by Satyajit Ray
‘Lalmohan Babu,’ I whispered, ‘I can feel something under my tummy . . . I think it’s a body, I can feel its legs!’
‘Oh, my God!’ Lalmohan Babu managed to struggle to his feet, pulling me up with him. Then he switched his torch on, only to discover it wasn’t working.
He turned it upside down and began hitting the rear end in the hope of getting the batteries to work. At this moment, a human figure slowly sat up on the sand. I felt, rather than saw, it move.
‘Give me your hand!’ it said.
Feluda! Oh God, was it Feluda? Yes, it was.
I offered him my right hand. Feluda grabbed it and stood up, swaying from side to side. Luckily, Lalmohan Babu got the torch to work. He shone it briefly on Feluda’s face, holding it in an unsteady hand. Feluda raised a hand and touched his head, wincing in pain. When he brought his hand down, we could see, even in the dim light from the torch, that it was smeared with blood.
‘D-did they c-crack open your sk-skull?’ Lalmohan Babu stammered. Feluda ignored him. I had never seen him look so totally dazed.
‘What happened? I can’t imagine how—’ he broke off, taking out a small torch from his own pocket. In its better and steadier light, we saw a series of footprints going from where he had fallen towards the high bank, where the sandy stretch ended.
We followed the footprints right up to the bank. Whoever it was had climbed over it and disappeared, but not without difficulty. There were clumps of uprooted grass strewn about, to prove that climbing had not been an easy task. There was nothing else in sight, not even a small Nulia hut.
Feluda turned back to return to the hotel. We followed him. ‘How long did you lie on the ground?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, his voice still sounding strange. Feluda shone the torch on his watch and replied, ‘About half an hour, I should think.’
‘Shouldn’t you see a doctor? That wound on your head may need to be stitched.’
‘No,’ Feluda said slowly. ‘It is true that I received a blow on my head. But there is no injury, no open wound.’
‘No? Then how did all that blood—?’
Lalmohan Babu’s half-spoken words hung in the air. Feluda made no reply.
Nine
Feluda placed an ice-pack on his head as soon as we reached our hotel. In half an hour, the swelling began to subside. None of us had any idea who might have hurt him. He was returning from Sagarika, Feluda said, when someone had flashed a powerful torch straight into his eyes, blinding him momentarily, and then knocked him unconscious. When he rang Mahapatra at the police station and reported the matter, Mahapatra said, ‘You must take great care, Mr Mitter. There are a lot of desperate characters about. Why don’t you stop your own investigation and let us handle this? Wouldn’t that be safer?’
‘If you had suggested this before I was attacked, I might have agreed. Now, Inspector, it is too late.’
When we came back to our room after dinner, it was nearly eleven. Rather unexpectedly, our manager, Mr Barik, turned up, accompanied by another gentleman. ‘He has been waiting for you for half an hour. I didn’t want to disturb you while you were eating,’ he said and returned to his room.
‘I have heard of you,’ the other man said to Feluda. ‘In fact, having read about some of your past cases, I even know who your companions are. My name is Mahim Sen.’
Feluda frowned. ‘That means—?’
‘D.G. Sen is my father.’
None of us could think of saying anything for a moment. Mahim Sen went on, ‘I came by car this afternoon. My company owns a guest house here. That’s where I am staying.’
‘Didn’t you meet your father?’
‘I rang him as soon as I got here. His secretary answered, and said after checking with my father that he did not wish to speak to me.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘When I met your father recently, I got the impression that he wasn’t very pleased with you. Can you tell me why?’
Mahim Sen did not reply immediately. He took out a packet of Rothmans from his pocket, and extracted a cigarette. He then lit it, inhaled and said, ‘Look, I was never close to my father. I took no interest in his passion for manuscripts—I simply don’t have the eye for art and antiques. I live in Calcutta and work for a private company. Sometimes I have to go abroad on business tours. But despite all this, I used to be on fairly good terms with my father. If I wrote to him, he always replied to my letters. I visited him twice with my family after he moved to Puri, and spent a few weeks on the first floor of his house. He was—and perhaps still is—extremely fond of my eight-year-old son. But his behaviour on this occasion just doesn’t make any sense to me. I can hardly believe that a strong man like him has gone senile at the age of sixty-two. I do not even know if a third person is responsible for this. So when I heard you were in town, I thought I’d come and see you.’
‘How long has your father had this secretary?’
‘About four years. I saw him when I came in ’76.’
‘What kind of a man do you think he is?’
‘That’s difficult to say, I hardly knew him. All I can say is that he may be good at keeping papers and files in order and typing letters, but I’m sure my father couldn’t talk to him as he would to a friend.’
‘Well then, you ought to know this: a most valuable manuscript in your father’s collection has been stolen, and his secretary has vanished.’
Mahim Sen’s jaw fell open.
‘What! Did you actually go there?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you find my father?’
‘In a state of shock, naturally. Apparently, he has recently started to sleep in the afternoon, and he takes something to help him sleep. Today, an American was supposed to meet him at half past six. Nishith Bose had made this appointment. But, he wasn’t there to take this visitor up to meet your father. A servant met him downstairs and accompanied him. Normally, Mr Sen gets up by four o’clock, but today he slept till six. Anyway, he was up when this American arrived and said he wanted to take a look at the oldest manuscript. Your father then opened the safe in which it was kept, but discovered that, wrapped in red silk, were masses of white strips of paper. These were placed between two small wooden bars, so it was impossible to tell without unwrapping the packet that the real manuscript had gone. When he realized his most precious possession had been stolen, your father became so distressed that eventually the American visitor informed the police.’
‘Does that mean it was Nishith Bose who—?’
‘That’s what it looks like. I met him this morning at the railway station. Now it seems he had gone to buy a ticket. The police made enquiries at the station, but by then, the Puri Express and other trains to Calcutta had left. They’re still trying to trace him.’
Feluda stopped speaking. None of us knew what to say. Such a lot had happened in the last few hours—it made my head reel.
‘Did you know your father had gone to Nepal last year?’ Feluda asked.
‘If he went after August, I wouldn’t know, for I was abroad for seven months, starting from August. Father used to travel quite a lot to look for manuscripts. Why, what happened in Nepal?’
Feluda said nothing in reply, but asked another question instead. ‘Are you aware that your father’s got gout?’
Mahim Sen looked completely taken aback.
‘Gout? My father’s got gout? What are you saying, Mr Mitter?’
‘Why, is that so difficult to believe?’
‘Yes, it is. I saw Father last May. He used to go for long, brisk walks on the beach. He’s always been careful with his diet, never drank or smoked, or done anything that might damage his health. In fact, he’s always been rather proud of his good health. If what you’re telling me is true, it’s as amazing as it’s tragic.’
‘Could that be a reason for his present state of mind?’
‘Yes, certainly. I don’t think he could ever accept himself as an invalid.’
‘Well, I
am going to be here for a few days. Let’s see what I can do. I must confess a lot of things are not clear to me,’ Feluda said.
Mahim Sen rose. ‘I came here to discuss a few things related to our old family business. I have to stay on until Father agrees to see me.’
He said goodbye after this, and left. We chatted for a while, then decided to go to bed. It was nearly midnight.
Lalmohan Babu stopped near the door and turned back. ‘Felu Babu,’ he said, ‘I’ve just remembered something. You were supposed to ring Kathmandu, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I was; and I did. I spoke to one Dr Bhargav in Veer Hospital, and asked him if anyone called Bilas Majumdar had been brought to this hospital last October with serious injuries.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He confirmed everything Mr Majumdar had told us. There was a broken shin bone, a fractured collarbone, broken ribs and an injured chin.’
‘Didn’t you believe Mr Majumdar’s story?’
‘Checking and re-checking facts is an essential part of an investigator’s job. Surely you’re aware of that, Lalmohan Babu? Doesn’t your own hero, Prakhar Rudra, do the same?’
‘Y-yes, yes, of course . . .’ Lalmohan Babu muttered and quickly left the room. I lay down, listening to the waves outside. I knew there was a similar turmoil in Feluda’s mind. One thought must be chasing another, exactly like the restless waves of the sea, but he appeared calm, collected and at peace. When the Nulias went into deep water in their fishing boats, past the breakers near the shore, perhaps that was what they got to see: a serene and tranquil sea.
‘What is that, Feluda?’ I asked, suddenly noticing a brown, square object Feluda had taken out of his pocket. A closer glance told me it was a wallet.
Feluda opened it and took out a few ten-rupee notes. Then he put them back and said absently, ‘I found it in a drawer in Nishith Bose’s room. He took his suitcase and his bedding, but left his wallet behind. Strange!’
Ten
I opened my eyes the next morning to find Feluda doing yoga. This meant the sun wasn’t yet up. He had been awake when I went to sleep the previous night, and had worked in the light of a table lamp until quite late. How he had managed to get up at the crack of dawn was a mystery.
A slight noise from the veranda made me glance in that direction. To my amazement, I saw Lalmohan Babu standing there, just outside his room, idly putting his favourite red-and-white Signal toothpaste on his toothbrush. Obviously, like us, he was too worked up to sleep peacefully.
Feluda finished his yoga and said, ‘I’ll have a cup of tea now, and then go out.’
‘Where to?’
‘Nowhere in particular. Just out. I need to clear my brain. Sometimes looking at something enormous and colossal helps get things into perspective. I must stand before the sea and watch the sun rise. It may act like a tonic.’
By the time we finished our tea, many other guests in the hotel were awake, including Mr Barik.
Feluda went to see him before going out.
‘Will you book another call to Nepal, please? Here’s the number,’ he said, ‘and if Mahapatra calls, please tell him to leave a message. And—oh—are there good doctors here?’
‘How many would you like? Of course we have good doctors here, Mr Mitter, you haven’t come to a little village!’
‘No, no, I know I haven’t. But you see, I need a young and efficient doctor. Not someone doddering with age.’
‘That’s not a problem. Go to Utkal Chemist in Grand Road after ten o’clock. You’ll find Dr Senapati in his chamber.’
Lalmohan Babu and I decided to go out with Feluda. The beach was deserted except for a few Nulias. The eastern sky glowed red. Grey clouds floated about, their edges a pale pink. The sea was blue-black; only the tops of the waves that crashed on the shore were a bright white.
The three Nulia children we had seen on the first day were back on the beach, looking for crabs.
‘The only minus point of this beautiful beach is those crabs,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
‘What’s your name?’ Feluda asked one of the boys. He had a red scarf wound around his head.
‘Ramai,’ he replied, grinning.
We walked on. Lalmohan Babu suddenly turned poetic. ‘Look at the sea . . . so wide, so big, so . . . so liberating . . . it’s hard to imagine there’s been bloodshed in a place like this!’
‘Hm . . . blunt instrument . . .’ Feluda said absently. I knew murder weapons were usually of three kinds: fire arms such as revolvers or pistols; sharp instruments like knives and daggers; or blunt instruments such as heavy rods or sticks. Feluda was clearly thinking of the attack on him last night. Thank God it was nothing serious.
‘Footprints . . . look!’ Feluda exclaimed suddenly. I looked where he was pointing, and saw fresh marks: footprints, accompanied by the now familiar mark left by a walking stick.
‘Bilas Majumdar! He must be an early riser,’ Lalmohan Babu observed. ‘Do you really think so? Look at that person over there,’ Feluda said, pointing at a figure in the distance. ‘Do you think he looks like Bilas Majumdar?’
It was not difficult to tell, even from a distance, that the man who was walking with a stick in his left hand, was not Mr Majumdar at all.
‘You’re right. It’s someone else. Why, it’s the Sensational Sen!’ Lalmohan Babu shouted.
‘Correct. It’s Durga Gati Sen.’
‘But how come he’s walking? What about his gout?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know. Perhaps Laxman Bhattacharya’s medicines can bring about miraculous recoveries, who knows?’
We resumed walking, each of us feeling puzzled. How many mysteries would we finally end up with?
The Railway Hotel emerged as we took a left turn. On our right I could see a few Nulias and three foreigners clad in swimming trunks. One of them saw Feluda and raised a hand in greeting. Feluda waved back, explaining quickly that it was the same American who had informed the police from Mr Sen’s house.
We walked on. There was Mr Hingorani, walking swiftly, with a towel flung over his shoulder. He was frowning darkly, looking most displeased. He didn’t even glance at us. Feluda left the beach and began climbing up a slope. Something told me he was making his way to Sagarika. Had his brain cleared? Was he beginning to see the light? Before I could ask him anything, however, another voice piped up from somewhere. ‘Good morning!’ it said.
Laxman Bhattacharya was standing before us, wearing a lungi tucked in at the waist, a towel on his shoulder and a neem twig in his hand.
‘Good morning. Where were you yesterday evening?’ Feluda asked.
‘Yesterday evening? Oh, I had gone to listen to some keertan. There’s a group in Mangalghat Road. They sing quite well. I go there every now and then.’
‘You weren’t home when I went looking for you. What time did you leave the house?’
‘I can get away only after six. That’s when I went.’
‘I thought you might be able to shed some light on this theft in Mr Sen’s house, since you live in it yourself. It’s possible to see the side lane from your room, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. In fact, I saw Nishith Bose leave with his luggage through that lane. This did not surprise me at the time, for he was expected to leave for Calcutta, anyway.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘His mother was seriously ill. He received a telegram the other day.’
‘Did you see this telegram?’
‘Yes, so did Mr Sen.’
‘Why, he didn’t say anything about it!’ Feluda sounded surprised. ‘Well . . . now, what can I say? You’ve seen for yourself the state he’s in. He’s destined to suffer. Who can change what’s ordained?’
‘Have you examined Mr Sen’s future as well?’ Lalmohan Babu asked anxiously.
‘There are very few people in this town who haven’t come to me. But do you know what the problem is? I cannot always tell people what I see. I open my mouth if I see
symptoms of an illness. But how is it possible to say to someone things like: you’ll one day commit a murder, or you’ll go to prison, or you’ll be hanged? No one will ever want to come to me if I told them such unpleasant things. So I have to choose my words very carefully because people wish to hear only good things.’
Mr Bhattacharya went off in the direction of the sea. We moved on towards Sagarika. It looked beautiful in the early morning sun.
‘The house of death,’ Lalmohan Babu said suddenly.
‘How can you say that?’ Feluda protested. ‘You might call it the house of theft, but there hasn’t been a death in this house.’
‘No, no. I don’t mean Sagarika,’ Lalmohan Babu explained hastily. ‘I mean this other house that looks like it might collapse any minute.’
We had seen this house before, but hadn’t really noticed it in any detail. Sagarika was about thirty yards away from it. Now I looked at it carefully, and found myself agreeing with Lalmohan Babu. As it is, an old and crumbling building with damp, dank walls isn’t a very pleasant sight. This building, in addition to all that, had sunk into the sand. Nearly six feet from the bottom was buried in the sand. This gave it a rather spooky air. I felt my flesh creep to look at it in broad daylight. What must it look like at night?
Instead of walking past it, Feluda walked into it today. The pillars of the front gate were still standing upright. There was a cracked and dirty marble slab that said ‘Bhujanga Niwas’. If the house kept sinking, it wouldn’t be long before the slab was submerged in sand. Beyond the gate there must once have been a small garden. A series of steps then led to a veranda. Only the top two steps were visible; others had disappeared in the sand. The railing around the veranda had worn away. It was surprising that the roof had not caved in. The room behind the veranda must have been a drawing room.
‘It doesn’t look totally abandoned,’ Feluda remarked. I saw immediately why he had said that, for, on the dusty floor of the veranda, were footprints.