The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II Read Online Free

‘Sagarika’. A marble slab on the other side said, ‘D.G. Sen’. It was an old-fashioned house, but whoever had had it built had good taste. There was a garden, a portion of which was visible from the gate.
    ‘The owner lives on the second floor,’ said Mr Som. ‘Ah, here weare . . . this is Laxman Bhattacharya’s room.’
    There were nearly a dozen people waiting outside on the veranda. No doubt they were all Mr Bhattacharya’s clients. Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Jai Guru!’ and walked in with Mr Som. We came away.
    ‘What did your forehead reveal?’ asked Feluda about an hour later, as Lalmohan Babu swept into our room in great excitement.
    ‘Incredible, extraordinary, absolutely uncanny!’ Lalmohan Babu replied. ‘He told me everything about my past—whooping cough at the age of seven, an accident when I was eighteen, which left me with a dislocated kneecap, then the publication of my first novel, my spectacular popularity, and he even told my how many editions my next book will have.’
    ‘And the skylab? Did he tell you whether or not it’s going to fall on your head?’
    ‘You can joke all you like, Felu Babu, but I think you ought to visit him. In fact, I insist that you do. He seemed to know about you. He said I was very lucky to have a good friend, and even gave your description!’
    ‘What about my profession? Did he say anything about that?’
    ‘He said my friend was very hard-working, and intelligent, with a great interest in many subjects, and had remarkable powers of observation. Is that close enough for you?’
    ‘May I come in?’ said a voice at the door.
    We turned to find the manager, Shyamlal Barik, waiting to come in with a small box of paan in his hand. Feluda invited him in, and he opened his box at once. Our room was filled with the sweet smell of paan-masala. ‘Have one,’ he offered. Then, looking at our faces, he laughed. ‘Don’t worry, there’s no tobacco in any of these,’ he assured us. We helped ourselves. Feluda lit a Charminar.
    ‘Tell me, Mr Barik, what is D.G. Sen’s full name?’ he asked. ‘I’ve only just been to his house, and it never occurred to me to ask!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu.
    Shyamlal Barik smiled. ‘The truth is, Mr Mitter, that I don’t know his full name. I doubt if anyone does. Everyone calls him D.G. Sen. Some even call him DG Babu.’
    ‘Doesn’t he go out much?’
    ‘He used to. Last year, he went to Bhutan or Sikkim or some such place. He returned about six months ago. We’ve hardly ever seen him since he came back.’
    ‘Do you know why he suddenly turned into a recluse?’
    Shyamlal Barik shook his head. ‘Did he build that house?’ Feluda went on.
    ‘No. It was built by his father. You may have heard of him. Do you know about Sen Perfumers?’
    ‘Yes, yes. But they’ve gone out of business, haven’t they? S.N. Sen’s Sensational Essences. Is that what you mean?’
    ‘Yes. DG is S.N. Sen’s son. Their business was doing very well. They had three houses in Calcutta, one here in Puri. and one in Madhupur. But, sadly, no one took any interest in the business when S.N. Sen died. He had two sons. DG is the younger of the two, I think. S.N. Sen had left a will, dividing all his property between his sons. DG got this house. He may have had a job at one time—I don’t think he ever bothered about the family business—but now he’s retired and his sole interest is art.’
    ‘Art?’ Feluda suddenly seemed to recall something. ‘Is he the one who has a collection of ancient manuscripts and scrolls?’
    My Uncle Sidhu had a few scrolls. Some of them were more than three hundred years old. Scrolls and manuscripts written before the advent of the printing press were called
puthi.
Feluda had once explained this to me. A long time ago, people used to write on the bark of a tree. Then they began to write on palm leaves and, finally, on paper. Uncle Sidhu had often lamented the fact that people had forgotten these manuscripts were