Free The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II by Satyajit Ray Page B

Only Feluda remained completely unperturbed. ‘I think we ought to visit your house of death,’ he announced, pushing the door gently. It swung open with a loud creak.
    A musty, slightly foul smell wafted out immediately. Perhaps there were bats inside. It was totally dark in the room. If there were windows, they were obviously shut, and we ourselves were blocking the light coming in through the open door. Feluda crossed the threshold and stepped in. I followed him a second later. Only Lalmohan Babu hesitated outside. ‘All clear?’ he asked after a while in a voice that sounded unnaturally loud.
    ‘Oh yes. And things will no doubt soon become even clearer. Come and see what’s inside,’ Feluda invited. By now my eyes had got a little focused in the dark, and I had seen what Feluda was referring to. There was a small trunk and bedding, wrapped carelessly in a durrie. Both had been dumped in a corner.
    ‘The police are wasting their time,’ Feluda said slowly. ‘Nishith Bose has not gone to Calcutta.’
    ‘Well then, where is he?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, surprised. He had finally joined us in the room.
    Feluda did not reply.
    ‘Hmm. Very interesting,’ he muttered, staring at something else. I followed his gaze. In another corner was a small heap, consisting of long, narrow pieces of wood and reams and reams of cheap yellow paper, tied with strings.
    ‘Any idea what this might mean?’ Feluda asked.
    ‘Those pieces of wood . . . why, they look like the wood used for manuscripts!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘And . . . oh!’ He seemed bereft of speech.
    ‘It seems Nishith Bose had started a regular factory,’ I said slowly, ‘for making fake manuscripts. I guess all he had to do was chop bitsof wood down to the right size, then place bits of paper between them, and wrap the whole thing up in red silk. It would certainly have looked like an ancient manuscript.’
    ‘Exactly,’ said Feluda. ‘It is my belief that many of Mr Sen’s manuscripts are fake. What he had bought was genuine, of course, but since then someone has removed the original piece and replaced it with plain paper. The real stuff has been sold to people like Hingorani.’
    ‘Oh, ho, ho, ho!’ Lalmohan Babu suddenly found his tongue. ‘Remember that strip of paper I saw on our first visit to Mr Sen’s house? The one I thought was a snake? That must have been a piece of paper used for making dummies of real manuscripts.’
    ‘Undoubtedly,’ Feluda said firmly.
    We were standing in the middle of the room. There were two side doors, one on our right and the other on our left. Presumably, they led to other rooms. Through the open front door—through which we had walked a few minutes ago—a strong sea breeze blew in with considerable force. The door to our right opened unexpectedly, making a loud noise that sounded almost like a gunshot. What followed next froze my blood. Even now, my heart trembles as I write about it.
    Lalmohan Babu was the first to look through the open door. He made a strange noise in his throat, his eyes began popping out, and he’d probably have fainted; but Feluda leapt forward and caught him before he could sink to the floor. In speechless horror, I stared at the figure that lay on the floor in the next room. It was a man. No, it was the dead body of a man; and even I could tell he had lain there, dead, for quite some time, although his eyes were still open. I had no difficulty in recognizing him.
    It was D.G. Sen’s secretary, Nishith Bose.

Eleven
    Feluda had to miss breakfast that day.
    Once Lalmohan Babu had recovered somewhat, we went to the Railway Hotel as it was closer and rang the police from there. Then we returned to our own hotel.
    Feluda left us soon afterwards. ‘I have a few things to do, particularly in the Nulia colony, so I’ve got to go,’ he said. He hadalready told us—even without touching the body—that Mr Bose had been killed with a blunt instrument, though there was no sign of the