by Satyajit Ray
Feluda himself had a pair of sharp eyes, didn’t wear glasses, and could stare at any object for three minutes and fifteen seconds without blinking even once. I should know, for I had tested him often enough. But he had never lived in a village. I was tempted to point this out to him, but didn’t dare. The chances of having my head bitten off if I did were very high.
We were travelling with a man called Monimohan Samaddar. He wore glasses (but then, he lived in a city), was about fifty years old and had sharp features. The hair around his ears had started to turn grey. It was in his Fiat that we were travelling, to a place called Bamungachhi, which was a suburb of Calcutta. We had met Moni Babu only yesterday.
He had turned up quite out of the blue in the afternoon, as Feluda and I sat in our living room, reading. I had been watching Feluda reading a book on numerology, raising his eyebrows occasionally in both amazement and appreciation. It was a book about Dr Matrix. Feluda caught me looking at him, and smiled. ‘You’d be astonished to learn the power of numbers, and the role they play in the lives of men like Dr Matrix. Listen to this. It was a discovery Dr Matrix made. You know the names of the two American Presidents who were assassinated, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Lincoln and Kennedy, right?’
‘Right. Now tell me how many letters each name has.’
‘L-i-n-c-o-l-n—seven. K-e-n-n-e-d-y—also seven.’
‘OK. Now listen, carefully. Lincoln was killed in 1865 and Kennedy died in 1963, a little less than a hundred years later. Both were killed on a Friday, and both had their wives by their side. Lincoln was killed in the Ford Theatre. Kennedy was killed in a car called Lincoln, manufactured by the Ford company. The next President after Lincoln was called Johnson, Andrew Johnson. Kennedy was succeeded by Lyndon Johnson. The first Johnson was born in 1808, the second in 1908, exactly a hundred years later. Do you know who killed Lincoln?’
‘Yes, but I can’t remember his name right now.’
‘It was John Wilkes Booth. He was born in 1839. And Kennedy was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald. He was born in 1939! Now count the number of letters in both names.’
‘Good heavens, both have fifteen letters!’
Feluda might have told me of a few more startling discoveries by Dr Matrix, but it was at this point that Mr Samaddar arrived, without a prior appointment. He introduced himself, adding, ‘I live in Lake Place, which isn’t far from here.’
‘I see.’
‘Er . . . you may have heard of my uncle, Radharaman Samaddar.’
‘Oh yes. He died recently, didn’t he? I believe he was greatly interested in music?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I read an obituary in the local newspaper. I hadn’t heard about him before that, I’m afraid. He was quite old, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he was eighty-two when he died. I’m not surprised that you hadn’t heard of him. When he gave up singing, you must have been a young boy. He retired fifteen years ago, and built a house in Bamungachhi. That is where he lived, almost like a recluse, until his death. He had a heart attack on 18 September, and died the same night.’
‘I see.’
Mr Samaddar cleared his throat. After a few seconds of silence, he said a little hesitantly, ‘I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve come to disturb you like this. I just wanted to give you a little background, that’s all.’
‘Of course. Don’t worry, Mr Samaddar, please take your time.’ Moni Babu resumed speaking. ‘My uncle was different from other men. He was actually a lawyer, and he made a lot of money. But he stopped practising when he was about fifty, and turned wholly to music. He didn’t just sing, he could play seven or eight different instruments, both Indian and Western. I myself have seen him play the sitar, the violin, piano, harmonium, flute and the tabla, besides others. He had a passion for collecting instruments. In fact, his house had become a mini-museum of musical instruments.’
‘Which house do you mean?’
‘He had started collecting before he left Calcutta. Then he transferred his collection to his house in Bamungachhi. He used to travel widely, looking for instruments. Once he bought a violin from an Italian in Bombay. Only a few months later, he sold it in Calcutta for thirty thousand rupees.’
Feluda had once told me that three hundred years ago, in Italy there had been a handful of people who had produced violins of such high quality that, today, their value was in excess of a hundred thousand rupees.
Mr Samaddar continued to speak. ‘As you can see, my uncle was gifted. There were a lot of positive qualities in his character that made him different from most people. But, at the same time, there was an overriding negative factor which eventually turned him into a recluse. He was amazingly tight-fisted. The few relatives he had stopped seeing him because of this. He didn’t seem to mind, for he wasn’t particularly interested in staying in touch with them, anyway.’
‘How many relatives did he have?’
‘Not a lot. He had three brothers and two sisters. The sisters and two of his brothers are no more. The third brother left home thirty years ago. No one knows if he’s alive. Radharaman’s wife and only child, a son called Muralidhar, are both dead. Muralidhar’s son, Dharanidhar, is his only grandchild. Radharaman was very fond of him once. But when he left his studies and joined a theatre under a different name, my uncle washed his hands off him. I don’t think he ever saw him again.’
‘How are you related to him?’
‘Oh, my father was one of his elder brothers. He died many years ago.’
‘I see; and is Dharanidhar still alive?’
‘Yes, but I believe he’s moved on to another group, and is now doing a jatra. I tried contacting him when my uncle passed away, but he wasn’t in Calcutta. Someone told me he was off on a tour, travelling through small villages. He’s quite well known now in the theatre world. He was interested in music, too, which was why his grandfather was so fond of him.’
Mr Samaddar stopped. Then he went on, speaking a little absently. ‘It’s not as if I saw my uncle regularly. I used to go and meet him, maybe once every two months or so. Of late, even that had become difficult as my work kept me very busy. I run a printing press in Bhawanipore, called the Eureka Press. We’ve had such frequent power cuts recently that it’s been quite a job clearing all our backlog. Anyway, my uncle’s neighbour, Abani Babu, telephoned me when he had a heart attack. I left immediately with Chintamoni Bose, the heart specialist. My uncle was unconscious at first, but opened his eyes just before he died, and seemed to recognize me. He even spoke a few words, but then . . . it was all over.’
‘What did he say?’ Feluda leant forward.
‘He said, “In . . . my . . . name.” Then he tried to speak, but couldn’t. After struggling for sometime, he could get only one word out. “Key . . . key,” he said. That was all.’
Feluda stared at Mr Samaddar, a frown on his face. ‘Have you any idea what his words might have meant?’
‘Well, at first I thought perhaps he was worried about his name, and his reputation. Perhaps he’d realized people called him a miser. But the word “key” seemed to matter to him. I mean, he sounded really concerned about this key. I haven’t the slightest idea which key he was referring to. His bedroom has an almirah and a chest. The keys to these were kept in the drawer of a table that stood by the side of his bed. The house only has three rooms, barring a bathroom attached to his bedroom. There is hardly any furniture, and almost nothing that might require a key. The lock he used on the main door to his bedroom was a German combination lock, which didn’t work with a key at all.’
‘What did he have in the almirah and the chest?’
‘Nothing apart from a few clothes and papers. These were in the almirah. The chest was totally empty.’
‘Did you find any money?’
‘No. In the drawer of the table was some loose change and a few two and five rupee notes, that’s all. There was a wallet under his pillow, but even this had very little money in it. Apparently, he kept
money for daily use in this wallet. At least, that’s what his old servant Anukul told me.’
‘What did he do when he finished spending what he had in his wallet or in his table drawer? Surely he had a bigger source to draw on?’
‘Yes, that’s what one has to assume.’
‘Why do you say that? Didn’t he have a bank account?’
Mr Samaddar smiled. ‘No, he didn’t. If he had had one, there would’ve been nothing unusual about him, would there? To tell you the truth, there was a time when he did keep his money in a bank. But many years ago, that bank went out of business, and he lost all he had put in it. He refused to trust another bank after that. But—’ Mr Samaddar lowered his voice, ‘I know he had a lot of money. How else do you suppose he could afford to buy all those rare and expensive instruments? Besides, he didn’t mind spending a great deal on himself. He ate well, wore specially tailored clothes, maintained a huge garden, and had even bought a second hand Austin. He used to drive to Calcutta occasionally. So . . .’ His voice trailed away.
Feluda lit a Charminar, and offered one to Mr Samaddar. Mr Samaddar took it, and waited until Feluda had lit it for him. ‘Now,’ he said, inhaling deeply, ‘do you understand why I had to come to you? What will the key unlock? Where has all my uncle’s money gone? Which key was he talking about, anyway? Shall we find any money or something else? Had he made a will? Who knows? If he had, we must find it. In the absence of a will, his grandson will get everything, but someone has to find out what that consists of. I have heard such a lot about your intelligence and your skill. Will you please help me, Mr Mitter?’
Feluda agreed. It was then decided that Mr Samaddar would pick us up today at 7 a.m. and take us to his uncle’s house in Bamungachhi. I could tell Feluda was interested because this was a new type of mystery. Or perhaps it was more a puzzle than a mystery.
That is what I thought at first. Later, I realized it was something far more complex than a mere puzzle.
Two
We drove down Jessore Road, and took a right turn after Barasat. This road led straight to Bamungachhi. Mr Samaddar stopped here at a small tea shop and treated us to a cup of tea and jalebis. This took about fifteen minutes. By the time we reached Radharaman Samaddar’s house, it was past eight o’clock.
A bungalow stood in the middle of a huge plot of land (it measured seven acres, we were told later), surrounded by a pink boundary wall and rows of eucalyptus trees. The man who opened the gate for us was probably the mali, for he had a basket in his hand. We drove up to the front door, passing a garage on the way. A black Austin stood in it.
As I was getting out of the car, a sudden noise from the garden made me look up quickly. I found a boy of about ten standing a few yards away, wearing blue shorts and clutching an air gun. He returned my stare gravely.
‘Is your father at home?’ asked Mr Samaddar. ‘Go tell him Moni Babu from Calcutta has come back, and would like to see him, if he doesn’t mind.’
The boy left, loading his gun.
‘Is that the neighbour’s son?’ Feluda asked.
‘Yes. His father, Abani Sen, is a florist. He has a shop in New Market in Calcutta. He lives right next door. He has his nursery here, you see. Occasionally, he comes and spends a few weeks with his family.’
An old man emerged from the house, looking at us enquiringly. ‘This is Anukul,’ Mr Samaddar said. ‘He had worked for my uncle for over thirty years. He’ll stay on until we know what should be done about the house.’
There was a small hall behind the front door. It couldn’t really be called a room, all it had was a round table in the middle, and a torn calendar on the wall. There were no light switches on the wall as the whole area did not receive any electricity at all. Beyond this hall was a door. Mr Samaddar walked over to it, and said, ‘Look, this is the German lock I told you about. One could buy a lock like this in Calcutta before the Second World War. The combination is eight-two-nine-one.’
It was round in shape, with no provision for a key. There were four grooves instead. Against each groove were written numbers, from one to nine. A tiny object like a hook stuck out of each groove. This hook could be pushed from one end of the groove to the other. It could also be placed next to any of the numbers. It was impossible to open the lock unless one knew exactly which numbers the hooks should be placed against.
Mr Samaddar pushed the four hooks, each to rest against a different number—eight, two, nine and one. With a faint click, the lock opened. It seemed almost as though I was in a magic show. ‘Locking the door is even easier,’ said Mr Samaddar. ‘All you need to do is push any of those hooks away from the right number. Then it locks automatically.’
The door with the German lock opened into Radharaman Samaddar’s bedroom. It was a large room, and it contained all the furniture Radharaman’s nephew had described. What was amazing was the number of instruments the room was packed with. Some of these were kept on shelves, others on a long bench and small tables. Some more hung on the wall.
Feluda stopped in the middle of the room and looked around for a few seconds. Then he opened the almirah and the chest, and went through both. This was followed by a search of the table drawers, a small trunk he discovered under the bed (all it revealed was a pair of old shoes and a few rags) and all the instruments in the room. Feluda picked them up, felt their weight and turned them over to see if any of them was meant to be operated by a key. Then he stripped the bed, turned the mattress over, and began tapping on the floor to see if any part of it sounded hollow. It didn’t. It took him another minute to inspect the attached bathroom. He still found nothing. Finally, he said, ‘Could you please ask the mali to come here for a minute?’ When the mali came, he got him to remove the contents of two flower-pots kept under the window. Both pots were empty. ‘All right, you can put everything back into those pots, and thank you,’ he told the mali.
In the meantime, Anukul had placed a table and four chairs in the room. He then put four glasses of lemonade on the table, and withdrew. Mr Samaddar handed two glasses to us, and asked, ‘What do you make of all this, Mr Mitter?’ Feluda shook his head. ‘If it wasn’t for those instruments, it would’ve been impossible to believe that a man of means had lived in this room.’
‘Exactly. Why do you suppose I ran to you for help? I’ve never felt so puzzled in my life!’ Mr Samaddar exclaimed, taking a sip from his glass.
I looked at the instruments. I could recognize only a few like the sitar, sarod, tanpura, tabla and a flute. I had never seen any of the others, and I wasn’t sure that Feluda had, either. ‘Do you know what each one of these is called?’ he asked Mr Samaddar. ‘That string instrument that’s hanging from a hook on the wall over there. Can you tell me its name?’
‘No, sir!’ Mr Samaddar laughed. ‘I know nothing of music. I haven’t the slightest idea of what these might be called, or where they came from.’
There were footsteps outside the room. A moment later, the boy with the airgun arrived with a man of about forty. Mr Samaddar did the introductions. The man was Abani Sen, the florist who lived next door. The boy was his son, Sadhan. ‘Mr Pradosh Mitter?’ he said. ‘Of course I’ve heard of you!’ Feluda gave a slight smile, and cleared his throat. Mr Sen took the empty chair and was offered the fourth glass of lemonade. ‘Before I forget, Mr Samaddar,’ he said, picking it up, ‘do you know if your uncle had wanted to sell any of his instruments?’
‘Why, no!’ Mr Samaddar sounded quite taken aback.
‘A gentleman came yesterday. He went to my house since he couldn’t find anyone here. He’s called Surajit Dasgupta. He collects musical instruments, very much like your uncle. He showed me a letter written by Radharaman Babu, and said he’d already been to this house and spoken to Radharaman Babu once. Anukul told me later he had seen him before. The letter had been written shortly before your uncle died. Anyway, I told him to come back today. I had a feeling you might return.’
‘I have seen him, too.’
This came from
Sadhan. He was playing with a small instrument that looked a bit like a harmonium, making slight tinkling noises. His father laughed at his words. ‘Sadhan used to spend most of his time in or around this house. In fact, he still does. He and his Dadu were great friends.’
‘How did you like your Dadu?’ Feluda asked him.
‘I liked him a lot,’ Sadhan answered, with his back to us, ‘but sometimes he annoyed me.’
‘How?’
‘He kept asking me to sing the sargam.’
‘And you didn’t want to?’
‘No. But I can sing.’
‘Ah, only songs from Hindi films.’ Mr Sen laughed again.
‘Did your Dadu know you could sing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had he ever heard you?’
‘No.’
‘Well then, how do you think he knew?’
‘Dadu often used to tell me that those whose names carry a note of melody are bound to have melodious voices.’
This made very little sense to us, so we exchanged puzzled glances. ‘What did he mean by that?’ Feluda asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you ever hear him sing?’
‘No. But I’ve heard him play.’
‘What!’ Mr Samaddar sounded amazed. ‘Are you sure, Sadhan? I thought he had given up playing altogether. Did he play in front of you?’
‘No, no. I was outside in the garden, killing coconuts with my gun. That’s when I heard him play.’
‘Could it have been someone else?’
‘No, there was no one in the house except Dadu.’
‘Did he play for a long time?’ Feluda wanted to know.
‘No, only for a little while.’
Feluda turned to Mr Samaddar. ‘Could you please ask Anukul to come here?’
Anukul arrived in a few moments. ‘Did you ever hear your master play any of these instruments?’ Feluda asked him.
‘Well . . .’ Anukul replied, speaking hesitantly. ‘My master spent most of his time in this room. He didn’t like being disturbed. So really, sir, I wouldn’t know whether he played or not.’