The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘But . . . but . . . he came to you himself! He asked you to investigate the case!’

  ‘Yes. If he is a high-class criminal—one of the really clever ones— then his coming to me is not in the least surprising. That is exactly the kind of thing he would do.’

  After this, there was really no more left to be said.

  Feluda picked up his copy of the Mahabharat and switched on his reading lamp. I rose and left his room.

  I heard the sound as soon as I got to our living room. A scooter. No, not just one scooter. There was more than one. They shattered the silence of the whole area, and appeared to stop right in front of our house.

  A second later, someone rang our doorbell.

  *

  Although we did get visitors at odd hours, no one ever came on a scooter. It might not be safe to open the door at once. So I returned to Feluda’s room and lifted his curtain to take a quick peep. Feluda had put his book away, and was already on his feet. ‘Wait,’ he said. It meant that he wanted to open the door himself.

  When he did, a young man swept into the room. I could see, in a matter of seconds, that he was evil incarnate. He did not find it necessary to sit down. Slamming the door behind him and leaning against it, Subir Datta’s son, Shankar Datta, stared at Feluda with glazed eyes, and began a harangue. Each word sounded like a whiplash.

  ‘Look here, Mister, I don’t know what my father told you about me, but I can guess. All I can tell you is that no one can do anything to me, even if they employ a snoopy sleuth. I’m here to warn you. I am not alone, see? We have an entire gang. If you try acting smart, you’ll regret it. Oh yes, sir, you’ll be sorry you were ever born!’

  Having finished his speech, Shankar Datta made an exit, which was as dramatic as his entrance. Then we heard three scooters roar into life and leave, the entire neighbourhood reverberating under the racket.

  Until that moment, Feluda remained still. He could stay perfectly calm even when someone stood there flinging insults at him. He really has extraordinary control over his nerves. I have heard him say that he who can keep rising anger firmly under control must have far greater will power than someone who has a furious outburst.

  However, when Shankar left, Feluda moved quickly even before the sound of the scooters had faded away. In a flash, he had put on his kurta and grabbed his wallet. ‘Come on, Topshe. A taxi. . .!’

  Within three minutes, we were in Southern Avenue, flagging down a taxi. The scooters had gone towards the north. That much I knew.

  ‘Try Lansdowne Road,’ Feluda said to the driver as we got in. The main road was dug up, so it was highly likely that the scooters would go down Lansdowne Road.

  It was a quarter to eleven. Southern Avenue was almost completely empty. Our driver was a Bengali, a local man. We had seen him before. ‘Do you wish to follow someone, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Three scooters,’ Feluda said in a low voice.

  Our hunch was right. We saw the three scooters near the Elgin Road crossing. Shankar was on one, and the other two had two riders on each. None of us had to be told that they were all hardened criminals. Our taxi began tailing them.

  We passed Lower Circular Road and Camac Street. Upon reaching Park Street, they turned left. They were driving in a zigzag fashion, possibly because each of them was in a good mood, without a care in the world. Feluda was hiding in the dark depths of the taxi, trying to avoid the streetlight that came in through the windows. I could not tell what he was thinking.

  The scooters went down Mirza Ghalib Street, and then turned left again. Marquis Street. The road was narrow here, the lights were dim, and every house was dark. Feluda told the driver to reduce the speed and increase the distance between the scooters and our taxi, in case those men became suspicious.

  A little later, after taking two more turns, the scooters stopped before a building.

  ‘Drive on, don’t stop,’ Feluda said.

  As we passed the building, I realized it was not an ordinary house, but a hotel. It was called The New Corinthian Lodge. New? The building was at least a hundred years old.

  Feluda’s mission was accomplished. All he had wanted to do was to see where the gang was based.

  By the time we returned home, it was eleven-forty. The meter on the taxi read nineteen rupees and seventy-five paisa.

  The following morning, Uncle Sidhu turned up most unexpectedly. I knew that he went out for a walk every morning, but that was always in the direction of the lake. If he had come to our house instead, there had to be a special reason.

  ‘That scrapbook was too heavy to carry, so I simply copied out the press cutting,’ he told us. ‘Look, here it talks about an S. Choudhury, and he’s a biochemist. But I’ve no idea if it’s Suprakash.’

  ‘When was it reported?’

  ‘1971. The police raided a pharmaceutical company in Mexico, and arrested a Bengali biochemist. He went to jail. He was said to be selling spurious drugs, which were causing terrible diseases. That is all the report says. Since I was thinking only of the name “Suprakash”, I didn’t immediately connect that name with this report. But whether it’s the same . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, it’s the same person,’ Feluda replied gravely.

  Uncle Sidhu rose to take his leave. His barber was expected at home—it was time for his regular haircut. He thumped Feluda’s back, grabbed my ear and gave it an affectionate twist, tucked his dhoti in at the waist, and stepped out.

  Feluda began scribbling in his notebook. I went and stood by his side. There were three questions listed on a page:

  1. Why were there so many scratches around the keyhole on the safe?

  2. ‘Who’s there’? What does it mean?

  3. What is the ‘unfinished job’?

  The questions made me think, too.

  Last evening, I had seen the scratches around the keyhole when Feluda had shone his torch on it. Yes, they were rather suspicious. Such marks would not have been left there unless someone had scuffed the steel surface really hard. Was Nihar Datta such a heavy sleeper that even the sound of so much scraping did not wake him?

  The second question was not immediately clear to me. Then I remembered Nihar Datta calling out from the landing when he heard Mr Dastur’s voice. What I could not understand was why Feluda should find anything suspicious in Nihar Datta saying, ‘Who’s there?’

  It was Nihar Datta who had talked about an unfinished job. At least, that was what Ranajit Banerjee had told us. I had assumed that was a reference to his incomplete research. Didn’t Feluda believe that?

  Feluda was about to scribble some more, when the telephone rang. He reached out and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello.’

  There was a pause. Then he said, ‘Hmm . . . hmm . . . yes, I’ll be there straightaway.’

  He replaced the receiver and grabbed a hanger in his wardrobe, from which were hanging a shirt and a pair of trousers. Feluda yanked those off and said to me, ‘Get ready at once. There’s been a murder in Golok Lodge.’

  My heart flew into my mouth.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Dastur.’

  As soon as we entered Ballygunj Park, I could see a police van parked outside 7/1, and a knot of people. Luckily, it was a quiet and genteel locality, or there would have been many more onlookers.

  There is no one in Calcutta Police who does not know Feluda. We found Inspector Bakshi as we walked into Golok Lodge. He came forward with a smile on his face. ‘Ah. So here you are! Could you smell the murder, even from your house?’

  Feluda offered his lopsided smile. ‘I met Subir Datta recently. He rang me, so I came. I will not interfere with your work—I promise. How was he murdered?’

  ‘Blow on the head. Not one, but three—while he was asleep. The body is about to be removed for a post-mortem. Dr Sarkar has seen it already. It happened between two and three o’clock last night.’

  ‘Did you learn anything about the victim?’

  ‘Suspicious character. Seems he was on th
e point of leaving. Had started to pack his suitcase!’

  ‘Was any money stolen?’

  ‘I don’t think so. There’s a wallet on the bedside table, with about three hundred rupees in it. Perhaps he didn’t keep a lot of cash in the house. But we can’t find his bank passbook, or cheque book, or anything. A gold watch was lying by his pillow. Mind you, we haven’t yet made a thorough search. We’ll do that now. But, from what we’ve found so far, we’ve learnt nothing about the real man.’

  By this time, we had been joined by Subir Datta. He looked at Bakshi and said, ‘Sukhwani is making a lot of fuss. He says he has a most important appointment in Dalhousie Square. But I’ve told him no one can leave the house until the police have finished asking questions.’

  ‘Yes, you did the right thing. But then, we’ll question everyone, even you.’

  Bakshi smiled as he spoke. Subir Datta nodded to indicate that he was aware of the situation. ‘The fewer questions you ask my brother, the better,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Bakshi.

  ‘May I see the room?’ Feluda asked.

  ‘Certainly.’

  Bakshi went forward with Feluda, followed by me. Just before stepping into Dastur’s living room, Feluda turned to Mr Datta and said, ‘By the way, your son came to my house yesterday.’

  ‘When?’ Mr Datta sounded quite taken aback.

  Feluda explained quickly. ‘Did he return home last night?’

  ‘Even if he did, I didn’t hear him come in,’ Mr Datta replied. ‘I haven’t seen him this morning.’

  ‘At least now we know where your son and his friends are to be found. That hotel has a bad reputation. It’s been raided twice,’ Inspector Bakshi informed us.

  The room looked entirely different. The previous night, it had been totally dark. This morning, bright sunlight was streaming in through the windows and falling on the sofa and the floor. To my surprise, I saw that the old stub of a Charminar was still lying in the ashtray. Two constables were posted in the room; and the photographer, having finished his work, was in the process of packing away his equipment.

  The murder had taken place in the bedroom. Feluda and Bakshi went in. I went up to the threshold and caught a glimpse of the corpse, covered with a white sheet. A constable was searching the room. On the floor, a suitcase was lying open, with a few clothes folded and packed in it. Beside the suitcase stood Dastur’s new briefcase which I’d seen him carrying the previous day.

  I returned to the living room and spent the next three minutes simply staring at the furniture. I knew I must not touch anything. Besides, the two constables were both gaping at me.

  ‘Come on, Topshe!’

  Feluda had emerged from the bedroom.

  ‘Are you going to be here for some time?’ Bakshi asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ll go and see the old Mr Datta. Let me know if you find anything interesting.’

  Subir Datta was waiting upstairs. He took us to his brother’s room.

  Nihar Datta was reclining in his easy chair. He was wearing his dark glasses, and his stick was lying on his bed. So far, I had seen that stick clutched in his hand, so I had not realized that it had a silver handle. A design was carved on it, and in its centre, were the letters G B D. The stick must have once belonged to his grandfather, Golok Bihari Datta.

  On being told of our arrival, he raised his head slightly and said, ‘Yes, I heard their footsteps. Sound and touch . . . only these two things have helped me survive for twenty years. And I have memories . . . thoughts of what might have been. Some say it was just my misfortune. I know it had nothing to do with fate or fortune. You asked me that day, Mr Mitter, whether the explosion was a result of negligence. Today, I am prepared to tell you frankly that the whole thing was planned, just to destroy my work. Jealousy can make some people stoop incredibly low. As a detective, I am sure you can appreciate that.’

  Mr Datta stopped. Feluda said, ‘You mean you think Suprakash Choudhury was responsible for the explosion?’

  ‘No Bengali could have a greater enemy than a fellow Bengali. You can believe that, can’t you?’

  Feluda was staring steadily at the dark glasses. Nihar Datta appeared to be waiting for an answer.

  ‘Have you ever mentioned this to anyone else, in the same way?’

  ‘No, never. When I woke up in hospital, this was the first thing that came to my mind. But I did not say anything. What good would it have done? The damage was done, anyway. Even if the culprit responsible was punished, I would not have got my sight back, or completed my research.’

  ‘But how did it help Suprakash Choudhury? Did he think he could steal your papers, finish the research alone and make a name for himself?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he must have thought. But he was wrong. I’ve already told you, Mr Mitter. There was no way he could have got anywhere without my help.’

  We were sitting on the bed. Feluda was deep in thought. Ranajit Banerjee had come into the room, and was standing by the table. Subir Datta had left the room, possibly to attend to something.

  ‘I’m not sure about the money,’ said Feluda. ‘Perhaps the police will find it easier to recover it. But what I can’t accept is that all those valuable papers should be stolen while I was present in this house! I will do my utmost to get those back.’

  ‘You may do exactly as you please.’

  We left soon after this. The police were still interviewing everyone. Bakshi promised to call Feluda and tell him of their findings.

  ‘Don’t forget to tell me about the New Corinthian Lodge!’ Feluda reminded him.

  *

  We returned home at half past ten. Feluda spent the rest of the morning pacing in his room, stopping occasionally, sitting or lying down, frowning, shaking his head, muttering to himself, and sighing from time to time. Obviously, various questions, doubts and suspicions were chasing one another in his mind. Then, suddenly, he turned to me and said, ‘Can you remember the general layout of the ground floor in Golok Lodge?’

  I thought for a moment and said, ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘How would one go from Sukhwani’s flat to Dastur’s?’

  I thought again. ‘As far as I can remember, the passage that runs past both flats towards the inner part of the house has a door in its centre. It probably stays locked. But if it was opened, one could easily slip through that door and go from one flat to another.’

  ‘Right. As things stand, if Sukhwani had wanted to visit Dastur, he’d have had to go round the garden, walk down the passage between the compound wall and the house, and come straight to the front door to gain entry.’

  ‘But what about the collapsible gate at the front of the house? Would that be open in the middle of the night?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Then he began pacing again, muttering under his breath, ‘X Y Z . . . X Y Z . . . X is the research, Y is the money, and Z is murder. What we need to find out is whether these three are tied together by the same thread, or whether they are separate.’

  While he was still muttering, I couldn’t help saying, ‘Feluda, do you know what I think? I think Suprakash Choudhury disguised himself as Dastur and came to live in Nihar Datta’s house.’

  To my surprise, Feluda did not dismiss the idea. On the contrary, he patted my back and said, ‘Such an idea has already occurred to me, but I have to say you aren’t far behind in getting brainwaves. If Dastur was Suprakash in disguise, then presumably he was there only to steal the research papers. But the question is, if he stole the envelope, where did it go? Besides, how could he have stolen it himself? He’d never been to the first floor!’

  I had an answer to that. Really, I had become quite clever. ‘Why should Dastur have to go anywhere? Suppose he was in league with Shankar? Shankar could have stolen that envelope, passed it to Dastur, and been paid for it!’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Feluda. ‘At last, you have become a worthy assistant of mine. But it still doesn’t explain the murder.’

  �
��Ranajit Banerjee could have figured our that Dastur and Suprakash were the same. Mr Banerjee knows Mr Datta’s history, and has enormous respect for him. So, is it not possible that he should want to kill the man who destroyed Mr Datta’s entire career as a scientist?’

  Feluda shook his head. ‘No. Murder isn’t such a simple business, Topshe. Banerjee’s motive could not be strong enough. It’s a great pity that the police haven’t yet found anything suspicious in Dastur’s room. He was obviously a most cautious man.’

  ‘You know what I feel, Feluda?’

  Feluda stopped pacing and looked at me. I said, ‘If you had searched the room instead of the police, you would have found various clues.’

  ‘Ah. You think so?’

  I couldn’t ever imagine Feluda losing confidence in himself. But the way he said, ‘You think so?’, that was what the words seemed to imply. What he said next made my heart sink further.

  ‘I doubt if even Einstein’s brain could have functioned in this heat and so many power cuts.’

  Inspector Bakshi rang us around two o’clock. They had found a secret compartment in the heel of a shoe belonging to Dastur. It was crammed with American dollars and German marks, worth about seventeen thousand rupees. However, they had found no papers or documents that might help identify the man. No new electronics shop could be located that knew of Dastur; nor had his friend been traced. There were virtually no letters in the flat. The only personal letter they found had been written from Argentina. It simply proved that Dastur had spent some time in South America.

  The second piece of news that Bakshi gave us was that they had shown Shankar’s photo to the manager of New Corinthian Lodge. The manager had recognized him, and told the police that Shankar and his friends had hired a room in his hotel and spent the previous night drinking and playing cards. They paid their bill in the morning and left. According to Bakshi, it was ‘only a matter of minutes’ before Shankar was arrested.