Then he slit it open and gingerly extricated what was inside. It was an immaculately clear photo, developed on glossy paper, of Sunayana as Shyama the maid. Barat and I bent over the photograph and scrutinized it carefully. Barat expelled a deep sigh and said, ‘Well, I don’t see a thing.’
Byomkesh put the photo back in the envelope and laid it aside. He picked up the second envelope and after a quick examination, opened it. ‘Just like the driven snow, this one too, seems to be pure and untouched by human hands,’ he commented.
He removed the photograph from its cover. Taking it lightly by the edges, he held it up to the light. Then he leaped to his feet. ‘It’s there! Is it really? Has the bait really been taken?’
Barat snatched the photo from Byomkesh’s hands and examined it thoroughly. Then he said hesitantly, ‘It’s there. But …’
Byomkesh was bursting with excitement. He made an effort to compose himself and said, ‘I cannot answer your unarticulated query right now, but I do believe the hunter and the huntress will be found at the same spot. Come on, we can’t afford any further delays! And take your books and materials along. I suppose your specialists are all located in Calcutta?’
‘Yes, they are. Let’s be off.’
When we emerged from the specialists’ offices after collecting the reports, it was past two p.m. All thought of food or drink had been banished from our minds. Byomkesh patted Barat’s back and said, ‘Come on, we’ll have a bite at our place.’
‘But … the job is still unfinished …’ Barat expostulated.
‘The job can wait,’ Byomkesh insisted. ‘First lunch, then investigation. After that, we go back to Golap Colony. I suppose today is the day for the curtain to come down on its tragic drama.’
Everyone had assembled in the drawing room of Nishanathbabu’s home in Golap Colony. The three of us, along with all the residents of the farm, except Damayanti Devi, were present in the room. Even Rashik De was brought in from police custody. Since Damayanti Devi had a splitting headache, she was excused. Two armed policemen guarded the front door.
It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Bright lights burned overhead. A massive photograph of Nishanathbabu was hanging on the wall opposite. On his lips was a tiny, impersonal smile, as if, enthroned on the high chair of justice, he was presiding over the proceedings in a courtroom.
There was an expression of suppressed excitement on Byomkesh’s face. He glanced at each person in the room and said with slow deliberation, ‘You’ll be happy to hear that we have found out who killed Nishanathbabu and Panugopal.’
No one uttered a word. Nepalbabu struck a match noisily and relit his cheroot.
Byomkesh said, ‘Not only have we come to know the murderer’s identity, we have also gathered substantial evidence to corroborate our findings. The law will not pardon those who killed their benefactor, Nishanathbabu, in so gruesome a manner and fatally poisoned the innocent and defenceless Panugopal. The culprits cannot escape the death penalty. If they feel even a jot of shame or guilt for what they did, I urge them to come forward and confess their crimes.’
Again, not a word from anyone. Bhujangadharbabu appeared to have something like a betel-nut or clove in his mouth which he kept shifting from one cheek to the other. Bijoy stared fixedly at Byomkesh. Mukul looked as though she had been transformed into a sculpture. She was not wearing any powder or rouge today. Her pale, beautiful face was stamped with the terror of the unknown.
At the other end of the room, Bonolokhhi sat quietly, her expression devoid of nervous anxiety. She played with her fingers as they lay on her lap, almost as if she were knitting an invisible garment with invisible needles.
Half a minute went by. Then Byomkesh said, ‘Right. I have no alternative but to speak out. Nepalbabu, you happen to know about a secret of Nishanathbabu’s. When I had asked you about it, why did you feign ignorance?’
A shadow of fear flitted across his eyes, as Nepalbabu stammered, ‘I … well, I …’
‘Anyway, you don’t owe me an explanation as to why you did so,’ Byomkesh went on. ‘But how did you come to know about his secret? Who told you about it? Was it your daughter Mukul?’ Byomkesh’s index finger was pointing at Mukul.
Nepalbabu cleared his throat and said, ‘Ahem, yes, I mean … Mukul came to know …’
‘How did she come to know?’ Byomkesh inquired. ‘Did you tell her?’ Like the needle of a compass, Byomkesh’s index finger had swivelled around and stopped to point at Bijoy.
Bijoy had turned pale and couldn’t bring himself to look Byomkesh in the eye. Shamefacedly, he replied, ‘Yes, I did tell her. But …’
‘Did you tell anyone else about it?’ Byomkesh’s tone was sharp. Beads of perspiration stood out on Bijoy’s forehead. He cast a desperate glance around the room and sat there, mortified, making no attempt to answer the question.
Byomkesh said, ‘Well, then, answer one more question, please. In whose care have you entrusted the money you filched from the shop?’
Bijoy remained silent, his head bowed.
‘So, you won’t talk?’ Byomkesh turned to the other end of the room where Rashik De was seated, looking as stiff as a wooden stake. ‘Rashikbabu, you also took money from the shop and kept it with someone. Would you name that person, please?’
Rashik’s Adam’s apple wobbled noticeably for an instant, but he kept his mouth shut. All he did was pass his fingerless hand over his face once.
A wry contempt was apparent in Byomkesh’s expression as he exclaimed, ‘Bravo! I’m impressed by your steadfastness! But, perhaps, you are ignorant of a single, important fact. Bijoybabu, the person in whose care you had entrusted your money is the same one who was in charge of Rashikbabu’s money. Both of you had taken this step in the hope that, one day, you could just pick up your loot and leave Golap Colony for some remote area where you would build your own Garden of Eden! Well, cheers to that!’
Both Rashik and Bijoy rose to their feet, their eyes trained on one person.
With a wave of his hand, Byomkesh said, ‘Oh, do sit down. I have what I wanted to know and you needn’t utter another word. Inspector Barat, you’ll have to do me a favour. Could you please examine the fingers on Bonolokhhi Devi’s left hand.’
Barat approached Bonolokhhi and stood before her. She looked bewildered for a moment, then held up her left hand.
Bhujangadharbabu spoke up at last. In a slurred voice, he remarked, ‘I cannot quite make out what sort of performance this is meant to be—a drama, a satire or a comic opera!’
Before Byomkesh could answer, Barat observed, ‘The tip of her index finger is calloused. I do believe she is in the habit of playing a string instrument.’
Barat returned to his seat. Bhujangadharbabu muttered a trifle wearily, ‘So, it is a comic opera!’
Byomkesh subjected Bhujangadharbabu to his coldest, sternest stare. ‘You know perfectly well,’ he said, ‘that this isn’t a comic opera. You are an artiste par excellence, a skilled performer. But for the moment, let us leave art alone and come down to brass tacks. Bhujangadharbabu, you own No. 19 Mirza Lane, don’t you, since you collect the rent from there?’
Bhujangadharbabu fixed Byomkesh with a stare. A single nerve pulsed wildly in his neck. ‘But I looked up the Corporation records,’ Byomkesh went on, ‘and according to them, the house is in the name of some Nrityakali Das. Your wife, I presume?’
It was as if an entire drama unfolded across Bhujangadharbabu’s face. Nearly all the emotions the human heart is capable of swept over his features in rapid succession. Then he composed himself. Calmly, he replied, ‘Yes, my wife’s name is Nrityakali and No. 19 is in her name.’
‘But … you told us a few days ago that you had married a foreigner while living in England!’
‘I had. And her name, here in this country, is Nrityakali. In England, her name was Nita.’
‘Oh! Well … Nita, Nrityakali, Sunayana—I see that your wife has several names! So … is she still in England?’
‘She is. Unless, of course, the German bombs have killed her.’
Byomkesh shook his head sadly and stated, ‘She’s very much alive. And she certainly isn’t a foreigner. She is very much an Indian, although your marriage took place abroad. Your wife is in this country. In fact, she is present in this very room.’
‘Very strange, indeed.’
‘Bhujangadharbabu, what is the use of carrying on this charade? Both of you are highly skilled artistes and your histrionic abilities are beyond compare. But however impeccable the performance, it is hard to suppress the truth. In a moment of carelessness, you stepped right into the trap.’
‘Stepped into the trap? I don’t quite follow.’
‘You are extremely shrewd, but your nervousness led you to make a mistake. You shouldn’t have opened the envelope. You not only saw the photograph inside, you also showed it to your wife—we have retrieved your fingerprints from it. It has been established without a shadow of doubt that Nrityakali alias Sunayana alias Bonolokhhi is your better half as well as your accomplice.’
Bhujangadharbabu turned his startled gaze in Bonolokhhi’s direction. She returned his surprised look. He let out a short laugh.
Byomkesh went on, ‘I take your laughter to imply that there is no resemblance at all between Sunayana’s features and Bonolokhhi’s, right? But I have not forgotten the one thing that everyone else has lost track of, Dr Das. You specialized in plastic surgery when you were abroad. And a detailed examination would be enough to reveal that Bonolokhhi’s face has undergone highly skilled surgery performed by expert hands. It would also be easy to prove that her teeth are not her own.’
There was no change in Bonolokhhi’s expression. She continued looking around her in bewildered confusion. Bhujangadhar had averted his gaze, but when he finally looked up, it seemed as if his eyes were surfacing from the bottomless depths of exhaustion. But his voice was composed when he asked, ‘Even if we were to assume that Bonolokhhi was my wife, what does that prove? Does it prove that I killed Nishanathbabu? At the time Nishanathbabu died, I was sitting on my own porch and playing the sitar. I have an alibi.’
‘The alibi you established was truly novel,’ Byomkesh told him, ‘but it didn’t hold up to serious interrogation. That night, after you returned from dinner, you did play the instrument for about five minutes. But the rest of the time, it was your wife who played it. Although Bonolokhhi Devi denies it, she does know how to play the instrument—the callous on her finger is the evidence.’
‘Is this any evidence at all? Or is it just a hypothesis put together somehow?’
‘Fine, it’s a hypothesis. Even if it cannot be proved in a court of law that you killed Nishanathbabu, there is no escape for you, Doctor. Today, the police conducted a raid on No. 19 Mirza Lane. We have come to know what was hidden in the locked room. It contained an operating table and a steel almirah. We forced the almirah open too. Inside were surgical instruments, your marriage certificate, nearly twenty thousand rupees in cash, the tools required to extract nicotine from tobacco, and …’
‘And …?’
‘You can’t remember, is it? Have you forgotten about the diamond necklace you had stashed away inside the almirah’s locker? That necklace disappeared from Murari Dutta’s shop at the time of his murder. So even if you managed to evade prosecution and conviction for the deaths of Nishanath and Panugopal, how would you explain away Murari Dutta’s murder?’
Bhujangadharbabu stood up. Barat whipped out his revolver. But the firearm was not required. Bhujangadhar went up to Bonolokhhi and stood before her. The scene that followed beats the silver screen of Bengal hollow; it was pure Hollywood. Bonolokhhi rose and put her arms around Bhujangadhar. The latter gathered her into his arms in an ardent embrace and planted a long kiss on her lips. Then he held her face in both hands, and in a tone brimming with feeling, said, ‘Come, it’s time to be on our way.’
Death came without warning, like a bolt from the blue. The sound of crunching glass came from their mouths just before the couple collapsed together on the floor, lying in a heap at the foot of Nishanathbabu’s photograph.
By the time we rushed over to where they lay, they were dead. A mild odour of almond oil hung in the air around their mouths.
Bijoy stood stock still, his eyes betraying a horrified incredulity. His jaws moved rhythmically as if he were grinding his teeth. Mukul went up to him and said in a gentle undertone, ‘Come … come away from this room …’
Bijoy did not move. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. Mukul grabbed him by the hand and dragged him inside.
26
The following morning, back at our place on Harrison Road, Byomkesh was deeply engrossed in some accounts. When he was done, he took a deep breath and announced, ‘Credit: Sixty rupees. Debit: Fifty-nine rupees, six and a half annas. Out of the sixty rupees that Nishanathbabu had given us, nearly nine and a half annas remain. Quite enough, wouldn’t you say?’
I continued smoking in silence. Byomkesh went on, ‘Considering the high income this inquisitor’s profession yields, I do believe I shall have to join the rest of them in Golap Colony.’
‘Don’t forget the cattle-rearing project,’ I told him.
‘Oh, thanks for the reminder. That’s a lucrative business all right. Let’s start a cattle farm and call it Animal Farm. How does that sound?’
‘Splendid. Do count me out, though.’
‘But why? Animal husbandry is something the greatest of minds, from Vidyasagar to Rabindranath, had willingly taken up. In what way are you different?’
I skirted the loaded question and said, ‘Byomkesh, I had dreams all through last night.’
He was taken aback. ‘What did you dream of?’
‘I dreamt of Bonolokhhi grinning broadly and revealing all her teeth. Every time I woke up and went back to sleep, it was the same dream all over again.’
Byomkesh was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘Ajit, do you remember, you once dreamt of Bonolokhhi before? I had dreamt of Satyaboti, but it was the same thing. It’s all about the workings of the subconscious. Although our conscious mind failed to detect Bonolokhhi’s false teeth, our subconscious registered it and tried to bring it to our attention through repeated dreams. Now we know that Bonolokhhi used to wear a pair of false teeth on either side of her upper gums. That had completely transformed her features, her smile—everything. I hadn’t fully grasped the innuendo in what Bhujangadharbabu had said the other day … “a flash of teeth, pretty as the delicate flower”.’
‘Was there an innuendo in “a flash of teeth” as well?’
‘You still haven’t worked that out? The day we were interrogating them all, Bonolokhhi was waiting in the drawing room, standing by the window. Bhujangadharbabu entered the room just as her turn arrived for giving us her statement. He took one look at Bonolokhhi and realized that she wasn’t wearing her false teeth. Those who wear false teeth often make this mistake. Bhujangadharbabu thought, “God! If Bonolokhhi appears before Byomkesh without her false teeth, it will instantly arouse his suspicions!” So, he indirectly conveyed a warning to her: “A flash of teeth, pretty as the delicate flower”. Bonolokhhi caught on right away and struck her temple, along with her bangle-clad wrist, against the bars on the window. The glass bangles shattered and her forehead bled as she fell to the ground in a faint. Bhujangadhar picked her up in his arms and started carrying her back to her cottage. When Bijoy followed him, he told the young man to go to his hut and fetch tincture of iodine and so on. By the time he returned from his errand, Bonolokhhi had her teeth on.’
There was a knock on the door.
It was Bijoy and Inspector Barat. The former wore a sheepish air. Barat sat down on a chair, stretched his legs out before him and said, ‘Byomkeshbabu, a cup of tea, please. I could not sleep all night. And then, at the stroke of dawn, Bijoybabu arrived. Apparently, he couldn’t sleep either.’
Putiram was asked to fetch some tea. Barat said, ‘Although we know the whole story now, the feel
ing doesn’t go away that it is filled with inexplicable gaps. Why don’t you narrate it? We’re ready to listen.’
Byomkesh asked, ‘Bijoybabu, do you want to hear it too? I’m afraid the tale doesn’t reflect well on you.’
‘I’d rather hear it,’ Bijoy muttered feebly.
‘Fine, then, I shall begin.’ Byomkesh extended the cigarette case to our visitors so they could help themselves, and began to speak. ‘The story I am about to narrate should be regarded as a fictitious one by all of you, because parts of it are calculated guesses and some of it is mere assumption. The hero and the heroine of this tale are, of course, Bhujangadhar and Nrityakali.
‘Bhujangadhar and Nrityakali were husband and wife. They were born criminals and anti-socials and resembled a tiger and his mate in their mental make-up: Fiercely protective of each other, but resentful of the presence of other animals in the jungle. They had recognized their own supreme archetypes in each other. Their love was as deep as it was powerful—the love shared by a tiger and his mate.
‘They were married in a registry office in London. The doctor was there at the time to specialize in plastic surgery and Nrityakali had, probably, gone there with a troupe of performing artists. The two of them met and one jewel recognized the worth of the other. Perhaps the most stable foundation of their romance was their musical talent and their flair for impersonation. Both were incredibly talented artistes. They had taken their skill on the sitar to such levels of excellence that people could not tell their playing apart. Even the greatest of connoisseurs couldn’t tell the difference.
‘I have no idea how many such scams the pair was involved in. Perhaps a careful perusal of the diary found in the steel almirah at No. 19 will help shed some light on the matter. But it is quite obvious that the doctor was doing quite well from his ethical and unethical practices. At least, the two accumulated enough money to buy up No. 19.
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 15