by Satyajit Ray
Feluda heard what Bakshi had to say, put the phone down and said, ‘If Shankar Datta had used some of the stolen money to settle his hotel bill, that really would have been most convenient. But anyway, at least it proves he could not have killed Dastur. He has an alibi.’
I had learnt the meaning of the word ‘alibi’ some time ago. But at first I couldn’t figure out how to explain it to those who might not know it. When I asked Feluda, he just said, ‘Write what it says in the dictionary.’ So an alibi is ‘a plea that accused was elsewhere when the crime was committed’. In other words, Shankar could very easily say, ‘When the murder took place, I was in a hotel playing cards with my friends!’
Even after Bakshi’s telephone call, Feluda continued to be restless. At around three, I saw that he had changed and was dressed to go out. He had to get some information, he said. It was half past four by the time he returned. I read the Mahabharat during that time, and nearly finished it.
I was reading the bit where, on their final journey, the Pandavas begin falling one by one—and Arjun was just about to fall—when the phone rang suddenly. I answered it. It was Subir Datta, asking for Feluda. Feluda picked up the extension in his own room. I placed my ear to the phone in the living room and heard the whole conversation.
‘Hello.’
‘Mr Mitter?’
‘Yes?’
‘The sealed envelope with my brother’s research papers has been found.’
‘In Mr Dastur’s room?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It was stuck with some Sellotape to the underside of the bed. But one side came unstuck and it was left dangling. Our servant, Bhagirath, found it.’
‘Does your brother know about it?’
‘Yes. But he seems very depressed—he’s not really interested in anything at all. He did not leave his chair today, even once. I have asked our family physician to take a look at him.’
‘Any news about your son?’
‘Yes. The entire gang has been arrested near G T Road.’
‘And the stolen money?’
‘No, that wasn’t found. Perhaps they kept it safe somewhere else. But Shankar is denying the whole thing—says he had nothing to do with the theft.’
‘What do the police say about the murder?’
‘They suspect Sukhwani. Besides, they’ve found a new clue. There was a crumpled piece of paper outside Dastur’s window.’
‘Did it say anything?’
‘It was just a one-line warning: you know what excessive curiosity can do.’
‘What does Sukhwani have to say about all this?’
‘He’s denying everything. It’s true that one can’t get to Dastur’s flat from his, but a hired killer could easily have climbed up to the first floor, then gone down the stairs and killed Dastur.’
‘Hmm . . . all right, I’ll go over to your house.’
Feluda replaced the receiver. Then I heard him mutter to himself: ‘X is the same as Y. Now we need to find out about Z.’ A second later, he called out to me, ‘Destination Golok Lodge. Get ready, Topshe!’
Four
‘Leaving, are you?’
Ranajit Banerjee was walking towards the front gate as we arrived at Golok Lodge. A constable was posted outside, so obviously the police were keeping their eye on the house.
‘Yes,’ Mr Banerjee replied. ‘Mr Datta told me I would not be required today.’
‘How is he?’
‘The doctor’s seen him. He said so much has happened lately that Mr Datta is in a state of shock. His blood pressure is fluctuating.’
‘Is he talking to people?’
‘Oh yes, yes!’ Mr Banerjee said reassuringly.
‘I’d like to look at the envelope found in Dastur’s room. Could you please come back to the house, unless you’re in a tearing hurry? Is that envelope now back in the safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘I won’t keep you long—promise! I don’t suppose I’ll visit this house again.’
‘But . . . the envelope is sealed!’ Mr Banerjee said a little uncertainly. ‘I just want to hold it in my hand,’ Feluda replied.
Mr Banerjee raised no further objection.
The house was dark, as on previous days. The power supply would not be resumed till ten o’clock. Now it was only a quarter past six. Kerosene lamps burned on the passage on the first floor, and on the landing. But they did nothing to dispel the gloom in nooks and corners.
Mr Banerjee showed us into the living room and went to inform Subir Datta. Before he left the room, he told us that if Nihar Datta objected to taking the envelope out, it could not be shown to anyone.
‘That goes without saying,’ Feluda told him.
Subir Datta looked quite tired. He had spent all day keeping press reporters at bay, he said. ‘The only good thing is that this entire business has made everyone think of my brother again. People had almost forgotten his name!’
Mr Banerjee returned a minute later, carrying a long white envelope. ‘Mr Datta didn’t mind . . . because I mentioned your name. He would not have allowed anyone else to look at his papers.’
‘Amazing!’ exclaimed Feluda, peering closely at the envelope under a kerosene lamp. To me, it appeared an ordinary long envelope. There was a red seal on one side; and on the other, on the bottom left hand corner, were the words ‘Department of Biochemistry, University of Michigan, Michigan, USA’. What was so amazing about that? Mr Datta and Mr Banerjee were seated on the sofa in the dimly lit room. Perhaps they were feeling just as puzzled.
Feluda returned to his chair, still staring at the envelope. Then he ignored the other two men completely, and began talking only to me. He sounded like a schoolteacher. As a matter of fact, he had used the same tone many times in the past, to enlighten me on various subjects.
‘You see, Topshe, English typefaces are an extraordinary business. Bengali has ten or twelve different typefaces; English has two thousand. Once I had to read up on this subject while investigating a case. Each typeface belongs to a particular group, and each group has a particular name. For instance, this typeface here is called Garramond,’ Feluda pointed at the printed words on the envelope. Then he continued, ‘Garramond came into being in the sixteenth century in France. Then it began to be used everywhere in the world. Countries like England, Germany, Switzerland and America didn’t just use this typeface but, in their own factories, made the mould required to use it. Even India has started doing that now. The funny thing is, if you look very carefully, you will always find a subtle difference between Garramond used in one country and another. The formation of certain letters usually gives away this difference. For example, the letters on this envelope should have been American Garramond. But they have turned into Indian Garramond. In fact, you may even call it Calcutta Garramond!’
The silence in the room became charged with tension. Feluda’s eyes were now fixed on Ranajit Banerjee’s face. I had seen pictures of waxworks of famous people in Madame Tussaud’s in London. Every feature looked amazingly lifelike, except the eyes. Only the glass eyes were an indication that those figures were lifeless. Ranajit Banerjee was alive, but his eyes were unseeing. They looked very much like the eyes of those wax figures.
‘Please don’t mind, Mr Banerjee, I feel obliged to open this envelope!’
Ranajit Banerjee raised his right hand as if he wanted to stop Feluda, but let it fall almost immediately.
With a sharp, rasping noise, Feluda’s fingers tore open one side of the envelope. Then the same fingers took out a sheaf of ruled foolscap paper. Yes, the sheets were ruled—but that was all. There was no writing on them. Each sheet was blank.
The glassy eyes were now closed; Ranajit Banerjee’s head was bent, his elbows were placed on his knees, and his face was buried in his hands.
‘Mr Banerjee,’ Feluda said grimly, ‘You said yesterday something about a thief breaking in. That was a lie, wasn’t it?’
Mr Banerjee could not speak. All he could do was make a sound that was more like a
groan than anything else. Feluda continued to speak: ‘You just had to create the impression that there had been a burglar the previous night, because you were getting ready to steal everything yourself and had to make sure that no suspicion should fall on you. Then yesterday afternoon, when you saw your chance, you opened the safe and removed thirty-three thousand rupees and Nihar Datta’s research notes. I don’t think this printed envelope was ready yesterday. You had it printed last night. Why, may I ask?’
Ranajit Banerjee finally raised his face and looked at Feluda. When he spoke, his voice sounded choked. ‘Yesterday, when Mr Datta heard Dastur’s voice, he knew it was Suprakash Choudhury. He said to me, “The fellow has become greedy again, after twenty years. He must have removed my papers.” So I. . .’.
‘I see. So you thought this was your chance to pin the theft on Dastur. When the police left, it was you who fixed the envelope with Sellotape to the underside of Dastur’s bed, am I right? But you made sure that it could be seen if someone bent low enough.’
Mr Banerjee let out a wail. ‘Forgive me, please forgive me! I swear I will return everything tomorrow—both the money and the papers. I . . . simply . . . I simply couldn’t stop myself . . . the temptation was just too much.’
‘Yes, you shall certainly return everything, or I’ll have to hand you over to the police.’
‘Yes, I appreciate that. But may I please make a request? Please don’t tell the old Mr Datta anything about this. He is very fond of me. I don’t think he could withstand the shock.’
‘Very well. Nihar Datta will learn nothing, I promise you. But you were such a brilliant student . . . why did you have to do such a thing?’
Ranajit Banerjee looked blankly at Feluda.
‘I went to meet your professor—Professor Bagchi. You see, I began to have doubts about you when I saw those scratch marks around the keyhole on the safe. No thief would be so careless, especially when someone was actually sleeping in the room, and a servant was just outside the door. Anyway, Professor Bagchi told me what a bright future you had. If you had taken your final exams, he thought you would have obtained a first class degree. Why did you abandon your studies and suddenly take the job of a secretary here? Was it to try and find a short cut to a Nobel Prize? Is that what tempted you?’
A mixture of fear, shame and remorse made Ranajit Banerjee completely speechless. I could see that, like me, Feluda was feeling most sorry for the man.
‘You may go home now, but you must return at once with the money and the papers. We cannot wait until tomorrow. If you wait a moment, I will arrange for one of the constables to go with you. It wouldn’t be wise to travel with such a lot of cash.’
Ranajit Banerjee nodded, like an obedient child.
In spite of what Subir Datta had told us about his son, the news that he was not the thief must have come as a major relief. At least, that was what the look on his face and his voice implied.
‘Will you go and see my brother?’ he asked.
‘Certainly,’ Feluda replied. ‘That’s really why I am here.’
We followed Subir Datta into his brother’s room.
‘So you’re here?’ Nihar Datta asked, still reclining in his chair. ‘Yes, sir. Your research papers have been found, I hear. You must be feeling quite relieved?’
‘They no longer mean anything to me,’ Mr Datta’s voice sounded low and dispirited. I had no idea a man could grow so pale in just one day. Even the day before, he had appeared quite strong.
‘Perhaps not. But they are still of great value to us, to many scientists in this world,’ said Feluda.
‘If you say so.’
‘I would like to ask you just one more question. After that, I promise I won’t bother you again.’
A thin, wan smile appeared on Nihar Datta’s lips. ‘Bother me? No, Mr Mitter, no one can possibly bother me now.’
‘Well then, here’s my question. Yesterday, I had seen ten sleeping pills on your table. There are still ten of them lying there. Does that mean you did not take a pill last night?’
‘No, I didn’t. But tonight, I shall’
‘Thank you. We will now take our leave.’
‘Wait!’
Nihar Datta offered Feluda his right hand. Feluda grasped it. The two shook hands most warmly. ‘You will understand. You have a special vision,’ Mr Datta said.
*
Feluda seemed quiet and withdrawn even after we got home. But I wasn’t prepared to be kept in the dark any longer. ‘You have to tell me everything!’ I said. ‘Don’t just beat about the bush.’
In reply to my question, Feluda suddenly made a reference to the Ramayan. This was his way of adding further suspense—I could never tell why he did that.
‘Six days after Dasharath sent Ram into exile, he remembered that, as a young prince, he had committed a crime. That was the reason why he was suffering so much in his old age. Can you remember what that crime was?’
It was some time since I’d last read the Ramayan, but I could remember that particular story.
‘A blind sage lived in a forest. His son was filling his pitcher from a river one night. Dasharath heard that noise from a distance, and thought it was an elephant drinking water. He shot one of his special arrows that could hit the source of any sound. The arrow found its target and killed the young boy.’
‘Good. Dasharath had the power to reach a target simply going by the sound it made, even if it was dark and he couldn’t see anything. Nihar Datta could do the same.’
‘Nihar Datta?’ I nearly fell off my chair.
‘Yes, sir. He did not take the sleeping pill because he knew he would have to stay awake and alert during the night. When everyone else went to sleep, he walked down the stairs barefoot and went to Dastur—or, if you like, Suprakash’s room. His nephew used that room at one time. So he knew its layout. In his hand was a weapon— a stout stick with a solid silver handle. He went close to the bed and struck, not once but three times!’
‘But . . . but . . .’ I felt totally confused. What on earth was Feluda talking about? Mr Datta was blind, for heaven’s sake!
‘Don’t you remember something?’ Feluda sounded a little impatient. ‘What did Sukhwani say about Dastur?’
It came back to me in a flash. ‘Dastur used to snore very loudly!’
‘Exactly. That means Nihar Datta could make out where on his pillow Dastur’s head was resting, whether or not he had turned on his side—everything. For someone with ears as sharp as Mr Datta’s, no other detail was necessary. If one blow wasn’t enough, three certainly were.’
After a few moments of stunned silence, I said slowly, ‘Was that the unfinished business? Revenge?’
‘Yes. A desire for revenge can produce enormous energy, even if a person is blind. It was this desire that had kept him alive so far. Now he is very close to death . . . and no one can touch him, not even the law.’
*
Nihar Ranjan Datta lived for another seventeen days. Just before he died, he made a will and left all his research papers and savings to his trusted and talented secretary, Ranajit Banerjee.
The Criminals of Kathmandu
One
‘Nowhere in this country,’ said Lalmohan Babu—alias Jatayu—in an admiring tone, ‘will you find a market like our New Market!’
Feluda and I were in full agreement. Some time ago, there had been talk of pulling it down to build a modern multi-storey supermarket in its place. This had seriously upset Feluda.
‘Don’t they realize,’ I had heard him fume, ‘that if New Market is destroyed, it would mean the destruction of the very spirit of Calcutta? If they do go ahead, I hope the citizens will not hesitate to take to the streets in protest!’ Luckily, the proposal was dropped.
We were now standing opposite New Market, having just seen Ape and Superape at the Globe. Lalmohan Babu needed batteries for his torch and a refill for his ball-point pen. Feluda wanted a packet of daalmut from Kalimuddi’s shop. Besides, Lalmohan Babu wanted to go
around the whole market to inspect its nooks and crannies. ‘Only yesterday, you see, I got the most wonderful idea for a ghost story that can take place right here in the market!’ he told me.
We stepped into the traffic to cross the road, making our way carefully through endless private cars and taxis. Lalmohan Babu began to give me the details of his plot. ‘There is this man, you see, a retired judge. One day, he comes to this market in the evening and discovers, a few hours later, that he can’t get out! All shops are closed, all lights have been switched off, and he just can’t find an exit. Every dark corridor is empty, except for an old antiques shop in a small, narrow alley. There is only a flickering light in this shop. This man runs towards the shop, in the hope of finding help. Just as he reaches it, an arm comes out of the darkness. It is the arm of a skeleton, a dagger clutched in its hand, dripping with blood. It is the skeleton of a murderer, on whom the judge had once passed a death sentence. He has come back to take his revenge. The judge starts running blindly through the dark corridors, but it’s no use. No matter how fast he runs or where he goes, he can still see the skeleton’s arm, getting closer. . . and closer.’
Not bad, I thought quietly to myself; an idea like this certainly had possibilities, although I was sure he’d have to appeal to Feluda for help, if only to produce a plausible explanation for the retired judge getting locked in.
We had, by now, come into the market. In front of us was a shop selling electrical goods. Lalmohan Babu could buy his batteries there and a refill for his pen from the shop opposite.
The owner of Dey Electricals knew Feluda. He greeted us with a smile. We were followed almost immediately by another man—about forty years of age, medium height, a receding hairline, wearing a white bush-shirt and black trousers. In his hand was a plastic bag.
‘You’re Mr Mitter, aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘A man in that book shop over there pointed you out. “The famous investigator, Pradosh Mitter,” he said. It was really strange because I have been thinking of you for the last couple of days.’