by Satyajit Ray
‘Tell me,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘did those scavenger birds in ancient Calcutta sit on parapets and call, in the hope of getting some food?’
We were sitting close to a window facing the street. A crow was sitting on the parapet over it, cawing loudly. Hence Lalmohan Babu’s question.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Feluda replied, ‘but they certainly used to sit on compound walls and railings. There is enough evidence of that in old pictures drawn at the time.’
‘I don’t even know what those birds looked like!’
‘We could go to the zoo; that’s one way to find out. Or we could go via Corporation Street. The municipal building has its crest on the front wall. There’s a picture of a scavenger bird in it. I can show it to you.’
‘Do you still call it Corporation Street?’ Lalmohan Babu asked with a smile.
‘Oh sorry. It’s got a new name, hasn’t it? I meant Suren Banerjee . . .’.
Feluda stopped. The look in his eyes had changed. He fished out his notebook from his pocket and took a quick look. Then he began to fidget as the waiter had not yet brought our bill. ‘Waiter!’ Feluda called impatiently, which was rather unusual for him.
When the bill had been finally brought and paid, we got back to the car at once. Feluda told the driver where to go. As soon as we reached Suren Banerjee Road, Feluda began looking at the number of each building. Not all of them had a number clearly displayed— an unfortunate feature of houses in Calcutta. ‘Keep going,’ he told the driver, ‘Topshe, if you can spot 141, tell me immediately.’
Suddenly, I remembered something. 141 SNB. Surendra Nath Banerjee. My heart began beating faster.
‘Look! There’s 141.’
The car stopped. There was a sign outside the building. ‘Bourne & Shepherd,’ it said. BS! We had found it.
Lalmohan Babu and I went in with Feluda. There was a lift to go upstairs. As we emerged, we found ourselves in a reception area on the first floor. One of the staff came forward to greet us. Feluda hesitated a little before he asked a question. Whatever he said was bound to sound foolish.
‘Er . . . do you have any pictures of Victoria?’ he said finally.
‘The Victoria Memorial?’
‘No, Queen Victoria.’
‘I’m afraid not. We’ve got pictures of only those who came to India. There’s Edward VIII, when he was the Prince of Wales, and George V, the Delhi Durbar . . .’
‘Their photos are still available?’
‘Yes, but there’s no ready-made print. We have the negatives, so prints can be made from those if anyone places an order. We’ve got all the negatives of photos taken since 1854.’
‘What! 1854?’
‘Bourne & Shepherd is the world’s second oldest photographic studio.’
‘But that means you’ve got thousands and thousands of negatives!’
‘Yes. If you come with me, sir, I can show you everything. See that photo hanging on the wall? It was taken from the top of the Monument in 1880.’
I hadn’t noticed it so far, but now my eyes went straight to it. The photo probably measured 1’ x 5’. It showed Calcutta as she had appeared almost a hundred years ago from the Monument. There was Dalhousie Square, the Esplanade, and then it stretched northward, offering an unbroken view. The church spires rose over every other building. Not a single highrise was anywhere in sight. It was a quiet and peaceful city, there could be no doubt about that.
We were then taken to the room where the negatives were kept. My eyes nearly popped out. Shelves rose almost from the floor to the ceiling. Each was crammed with square brown boxes, bearing the date and description of their contents.
Feluda inspected the shelves and peered closely at some of the dates. Then he glanced at his watch and said, ‘Why don’t you two go for a walk? You can come back in an hour. I have some work to do here.’
We went back to the lift. ‘Your cousin’s wish is my command,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘I could never say no to him. He has such a tremendous personality! Anyway, let’s go to Frank Ross.’
We left the car parked in Suren Banerjee Road and walked down Chowringhee towards the Grand Hotel. I had no idea why Lalmohan Babu wanted to go to a chemist, nor did I need to know. Our only aim was to kill time.
We proceeded through the crowded streets, trying to avoid bumping into others. After a while, Lalmohan Babu asked, ‘Do you have any idea what your cousin is thinking?’
I was forced to admit that I was completely in the dark. All I could guess was that someone other than Feluda had read Charlotte Godwin’s diaries and that was somehow linked with Thomas Godwin’s grave being dug up.
‘Do you know that a skeleton can remain intact even two hundred years after the body is buried?’ Lalmohan Babu asked me.
His question reminded me of a story Feluda had told me about Job Charnock’s tomb. I repeated it to Lalmohan Babu. Two hundred years after Charnock’s death, a priest at St John’s Church suddenly grew suspicious about what lay underground. Had Charnock really been buried there, or had someone simply erected a tombstone? His doubts began to worry him so much that the priest had the grave dug up. At first, his men dug four feet, and found nothing. Then they dug deeper, and another couple of feet lower, the arm of a skeleton slipped out. The priest quickly had the grave refilled.
We entered Frank Ross. Lalmohan Babu walked up to the counter. Just as he had started to say, ‘One Forhans for the gums, family size,’ I spotted a man coming into the shop, and recognized him. It was Naren Biswas’s brother, Girin Biswas. He did not recognize us immediately. I saw him glance at us two or three times before a smile appeared on his face. In his hands was a large parcel. The words Hong Kong Dry Cleaners were printed on it. ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘I’ve come to buy some medicines for my brother.’
‘How is he?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.
‘Better, thank you. Oh, by the way, that other gentleman who was with you that day . . . I believe he is the detective, Pradosh Mitter? My brother told me. I had heard his name. In fact, I was thinking . . . ’ Girin Biswas stopped. He was frowning, and seemed a bit preoccupied. Then he said, ‘When is he usually at home?’
‘That’s difficult to say,’ I replied, ‘but you will find our number in the telephone directory. You can give him a call before you come to our house.’
‘Hmm. I wanted to . . . never mind, I will ring him. Tell Mr Mitter I will come and see him, if need be . . . heh heh!’
We returned his ‘heh heh!’ politely, and left the shop.
Then we went round New Market, looking at all the shops, and came out on Moti Sheel Street to go back to Suren Banerjee Road. Feluda was waiting by the car near Bourne & Shepherd’s. He had finished his work sooner than he’d expected.
I told him about our meeting with Girin Biswas. ‘Really?’ Feluda raised an eyebrow. ‘What did he say?’
I knew it wouldn’t do to be vague, so I told Feluda in detail about our conversation. I even mentioned the parcel from the drycleaners. Feluda heard me in silence.
‘Did you get your work done? All went well, I hope?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.
‘Oh yes, first class. That place is a veritable goldmine. And I rang Mr Choudhury from the shop. His voice was as smooth as velvet. He’s returned home and we now have a firm appointment.’
Nine
I had heard chiming clocks before, but as soon as we stepped into Mahadev Choudhury’s house at six o’clock, various clocks began striking the hour. The sound that came from one clock after another was quite extraordinary. I had never heard anything like it.
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu. ‘Are we slipping through the gates of heaven? What an incredible reception!’
We could not meet Mr Choudhury straightaway. One of his employees took us to a small office and told us we would have to wait, as Mr Choudhury was busy. There were two fancy clocks even in that small room—one on the wall, and the other on a bookshelf.
When the last chime had died away, a somewhat eerie sile
nce gripped the whole house. It was a huge, modern building. The marble floor shone so brightly that, if I looked down, I could see my own face reflected in it.
After a few moments, I became aware of a voice. It was coming from somewhere within the house. Feluda said it was Mahadev Choudhury’s, though it was difficult to tell whether or not it could be termed as velvety. However, when it suddenly rose and began shouting, all traces of velvet disappeared.
Mahadev Choudhury was scolding someone furiously. The three of us held our breath and were more or less forced to eavesdrop. The second person was still speaking gently, so we could not hear what he was saying. But soon, Choudhury’s voice boomed out again: ‘I never pay an advance in matters like this, but I paid you because you insisted. And now you’re telling me you’ve already spent that money? Honestly, I don’t believe a word you’re saying. Besides, why should I have to pay such a lot of money for such a small job? I don’t understand at all! But . . . all right, I’ll pay. I want that stuff within two days. No excuses this time. Is that clear?’
Complete silence followed these remarks. Then we heard footsteps, which seemed to be going towards the front door. A minute later, Mr Choudhury’s employee came back. ‘Please follow me,’ he said.
Mr Choudhury’s appearance—from head to toe—was truly like velvet. Even at six in the evening, his cheeks were smooth and shiny. ‘I bet he shaves twice a day!’ I thought to myself. Lalmohan Babu told us later, ‘If a fly had gone and sat on his cheek, it would have slipped off!’
The huge living room we were in was as shiny and polished as its owner. There was not even a speck of dust anywhere, and its nooks and corners certainly seemed free of ants and cockroaches.
Mr Choudhury raised a gold cigarette holder to his lips, inhaled and glanced at Feluda. ‘Well? Have you brought that clock?’ he asked.
We were all startled by the question. ‘Clock? What clock?’ Feluda said.
‘Didn’t you say you wanted to see me regarding a clock? I thought you had seen my ad in the papers and that’s why you were calling.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Choudhury,’ Feluda told him, ‘I did not see your advertisement. I need some information. It may be related to a clock. I was told you know a lot about the subject, so I . . .’
Creases appeared on the velvety surface. Mr Choudhury shifted in his chair, looking faintly irritated. ‘I haven’t got a lot of time, Mr Mitter. I am about to leave town. Please try to be brief.’
‘What is a Perigal repeater? That’s all I want to know.’
The velvet suddenly turned to stone. The cigarette-holder was poised a couple of inches from his mouth. Mr Choudhury’s eyes were still, fixed unblinkingly on Feluda.
‘Where did you find that name?’
‘In a nineteenth-century English novel.’
There were times when Feluda did not hesitate to lie, if it helped in getting results. I had seen him do it before. ‘I know that a repeater can be either a gun or a clock. I saw that in a dictionary. But no one can tell me anything about Perigal.’
Mr Choudhury was still staring at Feluda. When he spoke, the velvet in his voice had taken on a sharp edge. ‘If you come across an unfamiliar word, Mr Mitter, do you always visit complete strangers just to learn its meaning?’
‘Yes, if need be.’
I thought Mr Choudhury would want to know what the pressing need was in this particular case. But, instead of asking such a question, he continued to stare at Feluda. The remark he made a few seconds later made my heart race faster, thudding loudly in my ears, matching the loud ticking of the clock kept on a side table.
‘You are a detective, aren’t you?’
I had to marvel at Feluda’s steady nerve. There was a delay of about five seconds before his reply came. But when he spoke, his own voice sounded perfectly smooth. ‘I see that you are well informed!’
‘I have to be, Mr Mitter. I have people who gather information and pass it on to me.’
‘You seem to have forgotten the question I just asked you. Perhaps you don’t know the answer. If you do know it, but do not wish to tell me, I will take your leave. There’s no point in wasting your time any further.’
‘Sit down, Mr Mitter!’
Feluda had risen to his feet, hence that command. I glanced quickly at Lalmohan Babu. He looked as if he had no strength left in his body, and would need assistance to get up.
‘Sit down, please,’ said Mr Choudhury
Feluda sat down.
‘A repeater is a gun,’ Mahadev Choudhury informed us. ‘However, if you add “Perigal” to it, it becomes a watch. A pocket watch. Francis Perigal. An Englishman. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, there were few watchmakers in the world as skilled as Perigal. Two hundred years ago, the best watches were made in England, not Switzlerland.’
‘How much would a Perigal repeater be worth today?’
‘You could never afford to buy such a watch, Mr Mitter.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I could.’
‘I know that, too.’
‘Then why do you wish to know its price?’
‘Simple curiosity.’
‘Idle curiosity. It’s useless.’
Mr Choudhury took one last puff from his cigarette, took it out of its holder and stubbed it out in a glass ashtray. Then he stood up.
‘You have got the information you wanted. You may leave now. There is only one Perigal repeater in Calcutta. I am going to get it, not you . . . Pyarelal!’
The same man returned, who had met us on arrival. As we were leaving the room, the smooth, velvety voice spoke once more: ‘I have a different kind of repeater, Mr Mitter. The sound it makes isn’t as melodious as a clock.’
‘That man appears to be the hero of this story!’ remarked Lalmohan Babu.
We were on our way back from Alipore Park. The windows of the car had been rolled up, as it was raining again. The rain had started as soon as we reached Judges Court Road.
Feluda did not reply. He was staring out of the window. Lalmohan Babu could never remain silent for long. He began speaking again. ‘Perhaps I should call him a villain rather than a hero. But you have often told me that, in a crime investigation, no one is above suspicion. Anyone can be a villain. So I didn’t use that word. Mind you, I’m not quite sure why I should be suspicious. A grave has been dug up—but is that a criminal act?’
Still Feluda said nothing. Lalmohan Babu became a little impatient. ‘What’s the matter with you, Felu Babu? Are you giving up? If you do, what’s going to happen to us? To start with, that man’s behaviour was such . . . such . . . that it froze my limbs! And then there were all those clocks, chiming away. Now you’re not saying a word, the weather’s foul, there are potholes in the roads . . .!’
Feluda opened his mouth at last. ‘You are quite wrong, Mr Ganguli. I haven’t given up. If you found a way out of a complex maze, would you give up?’
‘You’ve found a way out?’
‘Yes, but I still don’t know what lies at the other end. Nothing is simple and straightforward. We shall have to proceed, and tackle all the twists and turns, before we get to the end.’
It continued to drizzle even after we reached home. Lalmohan Babu left with a promise to return early the following morning. ‘I don’t think you can do without my help, Felu Babu,’ he said. ‘Just think how much time you’d waste if you had to travel in buses!’
Earlier in the day, when we were having lunch, I had noticed Feluda scribbling something in his notebook. I went to his room after dinner, and discovered what it was. I had to talk to him, anyway, as I was feeling quite concerned about him. Having seen and heard Mahadev Choudhury, I had reason to feel worried. Every time I recalled his face, my heart gave a tiny jump. It hardly mattered what Lalmohan Babu called him—hero or villain. To me, he was a dreadful character. His appearance might be smooth as velvet. But on the inside, he seemed as rough and prickly as a cactus bush in a desert.
Feluda, however, did not appear co
ncerned at all. He was staring hard at a diagram in his notebook. When I entered his room, he offered it to me, saying, ‘Look at this tree and its branches!’ This is what it looked like:
‘Doesn’t it look kind of empty on the right hand side?’ Feluda asked.
‘But of course it would. Charlotte did not marry, did she?’
‘No, it’s not Charlotte I’m thinking of. Her case is pretty straightforward. The problem is with the man called John. That particular branch is hidden from sight. But I’ve seen something from the reverse. If I could see it properly, that might throw some light on this matter. Tomorrow morning, perhaps.’
Feluda was talking in riddles again. It was typical of him. I knew he would not explain anything even if I asked him.
The rain had stopped while we were talking. Suddenly, to my surprise, Feluda sprang to his feet.
‘Are you going out?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What! Where?’
‘I have to be on duty.’
‘Duty?’
‘Yes, I am keeping guard tonight.’
Suddenly I realized Feluda had taken out his hunting boots. Every time I see those boots, I break into goose-pimples as they are linked with each of Feluda’s past adventures. Tonight, if he was planning to visit the cemetery, those boots would make the most suitable footwear.
‘Are you . . . are you . . . going to the graveyard?’ I asked. My voice croaked a little.
‘Yes, where else?’
‘Are you going alone?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll take a companion. My repeater.’
Feluda took out his Colt .32 and put it in his pocket. I didn’t like it at all. ‘What do you think is going to happen there? That grave’s been dug up already. If anyone found a watch, they took it away.’
‘No. Whoever tried digging the grave ran away the minute they saw that skull. They were too frightened to carry on. Or else, they wouldn’t have left their spade behind. They’d have either taken it back, or hidden it somewhere.’
Such an idea had simply not occurred to me.