‘But people of that breed are seldom content with what they have and are instinctively lured into committing further crimes. Nearly four years ago, the doctor fell from grace and his licence to practise was suspended. He stole away from Calcutta’s familiar environs where he might be recognized and took up residence in Golap Colony. He didn’t conceal his real identity. It was useful for the farm’s residents to have a doctor, albeit a suspended one, at hand. So Nishanathbabu welcomed him.
‘Nrityakali stayed back in Calcutta. I don’t know where she lived at the time, most probably at No. 19. She collected the rent from the house and lived on that. The doctor visited her a couple of times every month. It’s probable that he even conducted illegal surgical operations there.
‘Nrityakali was a faithful wife. But she had no qualms about exploiting her youth and beauty to ensnare her prey. The doctor too trusted her implicitly. He was confident that Nrityakali was his alone and would remain his forever. She could never belong to anyone else.
‘Nearly two and a half years ago, the couple made a concerted effort to introduce Nrityakali to the silver screen. The celluloid world was where money abounded and so did men who had it in plenty. So Nrityakali joined films. Her histrionic talent floored everyone. She could well have made a lot of money from that profession without straying from the straight and narrow path. But when a chance to strike it rich quickly presented itself, Nrityakali could not resist seizing it.
‘Murari Dutta was a typical philanderer. But he was also the owner of a reputed jewellery shop. The doctor and Nrityakali hatched a plan. He prepared the nicotine. Then, on the appointed night, Murari Dutta was murdered. A diamond necklace disappeared from his store.
‘At first the police were clueless about the person who had been in Murari’s room that night. Then Ramenbabu gave his statement and a warrant was issued in Nrityakali’s name.
‘Although there were no photographs of Nrityakali in her original state, everyone in the film studios knew her by sight. There was no telling when she would be spotted by someone or the other and identified. As a result, she was forced to confine herself to her house. But this surely was no way to live. The doctor performed plastic surgery on her face. But mere surgery would not be enough. Sometimes the setting of your teeth can give you away. So the doctor extracted two of her teeth and replaced them with false ones. Her face underwent a complete transformation. It was now impossible for anyone who had seen her before to recognize her.
‘It was then decided that Nrityakali should start living on the farm too. It would allow husband and wife to be reunited. Besides, there were enough gullible people there as well who could be preyed upon with impunity.
‘Bijoybabu met Nrityakali at the tea stall. Her piteous tale moved him to tears. Within a few days, she was accepted at the farm as a resident. No one realized that the doctor and she were well acquainted. When they were eventually introduced to each other formally, they put up an act of mutual antipathy. Everyone readily believed that the doctor and Nrityakali couldn’t stand the sight of each other.
‘Nishanath and Damayanti had a skeleton in their closet. Initially, only Bijoybabu and Brojodas knew about it. Then Nepalbabu arrived on the farm with his daughter Mukul. Bijoybabu was attracted to the young woman. And one day, in a moment of ardour, he confided in her and told her what he knew about Damayanti’s relationship with Nishanath. Bijoybabu, if I am mistaken, please do correct me.’
Bijoy remained silent, his eyes downcast.
Byomkesh picked up the thread of his narrative again. ‘Mukul was a nice girl. As long as her father was working, she had led a happy, sheltered life. But suddenly, there was a reversal of fortune. For one so young, it was a trial having to start worrying about earning a living. She tried joining films, but it didn’t work out. Perhaps her voice didn’t carry well over the microphone. Embittered and disillusioned, she finally arrived on the farm and began to work there as the live-in cook.
‘Then, into her life came a spell of spring. Bijoybabu’s feelings for her changed the very colours that her life had hitherto been painted in. The marriage negotiations were going quite smoothly when suddenly, fate decided to intervene again. Bijoybabu took one look at Bonolokhhi and his love for Mukul flew out of the window. Bonolokhhi was not as beautiful as Mukul, but her sensuality had a magnetism Bijoybabu couldn’t resist. He broke off his engagement to Mukul.
‘Caught up in her own emotional hell, Mukul divulged Nishanathbabu’s secret to her father. Nepalbabu nurtured ambitions of running the farm and, as a consequence, resorted to much swaggering and posturing. But all said and done, he was a gentleman and the thought of blackmail never entered his mind.
‘Meanwhile, Bijoybabu was head over heels in love with Bonolokhhi. He was determined to marry her despite his knowledge of her scandalous past. But Nishanath was adamant about not allowing his nephew to marry a wayward woman. One skeleton in the family closet was more than enough.
‘Bijoybabu did not have the guts to defy his uncle’s wishes. If his uncle disowned him, he wouldn’t be able to support himself financially. So the lovebirds worked out a plan: Bijoybabu would regularly siphon off money from the shop and keep it in Bonolokhhi’s custody. When a sufficiently large sum had accumulated, they would leave the farm and set up house elsewhere. Meanwhile, Bonolokhhi had worked out a similar arrangement with Rashik De. The latter was a penniless youth who had also come under her spell. Perhaps he had been emboldened by tales of her disreputable past to approach her. Bonolokhhi did not turn him away either and gave him reason to hope that once enough money had been collected, they would elope and live together. In this manner, Rashik’s and Bijoybabu’s money began accumulating in the steel almirah at No. 19 Mirza Lane.
‘Then, one day, driven by impulse, Bijoybabu disclosed the family secret to Bonolokhhi as well. That is the problem with these emotional types. They tend to get carried away during their most vulnerable moments and cannot keep their deepest secrets buried.
‘That night, Bonolokhhi communicated what she had learnt to the doctor. He was ecstatic. Very carefully, the two of them laid their plans. Attempts to blackmail Nishanath might have backfired, but Damayanti was a woman and therefore petrified of the possibilities of scandal and disgrace. She would be the ideal target for blackmail.
‘Thus began the tale of extortion centring around Damayanti Devi and it carried on for eight long months. But towards the end, Nishanathbabu’s suspicions were aroused and he approached me for help.
‘I do not know how Nishanathbabu came to suspect that Sunayana was on the farm and it is difficult even to attempt guesses as to what could have happened. Sometimes the most extraordinary situations overtake people without warning and something like that may well have alerted Nishanathbabu. But it is pointless to speculate on this matter.
‘On Nishanath’s invitation, we went to the farm, accompanied by Ramen Mullick. The doctor did not know Ramenbabu, but Sunayana did. She had seen him at the studios and he was a friend of Murari Dutta’s. So she was apprehensive when she saw him. It was not difficult for her to guess that we had gone to the farm in search of Sunayana.
‘The couple were now in a quandary. What should be done in the circumstances? If Bonolokhhi left the farm in haste, it would give rise to a lot of speculation and the police would be after her. If she were subsequently taken into custody, a thorough examination of her face by an expert would soon reveal signs of the plastic surgery that had been performed on it and it would no longer be a secret that Bonolokhhi was, in fact, Sunayana. What was to be done?
‘Nishanathbabu was at the root of all trouble, since he had dragged Byomkesh Bakshi into this. If he were to die suddenly, the investigation would come to a standstill and there would be no obstacles to the usual extortion of money from Damayanti Devi.
‘But it was important to establish that Nishanathbabu’s death was a natural one. He suffered from high blood pressure and such patients usually died suddenly—either from heart failure or from a ce
rebral haemorrhage. So if the deed were properly planned, no one would come to suspect a thing.
‘It would have been very easy for Dr Bhujanga to kill Nishanath. He often drew blood from his patient to lower his blood pressure. Under the guise of carrying out this simple procedure, he could have injected a tiny air bubble into his patient’s vein and caused almost instant death. The same results could have been achieved by administering an adrenalin injection to his patient. Then there would have been no need to hang him upside down from the ceiling. But there was one problem. An injection might not have left a mark on the skin, but it was bound to mark the vein. This would have shown up in an autopsy. If there were needle marks on Nishanathbabu’s body, the first person one would suspect would be Dr Bhujangadhar. So he refrained from taking that route. Instead, he killed Nishanathbabu in the crudest way possible.
‘The arrangements were impeccable. Bijoybabu received an anonymous letter and came to Calcutta. Meanwhile, Damayanti left the house by the back door at ten o’clock in response to Lal Singh’s note and went to wait for him at the greenhouse. The path was clear. The doctor was playing the sitar. He handed it to Bonolokhhi who began playing the instrument and entered Nishanath’s room. Most probably, Nishanath was still awake. The doctor switched on the lights and shut the window. Then …
‘He made two mistakes. After the deed was done, he forgot to open the window again. Moreover, in his hurry to be off, he forgot to remove the socks from Nishanath’s feet. If he had not made these two mistakes, I doubt whether anyone would have suspected that Nishanathbabu had not died a natural death.
‘Panugopal had seen something. No one will ever know what it was. I believe he was out there somewhere and saw the doctor shutting the window. As long as Nishanath’s death was considered a natural one, he did not say anything, but the moment he realized that murder was involved, he got worked up and tried to tell us what he had seen. But he was unlucky and couldn’t articulate the words. The doctor guessed that Panu had seen something. Without further delay, he secretly mixed nicotine poison in Panu’s medication.
‘You are all aware of everything that has happened since. So I have nothing new to say about subsequent developments. Perhaps Dr Bhujangadhar and Bonolokhhi’s joint suicide last night seemed a bit sudden to you. Actually, they had come prepared.’
Barat said, ‘But I missed the precise moment at which they popped the cyanide ampoules in their mouths.’
Byomkesh explained, ‘When the doctor entered the room, he already had two cyanide ampoules in his mouth. I had noticed that his speech was a little slurred, but I did not grasp its full import at the time. When the doctor realized that there was no way out, he rose to his feet and kissed Bonolokhhi. This was not merely a farewell kiss between lovers. It was the kiss of death. As he kissed her, the doctor slipped one of the ampoules into his wife’s mouth.’
Breaking the spell of prolonged silence, it was Byomkesh who spoke again. ‘Anyway, now you two may as well give me some information. What has been done with Rashik?’
‘Bijoybabu has withdrawn his legal suit against Rashik,’ Barat answered. ‘We have released him.’
‘Good. Bijoybabu, who was the woman who went into your room at eleven o’clock the night before last? Was it Mukul?’
Bijoy looked up in surprise, then averted his eyes again in embarrassment before replying, ‘Yes.’
‘So Bonolokhhi had gone to her husband. The doctor summoned her by playing the sitar. Why did Mukul go to you? Did she come to plead for your mercy because you had ordered them to leave the farm?’
Bijoy maintained an abashed silence.
Byomkesh stood up and said, ‘Bijoybabu, I sincerely hope that you will marry Mukul. She loves you. That kind of love does not deserve to be spurned.’
Bijoy was quiet, but I gathered from his silence that he did not disagree. Perhaps he had already patched things up with Mukul.
As he took his leave, Bijoy stammered, ‘Byomkeshbabu, what we owe you can never be repaid. But Kakima insists that you accept a gift from us.’
Byomkesh raised an eyebrow and asked, ‘What kind of gift?’
Bijoy replied, ‘Kaka had a life insurance policy of five thousand rupees and the money will come to Kakima in a few days. She would like you to have it.’
Byomkesh gave me a telling glance and smiled. He said, ‘Fine, I’ll accept it. Please convey my respectful gratitude to your Kakima.’
I asked, ‘So the proposal for Animal Farm is to be temporarily shelved?’
‘I’m not too sure,’ was Byomkesh’s riposte. ‘This could well be the capital needed to start a cattle farm. Bijoybabu, be forewarned, Animal Farm may soon come up right next to Golap Colony.’
Published as ‘Chiriakhana’ in Bengali in 1953
The Jewel Case
A priceless necklace made of precious gemstones had been stolen from the home of the famous jeweller Rashomoy Sirkar. I noticed the headline on page three while going through the morning newspaper. The phone rang at around eight a.m.
A tremulous, unfamiliar voice asked, ‘Hello, is that Byomkeshbabu?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘this is Ajit. May I know who’s on the line?’
‘My name is Rashomoy Sirkar,’ came the reply. ‘Could you please tell Byomkeshbabu that I need to speak to him?’
The name gave it all away—Byomkesh would obviously be summoned to flush out the thief and apprehend him.
‘He’s in the bathroom,’ I explained. ‘He’ll take a while. I read in the newspaper that a necklace had been stolen from your store.’
‘Not from the store. From my home. Are you Ajit Bandyopadhyay, Byomkeshbabu’s friend?’
‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘You may, if you like, tell me whatever it is that you wish to discuss with Byomkesh.’
There was a slight pause. Then Rashomoy Sirkar began, ‘The necklace that was stolen is worth fifty-seven thousand rupees. We suspect one of the domestic staff, but there is no evidence. We have naturally informed the police, but Byomkeshbabu’s the person I want. He is the only one who can recover the necklace.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come over? By the time you arrive, Byomkesh should be out of the bathroom.’
Rashomoy sounded a little glum as he said, ‘I am arthritic and not very mobile. I would be deeply grateful if the two of you consented to come over to my place instead.’
Those in need always came in search of Byomkesh, I mused; he never sought anyone out. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll let Byomkesh know.’
Rashomoy’s voice sounded still more frantic, ‘Oh, no, please! You won’t just let him know! You must come over! I’m sending my car down to fetch the two of you. You won’t be inconvenienced in any way, I promise.’
‘Well, all right.’
‘Thank you, thank you! I’ll send the car right away.’
Within a few minutes, a Cadillac glided to a halt before the front door. When Byomkesh emerged from the bathroom, I told him what had transpired and drew his attention to the car, visible from the window. After hearing me out, he did not demur. We got into the Cadillac and set off.
Rashomoy Sirkar owned more than four jewellery stores in different parts of the city. But he lived in Bowbazaar. In a short while, we had arrived at his place and the car rolled to a stop before his front door.
The house was an old-fashioned one, three-storeyed and flush with the pavement. The door to the stairway leading upstairs stood in the centre, flanked by shops on either side. The owner’s living quarters spread over the entire first and second floors.
As the car pulled over, the door to the stairway was unbolted from inside by a handsome young man who came out to greet us. He was around twenty-seven years old and fashionably dressed. Joining his palms together in a namaskar, he introduced himself: ‘I’m Monimoy Sirkar. My father is waiting for you upstairs. Please follow me.’
We began to mount the stairs. On the first floor lay the kitchen, the pantry, the servants’ quarters and a
drawing room with a divan laid out in it. We went up to the second floor. This was where the owner lived with his family.
Once you arrived on this floor, the owner’s affluence became apparent. Silk curtains swished at heavy doors equipped with foreign-made locks. Thick carpets sprawled across the floor. The drawing room was lavishly done up. Well-upholstered sofa sets sat grouped around a wooden centre table with inlay work. Bookshelves lined the wall separating the windows. Persian-style tapestries adorned the wall. At present, the room looked a bit untidy. Monimoy led us into a room and announced, ‘Father, Byomkeshbabu is here.’
Rashomoy Sirkar was sitting on a chair with his right leg stretched out. A young lady—perhaps his daughter-in-law—sat on the floor by him, applying a hot compress to his feet. Rashomoybabu was around fifty. His heavy-set face was still quite firm for his age. When he saw us, he tried to rise hastily to his feet, but fell back. Glancing at Byomkesh and me in turn, he brought his palms together in greeting and addressed Byomkesh, ‘Welcome, Byomkeshbabu. I have been dealt really heavy blows from all sides. It’s so kind of you—both—to have come over. Please make yourself comfortable, Ajitbabu.’
Rashomoybabu could guess which one of us was Byomkesh without being told. No doubt he possessed more than his fair share of perspicacity. Byomkesh and I seated ourselves on the sofa. ‘I see you suffer from arthritis,’ Byomkesh observed, addressing Rashomoybabu. ‘Not a fatal disease, but terribly painful.’
‘As I well know!’ Rashomoy replied. ‘I am quite fit otherwise, but this arthritis has really got me down. In my youth, I used to play football and fractured the big toe of my right foot during a game. Now it has come to this: If a tiny, handkerchief-sized cloud peers down from a corner of the sky, my toe starts hurting. Anyway, let’s not talk about it. Bouma, please arrange to have tea served to these gentlemen.’
All this while, the young woman had been working in silence as she applied the hot compress to her father-in-law’s feet. She was beautiful, but the misfortune that had befallen the family had cast its shadow on her face. As she made to rise, Byomkesh said, ‘Oh, please don’t trouble yourself. We had tea before we left. Let her carry on with what she’s doing.’
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 16