dinar y Sikh and Bo no bihar i Babu was telling the truth and this house did contain a sadhu called Pandeyji who had a twelve-foot python? We walked towards the staircase, crunching dry leaves under our feet. Then we climbed up the steps and went in. The room we walked into was not much larger than a railway compartment. There was another door that probably led to a second room, but it appeared to be locked from the other side. There were two small windows on the opposite wall, through which we could see the trees. The platform on which the house stood was no higher than a man of medium height. Bonobihari Babu’s tape-recorder was hanging from his shoulder. He put it down on the floor and said, ‘You can see how simply he lives.’ Ther e was a br o ken table, a bench with an ar m missing and a tin chair. Feluda went acr o ss to the bench and sat down. I did the same. Bonobihari Babu started filling his pipe. Then he lit it, put the match out, threw it out of the window and sat do wn o n the chair, after having tested its str eng th by pr essing its seat. ‘A-a-a-a-h!’ he sig hed with pleasure and began puffing at his pipe, filling the whole room with smoke. ‘Well,’ he said after a while, in a low but clear voice, ‘Felu Babu—can I have my ring back, please?’

Twelve ‘Your ring?’ I could tell that Feluda was quite taken aback by the question. Bonobihari Babu did not reply. He o nly star ed at Feluda, the pipe hang ing fr o m o ne co r ner o f his mo uth, a little smile o n his lips. T he crickets outside were silent. ‘Besides,’ Feluda continued, ‘what makes you think I have got it?’ Bonobihari Babu spoke this time. ‘I had my suspicions throughout. I knew it couldn’t have been stolen by an outsider. No one could have simply walked into the house and taken something from Dhiru Babu’s bedroom without anyone having seen or heard anything. I found that impossible to believe. But although I suspected you, I didn’t have any evidence to prove my theory. Now I do.’ ‘And what is that evidence?’ Silently, Bonobihari Babu picked up his tape-recorder and, placing it once more on his lap, switched it on. It froze my blood to hear what I did. ‘It was that ring, wasn’t it?’ spoke my own voice from the machine. ‘Since you have guessed it already, there is no point in hiding things from you . . ’ Bonobihari Babu turned the machine off with a click. ‘I had left it under your bed last night before you returned to your room,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t, of course, be sure that you would indeed talk about the ring. But since you did, I couldn’t miss such an opportunity to get what I wanted What better evidence would you need, eh, Felu Babu?’ ‘But how can you claim that the ring is yours?’ Bonobihari Babu put the recorder on the table, crossed his legs and leant back in his chair. ‘In 1948,’ he said, ‘that is, exactly eighteen years ago, I bought that ring from the Naulakha Company in Calcutta. It cost me two hundred thousand rupees. I got to know Pyarelal soon after this. He didn’t tell me he was interested in antiques, but I did show him the ring. The look on his face on seeing it made me instantly wary. Two days later, it disappeared from my house. The police were informed, but they couldn’t catch the thief. Then I came to Lucknow, and so did Pyarelal. I learnt that he had had the ring all these years only when Srivastava showed it to me. I don’t suppose Pyarelal tho ug ht he wo uld sur vive his fir st hear t attack. So he g o t r id o f what he had sto len many year s ag o . But then he recovered, and I went to see him. What I had thought was that if he admitted to the theft, I could perhaps get the ring back from Srivastava. I’m sure he would have agreed, and I was even prepared to offer him some compensation. But do you know what happened? Pyarelal simply denied the whole thing. In fact, he went so far as to say he had never seen the ring in my house in Calcutta!’ Feluda br o ke in at this po int, no t a tr ace o f fear in his vo ice, ‘I wo uld like to ask yo u so mething , Bonobihari Babu, and I hope you’ll give me an answer.’

‘No, you tell me first if you’ve got the ring with you now, or have you left it somewhere? I want to recover myself what is my own!’ ‘Oh?’ said Feluda, speaking with undisguised scorn. ‘How come then that you didn’t hesitate to get o ther peo ple to steal the r ing fo r yo u, o r even have me fo llo wed and thr eatened? T hat henchman o f yours—Ganesh Guha, isn’t it?—is dressed like a Sikh taxi driver today. I believe he was the fake sannyasi, wasn’t he? You got him to break into Srivastava’s house and follow his car the next day. But then he was told to keep an eye on me. Throwing stones at me at the Residency, trying to chloroform both of us, showering threats on me—all these were his doings, weren’t they?’ Bonobihari Babu smiled, ‘One cannot possibly do every little thing oneself, can one? An assistant can be very useful, you know. Besides, Ganesh is strong and healthy and has spent years handling wild animals. So I knew he’d be g o o d at this r eckless g ame. And I have to say this—if he has do ne anything wrong, it is only because I asked him to. What you have done, Felu Babu, is far worse. You are hanging on to something that doesn’t belong to you. It is mine, I tell you, and I want it back. Today! Now!’ He practically shouted the last few words. I was still trying hard to stay calm, but my hands began to feel clammy. Feluda’s voice sounded cold as steel when he spoke. ‘What use will that ring be to you, Bonobihari Babu, when you are charged with murder?’ Bo no bihar i Babu r o se fr o m his chair, tr embling with r ag e. ‘What . . . what impudence! Yo u do n’t know what you’re saying. How dare you!’ ‘I dare because I believe I see a murderer before me. Now will you tell me a bit more about the spy Pyarelal had mentioned? You appeared to know something about it.’ Bonobihari Babu smiled drily and said, ‘There’s nothing to explain. It’s all quite simple. I had set a few men to follow him around to find out more about the ring. I’m sure that’s what he meant.’ ‘And what if I tell you the word “spy” had nothing to do with your secret service?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Yo u went to visit Pyar elal the mo r ning when he had his seco nd attack, didn’t yo u? Yo u saw him before the attack came on.’ ‘So what? Are you implying that the very sight of me would give him a cardiac arrest? I had visited him often enough, even before that particular day.’ ‘Yes, but that day you were not empty-handed.’ ‘Empty-handed? What are you getting at?’ ‘You went armed with a box. In that box was an inmate of your zoo—that huge, poisonous African spider—the Black Widow. Isn’t that right? What Pyarelal had tried to say was “spider”, but he couldn’t complete the word. So “a spider” became “a spy” . . .’ Bonobihari Babu suddenly went pale. He sat down again. ‘But . . . but what could I have gained from showing him the spider?’ he asked. ‘You were probably unaware that the sight of a cockroach gave him palpitations. Your intention was probably just to frighten him into handing the ring over to you. But the whole thing took a nasty turn, didn’t it? Pyarelal’s fright caused a heart attack, leading to his death. Now who is responsible for it but you? And you sit there and tell me you had bought the ring in Calcutta. What if I tell you it was

Pyarelal who had shown it to you eighteen years ago and, ever since then, you had wanted to get hold of it? In that room in your house—which you said you always kept locked—there are many more old and valuable o bjects stashed away. And the pur po se o f the zo o is to war d o ff bur g lar s and r o bber s. Would you deny any of this?’ ‘May I,’ Bonobihari Babu said gravely, ‘ask you what else you happen to believe?’ ‘Yes, you certainly may,’ Feluda replied, equally gravely. ‘It is my belief that you will never again lay your eyes on the Emperor ’s ring, and your future will bring you your just desserts.’ ‘Ganesh!’ Bonobihari Babu’s shout rang through the air like a gunshot. Ganesh Guha entered the room, carrying the packing crate. Bonobihari Babu collected his tape- recorder and began backing out of the room. ‘Cover your face!’ Feluda told me. I did not stop to question why, and did as I was told, using the handkerchief I had been given. Feluda took out another handkerchief from his pocket and, with it, the little tin of toothpowder. Ganesh Guha, by this time, had placed the crate on the floor and lifted its lid. Just as he was about to retrace his steps, Feluda opened the tin in his hand and threw a handful of powder at both Ganesh Guha and Bonobihari Babu. Then he quickly covered his own face. Through my handkerchief, I got the faint smell of a familiar object: black pepper. It is difficult to describe the effect it had on the other two. Their faces were distorted with pain, which was fo llo wed by incessant sneezing and scr eams o f ag o ny. Bo no bihar i Babu stumbled o ut o f the room, rolled down the stairs and landed on the ground outside. Ganesh Guha didn’t fare any better, but he managed to pull the door shut behind him, thereby blocking our own escape. Now my eyes went to the open crate on the floor. A snake was slowly raising its head from it, making the same terrifying noise I had heard before. ‘Kir-r-r-r-r-r kit kit kit . . . Kir-r-r-r-r-r kit kit kit!’ I began to feel strangely lightheaded. Unable to move my limbs, I could only feel Feluda help me stand up on the bench before climbing on it himself. I realized for the first time what terror could do to one. My eyes refused to move from the snake. Or it could be that the snake really did have the power to hypnotize. Before my petrified eyes, it slid out of its box, shook its rattle and seemed to glance around. Then it fixed its gaze on us, and began to move steadily towards our bench, wriggling sideways on the door, making a constant rattling noise. I appeared to be its immediate target. I could feel my vision getting blurred. The snake was coming closer, and all I could do was stand there, rooted to the spot. Then, when it was only about a couple of yards away, it suddenly felt as though the house we were in was struck by lightning. There was a loud explosion, a flash of light— and a smell of gunpowder. And the snake? T he head o f the snake was cr ushed and sever ed fr o m its bo dy. T he r attle sho o k a co uple o f times and was still. At this point, I passed into oblivion. I regained consciousness to find myself lying on a durrie under a tree. My head and forehead felt cold and damp. Clearly, someone had sprinkled water on me. My eyes slowly focused first on Dr

Srivastava and then on Baba. ‘How do you feel, Tapesh Babu?’ said a vaguely familiar voice. Startled, I turned my head and saw Mahabir. But why was he wearing saffron clothes? ‘I travelled with you up to Bareilly,’ Mahabir grinned, ‘and yet you didn’t recognize me!’ He must be a talented acto r. And he was wear ing excellent make-up. In a lo ng , flo wing bear d, he had truly been unrecognizable. Besides, he had changed both his voice and speech. ‘Now you’ve seen how good my aim is. Actually, I began to feel doubtful about Bonobihari Babu the day we met at the Bhoolbhulaia and he denied ever having seen me before. The truth was that he had often visited our house in Calcutta and spoken to me a number of times. Once he and my father had a row over that ring. I recalled that event only a few days ago.’ ‘When we couldn’t spot your car,’ Baba added, ‘we reversed ours and followed the tyre marks into the jungle. But it was Mahabir ’s idea.’ ‘And what happened to those two?’ ‘They have been adequately punished. Felu’s powdered thunder had the most remarkable effect on both. Now they’re being looked after by the police.’ ‘Police? How did the police get involved?’ ‘Why, they came with us! Bilash Babu is actually Inspector Gargari, you see.’ How very strange! Who would have thought that that palmist was really a police inspector? I had no idea the mystery of the Emperor ’s ring would end like this. But where was Feluda? A light flashed in my eyes again. But there was no loud noise this time. I saw Feluda standing at some distance, wearing the ring on his finger. He was turning it around in the sunlight that seeped through the leaves, and reflecting the light straight into my eyes. I thought quietly to myself: if anyone had emerged a winner in this whole business truly like an emperor, it was none other than Feluda.



KAI LAS H C HO WDHURY ’ S J EWEL

‘See how you like my card.’ Feluda fished out a visiting card from his wallet and held it before me. It said: PRADOSH C. MITTER, PRIVATE IN VESTIGATOR. Feluda was clear ly tr ying to publicize what he did fo r a living . And why no t? After his success o ver the missing diamo nd r ing that had o nce belo ng ed to Emper o r Aur ang zeb, he was fully entitled to tell everyone how clever he had been. But, of course, he didn’t really have to worry about publicity. A lot of people had come to know about the case, anyway. In fact, Feluda had received a couple of offers ‘already, but he didn’t accept them as they were not challenging enough. He put the card back in his wallet, and stretched his legs on the low table in front of him. ‘It looks like I shall get the chance to exercise my brain during this Christmas break,’ he said casually. ‘Why? Have yo u fo und a new myster y?’ I asked. Feluda’s wo r ds had made me quite excited, but I didn’t show it. He took out a small box from a side pocket and helped himself to some supari from it. ‘You appear greatly excited,’ he observed. What? How did he guess? Feluda explained even before I could ask. ‘Are you wondering how I knew? It isn’t always possible to hide your feelings, you know, even if you try. Little things often give o ne away. When I made that r emar k abo ut wo r king dur ing this Chr istmas br eak, yo u wer e abo ut to yawn. My words made you close your mouth abruptly. If you were truly indifferent to what I said, you’d have finished your yawn in the usual way, without breaking it off.’ Once again I was startled by his powers of observation. ‘Without being able to observe and take in even the minutest detail, no o ne can claim to be a detective,’ Feluda had o ften said to me. ‘Sher lo ck Holmes has shown us the way. All we need to do is follow him.’ ‘You didn’t tell me why you will need to exercise your brain,’ I reminded him. ‘Have you heard of Kailash Chowdhury, of Shyampukur?’ ‘No . Ther e ar e so many famo us peo ple in o ur city. I canno t have hear d o f all o f them. I am o nly fifteen!’ Feluda lit a cig ar ette. ‘His family o wned a lo t o f land in Rajshahi. T hey wer e zamindar s. But they also had property in Calcutta, so they moved here after Partition. Kailash Chowdhury is a lawyer. He used to go on shikar and, in fact, became quite well-known as a shikari. He even wrote two books on the subject. Sometime ago, an elephant went mad in the Jaldapara Reserve Forest and began creating such havoc that Kailash Babu was called in to kill it. His name was mentioned in almost every paper.’ ‘I see. What has all this to do with your brain? Is there a mystery regarding Kailash Chowdhury?’ Instead of giving me an answer, Feluda took out a letter from the front pocket of his jacket and passed it to me. ‘Read it,’ he said. I unfolded the letter and read what it said: Dear Mr Mitter, I decided to write to you after seeing your advertisement in the Amrita Bazar Patrika. I should be much obliged if you could come and meet me at the above address. I am sending this letter by express delivery. It should, therefore, reach you tomorrow. I shall expect you the day after, i.e. on Saturday, at 10 a.m. Yours sincerely, Kailash Chowdhury. ‘But it’s Saturday today!’ I exclaimed. ‘And nine o’clock already!’ ‘You’re improving everyday. I am very glad to note that you remember days and dates so well.’

A sudden doubt raised its head in my mind. ‘This letter speaks only of meeting you. What if he objects to an extra person?’ Feluda took the letter back from me, and folded it carefully before replacing it in his pocket. ‘He should not, as you’re a young boy. He might not see you as sufficiently important to object to. But if he does, we’ll pack you off to another room. You can wait there while we finish our talk.’ My heart began beating faster. I had been wondering what to do in the Christmas holidays. Now it seemed as if I was in for a very interesting time. We got off a tram near Shyampukur Street at five minutes to ten. Feluda had stopped on the way to buy a book written by Kailash Chowdhury. It was called The Passion of Shikar. He leafed through it in the tram, and said, as we got down, ‘God knows why a brave man like him needs to see a private detective!’ Kailash Cho wdhur y’s ho use, 51 Shyampukur Str eet, tur ned o ut to be a hug e o ld mansio n. A lo ng drive led to the main house. There were gardens on both sides, marble statues and a fountain. We passed these and made our way to the front door. There were footsteps on the other side within thirty seconds of pressing the bell. One look at the man who opened the door told me it was not Kailash Chowdhury. No brave shikari could have such a mouse-like appearance. He was a man of medium height, rather plump, possibly no more than thirty years old. His eyes held a look of childlike innocence. In his hand was a magnifying glass. ‘Whom would you like to see?’ he asked. His voice was as mild as his appearance. Feluda to o k o ut o ne o f his car ds and handed it to the g entleman. ‘I have an appo intment with Mr Chowdhury. He asked me to come here.’ The man cast a quick glance at the card, and said, ‘Please come in.’ We followed him down the hall, up a flight of stairs and were ushered into what looked like a small office. ‘Please have a seat. I’ll go and inform my uncle,’ he said and disappeared. We took two old chairs with arms that faced an equally old table, painted black. Three sides of the room were lined with glass cases filled with books. On the table I noticed something interesting. T hr ee fat stamp albums wer e stacked o ne o n to p o f the o ther, and a fo ur th was lying o pen. Ro ws o f stamps had been carefully pasted in it. A few loose stamps lay in a cellophane packet, together with the usual paraphernalia of stamp collectors: hinges, a pair of tweezers and a stamp catalogue. Now it was clear why the man who met us at the door was carrying a magnifying glass. He was obviously the collector of these stamps. Feluda, to o , was lo o king at these o bjects, but befo r e either o f us co uld make a r emar k, the same man returned and said, ‘Uncle asked you to wait in the drawing room. He’ll join you shortly.’ We wer e taken to the dr awing r o o m. It was a lar g e r o o m, with a chandelier, o il painting s, mar ble statues and a g r eat number o f vases that wer e str ewn all o ver. Ever ything in it bo r e the mar k o f life during the Raj, at least life in an affluent household. On the floor was the skin of a Royal Bengal tiger, and from the walls stared four heads of deer, two cheetahs and a wild buffalo. Near ly ten minutes later, a middle-ag ed man enter ed the r o o m. He seemed pr etty str o ng and ag ile for his age. His features were sharp, and he sported a thin moustache. He was wearing a red silk dressing gown over a pyjama-kurta.

We rose to our feet and said, ‘Namaskar.’ Mr Chowdhury returned our greeting, but raised his eyebrows slightly on seeing me. ‘This is my cousin,’ Feluda explained. Mr Chowdhury took the smaller sofa next to ours, and asked, ‘Do you carry out your investigations together?’ Feluda laughed, ‘No, not really. But Tapesh happened to be involved in all the cases I have handled so far. He’s never caused any trouble.’ ‘Very well. Abanish, you may go now; and see if you can arrange a cup of tea for these people.’ The stamp-collector was standing near the door. At these words, he disappeared inside. Kailash Chowdhury looked at Feluda, and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to see the letter I wrote to you. Did you bring it?’ Feluda smiled. ‘Is this to make sure I am the right person? Here’s your letter, sir.’ Mr Chowdhury glanced briefly at the letter, said ‘Thank you’, and returned it to Feluda. ‘One has to be careful in these matters, I’m sure you understand. Anyway, I assume you know a little bit about my work. I am known as a shikari.’ ‘Yes, sir. I did know that.’ Mr Cho wdhur y po inted at the heads o f var io us animals o n the walls and said, ‘I killed all tho se. I learnt to use a rifle at the age of seventeen. Before that, as a child, I had used airguns and killed small birds. I am not afraid to fight anyone—or anything—if I can face my opponent, if I can see him. But if the adversary is a secret one . . . if he doesn’t come out in the open . . . what does one do?’ He paused. I co uld feel my hear t thudding faster ag ain. The details o f a myster y wer e abo ut to be revealed, but Mr Chowdhury was beating about the bush so much that the suspense was getting higher every minute. A few seconds later, he resumed speaking. ‘I didn’t expect you to be so young,’ he said. ‘How old are you?’ ‘Twenty-eight.’ ‘I see. Well, I could have gone to the police. But I don’t really have a lot of faith in them. Instead of helping , they usually make a to tal nuisance o f themselves. Besides, I r espect the yo ung . So yo u may well be the r ig ht per so n fo r the jo b. I think an o ld head o n yo ung sho ulder s can achieve a lo t mo r e than an entire police force.’ He paused again. Feluda seized this opportunity to ask quickly, ‘If you could tell me what the problem is . . .?’ Silently, Mr Chowdhury took out a piece of paper from his pocket and passed it to Feluda. ‘See what you can make of it,’ he said. Feluda unfolded it. I leant across and read what was written on it: Do not make things worse for yourself. You must return what does not belong to you. Go to Victoria Memorial on Monday, and leave it under the first plant of the first row of lilies that faces the south gate. This must be done by 4 p.m. Do not try to inform the police, or go to a detective. If you do, you will end up exactly like the animals you killed on your shikar. ‘What do you think?’ Mr Chowdhury asked gravely. Feluda stared at the note for a few moments. Then he said, ‘The writer tried to mask his handwriting, for the same letters have been written in different ways. And he wrote on the top sheet of a new pad.’ ‘How can you tell?’

‘If you write on a pad, the leaves below the top one always carry a faint impression of what is written on the upper sheet. It may not be legible, but it is there. This sheet is absolutely smooth.’ ‘Very good. Can you tell anything else?’ ‘No, it’s impossible to say anything more simply by looking at it. Did this arrive by post?’ ‘Yes. The postmark said Park Street Post Office. I got this note three days ago. Today is Saturday, the 20th.’ Feluda returned the note to Mr Chowdhury and said, ‘I would now like to ask you a few questions, if I may. You see, I know nothing about your life, except the tales of shikar that you wrote.’ ‘Very well. Go ahead with your questions. But please help yourself to the sweets before you begin.’ A bearer had come in a few minutes earlier and placed a silver plate before us, loaded with sweets. Feluda did no t have to be to ld a seco nd time. He picked up a r asg ulla and po pped it into his mo uth. ‘What,’ he asked after a while, ‘is this object that doesn’t belong to you?’ ‘Fr ankly, Mr Mitter, I canno t think o f anything like that at all. Ever ything I po ssess in this wo r ld, including things in this house, were either inherited or bought by me. Everything . . . except. . .’ he stopped abruptly. ‘Except what?’ ‘Well, there is something that’s both valuable and tempting.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘A stone.’ ‘A precious stone?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Did you buy it?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did it belong to your forefathers?’ ‘No , I fo und it in a jung le in Madhya Pr adesh. Ther e wer e fo ur o f us. We chased a tig er into the jungle and finally killed it. Then we found this ancient and abandoned temple. The stone was fixed on the forehead of the statue of the deity. I don’t think anyone even knew of its existence.’ ‘Were you the first to see it?’ ‘Everyone else saw the temple, but yes, I was the first to notice the stone.’ ‘Who else was with you?’ ‘An American called Wright, a Punjabi called Kishorilal and my brother, Kedar.’ ‘Is your brother also a shikari?’ ‘He used to go on shikar with me sometimes, but now I don’t know what he does. He went abroad four years ago.’ ‘Abroad?’ ‘Switzerland. Something to do with making watches.’ ‘When you found the stone, what happened? Didn’t any of the others want to take it?’ ‘No , because no ne o f us r ealized its value then. I came to kno w o nly when I had it assessed by a jeweller in Calcutta.’ ‘Who else got to know?’

‘Not many people. I haven’t got many relations. A couple of friends know about it, I told Kedar, and I think my nephew Abanish is aware of its value.’ ‘Do you keep the stone here in your house?’ ‘Yes, in my bedroom.’ ‘Why don’t you keep it in a bank locker?’ ‘I did once. The very next day, I was almost run over by a car. Oh, I had a narrow escape, I can tell you. That made me think if I was separated from the stone it would bring me bad luck. Yes, I know it’s superstition. Nevertheless, I brought it back from the bank.’ Feluda had finished eating . I co uld tell fr o m the way he was fr o wning that he had star ted to think. He wiped his mouth, drank some water and said, ‘Who else lives in this house?’ ‘My nephew, Abanish, and three old servants. Then there’s my father, but he’s very old and almost totally senile. One of the servants spends all his time looking after him.’ ‘What does your nephew do?’ ‘Nothing much, really. His passion is philately. He’s talking of starting a shop to sell stamps.’ Feluda was quiet fo r a few mo ments, as if he was tr ying to co me to a decisio n abo ut so mething . Then he said slowly, ‘Would you like me to find out who wrote that note?’ Mr Chowdhury seemed to force a smile. ‘I am getting old, Mr Mitter. I can do without anxiety and tension. And it isn’t just that note. Last night this man rang me. I couldn’t recognize his voice. He said if I didn’t place that object at the specified time and place, he’d come into my house and cause me bo dily har m. But even so , I am no t willing to par t with that sto ne. Besides, this man canno t po ssibly have a legitimate claim on it. He’s just hoping to frighten me by his threats. A crook like him ought to be punished. You must work out how.’ ‘There is only one thing that I can possibly do. I must go to Victoria Memorial on Monday and keep an eye on the lilies. This man has got to turn up.’ ‘He may not come himself.’ ‘That shouldn’t matter. If we can catch whoever comes hoping to collect the stone, it won’t be difficult to find out who is really behind the scene.’ ‘But the man might be dangerous. When he turns up at Victoria Memorial and discovers I have not placed the stone under that plant, God knows what he might do. Can’t you do anything to find out who he is before Monday? I mean, there’s that note and the phone call. Isn’t that enough?’ Feluda got up and began pacing. ‘Look, Mr Chowdhury,’ he said, ‘this man has said you’d get into trouble if you went to a private detective. Now, whether or not I take any action, you might be in trouble already. So really, you must decide whether you want me to go ahead.’ Mr Chowdhury wiped his face with a handkerchief, although it was quite cold inside the room. ‘You, and this young cousin of yours . . . well, you don’t appear to be investigators. This is an advantage. I mean, people may have heard your name, but how many know what you look like? No, I don’t think there’s much chance of you being recognized as the detective I have hired. If you are still prepared to take this job, I will certainly pay you your fee.’ ‘Thank you. But before I go, I would like to see that stone.’ ‘Sure.’

All of us got up. The stone was kept in the wardrobe in his bedroom, Mr Chowdhury said. We followed him upstairs. A marble staircase went up to the first floor, ending at one end of a long, dark corridor. There were rooms on either side of the corridor. I did not actually count them, but at a guess there were at least ten rooms. Some of them were locked. There was no one in sight. The slightest noise sounded unnaturally loud in the eerie silence. I began to feel uneasy. Mr Chowdhury’s bedroom was the last one on the right. When we were more or less half way do wn the co r r ido r, I suddenly r ealized that the do o r to o ne o f the r o o ms was ajar. Thr o ug h a small gap, a very old man was peering out, craning his neck to look at us. His eyes were dimmed with age, but as we g o t clo ser, I was sho cked to no tice the expr essio n in them. The o ld man was star ing with murder in his eyes. But he said nothing. I now felt positively scared. ‘That’s my father,’ Mr Chowdhury explained hurriedly, continuing to walk. ‘I told you he was senile, didn’t I? He keeps peeping o ut o f do o r s and windo ws. And he thinks ever yo ne neg lects him. That’s why he looks so cross most of the time. But I can assure you every effort is made to make sure he’s all right.’ The bedroom had a huge, high bed, and the wardrobe was next to it. Mr Chowdhury opened it, pulled out a drawer and took out a small, blue velvet box from it. ‘I bought this box from a jeweller just to keep the stone in it,’ he informed us, and opened it. A glittering stone lay inside, about the size of a litchi, radiating a greenish-blue light. ‘This is a blue beryl. It’s usually found in Brazil. There cannot be many of these in India, and certainly none of this size. I know that for a fact.’ Feluda picked up the stone, held it between his forefinger and thumb and looked closely at it for a few moments before returning it to its owner. Mr Chowdhury put it back in the drawer, then took out his wallet from his pocket. ‘This is an advance payment,’ he said, offering five crisp ten-rupee notes. ‘I’ll pay you the rest when this business is cleared up. All right?’ ‘Thank you,’ said Feluda, accepting the money. This was the first time I saw him actually being paid for his services. ‘I will need that note you were sent, and I’d like to speak to your nephew, please,’ Feluda said, as we climbed do wn the stair s. The pho ne in the dr awing r o o m star ted r ing ing just as we r eached the last step. Mr Chowdhury went quickly to answer it, leaving us behind. ‘Hello!’ we heard him say. This was followed by silence. When we entered the drawing room a few seconds later, Mr Chowdhury replaced the receiver and sat down quickly, looking pale and frightened. ‘It. . . it was that same voice!’ he whispered. ‘What did it say?’ ‘It simply r epeated the same thr eat, but this time it was mo r e specific. He actually said he wanted what I had found in an abandoned temple.’ ‘Did he say anything else?’ ‘No.’ ‘And you didn’t recognize the voice?’ ‘No, all I can say is that it was a most unpleasant voice. Maybe you’d like to think again about taking on this case?’ Feluda smiled. ‘I have finished thinking,’ he replied.

We left the drawing room soon after this and made our way to the room of Mr Chowdhury’s nephew, Abanish Babu. We found him closely examining something on a table with a magnifying glass. As we entered the room, he swiftly covered the object with one hand and got to his feet. ‘Come in, come in!’ he invited. ‘I can see that you are very interested in stamps,’ Feluda remarked. Abanish Babu’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, sir. That’s my only interest in life, my only passion. All I ever think of are stamps!’ ‘Do you specialize in any one country, or do you collect stamps from all over the world?’ ‘I used to collect them from wherever they happened to be, but of late I’ve started to concentrate on India. I had to sift through hundreds of old letters to get them.’ ‘Did you find anything good?’ ‘Good? Good?’ Abanish Babu began to look ecstatic. ‘Are you interested in this subject? Will you understand if I explain?’ ‘Try me,’ Feluda smiled, ‘I don’t claim to be an expert, but like most other people, I was once keen on collecting stamps, and dreamt of acquiring the famous ones. You know, the one-penny stamp from the Cape of Good Hope, the two-penny from Mauritius and the 1856 ones from British Guyana. Ten years ago their price was in the region of a hundred thousand rupees. Now they must be worth a lot more.’ Abanish Babu grew even more excited. ‘Well then,’ he said with gleaming eyes, ‘well then, I’m sure you’d understand. I’d like to show you something. Here it is.’ He took his hand off the table and revealed the object he had been hiding. It turned out to be a very old stamp, detached from an envelope. Its original colour must have been green, but it had faded almost completely. Abanish Babu passed it to Feluda. ‘What? What can you see?’ he asked eagerly. ‘An Indian stamp, about a hundred years old. It has a picture of Queen Victoria. I’ve seen such stamps before.’ ‘Have you? Yes, I’m sure you have. Now then, take another look through this magnifying glass.’ Feluda peered through the proffered glass. ‘Now what do you see, eh?’ Abanish Babu asked anxiously. ‘There is a printing error.’ ‘Exactly!’ ‘The word is obviously POSTAGE, but instead of a “G”, they printed a “C”.’ Abanish Babu to o k the stamp back. ‘Do yo u kno w ho w much that stamp is wo r th because o f that error?’ ‘How much?’ ‘Twenty thousand.’ ‘What!’ ‘Yes, sir. I’ve checked with the authorities in UK. The catalogue does not mention the error. I was the first person to find it.’ ‘Congratulations! But . . . er . . . I wanted to discuss something else with you, Abanish Babu. I mean, something other than stamps.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Your uncle—Kailash Chowdhury—has a valuable jewel. Are you aware of that?’

Abanish Babu had to think fo r a few mo ments befo r e r eplying , ‘Oh yes, yes. I did hear abo ut it. I know nothing about its value, but it’s supposed to be “lucky”, or so my uncle said. Please forgive me, Mr Mitter, but of late I have been able to pay no attention to anything except my stamps.’ ‘How long have you lived in this house?’ ‘For the last five years. I moved here soon after my father died.’ ‘Do you get on with your uncle?’ ‘Which one do you mean? I have two uncles. One of them lives abroad.’ ‘Oh? I was speaking of Kailash Babu.’ ‘I see. Well, he is a very nice man, but . . .’ ‘But what?’ Abanish Babu frowned. ‘For the last few days . . . he’s been sort of . . . different.’ ‘How do you mean? When did you first notice this?’ ‘Two o r thr ee days ag o . I to ld him abo ut this stamp, but he paid no attentio n at all. No r mally, he takes a great deal of interest. Besides, some of his old habits seem to be changing.’ ‘How?’ ‘He used to take a walk in the garden every morning before breakfast. He hasn’t done that for the last couple of days. In fact, he gets up quite late. Maybe he hasn’t been sleeping well.’ ‘Do you have any particular reason to say this?’ ‘Yes. My bedroom is on the ground floor. The room directly above mine is my uncle’s. I have heard him pacing in the middle of the night. I’ve even heard his voice. I think he was having an argument.’ ‘An argument? With whom?’ ‘Probably Grandfather. Who else could it be? I’ve even heard footsteps going up and coming down the stairs. One night, I got up and went to the bottom of the stairs to see what was going on. I saw my uncle coming down from the roof, with a gun in his hand.’ ‘What time would that have been?’ ‘Around two o’clock in the morning, I should think.’ ‘What’s there on the roof?’ ‘No thing except a small attic. It was full o f o ld paper s and letter s, but I to o k tho se away a mo nth ago.’ Feluda r o se. I co uld see he had no fur ther questio ns to ask. Abanish Babu said, ‘Why did yo u ask me all this?’ Feluda smiled. ‘You uncle has a lot on his mind at this moment. But you don’t have to worry about it. Once things get sorted out, I’ll come and have a look at your stamps. All right?’ We returned to the drawing room to say good-bye to Mr Chowdhury. ‘I cannot guarantee anything, obviously, but I would like to say one thing,’ Feluda told him. ‘Please stop worrying and leave everything to me. Try to sleep at night. Take a sleeping pill, if necessary; and please do not go up to the roof. The houses in your lane are so close to one another that, for all we know, your enemy might be hiding on the roof of the house next door to keep an eye on you. If that is the cast, he may well jump across and attack you.’

‘Yo u think so ? I did g o up to the r o o f o ne nig ht, but I to o k my g un with me. I’d hear d a str ang e noise, you see. But I couldn’t see anyone.’ ‘I hope you always keep your gun handy?’ ‘Oh yes. But mental tension and anxiety can often affect one’s aim. If this business isn’t cleared up soon, God knows what’s going to happen to mine.’ The next day was Sunday. Feluda spent most of his time pacing in his room. At around four, I saw him change from his comfortable kurta-pyjama into trousers and a shirt. ‘Are you going out?’ I asked. ‘Yes. I thought it might be a good idea to take a look at the lilies in the Victoria Memorial. You can come with me, if you like.’ We took a tram and got off at the crossing of Lower Circular Road. Then we walked slowly to the south gate of the Memorial. Not many people came here. In the evening, particularly, most people went to the front of the building, to the north gate. We slipped in through the gate Twenty yards to the left, there stood rows of lilies. The blue beryl was supposed to be kept the next day under the first row of these. The sight of these flowers— beautiful though it was—suddenly gave me the creeps. ‘Didn’t your father have a pair of binoculars, which he’d taken to Darjeeling?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes, he’s still got them.’ ‘Good.’ We spent about fifteen minutes walking in the open ground surrounding the building. Then we took a taxi to the Lighthouse cinema. I got out with Feluda, feeling quite puzzled. Why did he suddenly want to see a film? But no, he was actually interested in a bookshop opposite the cinema. After leafing through a couple of other books, he picked up a fat stamp catalogue and began thumbing through its pages. I peered over his shoulder and whispered, ‘Are you suspecting Abanish Babu?’ ‘Well, if he’s so passionately fond of stamps, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind laying his hands on some ready cash.’ ‘But. . . remember that phone call that came when we were still at Mr Chowdhury’s? Abanish Babu could not have made it, surely?’ ‘No. That was made by Akbar Badshah. Or it may even have been Queen Victoria.’ This made me realize Feluda was no longer in the right mood to give straight answers to my questions, so I shut up. It was eig ht o ’clo ck by the time we g o t back ho me. Feluda to o k o ff his jacket and thr ew it o n his bed. ‘Look up Kailash Chowdhury’s telephone number in the directory while I have a quick shower,’ he said. I sat do wn with the dir ecto r y in my lap, but the pho ne star ted r ing ing befo r e I co uld tur n a sing le page. Considerably startled, I picked it up. ‘Hello.’ ‘Who is speaking?’ What a strange voice! I had certainly never heard it before. ‘Who would you like to speak to?’ I asked. The answer came in the same harsh voice: ‘Why does a young boy like you go around with a detective? Don’t you fear for your life?’

I tr ied calling o ut to Feluda, but co uld no t speak. My hands had star ted to tr emble. Befo r e I co uld r eplace the r eceiver, the man finished what he had to say, ‘I am war ning yo u—bo th o f yo u. Lay o ff. Or the consequences will be . . . unhappy.’ I sat still in my chair, quite unable to move. Feluda walked into the room a few minutes later, and said, ‘Hey, what’s the matter? Why are you sitting in that corner so quietly? Who rang just now?’ I swallowed hard and told him what had happened. His face grew grave. Then he slapped my shoulder and said, ‘Don’t worry. The police have been informed. A few men in plain clothes will be there. We must be at Victoria Memorial tomorrow.’ I didn’t find it easy to sleep that night. It wasn’t just the telephone call that kept me awake. I kept thinking of Mr Chowdhury’s house and all that I had seen in it: the staircase with the iron railing that went right up to the roof; the long, dark veranda with the marble floor on the first floor, and the old Mr Chowdhury peering out of a half-open door. Why was he staring at his son like that? And why had Kailash Babu gone to the roof carrying his gun? What kind of noise had he heard? Feluda said only one thing before switching off his light, ‘Did you know, Topshe, that people who send anonymous notes and threaten others on the telephone are basically cowards?’ It was perhaps because of this remark that I finally fell asleep. Feluda rang Kailash Chowdhury the following morning and told him to relax and stay at home. Feluda himself would take care of everything. ‘When will you go to Victoria Memorial?’ I asked him. ‘The same time as yesterday. By the way, do you have a sketch pad and pens and other drawing material?’ I felt totally taken aback. ‘Why? What do I need those for?’ ‘Never mind. Have you got them or not?’ ‘Yes, of course. I have my school drawing book.’ ‘Good. Take it with you. I’d want you to stand at a little distance from the lilies, and draw something—the trees, the building, the flowers, anything. I shall be your drawing teacher.’ Feluda could draw very well. In fact, I knew he could draw a reasonable portrait of a man after seeing him only once. The role of a drawing teacher would suit him perfectly. Since the days wer e sho r t in winter, we r eached the Victo r ia Memo r ial a few minutes befo r e fo ur o’clock. There were even fewer people around today. Three Nepali ayahs were roaming idly with their charges in perambulators. An Indian family—possibly Marwaris—and a couple of old men were strolling about, but there was no one else in sight. At some distance away from the gate, closer to the compound wall, stood two men under a tree. Feluda glanced at them, and then nudged me quietly. That meant those two were his friends from the police. They were in plain clothes, but were probably armed. Feluda knew quite a lot of people in the police. I parked myself opposite the rows of lilies and began sketching, although I could hardly concentrate on what I was doing. Feluda moved around with a pair of binoculars in his hands, occasionally grabbing my pad to make corrections and scolding me for making mistakes. Then he would move away again, and peer through the binoculars. The sun was about to set. The clock in a church nearby struck five. It would soon get cold. The Mar war is left in a big car. The ayahs, to o , beg an to push their per ambulato r s to war ds the g ate. The

traffic on Lower Circular Road had intensified. I could hear frequent horns from cars and buses, caught in the evening rush. Feluda returned to me and was about to sit down on the grass, when something near the gate seemed to attract his attention. I followed his gaze quickly, but could see no one except a man wrapped in a brown shawl, who was standing by the road outside, quite a long way away fr o m the g ate. Feluda placed the bino cular s to his eyes, had a quick lo o k, then passed them to me. ‘Take a look,’ he whispered. ‘You mean that man over there? The one wearing a shawl?’ ‘Hm.’ One glance through the binoculars brought the man clearly into view, as if he was standing only a few feet away. I gave an involuntary gasp. ‘Why . . . this is Kailash Chowdhury himself!’ ‘Right. Perhaps he’s come to look for us. Let’s go.’ But the man began walking away just as we started to move. He was gone by the time we came out of the gate. ‘Let’s go to his house,’ Feluda suggested, ‘I don’t think he saw us. He must have gone back feeling worried.’ There was no chance of finding a taxi at this hour, so we began walking towards Chowringhee in the hope of catching a tram. The road was heavily lined with cars. Soon, we found ourselves outside the Calcutta Club. What happened here was so unexpected and frightening that even as I write about it, I can feel myself br eak into a co ld sweat. I was walking by Feluda’s side when, witho ut the slig htest warning, he pulled me sharply away from the road. Then he leapt aside himself, as a speeding car missed him by inches. ‘What the devil—!’ Feluda exclaimed. ‘I missed the number of that car.’ It was too late to do anything about that. Heaven knew where the car had come from, or what had possessed its driver to drive so fast in this traffic. But it had disappeared totally from sight. I had fallen on the pavement, my sketch pad and pencils had scattered in different directions. I picked myself up, without bothering to look for them. If Feluda hadn’t seen that car coming and acted promptly, there was no doubt that both of us would have been crushed under its wheels. Feluda did not utter a single word in the tram. He just sat looking grim. The first thing he said on reaching Mr Chowdhury’s house was: ‘Didn’t you see us?’ Mr Chowdhury was sitting in a sofa in the drawing room. He seemed quite taken aback by our sudden arrival. ‘See you?’ he faltered. ‘Where? What are you talking about?’ ‘You mean to say you didn’t go to Victoria Memorial?’ ‘Who, me? Good heavens, no! I didn’t leave the house at all. In fact, I spent all afternoon in my bedroom upstairs, feeling sick with worry. I’ve only just come down.’ ‘Well then, Mr Chowdhury, do you have an identical twin?’ Mr Chowdhury’s jaw fell open. ‘Oh God, didn’t I tell you the other day?’ ‘Tell me what?’ ‘About Kedar? He’s my twin.’ Feluda sat down quickly. Mr Chowdhury’s face seemed to have lost all colour. ‘Why, did you . . . did you see Kedar? Was he there?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Yes. It couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.’ ‘My God!’

‘Why do you say that? Does your twin have a claim on that stone?’ Mr Chowdhury suddenly went limp, as though all the energy in his body had been drained out. He leant against the arm of his sofa, and sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘yes, he does. You see, it was Kedar who found the stone first. I saw the temple, but Kedar was the one who noticed the stone fixed on the statue.’ ‘What happened next?’ ‘Well, I took it from him. I mean, I pestered and badgered him until he got fed up and gave it to me. In a way, it was the right thing to do, for Kedar would simply have sold it and wasted the money. When I learnt just how valuable the stone was, I did not tell Kedar. To be honest, when he left the country, I felt quite relieved. But now . . . perhaps he’s come back because he couldn’t find work abroad. Maybe he wants to sell the stone and start a business of his own.’ Feluda was silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Do you have any idea what he might do next?’ ‘No. But I do know this: he will come and meet me here. I have stopped going out of the house, and I did no t keep the sto ne wher e I was to ld to . T her e is no o ther way left fo r him no w. If he wants the stone, he has to come here.’ ‘Would you like me to stay here? I might be able to help.’ ‘No, thank you. That will not be necessary. I have now made up my mind, Mr Mitter. If Kedar wants the stone, he can have it. I will simply hand it over to him. It’s simply a matter of waiting until he turns up. Yo u have alr eady do ne so much, putting yo ur life at r isk. I am mo st g r ateful to yo u. If yo u send me your bill, I will let you have a cheque.’ ‘Thank you. You’re right about the risk. We nearly got run over by a car.’ I had r ealized a while ag o that o ne o f my elbo ws was r ather badly g r azed, but had been tr ying to keep it o ut o f sig ht. As we r o se to take o ur leave, Feluda’s eyes fell o n it. ‘Hey, yo u’r e hur t, ar en’t you?’ he exclaimed, ‘your elbow is bleeding! If you don’t mind, Mr Chowdhury, I think Tapesh should put some Dettol on the wound, or it might get septic. Do you—?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Cho wdhur y g o t up quickly. ‘Yo u ar e quite r ig ht. The str eets ar e filthy, ar en’t they? Wait, let me ask Abanish.’ We followed Mr Chowdhury to Abanish Babu’s room. ‘Do we have any Dettol in the house, Abanish?’ Mr Chowdhury asked. Abanish Babu gave him a startled glance. ‘Why, I saw you bring a new bottle only a week ago!’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me it’s finished already?’ Mr Chowdhury gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Yes, of course. I totally forgot. I am going mad.’ Five minutes later, my elbow duly dabbed with Dettol, we came out of the house. Instead of going towards the main road where we might have caught a tram to go home, Feluda began walking in the opposite direction. Before I could ask him anything, he said, ‘My friend Ganapati lives nearby. He promised to get me a ticket for the Test match. I’d like to see him.’ Ganapati Chatterjee’s house turned out to be only two houses away. I had heard of him, but had never met him before. He opened the door when Feluda knocked: a rather plump man, wearing a pullover and trousers. ‘Felu! What brings you here, my friend?’ ‘Surely you can guess?’