‘But Bhola was a different kettle of fish. He had both motive and opportunity. The man is exceptionally canny and keeps a level head on his shoulders. He had probably been planning the crime from the time he came into the house. His strategies were already in place. On that particular evening, the chance to claim a large booty came his way. There was an expensive piece of jewellery in the house, but the mistress had gone on a pilgrimage and taken the keys of the safe with her.
‘Bhola and his elder brother Bhootnath were partners in crime. What an amazing twist of fate that was! Bhootnath worked in a post office; it was his job to collect the mail from postboxes all over the city and take them to the post office. During that particular period, he was in charge of the Bowbazaar area. He had to collect mail from the postboxes three times a day.
‘Bhola asked for leave to go and buy a towel, but actually went to see Bhootnath. He alerted his brother that when the latter went on his first mail-clearance round in the morning, he would find a parcel in the postbox outside Rashomoybabu’s house, which he should leave untouched. Once the police inquiries were over, he could take the parcel home. Nobody dropped parcels in postboxes. So the chance of the wrong parcel being left behind was remote. Moreover, this packet would have neither name nor address marked on it.
‘Bhootnath was a simple fellow. But he was tempted. Temptation leads us to stray far from home … Now he will certainly lose his job and may even be forced to do a stretch in prison.
‘Until last evening I was groping in the dark. But the minute I saw Monimoy dropping the letter in the postbox, everything fell into place. Bhola had mentioned that one of his brothers worked in the postal department. In a flash, I knew who the thief was, how he had committed the theft and where the loot was stashed. Bhola had come down the stairs, dropped the parcel into the postbox and gone upstairs directly. Perhaps he’d loitered at the doorstep for a few minutes to catch his breath. He had no idea that Monimoy hadn’t returned from the club or that the latter’s wife was at the window, awaiting her husband’s return.
‘When it was all clear to me, I went to Amareshbabu immediately. We checked with the post office and found out what Bhootnath’s duties entailed. So all that remained was catching them red-handed and getting them to confess.’
There was a knock on the door and I went to open it. Monimoy stood there with a smile. ‘Baba sent me here,’ he explained.
‘Please come in, Monimoybabu,’ Byomkesh called out.
Monimoy came in and took a seat. He took out a small, blue velvet box from his pocket and placed it on the table before Byomkesh, ‘Baba sent this for you. He would have come himself, but his feet …’
Byomkesh said, ‘Oh, please. With an able son like you, why should he have to bother at his age? So … is he happy to have the necklace back?’
Monimoy smiled and nodded, ‘Absolutely. He asked me to tell you that this insignificant gift is hardly worthy of your abilities, but please do accept it.’
‘What is the insignificant gift?’ Byomkesh picked up the box and opened it. A pea-sized diamond winked back at him. A diamond ring? Byomkesh examined it with due reverence and said, ‘Thank you. Please tell your father that I accept his gift, although from the looks of it, I feel I don’t deserve it. Are you leaving so soon? Won’t you have some tea?’
Monimoy replied, ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry today. I am catching the afternoon flight to Delhi. I’ll drop by some day after I return and hold you to that promise of tea.’
Monimoy went off. At almost the same moment, Satyaboti came in from the other room. She had been loitering just behind the curtain. Thrilled to bits, she pleaded, ‘Let me have a look. What did you get?’
Byomkesh was entertaining the thought of concealing the box, but I snatched it away and handed it to Satyaboti, ‘Here you are. This is unworthy of Byomkesh’s abilities and he feels he doesn’t deserve it. So, in effect, it belongs to you.’
‘Hey!’ Byomkesh protested, ‘Oh, no …’
Satyaboti’s eyes widened when she saw the ring, ‘Goodness! A diamond ring and such an expensive one at that! The stone itself must be worth a few thousand.’ She slid the ring on to her finger and gazed at it lovingly, ‘Doesn’t it look gorgeous? Oh heavens! My fish curry must have burnt to cinders by now!’ Satyaboti and the ring disappeared in a flash.
Byomkesh reclined on the couch and expelled a deep sigh. ‘The path of dazzling industry is so profound.’
‘Righto,’ I concurred. ‘And do remember that dazzle invariably makes a beeline for the lady.’
Published as ‘Monimondon’ in Bengali in 1958
The Will That Vanished
In all the fifteen years that Byomkesh had known Rameswarbabu, I doubt whether we’d met the gentleman as many times. During the last five years or so, we had not seen him at all. But twice a year, the gentleman took it upon himself to send reminders that he had not forgotten us. On the annual occasions of the Bengali New Year and then Dussehra, the gentleman sent Byomkesh a missive by post.
Rameswarbabu was a wealthy man. He owned no less than eight houses in the city and his cash reserves were just as abundant. The lion’s share of the rent collected from those houses enhanced his accumulated wealth. His immediate family comprised his second wife, Kumudini, and his offspring from his first marriage: son Kusheswar and daughter Nalini. But most of all, he had an unlimited fund of humour.
Rameswarbabu was a witty man. He loved a good laugh and enjoyed making others laugh too. In my experience of life and people, I had discovered a natural law: Those who were humorous by nature, seldom succeeded in acquiring wealth. In fact, Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, only smiled upon the dour owl, her chosen mount. Rameswarbabu had turned this theory of mine on its head. At least, I was now aware that there were exceptions to the rule.
Rameswarbabu’s other great virtue was that once he got to know someone really well, he never let that person slip out of his mind. He had met Byomkesh in connection with a trifling matter—a minor theft that had taken place in his home. The incident had ended on a comic note, but he had fondly remembered Byomkesh ever since. On a few occasions, we had even been invited to his home for meals. He was a great deal older than us and, lately, his health had begun to deteriorate. But it was clear from his biannual missives that his sense of humour had remained intact.
I shall give an account today of Rameswarbabu’s final practical joke. The incident took place some years ago. At the time, no law was in force, granting a daughter equal inheritance rights to her father’s property.
It happened to be the day the Bengali New Year is celebrated. Rameswarbabu’s letter had arrived in the post that afternoon. The envelope in which it had been dispatched was a thick one, made of parchment. A neat hand had written the name and the address on it. A smile hovered on Byomkesh’s lips even as he picked it up. I had noticed that the very thought of Rameswarbabu brought a smile to people’s lips. Byomkesh’s expression was one of affection as he contemplated the envelope. ‘Ajit,’ he asked, ‘can you guess Rameswarbabu’s age?’
‘Ninety?’ I ventured.
‘Perhaps not quite as much,’ Byomkesh reflected, ‘but it must be some years since he celebrated his eightieth birthday. Yet, he’s still all there. Even his handwriting remains quite firm and legible.’
He tore open the envelope carefully and pulled out the letter. The expensive writing paper with a monogrammed letterhead was in mint condition and folded in two. There was no sign of age-related debility in the clear, rounded script. Rameswarbabu had written:
Byomkeshbabu,
My greetings to you and to Ajitbabu for the year to come. May your intelligence grow keener like the waxing moon with every passing day and may Ajitbabu’s literary style acquire the dazzling hues of the plumage on a peacock’s tail!
I must be on my way now and bid you farewell. The Lord of Death has sent his summons and very soon he’ll come to lead me away. But what are my feet there for? Before his messengers can get to me, I shall be on
my way to heaven. It’s a pity, though, that the following year I shall not be present to bless you all on the occasion of the New Year.
I have already distributed my accumulated assets before the moment of parting arrives. Please ensure that my last wish is respected. I have immense faith in your intelligence.
Farewell. Please do not treat this letter of mine lightly. I shall be checking from the heavens to see that you receive the five thousand rupees.
Auf wiedersehen,
Rameswar Roy
After he had finished reading the letter, Byomkesh sat back with a frown marring his features. I too read its contents. It was, perhaps, typical of Rameswarbabu to jest about his own death. But I could make no sense of what he had written towards the end of his missive. ‘My last wish …’ What last wish was he referring to now? We knew of no such wish and there was nothing in the letter to offer us a clue. Then, ‘… to see that you have got the five thousand rupees …’ Which five thousand rupees was that? Was Rameswarbabu up to a new prank or was he finally leaning towards senility?
All of a sudden, Byomkesh suggested, ‘Let’s go and visit Rameswarbabu tomorrow. One never knows where one stands in matters of life and death.’
‘Fine,’ I agreed, ‘let’s do that. Did you get a feeling from the letter that Rameswarbabu is beginning to grow senile?’
Byomkesh remained silent for a few minutes. Then he said, ‘Did Grandfather Bheeshma (à la Mahabharata) ever grow senile?’
Of late, Byomkesh had begun re-reading the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. Whenever he had time to spare, he sat with the epics. I wasn’t sure whether his preoccupation with them had anything to do with the natural inclination towards the spiritual that came with the passing years or was merely an attempt to examine and weigh the literary merits of the poems. There could have been other reasons as well. But his conversation these days occasionally gave off whiffs of the epics.
‘Is Rameswarbabu Grandfather Bheeshma?’ I asked.
‘They share some traits,’ he replied. ‘But he has more in common with Dasaratha of the Ramayana.’
‘Dasaratha did grow senile,’ I reminded him.
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘But that was more due to his nature than his age. Even if Rameswarbabu lived to be a hundred, senility would never creep up on him.’
We knew very little of Rameswarbabu’s private life. He lived in one of his houses in the northern part of Calcutta. His second wife, Kumudini, was probably around fifty years old now. She had borne him no children. He had in all likelihood named his son from the first marriage Kusheswar after himself. Kusheswar too was around fifty years old. He was balding and going grey all at once. He was married, but I knew nothing about his offspring. He looked effete and helpless. I had heard that his sister, Nalini, had fallen in love and married. Rameswarbabu had severed all ties with her. In short, his family was a relatively small one and the chances of discord were therefore minimal. His riches were plentiful and his source of mirth inexhaustible. Yet, the feeling lingered that his domestic life was not a happy one.
At nine the following morning, we arrived at Rameswarbabu’s house. It was a tall and narrow edifice. A car stood parked at the door. We went up to the door and knocked.
A little later, a lady answered our summons. She had perhaps been expecting someone else. For when she saw us, her pugnacious expression softened slightly. She drew the free end of her sari halfway over her head as if to cover it, a gesture that was instinctive with married women in the presence of gentlemen callers. Then she stood back and asked softly, ‘Yes? Whom is it you wish to see?’
Although we had never spoken to the two women in this house, we knew them by sight. The lady who stood before us was Kusheswar’s wife. She was short and stocky and must have been around forty years old. Byomkesh said, ‘I am Byomkesh Bakshi. We’ve come to meet Rameswarbabu.’
The woman’s jawline hardened She parted her lips, as though she were about to turn us away from the door, when footsteps sounded on the stairs. She glanced up once, then moved away from the door and slipped into a room at the back of the house. It must have been the kitchen, because a clatter of spoons and ladles came from within.
Two men came down the stairs. One of them was Kusheswar, the other an elderly doctor dressed in Western clothes. As he neared the door, the doctor said to the other man, ‘At the moment, there’s no reason to worry. But feel free to call me any time you need to.’
The doctor got into the car and was driven away. Until that moment Kusheswar had not noticed us standing at the door. Now he stared at us blankly. His bald patch had spread and the remaining few hairs on his head were a bit greyer than they’d been when we last saw him. Byomkesh said, ‘Perhaps you do not remember us. I am Byomkesh Bakshi. We wish to meet your father.’
Kusheswar looked bewildered, ‘Byomkesh Bakshi … why yes, of course I remember you! Baba is not too well …’
Byomkesh asked, ‘Why, what’s the matter?’
Kusheswar replied, ‘He had a heart attack last night. He is stable now. You’d like to meet him? Well, he is in the room upstairs …’
At this point, a loud banging came from the direction of the kitchen, startling us all. All three of us turned towards it. An invisible hand belonging to someone inside the kitchen was banging on the door with iron tongs. Turning back to Kusheswar, we found that his expression had changed. He coughed and said, ‘I’m afraid you cannot see Baba today. He is unwell. The doctor was here …’
The banging had stopped now. Byomkesh gave a mild chuckle and said, ‘I get it. What is the doctor’s name?’
Kusheswar had regained some of his composure. ‘Dr Ashim Sen,’ he replied. ‘Don’t you know him? He’s the best heart specialist in town.’
‘I don’t know him personally, but I’ve heard of him. His clinic is on Vivekananda Road, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, we can’t meet Rameswarbabu?’
‘No, I mean, the doctor wouldn’t allow …’ Kusheswar threw an oblique glance in the general direction of the kitchen.
‘Since when has he been unwell?’
‘He was doing all right. But he’s very old now and can’t move around much. So he would mostly confine himself to his room. Yesterday he wrote a whole bunch of letters in the morning. And then, at night, suddenly …’
There it was again, a loud and impatient banging of the ladle on the kitchen door. Kusheswar stopped in mid-sentence. Byomkesh said, ‘The Morse code again! Your wife seems upset. We’ll be on our way. Goodbye.’
We stepped out on the pavement. Glancing over our shoulder, we found the door already shut behind us.
Byomkesh stood there absent-mindedly for a while, then suggested, ‘Dr Sen’s clinic is not too far away. Let’s drop in on him.’
Fortunately, the doctor was in his chamber as were a few of his patients. Byomkesh wrote his name on a slip of paper and had it sent inside. Dr Sen sent word that we’d have to wait for some time.
Half an hour later, after his last patient had left, Dr Sen sent for us. He was seated at a large desk in the centre of the room. Every surgical tool imaginable was neatly laid out on the desk. The doctor looked at Byomkesh and asked, ‘So … you are Byomkeshbabu? Didn’t I see you this morning at the door of Rameswarbabu’s house?’
‘That’s right,’ Byomkesh agreed. ‘But we haven’t come to get a check-up done for our hearts. We have some other work. I am …’
The doctor laughed and said, ‘No need for introductions. Have a seat and tell me if there is some way I could be of help to you.’
We took the chairs facing him. Byomkesh began, ‘I have known Rameswarbabu for several years now. Yesterday, I received his greetings for the New Year by post. In the letter he sent me, he had written that he didn’t think he had long to live, which is why I had dropped in to see him this morning. At his house, we learnt that he’d suffered a heart attack last night. We weren’t able to meet him. So, I’ve come to you to inquire about his health. Are you Rame
swarbabu’s family physician?’
‘You could call me a family friend,’ Dr Sen replied. ‘I have been his doctor for the last thirty years. His heart isn’t too strong and he’s also getting on in years. Every now and then, he would suffer from minor ailments. Last night, things came to a head. Anyway, now he’s stable.’
‘So there is no imminent danger?’
‘That I cannot say. With such patients, you can never be too sure. He may live for the next two years or suffer another heart attack today. If that happens, it’ll be difficult to save him.’
‘Doctor, do you feel Rameswarbabu is receiving proper nursing care at home?’
The doctor stared at Byomkesh for a while. Then he spoke with great deliberation, choosing his words carefully, ‘I think I understand what you mean. But do you have a reason for harbouring such doubts?’
Byomkesh said, ‘I know Rameswarbabu, but I’m not acquainted with his family. I got the distinct impression this morning that they wished to prevent outsiders from seeing him.’
The doctor said, ‘It’s quite true that you don’t know his family too well. But I do. Well, it’s a strange family to say the least. None of the members is sane or normal. Rameswarbabu’s wife, Kumudini, is sixty years old and obese. But she still whiles away the hours playing with her dolls and neglects the household. Kusheswar is an ass and as henpecked as can be. Only his wife, Labanya, seems to have her wits about her and has, as a result, taken over the running of the household.’
‘But don’t they have any maids or servants?’
‘Labanya cannot abide them and has got rid of them all. She doesn’t know how to cook. So she has hired a deaf halfwit for a cook and does the rest of the housework herself. She sends Kusheswar to the market for groceries.’
‘But why? There has to be a reason behind all this.’
The doctor ruminated for some time and said, ‘I believe Nalini is at the root of it all.’
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 19