by Satyajit Ray
‘Who else is there in your family?’
‘I live with my younger brother, Ambuj. I am a bachelor, but Ambuj is married. He has three children—two sons and a daughter. His sons are grown up now, they don’t live here. His daughter is about ten. Then there is my mother—my father’s no more—and a distant cousin who has lived with us since he was a child. Apart from these family members, there are three bearers, a cook, a maid, a mali, a chowkidar and a driver. We live at 5/1 Palm Avenue. My father was the well-known heart specialist, Anath Sen.’
Feluda nodded, but seemed reluctant to say anything more. Mr Sen obviously sensed this, for he quickly added, ‘All I wanted to do was just tell you what had happened. You may be right, perhaps the whole thing is no more than a joke. But what strikes me as odd is that normally it is the rich and the famous who become targets for such jokes. I am neither, so . . .’ he shrugged.
‘Well, Mr Sen, you must see that if this is only an empty threat, there is nothing I can do. May I please keep this piece of paper?’
‘Of course.’
Coming to see Feluda just because he had received a weird note did seem to be something of an overreaction. However, the phone call from Palm Avenue that came the following morning made the whole thing take a totally different turn. I took the call in our living room and transferred it to Feluda’s extension. Then I picked up the receiver again and heard the whole conversation.
‘Hello, is that Mr Mitter?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Ambuj Sen. Did my brother see you yesterday regarding an anonymous letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he’s missing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I just said. My brother went out in our car early this morning. This was nothing unusual, for he does this every day. He takes the car to the river, then he gets out and walks a couple of miles before getting back home. Today . . . today he did not return.’
‘What!’
‘The driver waited for a whole hour, then searched for him everywhere. But he was nowhere to be found, so finally the driver came back.’
‘Have you informed the police?’
‘No. There’s a problem, you see. Our mother is eighty years old, and not in very good health. I haven’t yet told her about my brother’s disappearance. But if the police were told they’d naturally come round to make enquiries, and then I wouldn’t be able to keep anything from her. She’d get extremely upset. So I’d request you to handle this case yourself. We’ve all got every faith in you. And of course we’ll pay you your fee.’
‘OK, I’ll be right over. Is that all right with you?’
‘Certainly. You know our address, don’t you?’
‘Five by one, Palm Avenue?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Two
Mr Sen’s house turned out to be a sprawling building, somewhat old fashioned in style, with a front porch. There was a small garden in front of the house. A splash of green behind it suggested a tennis court. A slab of marble on the gate still bore Ambar Sen’s father’s name, which was followed by a lot of letters from the alphabet and commas and full stops. The last word was (Edin.), by which I assumed he had gone to Scotland to study medicine.
The man who came out to meet us as our taxi drew up under the porch bore a general resemblance to Ambar Sen, but unlike him, was short, stout and dark. He gave us a smile, but it faded quickly. Ambuj Sen was clearly worried.
‘Please come in,’ he said.
We walked across a landing with a marble floor, and went into the living room. Here, too, the floor was made of marble. On it lay a beautiful carpet; there was also a lot of expensive furniture. The sofa I sat on was so soft that it sank by about six inches under my weight.
‘Runa, come here,’ called Ambuj Babu. I noticed a small girl in a frock standing near a door, staring at us in open amazement. She came in and stood by her father.
‘Do you know who this is?’ Ambuj asked her.
‘Yes, it’s Feluda,’ she said softly.
‘And who is this?’
‘Topshe.’
‘Oh, so you know both of them?’
‘Where is Jatayu?’ asked Runa, sounding somewhat disappointed. ‘He couldn’t come with us today, but I’ll bring him here another day, I promise!’ Feluda told her.
‘She has read every story he has written,’ Ambuj Babu informed us.
‘Do you think you can find my uncle?’ Runa asked, looking straight at Feluda.
‘I’ll try; and if you can find me a clue, so much the better.’
‘A clue?’
‘Yes. Do you know what that means?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then, have you got any that might help us find your uncle quickly?’
‘Why should I give you a clue? You’re the detective. Finding clues is your job!’
‘True. You are a very clever girl. What is your real name, Runa?’
‘Jharna.’
Feluda turned to Ambuj Babu. ‘I need your help in certain matters, Mr Sen, without which I cannot proceed at all.’
‘I’ll do whatever is required.’
‘I need to talk to every member of your family. I met your brother for just a few minutes. That was not sufficient to get to know him. I also need to go into his study and go through some of his papers. I hope you wouldn’t mind?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then I shall have to see the spot where your brother used to go for his morning walk.’
‘No problem. Our driver, Bilash, can take you there.’
By this time, Feluda had risen and was pacing, his eyes fixed on three large bookshelves.
‘Whose books are those?’
‘Dada’s.’
‘He appears interested in a lot of subjects, even criminology!’
‘Yes, he’s studied that subject, too.’
‘ . . . Science, cookery, history, collecting coins, drama . . .’
‘Drama is something of a passion for Dada. He builds a stage every year during Durga Puja and gets us to take part in the plays he directs. Nearly every member of our family has taken some role or the other in his plays, including Runa.’
I looked at the little girl. She was still gaping at Feluda.
‘I see. May I please see his study?’
‘Yes, certainly. Please come with me.’
A passage ran outside the living room, leading to the study which was in the rear portion of the house. Sunlight poured through an open window in the room, making it look bright and inviting. There was a desk and a revolving chair, and an easy chair by the window. Two more chairs stood on one side, presumably for visitors. Behind the desk was a shelf, a cabinet and a Godrej safe. A grey jacket hung from a folding bracket fixed on the wall next to the safe.
Ambar Sen clearly believed in order, for his papers, pen-holder, pincushion, paperweight, paper-knife, telephone and various other objects were placed very neatly on his desk. The only thing that struck me as odd was a desk calendar. The date on it had not been changed for three days. When Feluda pointed this out, Ambuj Babu said, ‘Yes, that’s strange. Normally, Dada wouldn’t forget to change the date, but he had been rather preoccupied the last few days.’
Fussy as he was, Feluda changed the date himself from Saturday, the second to Tuesday, the fifth.
‘May I open the drawers?’ he asked, pointing at the desk. ‘Please go ahead.’
Feluda opened all three drawers and rummaged through their contents. A piece of paper he found in the top drawer appeared to intrigue him, for he took it out and examined it closely.
‘Did your brother usually get his glasses made by Himalaya Opticals?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is a new cash memo. He had new glasses made only a week ago. Is that right?’
‘No!’ cried a childish voice. We turned to find that Runa had followed us quietly.
‘How do you know that, Runa?’ Feluda asked.
‘U
ncle would have shown me his new glasses. He didn’t.’
Ambuj Sen smiled. ‘We didn’t always get to know Dada’s plans or his activities.’
Feluda closed the drawers and we came out of Ambar Sen’s study. ‘I believe a cousin of yours lives in this house. Is that right?’ Feluda asked when we were back in the living room.
‘Samaresh? Oh yes. He was brought up here.’
‘Could I speak to him, please?’
Ambuj Sen sent for Samaresh Babu. He turned out to be a man in his mid-thirties, with pockmarks on his face. He wore glasses with very thick frames. He came and stood somewhat stiffly at a little distance.
‘Please sit down,’ said Feluda.
Samaresh Babu took a chair, still looking uncomfortable.
‘What is your full name?’
‘Samaresh Mallik.’
‘How long have you spent in this house?’
‘About twenty-five years.’
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I work for a film distributor.’
‘Where is your office?’
‘Dharamtala.’
‘What’s the name of this company?’
‘Koh-i-noor Pictures.’
‘How long have you worked there?’
‘Seven years.’
‘What did you do before that?’
‘I . . . nothing, just little chores in the house that needed to be done.’
Samaresh Mallik had folded his hands and stuffed them between his knees, a clear sign that Feluda’s questions had done nothing to put him at his ease.
‘Can you throw any light on this mysterious business of Mr Sen’s disappearance?’
Samaresh Babu remained silent.
‘Did you know he had received a threat?’ Feluda went on. ‘Yes.’
‘Is your room on the ground floor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did anyone from outside ever visit Mr Sen?’
‘Oh yes, every now and then.’
‘Did you happen to notice anyone recently? I mean, anyone you hadn’t seen before?’
‘No. But . . .’
‘What?’
‘I noticed a few young men lurking in this area. I had never seen them before.’
‘Where exactly did you see them?’
‘At the crossing near our house.’
‘What were they doing?’
‘They appeared to be keeping an eye on this house.’
‘How old were they?’
‘Between twenty and twenty-five, I’d say.’
‘How many were there?’
‘Four.’
Feluda stopped and thought for a while. Then he said, ‘Thank you, Mr Mallik, you may go now.’
Was any of this going to be of any use? I could not tell. However a chat with Ambuj Sen’s wife proved to be extremely useful. We met her in a smaller sitting room on the first floor. Mrs Sen was a good-looking woman and, as we soon realized, just as bright. She must have been over forty, but looked a lot younger.
Feluda began by apologizing to her for any inconvenience.
‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘Having read a number of detective stories—including your own—I am aware of the kind of job you have to do. How will you learn anything unless you meet everyone and ask questions?’
‘I’m so glad you appreciate that. OK, so let me begin by telling you what my biggest problem is. You do know about the threat your brother-in-law received, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see that note?’
‘Yes.’
‘I asked Ambar Babu if he could recall any instance where he might have harmed someone. He told me he could not. What I didn’t specify at the time was that I wasn’t just speaking of the recent past. Something might have happened a long time ago. There are times when people wait for ages to take revenge. What I want to ask you now is whether you are aware of any such event, going ten, even twenty years back?’
Mrs Sen remained silent for a few moments, looking faintly worried. Then she said slowly, ‘Well, I suppose I ought to tell you . . . you see, I recalled this incident only last night. In fact, I haven’t yet told my husband about it.’
‘Go on.’
‘It . . . was an accident.’
‘Accident?’
‘Yes. If happened a year before Runa was born. My brother-in-law used to drive his father’s car in those days. It was an Austin. Anyway, one day he happened to run a man over in Shyambazar. The man died.’
‘I see. Can you remember anything else, either of you?’ Feluda asked.
‘The family was not very well off,’ Ambuj Sen said. ‘The man used to work as a clerk somewhere.’
‘Can you remember his name?’
‘No. I’m afraid not.’
‘He had a wife and three children—a son and two daughters. The boy was about fourteen, the girls were younger,’ Mrs Sen added. ‘My brother-in-law gave his widow five thousand rupees.’
‘Yes, and he gave up driving from that day. It’s all coming back to me now,’ said Ambuj Babu.
‘Hm. That means that young boy is now about twenty-five. No doubt the death of his father led to many hardships and deprivations. Five thousand rupees could not have lasted long, could it?’
‘I suppose not. Unfortunately, I cannot remember any other detail,’ Mrs Sen said, shaking her head.
‘Neither can I,’ her husband put in.
‘Did your brother ever keep a diary?’
‘No, not that we are aware of.’
Feluda rose to take his leave.
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Sen,’ he said, ‘you’ve been most helpful. I think I am beginning to see my way through.’
‘You are very welcome, Mr Mitter. I do hope you will be able to solve this case,’ she said, with genuine concern in her voice.
Three
There was no point in disturbing Mr Sen’s old and ailing mother, so we said goodbye to the Sens and got into their Ambassador. Their driver, Bilash Babu, took us to the riverside and parked the car in front of the Happy Restaurant.
‘This is where Mr Sen used to get out of the car,’ he said, ‘and then he used to start walking in that direction,’ he pointed to the southern side. ‘He always came back in exactly an hour.’
‘Did you usually wait in the car?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How long have you been working for Mr Sen?’
‘Nine years.’
‘Then you wouldn’t know about the accident, I suppose?’
‘What accident?’
‘About twelve years ago, Ambar Sen had run a man over and killed him.’
‘Ambar Babu?’
‘Why is that so surprising?’
‘I didn’t know he could drive at all.’
‘He stopped driving after that incident.’
‘I see. It might not have been his fault. Sometimes pedestrians don’t obey traffic rules either. It is not fair to blame the driver each time an accident takes place. In fact, I am surprised more people don’t get run over every day!’
‘Could you describe what happened when Mr Sen did not return from his walk this morning? What did you do?’
‘When he didn’t show up after an hour, I drove up to Hastings to look for him. I stopped from time to time to ask people if anyone had seen him. At one or two places, I even got out of the car to look for him. His heart wasn’t particularly strong, you see, so I was afraid he might have had a stroke or something.’
‘Were there a lot of people about?’
‘Well yes, quite a few people normally come here for morning walks. But Mr Sen used to go towards the new Howrah Bridge, where it’s always quiet. If a couple of strong men were to jump out of a car and kidnap him, I don’t think he’d get even the chance to shout for help. I mean, if that’s what happened, it’s not surprising that no one saw or heard anything.’
We then drove slowly up to Hastings, but could see nothing suspicious on the way.
The n
ext two days passed without any news from Palm Avenue. Jatayu turned up in the evening on Thursday, and said, ‘What news of Ambar Sen, Felu Babu?’
On being told that he had disappeared, his eyes nearly popped out. ‘What! Disappeared? And you thought it was all a big joke? It’s amazing, isn’t it, how all your cases—even the seemingly insignificant ones—always turn out to be thrilling in the end?’
‘We haven’t yet reached the end of this one, Lalmohan Babu. Anyway, tell me about your new neighbour, that great scholar called Mrityunjay Som. How is he?’
‘Great scholar? Ha! He’s nothing of the sort.’
‘No? Only a couple of days ago you were prepared to swear he was the best. What made you change your mind?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I am too embarrassed, Felu Babu. I couldn’t possibly tell you what happened.’
‘Come on, of course you could. You’ve known me for years, so why should you feel embarrassed to tell me anything?’
After a little more persuasion, Lalmohan Babu came clean. ‘Just imagine, Felu Babu,’ he said, ‘this man hadn’t heard of you! When I told him I knew you, he looked totally blank and said, “Who is Pradosh Mitter?”’
‘Is that all? Never mind, Lalmohan Babu, it does not matter. After all, I had not heard of this great scholar either, had I? I mean a double MA from Herbert . . . there can’t be too many of those, I’m sure.’
This seemed to reassure Lalmohan Babu. ‘Yes, you are right. How is it possible to know every single soul in this big, wide world? Besides, this man has spent most of his life abroad. So I guess one ought to forgive him.’
The phone rang before Feluda could say anything. It was Ambuj Sen from Palm Avenue. They had received another anonymous note, he said. On Feluda’s request, he read it out on the phone:
If you wish Ambar Sen to be restored to you in one piece, get twenty thousand rupees in hundred-rupee notes, put it all in a bag and leave the bag by a pillar on the south-eastern side of Princep Ghat, at 6.30 p.m. tomorrow (Friday). If you try informing the police or a detective, the consequences would be disastrous. This is your only chance to get Ambar Sen back.