by Satyajit Ray
Feluda gave his lopsided grin, but said nothing.
Mr Pal came to the airport the next day to see us off. Feluda had bought him a beautiful silk tie as a token of thanks. Mr Pal laughed. ‘I have never had so much excitement in a single day!’ he told us. ‘But it’s a pity I couldn’t take you to Kowloon to try fried snake. You must visit me again, and stay a little while longer.’
To tell the truth, I didn’t want to leave Hong Kong so soon, but knew that Feluda’s ruling principle in life was ‘duty first’. He would never allow himself to be lured by the bright lights of Hong Kong before he had solved the mystery of the fake painting, the murder of Bankim Babu and the poisoned dog in Baikunthapur.
We left Hong Kong on Wednesday night, and reached Calcutta the next morning. ‘Today is going to be a day of rest,’ Feluda said to Lalmohan Babu. ‘Tomorrow, Topshe and I will arrive at your house around eight o’clock. Then we’ll all go to Baikunthapur. All right?’
‘OK, sir. No problem.’
On our way back, Feluda stopped at the Park Street post office, saying he had to send an urgent telegram. He did not reveal who it would go to.
After this, he sank into complete silence. I knew this mood well. It was like the lull before a storm, though I had no idea when the storm would break. I tried to work things out for myself, but nothing made sense. In any case, our experience in Hong Kong had thrown me into total confusion. Everytime I closed my eyes, I could only see the long Chinese signboards hanging over my head. It was impossible to think straight.
The next day, by the time we reached Mr Niyogi’s house, it was nearly 11 a.m. Nobo Kumar was waiting for us. He began to ask anxious questions about our visit to Hong Kong, but Feluda shook his head.
‘No, our mission wasn’t entirely successful, I’m afraid. We couldn’t get the original painting,’ he said, adding, ‘The one we did find turned out to be another case of forgery.’
‘What! How is that possible, Mr Mitter? Two copies of the same painting? Well then, where did the original go?’
‘Let’s go into your living room upstairs. We can talk more comfortably there.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry.’
We walked into the living room, to find Inspector Mondol sitting on a sofa, sipping a glass of lemonade.
‘Well, well!’ he grinned. ‘Had any luck in Hong Kong, Mr Mitter?’
‘If you’re referring to the stolen painting, the answer is no. We didn’t find it. But in other respects, yes, we got a few things straightened out.’
‘I see. What about the murderer?’
‘He may give himself up.’
‘Really?’
Feluda did not sit down. Glasses of lemonade arrived for us. He picked one up and took a sip. Then he brought out his blue notebook. The rest of us sat on sofas and chairs, facing him.
‘Allow me to begin at the beginning,’ Feluda said, ‘On Tuesday,
28 September, two events occurred in Baikunthapur. Someone poisoned Mr Niyogi’s fox terrier, Thumri; and Chandrasekhar’s son Rudrasekhar arrived here. This made me wonder if there was a connection between the two. Who would kill an old dog, and why, I asked myself. When I thought about it, I found two possible explanations. In fact, Topshe mentioned the first one. Anyone with the intention of burgling the house would have a motive for killing the dog. But nothing was stolen immediately. The theft of the painting took place long after Thumri was killed. Therefore, I had to consider the second option. If someone known to the family—and the dog—wanted to return incognito, in disguise, not wanting to be recognized, he would certainly wish to remove the dog before he arrived because if the dog showed signs of recognition, it would arouse suspicion at once.
‘This led me to wonder if the new arrival—Rudrasekhar—wasn’t someone known to you. His behaviour was certainly odd. He hardly ever opened his mouth, wore tinted glasses, and spent most of his time either outside the house or in his room. Who was he? He was supposed to have arrived straight from Italy, and yet on his feet were shoes from Bata. Yes, he had presented his passport to your father, but he is old and his eyesight weak. In any case, he was too embarrassed to scrutinize it closely or call someone else for help. It was, therefore, not too difficult to get by with a false passport.
‘However, if the passport was not genuine, then how did he hope to get Rudrasekhar’s share of the property? I mean, lawyers and other people who deal with such matters aren’t fools, and they would most certainly have made extensive enquiries. The chances of deceiving them were really pretty dim.
‘Why, then, was this man here? There could be only one reason. He wanted to lay his hands on the most valuable painting in this house. Thanks to Bhudev Singh’s article, hundreds of people now knew about it.
‘What this man didn’t know, and what we learnt only recently from an old press cutting, was that the real Rudrasekhar died in Rome twenty-six years ago.’
‘What!’ Nobo Kumar shrieked.
‘Yes, Mr Niyogi. I am very grateful to Robin Babu for pointing this out to me.’
‘Then . . . then who was that man who came here?’
Feluda took out a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a page torn out of a magazine.
‘I came upon this magazine in Hong Kong, entirely by accident. Please take a look at this picture, Mr Niyogi. It’s a scene from a film called Mombasa. Some of it was shot in Africa. The villain was played by the bearded man in this picture. Look at it carefully, please. Can you recognize him?’
Nobo Kumar peered at the page. ‘Ah, here’s Rudrasekhar!’ he said.
‘Read the actor’s name in the caption.’
Nobo Kumar peered more closely and gave a violent start.
‘My God! It’s Nondo!’
‘Yes, Mr Niyogi. He is your brother. He wore almost identical make-up when he came here. I suspect the beard was his own, but he wore a wig to cover his hair. He got someone else to write a letter to your father from Rome. That shouldn’t have been too difficult, anyway.’
Nobo Kumar looked deeply distressed. He shook his head and sighed. ‘Nondo was always far too reckless,’ he muttered.
Feluda continued to speak. ‘If the original painting disappeared suddenly, it would have caused an enormous stir. So Mr Nondo Kumar hit upon a rather ingenious idea. He got an artist to come here and make a copy. It was this copy that he placed on the wall, and took the one already hanging there. For some reason, Bankim Babu had started to suspect something. So he set the alarm of his clock for 3.30 the morning Rudrasekhar—I mean Nondo Kumar—disappeared. Perhaps Bankim Babu actually caught him in the act of removing the painting. That was the reason he had to die.’
There was pindrop silence in the room when Feluda stopped speaking. He glanced around briefly and went on, ‘There was one man who could have exposed Nondo Kumar. But he didn’t, possibly because he was too embarrassed. Isn’t that right?’
All of us turned to find that someone had come into the room silently during Feluda’s speech and was sitting quietly in a corner.
It was the journalist, Robin Chowdhury.
‘Is that true?’ Nobo Kumar asked him. ‘Did you know Rudrasekhar was an impostor?’
Robin Babu smiled, looking at Feluda. ‘You began the whole story; now you finish it!’ he said.
‘I might. But I still don’t have answers to all the questions. You’ll have to help me.’
‘Very well. Go ahead with your questions.’
‘First, you told us you had to consult a dictionary to work out the meaning of that Italian press cutting. That was a lie, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I lied.’
‘Second, that red spot on your shirt, which we all thought was blood, was red oil paint, wasn’t it?’
Yes.
‘Where did you learn to paint?’
‘In Switzerland. My mother took me to Zurich soon after my father died. She was a qualified nurse. So she began working in a hospital in Zurich. I was then thirteen. I began attending art classes after s
chool. Then, later, I went to Paris. I decided to write Chandrasekhar’s biography a couple of years ago. I went to Rome and Venice, and met members of the Cassini family. That’s where I learnt about the Tintoretto painting.’
‘What it really means is that you, too, made a copy of it.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And it was this second copy that Nondo Kumar took, thinking it was the original, and it eventually reached Hiralal Somani?’
‘Yes.’
‘What I want to know is,’ Nobo Kumar interrupted impatiently, ‘where is the original?’
‘I have got it,’ replied Robin Chowdhury.
‘Why? Why have you kept it?’
‘Because if I didn’t, it would now be in Hong Kong. I began to suspect soon after I arrived that the fake Rudrasekhar was planning to remove it. So I made a copy and put away the original.’
‘You did want to take the original, though, didn’t you?’ Feluda asked.
‘Yes, but not for myself. I wanted to take it to a museum in Europe. Any museum there would jump at the chance to add it to their collection.’
‘What do you mean?’ Nobo Kumar rose to his feet, both excited and outraged. ‘Who are you to take away our painting? It belongs to our family!’
‘Yes, of course, Mr Niyogi, you are absolutely right,’ Feluda reassured him. ‘But, you see, Robin Babu here is one of your family, too!’
‘What? Is this a joke?’
‘Not at all. I have reason to believe that he is actually Rudrasekhar’s son and Chandrasekhar’s grandson. His real name is Rajsekhar Niyogi. His passport, I am sure, bears the same name.’
‘I never thought I’d ever have to show my passport,’ Robin Babu laughed. ‘I did not want anyone to know who I was and make a fuss over me. All I wanted to do was collect research material on Chandrasekhar, and take that painting since I had a claim on it. Yes, it did mean deception, but I thought things might be easier if I did not turn up as a long-lost member of the family. How was I to know so many unexpected things would happen, or that I would run into someone with such a remarkable power of detection as Mr Mitter? All I can now do is offer my apologies and hope you will forgive me for what I did.’
‘There’s just one little thing I’d like to point out,’ Feluda put in. ‘You see, Bhudev Singh told me that the last time he heard from your grandfather was five years ago. So, strictly speaking, you don’t really have a claim on Tintoretto’s Jesus. However, I don’t think anyone will object to your taking it since you will appreciate its value the most and will know what to do to have it properly preserved.’
‘Yes, I quite agree,’ said Nobo Kumar, still looking amazed. ‘But you’ll have to tell me, Mr Mitter, how did you work this one out? What made you think Robin Babu was my cousin? I . . . to me, it’s like . . . well, magic!’
‘It was relatively simple. There was something odd about him. He didn’t fit in, somehow. For instance, I noticed at the first meal we had together that he didn’t seem to know the right order in which different dishes should be eaten. No Bengali would need to be told that shukto must be eaten before anything else. But he seemed to hesitate. He began eating the daal, then he ate the fish, and came to the bitter shukto last of all. He was obviously a man who had spent a long time living abroad. But that wasn’t really what made me stumble on the truth. It was this—’
Feluda broke off, and walked over to Chandrasekhar’s portrait of his father, Anant Nath Niyogi. He placed his hands over Anant Nath’s beard and moustache. Immediately, it seemed as though it was Robin Babu’s face that was staring out of the canvas.
Lalmohan Babu started clapping, and it finally dawned upon me why Robin Babu had seemed familiar.
But there was one more surprise in store.
A bearer had been standing at the door for some time, holding a telegram. He now passed it to Nobo Kumar. He read it quickly, and grew round-eyed again. ‘Why, it’s from Nondo in Bombay!’ he exclaimed. ‘He says he’s going to arrive in Calcutta by the evening flight today! I don’t see—’
‘Er . . .’ Feluda said, looking, for the first time, vaguely uncomfortable, ‘I’m afraid that’s my doing, Mr Niyogi. I took the liberty of sending him a telegram yesterday, under your name, saying that he must come immediately because your father was critically ill. I hope you’ll forgive me for doing this without consulting you, but I thought you and Inspector Mondol here might wish to see him and sort a few things out . . . ?’
‘No, I can’t!’ said Feluda.
‘Why not?’ Nobo Kumar asked, looking annoyed.
‘I cannot take any more money from you because—look, didn’t my investigations reveal that your own brother was the culprit?’
‘So what? I asked you to investigate, didn’t I? Why would anyone hold you responsible for the results you produced? You only did your job! I am telling you, Mr Mitter, I consider it my duty to pay you your full fees, and if you don’t accept it, I am going to be most displeased. Surely you wouldn’t want that?’
His own brother might be a criminal, but the cousin Nobo Kumar had acquired proved to be a gem. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Tintoretto’s Jesus had gone to the right person. In a few weeks, it would grace the wall of some famous European museum.
Nobo Kumar persuaded us to spend an extra day in Baikunthapur. On our way back, we stopped in Mecheda at Lalmohan Babu’s request, to consult Bhabesh Bhattacharya once more.
It was imperative, said Lalmohan Babu, to find out if he might call his next novel Hoodwinked in Hong Kong!
The Disappearance of Ambar Sen
One
‘From now on, Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu declared, ‘you needn’t bother about correcting mistakes in my books.’ Feluda was sitting in his favourite sofa, busy twisting and turning a pyramid-shaped Rubik’s cube. ‘Really?’ he asked, without raising his eyes.
‘Yes, sir. I happened to meet a gentleman yesterday, in our park. His name is Mrityunjay Som, and he’s just moved to our neighbourhood. We spoke for nearly half an hour. He’s a great scholar.’
‘A scholar?’
‘Yes. A double MA from Herbert University, or some such thing.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Lalmohan Babu,’ this time Feluda had to look up, ‘it isn’t Herbert. What you mean is Harvard.’
‘OK. Harvard.’
‘How do you know that? Was he speaking with an American accent?’
‘Well no, but he does speak in English most of the time. A very learned man, no doubt about that. He’s actually from Behrampore, but he’s moved to Calcutta to do some research for a book he’s writing. Even his appearance is most impressive . . . I mean, he has a distinct personality. A French beard, glasses with golden frames, smart clothes. I gave him a copy of my book, The Fearsome Foe. He pointed out thirty-four mistakes, but said it made very enjoyable reading.’
‘Well then, your problems are over. You don’t have to drive all the way to my house every day. Think of the money you’ll save on petrol.’
‘Yes, but the thing is, you see . . .’
We never got to hear what the thing was, for Lalmohan Babu was interrupted at this point by the arrival of Feluda’s client, Ambar Sen. We were expecting him at nine o’clock. Our door bell rang just as the clock struck nine.
Mr Sen was in his mid-forties, clean-shaven, wearing glasses set in thick frames. A jamavar shawl was wrapped round his shoulders. Feluda had taken me to a museum one day and shown me just how many different types of Kashmiri shawls there could be.
Mr Sen took a chair opposite Feluda’s and came straight to the point.
‘You’re a busy man, Mr Mitter, and so am I. So let’s not waste any time. But before I tell you anything further, take a look at this.’ He took out a piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Feluda. It had been crumpled into a ball, then smoothed out again. Written on it in large red letters were these words:
You destroyed me. Now you will pay for it, in just seven days. Don’t think you can get a
way with it this time.
Feluda turned the paper over, and asked, ‘How did you find it?’
‘My study is on the ground floor. Last night, someone threw it into the room through an open window. My bearer, Laxman, found it this morning and brought it to me.’
‘Does your study overlook the street?’
‘No. There’s a garden outside the study which is surrounded by a compound wall. But I suppose anyone could have climbed over it.’
‘What’s this about destroying someone?’
Mr Sen shook his head. ‘Look, Mr Mitter, I am a simple man. I run a business, although most of the work is handled by my brother. I have various other interests and hobbies which keep me busy. I cannot recall ever having harmed anyone—not consciously, anyway; and even if I did, it could certainly not have been so bad as to merit a threat like that. I cannot make head or tail of it.’
Feluda frowned, and thought for a minute. Then he said, ‘Well, it could of course be some sort of a practical joke. Perhaps there’s a group of young boys in your area?’
‘I live in Palm Avenue. There is a slum not all that far from my house. There may well be young men living there who might do such a thing for a laugh. Who knows?’
‘Don’t they harass you for a donation before Durga Puja?’
‘Yes, but we have always paid our share without a fuss.’ Srinath came in with the tea at this moment, so Feluda had to stop asking questions. I heard Lalmohan Babu mutter under his breath. ‘Revenge, revenge!’ he said.
Feluda took this opportunity to introduce us to Mr Sen.
‘I see, so you are the famous Jatayu?’
‘Heh, heh!’
Mr Sen took a long sip from his cup with great relish. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I came to know about you, Mr Mitter, only after reading some of Tapesh’s stories. That’s why I thought I’d come to you first.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘My brother told me to go to the police, but I happen to be a bit unorthodox in these matters, you see. I don’t like doing what everyone else would do. Besides, I don’t think at this moment there is anything to feel seriously concerned about. I came to you really because I wanted to meet you. Everyone in our family knows about you.’