by Satyajit Ray
Feluda had made some enquiries and learned that Mr Biswas had been admitted to Park Hospital. He had decided to go there in the evening and return Mr Biswas’s belongings to him.
My question made Feluda open his own notebook and offer it to me. ‘If you can make any sense of this, you’re bound to win the Nobel Prize!’
I found the following words written on the ruled page of his notebook:
B/S 141 SNB for WG Victoria & P.C. (44?)
Re Victoria’s letters try MN, OU, GAA, SJ, WN
To myself, I said silently, ‘I’ve just missed the Nobel Prize!’ Aloud, I said, ‘It seems the man is interested in Queen Victoria, but I can’t figure out what “Victoria & P.C.” might mean.’
‘P.C. might stand for Prince Consort. That would be Prince Albert.’
‘Oh. But I can’t understand anything else.’
‘No? Surely you know the meaning of the words “for” and “try”?’
It was obvious from Feluda’s mood that he hadn’t had much luck with the words, either. To be honest, what Uncle Sidhu had said made sense. Perhaps Feluda was trying to find a mystery when there wasn’t one. But, as soon as I thought that, I remembered the half-finished cigarette, and suddenly there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. Who had run away from the graveyard on seeing us? What was he doing there, anyway, on a wet and windy evening?
It had been agreed that Lalmohan Babu would collect us and take us to Park Hospital at four o’clock. He turned up on time, clutching a magazine. ‘What did I tell you, sir? Look, here’s a copy of Vichitrapatra, and here’s that article by Naren Biswas. There’s a picture of the Monument, but it’s printed rather badly.’
‘But . . . look, the writer is called Narendra Nath Biswas, not Narendra Mohan. Is it a different man?’
‘No,’ said Feluda, ‘I think the problem is with those visiting cards. Maybe he had them printed at some small, inefficient press that printed “N.M. Biswas” instead of “N.N”. I bet he didn’t check the proof. We found those cuttings in his wallet, and now there’s an article by Naren Biswas . . . surely it can’t be dismissed as a coincidence?’
Feluda skimmed the article quickly, then dropped the magazine on a side table. ‘His language isn’t bad, but what he’s said is nothing new. What we must find out is whether the writer is the same Naren Biswas as the one who was injured by that tree.’
Baba happened to know one of the doctors—Dr Shikdar—at Park Hospital. He had visited our house a couple of times, so he knew Feluda. Only five minutes after Feluda sent his card in, we were summoned into Dr Shikdar’s office.
‘What brings you here? A new case?’
People who know Feluda always ask him that question if he turns up anywhere unexpectedly, even if the reason for his visit has nothing to do with a case.
Feluda smiled. ‘I’m here to return something to one of your patients.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Biswas. Naren Biswas. The day before yesterday . . .’
‘But he’s left. Only a couple of hours ago. His brother came in his car to collect him. They’ve gone.’
‘Really? But the papers said . . .’
‘What did they say? That he was seriously wounded? Press reporters often exaggerate. If a whole tree fell on someone, naturally he wouldn’t survive. What hit Mr Biswas was a relatively small branch. He needed treatment more for shock than actual physical injury. His right wrist was injured, and he needed a few stitches in his head, that’s all.’
‘Could you tell me something? Was it the same Naren Biswas who writes on old Calcutta?’
‘Yes, the very same. Obviously, I was curious to know why he was in the cemetery, in the first place. So he said he was doing some research on old Calcutta. I told him he had found a good subject. The more one stays away from today’s Calcutta, the better.’
‘Did his injuries seem normal to you?’
‘Ah. Now you’re talking! That was a question worthy of a detective.’
Feluda failed to hide his embarrassment. ‘No, I mean . . . did he say himself that a tree fell and . . .?’
‘Look, a large part of a tree did come crashing down, didn’t it? Surely there’s no doubt about that? And the fellow was in the vicinity. Is there any reason to question that?’
‘Did he think there was anything suspicious?’
‘No, of course not. He said he actually saw and heard the tree cracking and coming down . . . naturally, it was not possible to guess exactly how far its branches were spread. But . . . yes, when he regained consciousness, he uttered the word “will” two or three times. I don’t know if there’s anything mysterious in that. I wouldn’t have thought so, as that was the only time he mentioned a will. He said nothing about it afterwards.’
‘Do you happen to know his full name?’
‘Didn’t that newspaper report mention it? Narendra Nath Biswas.’
‘I have another question—please forgive me, I am taking up a lot of your time—do you remember what clothes he was wearing?’
‘Certainly. A shirt and trousers. I even remember what colour they were—the shirt was white and the trousers were biscuit coloured. Not Glaxo biscuits, mind you, but cream crackers . . . ha ha ha!’
After that, Feluda took Mr Biswas’s address from Dr Shikdar and we left the hospital. Mr Biswas lived in New Alipore. We went there straightaway. Usually, it is not easy to find a house in New Alipore unless one knows its exact location, but it turned out that Lalmohan Babu’s driver knew the streets of Calcutta very well. We did not have to spend more than three minutes looking for Mr Biswas’s house.
The building had two storeys. It must have been built about twenty years ago. Outside the front gate, a black Ambassador was parked. The nameplate bore two names: N. Biswas and G. Biswas. We rang the bell. A servant opened the door.
‘Is Naren Biswas at home?’
‘He is unwell.’
‘Isn’t he up to receiving visitors at all? I need to see him. There’s a little
‘Who are you looking for?’
Someone standing behind the servant had asked the question. A man in his mid-forties stepped forward. He was clean shaven, his eyes were hazel. He was wearing a bush shirt over pyjamas, and a cotton shawl was wrapped around his shoulders.
‘I’d like to return something that belongs to Mr Naren Biswas. It’s his wallet. He dropped it in the Park Street cemetery.’
‘Oh, I see. I am his brother. Please come in. Dada is in bed. He’s still covered in bandages. He can talk, but an accident like that . . . I mean, it’s a big shock, after all. . .!’
There was a bedroom behind the staircase going up to the first floor. Mr Biswas was in that room, lying in his bed. He appeared darker than his brother and sported a thick moustache. His head was covered by a bandage, but one didn’t have to be told that, underneath the bandage, his head was quite bald.
He lowered the newspaper he was holding in his left hand, and bowed his head in greeting. A bandage was wrapped around his right wrist, so perhaps it was difficult for him to raise both hands in a proper namaskar. His brother left the room. I heard him call out to the servant and ask him to bring two more chairs. Naren Biswas’s room had only one chair, placed in front of a desk, not far from the bed.
Feluda took out Mr Biswas’s wallet and handed it to him.
‘Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much. You went to so much trouble . . .!’ he said.
‘No, it was no trouble, I assure you,’ Feluda said most politely. ‘We just happened to be there, and this friend of mine found it, so . . .’
Mr Biswas opened the wallet with his left hand and briefly glanced into its compartments. Then he looked enquiringly at Feluda. ‘Happened to be . . . in the cemetery?’
Feluda laughed. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing. You are doing some work on Calcutta’s history, aren’t you?’
Mr Biswas sighed. ‘Yes, so I was. But I’ve been adequately punished. I don’t think the wind-god wants me to continue.’
‘Yes, I wrote it. On the Monument? Yes, it’s one of mine. I’ve written elsewhere as well. I had a job until last year. Now I’m retired. I have to keep myself occupied, don’t I? I was once a student of history, you see. I’ve always been interested in that subject. When I was in college, one day I walked all the way from Bag Bazar to Dum Dum to look at Clive’s house. Have you ever seen it? It was there until recently—a house built like a bungalow. Its front wall bore the East India Company’s coat-of-arms.’
‘Did you go to Presidency College?’
On the wall, above the desk, was a group photo. ‘Presidency College, Alumni Association, 1953,’ it said.
‘It wasn’t just I,’ Mr Biswas informed us, ‘my son, my brother, father, even grandfather went to Presidency. It’s a family tradition. Now I am ashamed to admit that we won gold medals, both Girin and I.’
‘Ashamed? Why should you be ashamed?’
‘Well, that didn’t get us anywhere, did it? What did we achieve in life? I held down a job, and Girin ran a business. That’s all. No one knows us, our names mean nothing to people.’
Feluda had stepped closer to the photo to take a good look. Now his eyes travelled to the desk. A blue notebook was lying open. Only about ten lines had been written on the page, no more.
‘Is your name Narendra Nath, or Narendra Mohan?’ Feluda asked. ‘. . . sorry?’
Perhaps Mr Biswas had become a little preoccupied. Feluda had to repeat his question. That made Mr Biswas smile and look faintly surprised. ‘As far as I know, it’s Narendra Nath. Why, do you have reason to believe that’s not my name?’
‘Your visiting card says N. M. Biswas.’
‘Oh, that? That’s a printer’s error. When I give one of those cards to anyone, I always change the “M” to “N”. I could have got some new cards printed, but never got round to it. To tell you the truth, I don’t really need a card. I put a few in my wallet only because, of late, I’ve been visiting museums, and sometimes I have to meet some of their officials. By the way, are you going to write about that old cemetery? I hope not! I could never compete with a young rival like you.’
‘No, I don’t write,’ Feluda said as he rose to take his leave, ‘I’m happy simply to learn. Incidentally, I have a request. While you’re doing your research, if you come across any mention of a family called Godwin, could you please let me know? It would really help me.’
‘Godwin?’
‘Yes. Thomas Godwin was buried in the Park Street cemetery. In fact, the same tree that injured you also damaged Godwin’s tomb.’
‘Really?’
‘Five more Godwins were buried in the other cemetery in Lower Circular Road.’
‘Very well, if I find anything, I’ll certainly let you know. But I need your address to do that.’
Feluda handed him one of his cards.
‘Private investigator?’ Mr Biswas sounded considerably taken aback. ‘Is that what you do for a living?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. I’d heard that there were private detectives in Calcutta. This is the first time I’ve actually met one!’
Five
‘Why didn’t you ask him about Victoria?’ I said to Feluda, on our way to Chowringhee. We were in Lalmohan Babu’s car, and he was determined to take us to the Blue Fox for tea and sandwiches. Who knew a visit to that restaurant would change everything?
Feluda replied, ‘Well, I don’t think Mr Biswas would have been pleased to learn that I had gone through his papers and read those words. They may not be a secret code or anything dramatic like that, but certainly abbreviations had been used for personal reference. It could well be that they weren’t meant to be seen by anyone else.’
‘Yes, there is that.’
Lalmohan Babu was looking a bit withdrawn. Feluda hadn’t failed to notice it. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, ‘why do your eyes look so distant?’
Lalmohan Babu sighed. ‘I had thought up a wonderful plot for Pulak. It was bound to be another successful film—but he wrote today saying that in Hindi films these days, thrill and fighting are not drawing enough crowds. Everyone wants a devotional theme. The trend started after Jai Santoshi Ma became so successful. Just imagine!’
‘So what? Where’s your problem? Haven’t you got any feelings for God and religion?’
Lalmohan Babu did not find it necessary to make a reply. He simply made a face, said, ‘Hell! Hell!’ and fell silent. The reason for that was not Pulak Ghoshal’s letter, but what we could see on our left. Our car had, by now, passed Birla Planetarium and entered Chowringhee. A veritable mountain of earth was hiding the maidan from sight. Of late, Lalmohan Babu had started referring to the underground railway as ‘hell rail’.
The car kept hitting potholes, one after another. Each time that happened, Lalmohan Babu shuddered. ‘The springs in my car aren’t really as bad as you might think,’ he offered eventually. ‘When we go down Red Road—and that’s totally without potholes—you’ll see that the car is not to be blamed for these jerks.’
‘No, we shouldn’t complain. At least we’re on a paved road. Two hundred years ago, these roads were like country lanes, not one was paved. Can you imagine that?’
‘There were no Ambassadors running on the roads then. And the roads were not so crowded.’
‘No. There weren’t quite so many people, but what could be seen in large numbers were scavenger birds.’
‘Scavenger birds?’
‘Yes. They were as common in those days as crows and sparrows are today. They were big birds, about four and a half feet high. They went about pecking at all the rubbish they could find in the streets. If they saw a corpse floating down the Ganges, they would perch themselves on it and get a free ride down the river.’
‘Oh, that’s awful! It must have been all quite wild and barbaric. How terrible.’
‘Yet, in the same city, where those birds roamed, there was the house of the Governor-General, St John’s Church, the Park Street Cemetery, theatres in Theatre Road, and a lot of other buildings where the British lived. That area was known as White Town. Native Indians were not allowed to live there. North Calcutta was known as Black Town.’
‘Oh, that makes my blood boil!’ Lalmohan Babu declared.
As we turned into Park Street, Feluda asked the driver to stop before we could reach the Blue Fox. ‘I have to check something at that bookshop,’ he explained.
Lalmohan Babu was not interested in Oxford Book Company, as they did not sell his books. ‘Long live the shops in College Street and Black Bookshop in Ballygunj,’ he told us.
Feluda went into the shop, glanced briefly at the shelves, then went and stood at a counter. Rows of stationery were displayed on it—red and blue notebooks, files, diaries, engagement pads. Feluda picked up a blue notebook and looked at its price. Rs 12.50. We had seen an identical notebook on Naren Biswas’s desk.
‘May I help you?’ A shop assistant came forward.
‘Would you have a collection of Queen Victoria’s letters?’ Feluda asked.
‘Queen Victoria? No, sir. But if you can let us know the name of the publisher, we can get it for you. If it’s either Macmillan or Oxford University, we can ask their Calcutta office.’
Feluda thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘All right. I’ll get back to you.’
We came out on Park Street again. Our car was now parked in front of the Blue Fox. We began walking towards the restaurant.
‘Stop!’ Feluda said, taking out his own notebook from his pocket. ‘I can’t read if I have to keep walking in this crowd.’
A few seconds later, he shut the notebook and resumed walking. ‘Did you find anything?’ I asked.
‘Let’s first go and sit down,’ Feluda replied.
When we were finally seated, Lalmohan Babu told us why he had chosen that restaurant. It was only because he liked the name ‘Blue Fox’, he said. He’d never been there before; in fact, he’d never eaten
at any restaurant in Park Street. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I live in Gorpar. My publishers are in College Street. Where is the opportunity—or the need—for me to come and eat somewhere in this area?’
When the waiter had taken our order for tea and sandwiches, Feluda took out his notebook again and placed it on the table. Then he opened it and said, ‘The first line continues to mystify me. But I think I’ve worked out the second line. All these letters stand for names of foreign publishers.’
‘Which letters?’ I asked.
‘MM, OU, GAU, SJ and WN are Macmillan, Oxford University Press, George Allen and Unwin, Sidgewick and Jackson, Weidenfeld and Nicholson.’
‘Good heavens!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘How did you manage to rattle off so many foreign names without stumbling even once? God bless your tongue!’
‘It’s obvious that Mr Biswas had either already written, or was going to write to these publishers about a collection of Queen Victoria’s letters. But he needn’t have gone to such trouble. It would have been far simpler to go to the British Council or the National Library and ask them to help. He might have been able to read some of the letters straightaway.’
Feluda put the notebook back in his pocket in order to make room on the table for our sandwiches. Then he lit a Charminar. Lalmohan Babu began humming a western tune, marking time with his fingers. Then he stopped and said, ‘Let’s go out somewhere. I mean, out of town. Every time we do that, you get a case to work on, and I get wonderful plots. But where can we go? It would have to be somewhere rough and wild. Not anywhere on the plains—nowhere that is green, soggy, lazy and quiet. What we need is a . . .’
Our sandwiches arrived at this moment, so Lalmohan Babu could not finish his sentence. We were all quite hungry. Lalmohan Babu bit into a huge sandwich, chewed three times, and stopped abruptly. Then I saw his eyes widen as he muttered, ‘God be praised! God be praised!’ As a result, little pieces of bread shot out of his mouth and fell on the table.
What had happened was this: Feluda and I were facing the street outside. Lalmohan Babu was looking into the restaurant. At the back, there was a low platform. Clearly, a live band played there in the evenings. On the platform stood a signboard. It was this board that had so amazed Lalmohan Babu. It bore the name of the band. Underneath were the words: Guitar—Chris Godwin.