Byomkesh opened the flap of the envelope and carefully extracted the letter. He unfolded the piece of paper, held it by its edges and slowly moved it over the tiny stove. As he moved it from side to side, all of us held our breath and gazed in wonder at what was about to transpire.
After a minute of this, a loud gust of breath was collectively exhaled from our nostrils: On the reverse of the letter, the script—brown in colour—was beginning to appear.
Five minutes later, Byomkesh removed the paper from the source of the heat and glanced through it once. Then he handed it to Dr Sen and said, ‘Doctor, this is the will that Rameswarbabu had mentioned to you. Please read it, so that all of us can hear what’s written there.’
Dr Sen went through the contents of the will once in silence and a smile of remembrance hovered on his lips. Then he cleared his throat and began to read the will aloud, his voice soft and the words pronounced with deliberation:
May God bless us all. I, Rameswar Roy of No. 17, Shyamdhan Mitra Lane, Bagbazaar, Kolkata, in sound mind and body am writing my last and final will and testament this first day of Baisakh, 1360. Due to circumstances beyond my control, no witnesses are available to me and hence I am writing the entire will myself. My sanity and sense are in perfect order. Dr Sen is a witness to that. This is my last wish recorded in writing; in other words, my last will and testament.
Of the eight houses that I own in Kolkata and all my cash in the bank, the house on Harrison Road and seventy-five thousand rupees will go to my daughter Nalini. As long as she lives, my wife, Kumudini, will enjoy the sole rights to my residence in Shyampukur. After her death, that house too will go to my daughter Nalini. All my other assets, the six houses and the rest of the cash will go to my son Sri Kusheswar Roy. I appoint the renowned doctor, Ashim Sen, and the celebrated detective, Byomkesh Bakshi, as executors of my will. They will ensure that my instructions are carried out to the letter. For this duty, they will receive a remuneration of five thousand rupees each from my estate.
Date: First day of Baisakh 1360
Signed: Rameswar Roy
Once the will was read, there was a moment of hushed silence. Then all of us cheered in unison. Nalini had tears in her eyes as she rushed to touch Byomkesh’s feet as a mark of respect. ‘You have given us a new lease on life!’ she exclaimed effusively.
Byomkesh smiled a little sadly. ‘That may be so, but is this will likely to be approved by the courts?’
Inspector Halder came forward and shook Byomkesh’s hand with gusto. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he reassured him. ‘They will not dare contest the will. If they do, I shall be there as a witness to foil their plan.’
‘So will I,’ added Dr Sen.
Published as ‘Khuji Khuji Nari’ in Bengali in 1961
The Quills of the Porcupine
Prologue
The story is set in south Calcutta.
Before the first light of dawn had peeped over the horizon, tea was already being brewed in the small tea shop that stood on a street corner diagonally opposite Gol Park. Hot, sweet tea that was served in small earthenware mugs. Biscuits to go with it were available on request. The clientele consisted mostly of taxi drivers, bus conductors and others of that ilk—in other words, people who had to get to work at the crack of dawn.
Among them was Phaguram, an old beggar. Having spent the night huddled in a corner of the pavement, he would get up at dawn and buy a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits from the shop before taking up his position on the street to beg for alms. Phaguram was quite old, and handicapped in the bargain. So, at the end of the day, his earnings amounted to more than a rupee.
That spring morning, the mist still hung heavy in the air. Phaguram had bought his tea and biscuits and arrived at his usual spot. Although there were people in the tea stall, hardly a soul stirred in the streets.
Phaguram was in the habit of facing the wall, his back to the street, as he settled down with his tea. He had just taken a sip from his mug and a bite out of his biscuit, when he felt a presence behind him. He turned to take a look, but before he could do so, a sharp pain pierced the spot below his shoulder blades. The half-nibbled biscuit dropped from his fingers and everything went dark.
There wasn’t much of a furore over Phaguram’s unnatural death. When the sun was up, pedestrians noticed his corpse sprawled on the pavement. They stepped around it and went their way. Then the body was removed. The news of the incident did appear in a corner of the daily, but that was simply because the murder weapon was so unusual. The victim had been stabbed in the back with a six-inch-long porcupine quill that had pierced his heart.
Those who had read the piece in the newspaper did indulge in some speculation over the issue. Who would possibly want to kill a beggar? Another beggar, perhaps? But why had a porcupine quill been used? There seemed to be no satisfactory answer to this enigma. The police did not trouble themselves over the matter for any length of time.
Nearly a month after the incident, however, memories of the beggar’s unnatural death resurfaced. Once again, the weapon was a porcupine quill. On a particular night, a labourer had been sleeping outdoors on a bench in the Rabindra Sarobar area, when his assailant stole up on him under cover of darkness and pierced his heart with a porcupine quill. By the time the corpse was discovered in the morning, it had turned stiff. The victim was yet to be identified
This time, the news of the death was allocated a space closer to the front page. It caused a bit of a fuss. What could it signify—the use of porcupine quills instead of knives or daggers? Was the killer insane? Eventually, the victim was identified. He was Mangalram, a common labourer. Without a roof over his head, he had been used to spending the night wherever he could. He had had no enemies, at least none who would want him dead. The police investigated the case over a few days and gave up when they found no leads.
The third incident occurred a couple of weeks later. Summer had set in. The days were longer, the nights shorter.
Gunamoy Das was an unhappy soul. He owned a small grocery shop and had inherited a tiny house from his father. He also had a shrew for a wife. He was forty years old and childless, with scant hope of fathering offspring at this stage of his life. His very existence had been drained of all joie de vivre and he had taken to drinking on the sly. It was said that when the joy went out of living, Madeira, the Maiden, rushed in.
At eight o’clock in the evening, Gunamoybabu had locked up his shop and started for home. He had no great desire to hurry back to Garia. On the contrary, his feet dragged at the very thought of the terrifying spectacle his wife would present when he arrived home. So, when the doors of a bar swung open right before his eyes, he slipped in without a moment’s hesitation.
An hour later, he left the bar and headed for Garia again. His feet were unsteady as he walked on and he realized that he had exceeded the quota of liquor he permitted himself every day. If his wife got wind of it, if she got a mere whiff …
After he had traversed some distance, the railing enclosing Rabindra Sarobar came into sight, running along to his right. The people on the streets were few and far between. The dim street lamps and the gloom of the lake nearby seemed to be engaged in some macabre dance that heightened the atmosphere of dark mystery.
Having reached a lonely stretch of road, Gunamoybabu paused and stood facing the lake. His hands rested on the fencing encircling the expanse of water as his owl-like gaze skimmed its surface.
A man had been following Gunamoybabu, maintaining a gap of twenty feet between them. The stalker had noticed the gentleman’s unsteady gait. Therefore, when Gunamoybabu paused at the railing, the stranger also halted some twenty feet away. Having gazed at his victim steadily for a while, he began closing in on him at a leisurely pace.
The prowler came up behind Gunamoybabu, unobserved. He looked around him and checked to see whether anyone was watching. Then he fished out a quill-like object from his pocket, gripped it firmly between his fingers and thrust it with full force into the spo
t below his victim’s shoulder blades. Gunamoybabu was wearing a thin kurta and the quill went in through his heart quite easily.
For a fraction of a second, Gunamoybabu experienced a flash of intense pain in his heart. Then all his senses went numb.
The newspapers were in full cry now, speaking on behalf of the city’s residents as they castigated the police for their helplessness in the face of a dangerous lunatic running amok with porcupine quills. The people of south Calcutta, in particular, engaged in heated debate over the issue during their usual chat sessions. After dusk, the lake and its environs were almost completely deserted.
More than ten days went by in this manner. Needless to say, the assailant wasn’t apprehended. But the flurry of debates seemed to subside a little. One evening, at around nine-thirty, Inspector Rakhal came down to Byomkesh’s place in Keyatala for a visit. Ajit was also present. Naturally, the topic of discussion was the porcupine-quill incidents.
‘But why resort to porcupine quills when there are so many other weapons at hand?’ Ajit inquired.
Rakhalbabu expelled a cloud of cigarette smoke and threw Byomkesh a look from the corner of his eyes.
Byomkesh’s tone was sombre as he replied, ‘Perhaps the assailant keeps porcupines as pets. He gets the quills for free. So he doesn’t need to spend on knives and daggers.’
‘Oh, do be serious!’ Ajit expostulated. ‘There must be a valid reason for it. Rakhalbabu, following these three murders, have you been able to decide whether the culprit is a serial killer or three separate individuals?’
Rakhalbabu said, ‘It seems to be the handiwork of a serial killer.’
‘It could well be three,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Just suppose that on the first occasion one person killed the beggar with a porcupine quill. Inspired by him, a second person subsequently murdered a labourer with another quill. Then …’
‘I get the point. The third killer imitates the first two and bumps off a shopkeeper in the same manner.’
‘Possible,’ Byomkesh agreed. ‘But not very probable. What is more significant is the fact that among the victims, the first was a beggar, the second, a labourer and the third, a shopkeeper.’
‘The significance eludes me, I’m afraid,’ Ajit declared. ‘You chaps carry on. I’m off to bed.’ With that, Ajit left the room, having lost, it seemed, all interest in mysteries and adventures.
Rakhalbabu looked at Byomkesh and asked with a gentle smile, ‘Is this truly a lunatic at work? Why would he kill three people from three different rungs of society? Besides, wouldn’t it be easy to catch a madman?’
‘Not all deranged people are mentally deficient,’ Byomkesh told him. ‘There are many crazy people who can scarcely be recognized as such.’
‘That’s quite true,’ Rakhalbabu agreed. ‘Byomkeshbabu, whatever your theories may try to prove or disprove, I know for a fact that you’re convinced a serial killer is responsible for the murders. I think so too. Now tell me, do you also believe that the murderer is insane?’
Byomkesh’s silence held a hint of hesitation. Then as he parted his lips to speak, the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and listened to the voice at the other end for a moment before handing it to Rakhalbabu with the words, ‘It’s for you.’
The inspector took the receiver from him and said, ‘Hello,’ into the mouthpiece. But as he listened to what the caller had to say, his expression changed. Finally, he said, ‘All right, I’ll be right there,’ seemingly lost in thought as he replaced the receiver on its cradle. ‘Porcupine quill again,’ he told Byomkesh. ‘This time, the victim is from the gentry. But wonder of wonders, the man is still alive and in hospital.’
Byomkesh leaped out of his chair, ‘Not dead?’
‘No,’ Rakhalbabu replied, ‘there is some mystery there that needs to be probed. I’ll be off now. Do you want to come along?’
‘I certainly do,’ was Byomkesh’s reply.
The Tale
The small, two-storeyed house was located in a tiny lane in south Calcutta that was maintained by the Improvement Trust. The grounds on which it stood, were hemmed in by a wall. A few potted plants lay scattered about the place, reeking of neglect.
The house itself looked well cared for however, and was painted a pretty shade of pale blue. Indoors, it was just as nicely laid out and immaculately maintained. A drawing room, a dining room, the kitchen and the servants’ room made up the ground floor. On the first floor lay two bedrooms and an informal living room. The elderly man who had built the house around five years back had passed away. Now his son, Debashish, lived there with Dipa. They had got married barely two months earlier.
On a March afternoon, Dipa was relaxing in an armchair in the living room upstairs, listening to the radio. She was alone. A few armchairs were grouped around a low coffee table in the sparsely furnished room. A divan laid out with a mattress and plump cushions stood to one side. The other items in the room were the radio, protected by a dust cover, and the telephone.
Faint notes of music wafted out of the radio. The doors and windows were half-shut and the room lay in shadow. Eyes closed, Dipa leaned back in the chair. Her afternoons were always spent thus, alone in the house.
There was something appealing about Dipa’s languidly casual look. She could be described as fair-complexioned, and had an attractive face. But something in the curve of her eyebrows and the firmness of her chin held a hint of steel. It implied that this young woman was no fool and could turn out to be someone to reckon with.
The wall clock chimed the hour. Five o’clock. Instantly, Dipa’s eyes shot open. She glanced at the clock and switched off the radio. Then she rose to her feet and made for the door. It opened on to the staircase. Dipa stood at the head of the stairs, leaned forward a little and called out, ‘Nakul!’
Nakul was both cook and servant, the only domestic help in the house. He had been with the family for years. Emerging from the dining room downstairs, he looked up and answered, ‘Yes, Boudi. Dada’s evening tea is ready.’
Dipa tidied her dishevelled appearance and began to descend the stairs. As she reached the last step, the doorbell sounded.
Dipa went to answer it. Debashish walked in, dressed in formal Western clothes. They looked at each other without exchanging even a suggestion of a smile. Obviously, smiles were too precious a commodity in their lives.
Dipa said listlessly, ‘Tea is ready.’
Debashish injected a dose of politeness into his tone before replying, ‘Fine. I’ll just change and be right down.’
He ran up the stairs. Dipa’s footsteps dragged as she walked into the dining room and took a seat at end of the oval table.
The dining table could comfortably seat four persons, six at a stretch. Dipa sat at one end and watched Nakul lay out the food on two plates: puris, potato curry and home-made sweets.
Nakul was a short, stout man. Although he was greying, he was strong and well-built. He was a man of few words, but his eyes were always wary and inquisitive. Dipa gazed at him and thought that he must have guessed everything about her relationship with Debashish by now. Yet, appearances had to be kept up for him. Why for Nakul alone? They would have to be kept up for everyone. Strange indeed was the conjugal life she shared with her husband.
Debashish came down, dressed in the formal Bengali attire of dhoti and kurta. He was tall, slim and fair-complexioned, with a handsome face. He was about twenty-seven years old. As soon as he had seated himself at the head of the table, Nakul placed a plate of food before him and turned to ask Dipa, ‘Shall I serve you now, Boudi?’
She shook her head in reply. ‘No,’ she told him, ‘I’ll eat later.’ She was still not quite used to eating at the same table as Debashish. In her father’s home, things were different. The women ate their meals after the men had left the table. Dipa couldn’t let go of her old habits easily. But still, they managed to have dinner at the same table, and mostly at the same time. If they had not, even Nakul would have found it very odd.
Fo
r a while, silence reigned. Debashish ate his food with gusto. Dipa would have liked to have initiated a conversation, but she had no idea what to say to him. From where he stood behind them, Nakul’s watchful eyes darted between the two, absorbing every nuance.
Eventually, it was Debashish who spoke first. He straightened up in his chair, smiled at Dipa and ventured, ‘We made a new cream today.’
Dipa had never shown any interest in Debashish’s work. But now she responded eagerly with, ‘Really? What kind of cream?’
‘Face cream,’ Debashish answered.
‘Oh? Does it smell good?’
‘That’s not for me to say. It’s up to the people who use it to give their verdict.’
‘If you bring some home, I could use it and give you my opinion.’
Debashish smiled and shook his head. ‘That’s not possible. First, I have to test it on someone else’s face and find out whether there is any adverse reaction.’
‘Whose face?’
‘Perhaps Faujdar Singh’s face. He’s the factory watchman and his hide is thicker than a rhino’s.’
Dipa’s face broke into a smile. For a second she had forgotten that she was acting for Nakul’s benefit and Debashish’s infectious grin had caught her unawares.
Debashish finished his meal and rose to his feet. The two of them walked out of the dining room and stood at the foot of the stairs. Suddenly, Debashish said eagerly, ‘Dipa, there’s a good film running at the Utpala theatre. Would you like to go and see it?’
Debashish had never invited Dipa out for a movie before. At his words, an electric shock seemed to zip through her entire body. But instantly she hardened her heart, averted her face and said, ‘No, thanks.’
Debashish’s face fell and his jaws slowly clenched. He glared at Dipa and said bitingly, ‘Don’t worry. I have no intentions of reaching out for you in the darkness of the theatre.’
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 21