by Satyajit Ray
‘Can you remember his name?’
‘Certainly. But he may have changed it here.’
‘Is his name Sarkar?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Mr Sarkar. I never learnt his first name.’
‘Liar!’ Mr Majumdar screamed. ‘Do you want to see my passport?’
‘No, we don’t,’ Feluda’s voice was ice-cold. ‘A criminal like you may well have a fake passport. That won’t mean anything at all. What’s in it, anyway? It describes you as Bilas Majumdar, right? And states that you have a distinguishing mark on your forehead, a mole? OK. Now watch this.’
Feluda strode over to Mr Majumdar and took out his handkerchief from his pocket. Then, without any warning whatsoever, he struck at his forehead with the handkerchief still in his hand. This made the false mole slip out and hit the dark floor.
‘You made a lot of enquiries about Bilas Majumdar, didn’t you?’ Feluda went on. ‘You knew he had gone to take photos of a snow leopard, and then he had had an accident. You even knew which hospital he had been taken to, the nature of his injuries and that he had been kept in the same hospital until last month. But a tiny news item escaped your notice. I had read it, but hadn’t paid much attention at the time. Yesterday, Dr Bhargav of Veer Hospital in Kathmandu confirmed what I vaguely remembered having read. Bilas Majumdar’s most serious injury was to the brain. He died three weeks ago.’
Even in the dim light from the lanterns, I could see the man had turned white as a sheet. ‘Listen, Mr Sarkar,’ Feluda said, ‘your profession is something that no passport will ever reveal. You are a smuggler. Perhaps you don’t always steal things yourself, but you certainly help in transferring smuggled goods. In Kathmandu, you had come upon the scroll stolen from the palace museum in Bhatgaon. Mr Sen will tell you the rest.’
The look in D.G. Sen’s eyes was cold and hard as steel. He said, ‘This man and I happened to be staying in the same hotel in Kathmandu. One day, I unlocked his door by mistake, and found two other men in his room. One of them was in the process of handing him an object wrapped in red silk. I realized immediately that it was a manuscript. But all I could do at that moment was apologize and come away. God knows what happened to me that night. When I woke up, I found myself in a hospital. Every memory prior to this incident was gone from my mind. But people were very kind. They found my address from the hotel, and eventually managed to inform my family. Nishith went and brought me back. I had to spend three and a half months in hospital.’
‘I think I can fill the gaps in your memory. If I get anything wrong, perhaps Mr Sarkar will correct me?’ Feluda said coolly. ‘You were obviously given something that made you unconscious. You were then taken by car outside the main city, into the mountains and dropped from a height of five hundred feet. Mr Sarkar was convinced you were dead. However, nine months later, when he came to Puri to transfer the stolen scroll, he saw your nameplate and began to get suspicious. It is my belief that the occupant of your ground floor, Mr Laxman Bhattacharya, supplied him with all the necessary information regarding your present condition. Am I right?’
Laxman Bhattacharya, who had not uttered a single word so far, burst into speech at this. ‘What are you saying, sir? I supplied all the information to him? Why, I saw him for the first time when you brought him to my place!’
‘Really?’ Feluda walked across to stand directly before Laxman Bhattacharya. ‘Well then, Mr Astrologer, tell me this: when we took him to your place, you asked him to sit on the divan immediately, and told us to take the chairs. How did you know he was Bilas Majumdar, and not me? Who told you that?’
Laxman Bhattacharya could not make a reply. He seemed to shrink into himself with just that one question from Feluda.
Feluda continued. ‘I think the idea of stealing manuscripts first occurred to Mr Sarkar when he heard about Mr Sen’s loss of memory, and when Laxman Bhattacharya offered to help him. He knew he could easily find a buyer for an old and valuable scroll, since Mr Hingorani was in the same hotel. But three major difficulties suddenly arose to complicate matters. Firstly, a totally undesirable character followed Mr Sarkar all the way to Puri. It was Rupchand Singh. He really gave you a lot of trouble, didn’t he? I mean, it’s easy enough to bribe the driver of a car that takes an unconscious man to the top of a hill to kill him. But what happens if this driver is not happy with what he has paid? What if he’s greedy and starts blackmailing you to get more? What can anyone do under such circumstances, tell me, but kill the blackmailer?’
‘Lies, lies, lies!’ Mr Sarkar cried desperately.
‘Suppose, Mr Sarkar, I could prove that the bullet that killed Rupchand Singh had come from your own revolver? This same revolver you had tried to use on us a little while ago? What then?’
Mr Sarkar sank back instantly. I could see that his whole body was bathed in sweat. I was sweating, too, but that was simply in breathless excitement. Lalmohan Babu, sitting next to me, was looking as though he was watching a fencing match. It was true, of course, that Feluda’s words were as sharp as a sword; and the game wasn’t over yet.
‘Rupchand Singh was victim number one,’ Feluda continued. ‘Now let’s look at the second problem Mr Sarkar had to tackle. It was my own arrival in Puri. Mr Sarkar realized he could do nothing without somehow pulling the wool over my eyes. So he decided to pass himself off as Bilas Majumdar. I must say initially he succeeded very well in this task. Not only that, he even managed to shift his own blame on to an old man who had lost his memory. It was this initial success that made him a bit reckless. His plan was quite simple. If he could get hold of a manuscript, he’d sell it to Hingorani. There was no way he could get it from its rightful owner, for Mr Sen wasn’t even remotely interested in money, and the old manuscripts to him were perhaps more precious to him than his own life. So the stuff had to be stolen from the safe. How would he do that? Very simple. The job would be done by Laxman Bhattacharya, because he had been doing it for quite sometime. When he did it before, he had obviously pocketed the whole amount himself. In this particular case, he agreed to share with Mr Sarkar the money Hingorani offered, since it was a fairly large sum. But they had to consider one other person. It was Mr Sen’s secretary, Nishith Bose.’
Feluda paused. Then he walked over to Mr Bhattacharya once more and asked, ‘Didn’t you say something about going to a keertan?’
Laxman Bhattacharya tried to appear nonchalant. ‘So I did,’ he said. ‘Why, you think I lied?’
‘No. You didn’t lie about the keertan. It is true that a group of singers get together every Monday for a session of keertan. But you have never gone there. I checked. However, there was one person who used to go there regularly. It was Nishith Bose. He used to be absent from his duties every Monday from five to six-thirty in the evening. A servant used to be around at that time to take care of visitors. He was bribed last Monday, after Mr Bose left the house. You, Mr Bhattacharya, tampered with Mr Sen’s glass of water, got him to take a heavy dose of your sleeping pills, and then entered his room at five-thirty. Then you took the key from under his pillow, opened the safe and removed one of the most precious manuscripts, in order to hand it over to Mr Sarkar. You had arranged to meet him on the veranda of this house. You arrived here first, and spent some time waiting for your accomplice. Your footprints, your used matchsticks and the paan juice you spat out on the floor, all gave you away. But something totally unexpected happened while you were waiting, didn’t it, Mr Bhattacharya?’
Laxman Bhattacharya made no attempt to speak. He was trembling violently, as—with the only exception of Mr Sarkar—everyone in the room was staring at him. I felt my body go rigid with tension.
Feluda started speaking again.
‘An American was supposed to visit Mr Sen at half-past six that evening. So Nishith Bose returned at six, which was much earlier than usual. Perhaps he started to get suspicious when he found his employer still asleep. He must then have opened the safe and discovered the theft. You were not at home. This must have made him
even more suspicious. So he came out of the house, saw your footprints on the sand, and followed you to Bhujanga Niwas. When you realized you had been caught red-handed, what could you do but finish Mr Bose instantly? You had a blunt instrument in your hand, didn’t you? So you used it to kill Mr Bose, then removed his body and returned to Sagarika to fetch his suitcase and bedding. Just as all seemed to be well, you saw that there were blood stains on your weapon. So you left once more to throw it into the sea, but who did you run into on your way to the beach? It was me. You struck my head with the same weapon, and then dropped it in the water. Tell me, is any of this incorrect?’
Feluda stopped, although he must have known Laxman Bhattacharya was totally incapable of making a reply. But the brief pause helped in emphasizing his next question. It shot through the air like a bullet.
‘In spite of all this, Mr Bhattacharya, could you get what you wanted?’
Silence. Feluda answered his own question. ‘No. Hingorani didn’t get that scroll, nor did Mr Sarkar. That was why you found it necessary to steal the second most valuable manuscript tonight. By this time, you had told everyone the story about Mr Bose’s mother’s illness which accounted for his absence. But can you tell these people now why you failed to get the first manuscript? No? Very well, I’ll tell them, for I don’t think you could explain the details of such an extraordinary occurrence. Even I was fooled at first. I’ve solved a number of difficult cases, but this one was truly amazing. I knew the instrument used was a blunt one, but how was I to know it was the scroll itself? Yes, the stolen scroll, written by Pragya Paramita in the twelfth century. How was I to know that that was the only thing Laxman Bhattacharya had in his hand to strike a person with? I couldn’t figure it out, despite being hit by the same wooden bars. The scroll was bloodstained. Some of that blood got smeared on my own head. Naturally, you could not pass it on to either Sarkar or Hingorani.’
‘Oh no, oh no, oh no!’ cried D.G. Sen, covering his face with his hands. ‘My manuscript! My most precious, my very—’
‘Listen, Mr Sen,’ Feluda turned to him. ‘Did you know that the sea doesn’t always accept what’s offered to it? In fact, sometimes, it returns an offering almost immediately?’
Feluda slipped a hand into his shoulder bag and, almost like a magician, brought out a manuscript covered in red silk.
‘Here is your Ashtadashasahasrika Pragya Paramita. The silk wrapper is quite unharmed. The wooden bars have been damaged, but the actual writing is more or less unspoilt. Not much water could seep in through layers of wood and cloth.’
‘But. . . but . . . where did you get it, Felu Babu?’ Lalmohan Babu gasped.
‘You saw that piece of red silk this morning,’ Feluda replied. ‘That little Nulia boy called Ramai was wearing it round his head. It made me think. That’s why I went to the Nulia colony and retrieved it. Ramai had found the scroll stuck in the wet sand near the edge of the water. He took the silk wrapper, but the manuscript was kept safe in his house. I had to pay ten rupees to get it. Mr Mahapatra, will you please get Sarkar’s wallet and give me ten rupees from it?’
I had no idea the sea looked so much more enormous from the terrace of Mr Sen’s house. I stood near the railing, marvelling at the sight.
Last night, after the police had left with the two culprits, Mr Sen had invited us for morning coffee. Mahim Sen had spent the night with his father, since Nishith Bose was dead and the servant had run away. On hearing this, Feluda offered immediately to speak to Shyamlal Barik of our hotel and arrange for a new servant. The cook brought us coffee on the terrace.
By this time, Mr Sen had handed a cheque to Feluda. The amount on it was so handsome that it made up for all the weeks Feluda had spent at home before coming to Puri. Initially, Feluda had refused to accept it, but when Mr Sen began to insist, he had to take it. Lalmohan Babu said to him later, ‘If you didn’t take that cheque, Felu babu, I would have hit you with a blunt instrument. Why do you turn all modest and humble when you’re offered payment? I find it most annoying!’
‘Do you know, Mr Sen,’ said Feluda, sipping his coffee, ‘what baffled me the most? It was your gout.’
Mr Sen raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? What’s so baffling about that? Can’t an old man get gout?’
‘Yes, but you go for long walks on the beach, don’t you? I saw your footprints on the sand but, like an idiot, thought they were Majumdar’s—I mean, Sarkar’s. But yesterday, I realized it was you.’
‘So what did that prove? Gout is extremely painful, but the pain does sometimes subside, you know.’
‘I’m sure it does. But your footprints tell a different story, Mr Sen. I didn’t raise this last night because I thought you wanted to keep it a secret. The trouble is, you see, it isn’t always possible to keep secrets from an investigator. The stick you use is pretty significant, isn’t it? Besides, your shoes aren’t both of the same size. I noticed that.’
Mr Sen sat in silence, looking straight at Feluda. Feluda resumed speaking. ‘The Veer Hospital in Kathmandu confirmed the news about Bilas Majumdar’s accident. But no one else had been brought there with similar injuries. Then I looked at my guide book and realized that there was another hospital called Shanta Bhavan in Patan, which is near Kathmandu. I rang them, and was told that one Durga Gati Sen had been brought there with severe injuries in October last year. He remained there until early January. They even gave me the details of those injuries.’
The expression on Mr Sen’s face changed. He sighed after a short pause, and said, ‘Nishith knew I didn’t want anyone to learn about what had happened. If I had visitors in the morning, he always dressed my foot with a fresh bandage and told them I had gout. Today, Mahim has done this job. I certainly did not want this fact publicized, Mr Mitter. What happened to me was no less tragic than losing an ancient and valuable manuscript. But since you have already guessed the truth . . .’
He raised his trousers to expose his left leg.
To my complete amazement, I saw that the dressing finished three inches above his ankle. Beyond that was an artificial leg, made of wood and plastic!
The Mysterious Tenant
One
‘Who was Jayadrath?’
‘Duryodhan’s sister, Duhshala’s husband.’
‘And Jarasandh?’
‘King of Magadh.’
‘Dhrishtadyumna?’
‘Draupadi’s brother.’
‘Arjun and Yudhisthir both owned conch shells. What were they called?’
‘Arjun’s was called Devdatt, and Yudhisthir’s was Anantavijay.’
‘Which missile causes such confusion in the enemy camp that they start killing their own men?’
‘Twashtra.’
‘Very good.’
Thank goodness. I had passed that little test. Of late, the Ramayan and Mahabharat had become staple reading for Feluda. I, too, had joined him and was thoroughly enjoying reading them. There was story, after story, after story. A new word has come into use these days—unputdownable. If you pick up a book to read, you cannot put it down till you’ve finished it. The Ramayan and the Mahabharat are like that—quite unputdownable.
Feluda was reading the Mahabharat in Bengali, written by Kaliprasanna Sinha. Mine was a simplified version meant for youngsters. Lalmohan Babu says he can recite large chunks of the Bengali Ramayan by heart. His grandmother used to read aloud from it when he was a child, so he still remembers quite a lot of it. We haven’t got the Bengali version in our house, but I think I’ll get a copy and test Lalmohan Babu’s memory one day. At the moment he is busy writing a new novel, so he hasn’t been visiting us all that frequently.
Feluda had to stop reading and glance at the front door, for someone had rung the bell. Feluda had returned only last Friday after solving a murder case in Hijli. He was in a relaxed mood, which was probably why he didn’t seem too keen to get up and find out who was at the door. As a matter of fact, he does not even need more than one case every month. His needs are so few that he can ma
nage perfectly well on the fees he is paid for each case. Lalmohan Babu calls his lifestyle ‘totally unostentatious’. But he always finds it difficult to pronounce that word and ends up saying ‘unossenshus.’ Feluda therefore found a tongue-twister for him and told him to practise saying it several times, so that his tongue would stop getting stuck on long and difficult words. ‘Pick up these sixty-six thistle sticks’ was what he had suggested. Lalmohan Babu tried saying it once, and stumbled four times!
I have often heard Feluda say, ‘When a new character appears in your tale, you must describe his looks and clothes in some detail. If you don’t, your reader may imagine certain things on his own, which will probably not fit whatever you say later on.’ So here’s a description of the man who entered our living room: his height was probably 5’9”, age 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.’
Feluda nodded. We all knew about the dug up roads in Calcutta, and the effects they had had on the city.
‘My name is Subir Datta,’ our visitor went on. His voice was good enough for him to have been a television newsreader. ‘Er . . . you are the private inves-?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am here to talk about my brother.’
Feluda looked on in silence. The Mahabharat was lying closed on his lap, but he had placed a finger in it to mark his page.