The Complete Adventures of Feluda (Volume 2)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This omnibus edition features the ever-popular adventures of Satyajit Rays enduring creation, the professional sleuth Pradosh C. Mitter (Feluda). In his escapades, Feluda is accompanied by his cousin Topshe and the bumbling crime writer Lalmohan Ganguly (Jatayu). From Jaisalmer to Simla, from the Ellora Caves to Varanasi, the trio traverse fascinating locales to unravel one devious crime after another.
Thrills unlimited - Financial Express A delightful pastime - Statesman
The Emperors Ring
The Golden Fortress
A Killer in Kailash
The Royal Bengal Mystery
The Mystery of the Elephant God
The Bandits of Bombay and ten other stories
Translated from the Bengali by Gopa Majumdar.
still looking for it. Inspector Shome had offered to let Feluda know immediately if they found it. ‘Is it possible to talk to Mrs Munshi?’ Feluda asked the inspector. ‘Yes, I think so. She’s taken it quite well, I must say. A brave lady!’ The three of us went to Mrs Munshi’s room. She was sitting on her bed with her back to the door, facing a window. She turned her head to look at us when Feluda knocked on the open door. I gave a start. Mrs Munshi looked exactly like her brother. Were they
around fifty; the hair around his ears had turned grey; there was a mole on his chin, and he was wearing a grey safari suit. From the way he cleared his throat as he stepped into the room, he appeared to be feeling a little uneasy; and judging by the way his hand rose and covered his mouth when he cleared his throat, he was somewhat westernized in his behaviour. ‘Sorry I couldn’t ring you and make an appointment,’ he said. ‘All the roads are dug up in our area, so the phone lines are dead.’
must return to his room. ‘Why? What’s the hurry?’ Feluda asked. ‘It’s that book Shatadal gave me. You know, the one written by Rev. Pritchard called Life and Work in Birbhum. It’s absolutely gripping. In fact, there’s mention of the story we just heard from Maxwell about a punkha-puller being kicked to death.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes. This happened towards the end of the nineteenth century. Reginald Maxwell killed his servant, but no one punished him for doing so . . . The punkha-puller was called
horror. Even in the dim candlelight, I could see that he had gone visibly pale. Inside the drawer was a rolled up parchment, which turned out to be a horoscope; and in an old wooden Kashmiri box, there were some old letters. Nothing else. ‘How . . . how is it possible?’ Mr Banerjee could barely whisper. ‘Three bundles of hundred-rupee notes . . . about thirty-three thousand rupees . . .’ ‘The research papers? Were they in this other drawer?’ Mr Banerjee nodded. Feluda opened it. The second
returned from Patan in the late afternoon, after having stopped for lunch at a restaurant (sadly for Lalmohan Babu, their menu did not include mo-mo), Feluda was lying on his bed, reading a book called Black Market Medicine. One look at us made him raise an eyebrow. ‘What’s the matter with you? Where have you been?’ he asked. We told him. Feluda heard us out, throwing in a few rapid questions every now and then, and added, ‘Well done!’ It was nice to be praised, but I knew what we had done was