The Mystery of Munroe Island

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘I’ve a Luger automatic.’

  ‘Bring it with you. And if the police officer is still here, ask him to come with us. Also, ask them to be ready with the police force at Altdorf.’

  After picking up the machine from my room, the four of us got into Busch’s car and raced towards Altdorf. Busch was an expert driver. Within a minute he had picked up speed of 120 kilometres per minute. In this country, the person who sits in the front has to tie the seat belt like you do in a plane. The car is designed in such a way that unless you tie the belt the engine won’t start. Not only that, in case there’s need to suddenly brake, two soft pillow-like cushions appear from the dashboard, stopping you from falling forward and injuring your face.

  We faced no sudden brakes.

  On the way none of us spoke. Perhaps judging by the look on my face the others didn’t dare ask me any question. Except for me, the group was clueless about this expedition.

  Within a few seconds of crossing the thirty-kilometre signage, we spotted Schering’s red car. I called out, ‘Overtake the car and stop!’

  Blowing the horn, Busch overtook the red car and from a distance waved his hand. He stopped his own car at an angle so that Schering’s car couldn’t help but stop.

  We got out of the car. Taken by surprise, both Schering and his friend came towards us.

  ‘What is it?’ questioned Schering.

  I stepped forward. Even though Schering tried to look normal, his lips had gone dry and pale. His friend, Peter Frick, stood three steps behind him. I calmly said, ‘I feel like having a cheroot. Having smoked one last night, I’ve become addicted to your Dutch cheroot. I hope you still have the cigar case with you?’

  These plain words, spoken softly, was like fire striking dynamite. In a flash, Schering’s friend pulled out a revolver from his pocket and fired at us. I felt the bullet graze my right hand and embed itself into a corner of the roof of Busch’s Mercedes Benz. Then I heard the sound of another shot; Busch had shot Frick with his gun and the revolver slipped out of Frick’s hand and skidded on the ice on to the side of the road. With his knees folded, Frick sat down on the road; his face was contorted with pain as he held his injured left hand.

  And Schering? Letting out a wild cry, he began to run in the opposite direction but both Busch and Ulrich pounced on him with tiger-like fireceness and grabbed him. And I—the noted international scientist Trilokeshwar Shonku—took out my unique invention, the Remembrain, and putting it on Schering’s head, switched on the battery.

  Sandwiched between his two captors, Schering stood motionless. With the machine on, his face had become vacant, as if he was meditating, looking at the far-off snow-capped mountaintop.

  Now my show began.

  I shot forward a barrage of questions aimed at Schering.

  ‘How did Dr Lubin die?’

  ‘By suffocation.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By strangling.’

  ‘Was the car on the move at that point?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did the driver Neumann die?’

  ‘Neumann observed the scene of Lubin’s murder in the rear view mirror. At that point his steering went out of control. The car fell into the gorge.’

  ‘And you fell along with it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you think you would kill both Lubin and Neumann and throw them into the gorge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then abscond with the formula?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What would you have done with it?’

  ‘I would have sold it.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘To whoever bid the highest.’

  ‘Do you possess the formula papers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what do you have?’

  ‘The tape.’

  ‘The formula is recorded in it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s that tape?’

  ‘In the cigar case.’

  ‘Is that a tape recorder in reality?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I took the helmet off his head. The police, with striding steps, walked up the wet road towards Schering.

  *

  I was thinking what an amazing thing our brain is and what strange games our memory plays. Yesterday, Schering asked for a cigar; Clara offered him the case yet he didn’t light up one to smoke. At that point, I should have made the connection but I didn’t. Even this morning, in his room, I neither saw any sign of a cheroot nor could I smell one. In the normal course, the cigar case should have been on the side table but it wasn’t there. This afternoon we had sat in the drawing room for quite long but even then he hadn’t smoked a single cigar.

  The cigar case is now lying on my table. It’s made of gunmetal and intricately devised. You can find a cigar when you open the case but below the layer of cigars is an almost invisible button that when pressed opens a hidden compartment which accommodates a tiny tape recorder along with a microphone. Running the tape, I could hear the entire formula of BX377 recorded in Schering’s own voice. If one can record something else over this recording, Schering’s dangerous formula will get deleted for eternity.

  Isn’t that Willie’s voice? He is again humming a ditty.

  I take out the microphone and switch on the recorder.

  Hypnojen

  7 May

  During the last sixty-six years of my life, I’ve received many invitations, on many occasions, from various sources across the world, yet this one stands out. A telegram arrived from a remote and unknown village in Norway; a telegram whose words count went well beyond a letter. When I counted, there were 133 words in the telegram. The name of the person who sent it had been hitherto unknown to me. I had neither come across this name in any biographical dictionary nor read it in any encyclopedia. I did find the name mentioned in a twenty-five-year-old German Who’s Who, where it stated that a gentleman by the name of Alexander Craig was the owner of a diamond mine based in Brazil; he apparently died in 1913. Obviously, this Alexander Craig is a different individual. But whoever he is, the question remains, why is he so desperate to meet me?

  The telegram informs me that a first-class plane ticket is on its way and the moment it reaches me I must leave immediately for Norway. A car will be waiting for me at Oslo airport. The name of the driver and the number of the car have also been mentioned in the telegram. This same car will take me to the residence of this mysterious Mr Craig. It states that it’ll take three-and-a-half hours to reach his house. Further, it also mentions that I’ll stand to gain in this visit as I’ll be introduced to a celebrated and world-renowned scientist by Mr Craig. Who is this amazing and eccentric gentleman? Why would he spend so much money in sending me this telegram?

  Whatever the case, Norway is now going through the phase of the midnight sun. At the place which I’ll be visiting, at this point of time i.e., in May, there’ll be no dark nights. I have never experienced this before. As a result, I’m now mulling over the definite possibility of accepting his offer and will soon let him know about my consent. I need not invest any money to do so as he has already sent me a prepaid telegram, though, even if I try, I won’t be able to put in more than a dozen words.

  May 9

  While I was leafing through the pages of an art book, I came across a painting by the famous sixteenth-century Italian artist, Tintoretto, and noticed a line written right below the painting in very small letters: ‘From the personal collection of Alexander Craig.’ Certainly, there’s no doubt left that a person who has a Tintoretto in his personal collection must be a very wealthy man, indeed.

  I’m leaving the day after. I have let Craig know my plan. I’m mighty excited about this trip. I can sense that my journey to Norway will not come to naught.

  11 May

  It’s been half-an-hour since we left Oslo airport, travelling in a Daimler driven by a chauffeur in uniform. I said ‘we’ a
s two more persons other than me are present in the car. One of them is an English physicist, John Somerville, an old friend of mine. The other person is someone I am meeting for the first time. He is Hector Papadopoulos, a biochemist from Greece. Of the three of us, he is the youngest and doesn’t look more than forty. His head full of thick, curly hair is matched by bushy eyebrows and a thick pair of moustaches. All three of us have been invited in a similar way i.e. by a lengthy telegram delineating the arrangements. I discovered this only upon my arrival at the Oslo airport. We’re all in the same boat at present. Somerville, too, had not heard of Craig. Papadopoulos said he may have heard of him, but cannot clearly recall. The length of the telegram, the first class ticket, and now this expensive Daimler and the fancy uniform of the chauffeur all drive home the fact that there’s no dearth of money in Alexander Craig’s life.

  At this moment we have all halted for a coffee break. It’s now 3.30 p.m. It’s not as cold as I’d expected. But then, any student of geography will be well aware of the unpredictable nature of Norway’s weather. In this country, it is colder in the southern hemisphere as occasional warm winds from the Atlantic often blow over the northern region. As a result, despite the location at greater heights and the proximity to the polar axis, it is warmer here. We’re having our coffee at a roadside restaurant. The atmosphere is wonderfully quiet and pleasant. In Norway, there’s practically no presence of any plain and flat surface. The place is mostly all valley surrounded by snow-capped mountains. The driver, Pietro Norwell, tells us that Craig’s residence is 330 kilometres from Oslo. It’ll take us two-and-a-half hours to get there.

  12 May, 9.30 p.m.

  I say it’s 9.30 at night simply by looking at my watch, though I know that if I look at the bright sky I wouldn’t believe it. I must say, we’ve come to an amazing place. But one ought to talk about the people first rather than the place. Because this residence—one can call it a palace—was built by only one individual. It resembles a medieval castle. It appears to be 700-800 years old but in reality it was built only in the twentieth century. I was quite keen to find out about the total expense made in its construction but when I saw the condition the owner was in, I realized it would be absurd to ask such an irrelevant question. Alexander Aloysius Craig was on his deathbed. He had called upon us with a predicament on his mind. Now I must recount the remarkable story of why he asked for the three of us.

  At exactly 6.05 p.m. our car drove through an imposing gate and onwards for another five minutes down a picturesque meandering road under the shadows of poplar, aspen and tamarisk trees till we finally reached the main doorway to the castle. A uniformed middle-aged man came forward, and welcomed us into the castle.

  The room we entered was a so-called waiting room but we were rendered speechless at the opulence of the interior. The presence of furniture, marble statues, a crystal chandelier, huge gilt-framed oil paintings, an elaborate Persian carpet, armour hanging against the walls, and iron suits put up against pedestals—in effect it took us back to the days of barons who looted millions and millions and led a life of luxury, lavishness and jollity. Though a scientist, I realized Papadopoulos had vast knowledge about various other areas, too. Glancing around, he remarked that the paintings alone would amount to a few million rupees. Personally, I could identify one Rembrandt and a Fragonard. God knows what else is scattered around the rest of the fortress.

  After we had waited for ten minutes, the man returned to tell us that Mr Craig was now ready to meet us. As we followed him, we passed through two more enormous rooms filled with countless priceless objects and finally entered a somewhat smaller and semi-dark room. I could spot a solitary lamp whose light was focused on a peculiarly massive, crafted bed. The figure lying on it was nearly as old as the antiques in the house. The man who was reclining against the pillow looked very ill, but his eyes gazed at us with a sharp expression. It was, of course, none other than the owner and master of this castle, Alexander Craig. He was covered with a satin quilt, his emaciated hands resting on his chest. He released the right hand from his left one and stretched it out in our direction. All three of us shook hands with Craig.

  Craig nodded his head in the direction of three leather chairs positioned right next to his bed. We took our seats. He then gently pulled at a silk cord hanging next to his right hand. We heard the faint sound of bells and a creature appeared noiselessly from the dark corner of the room and stood next to Craig. I’m using the word ‘creature’, because ‘man’ wouldn’t be correct. I’ve never seen such a man in my entire life. He was seven-and-a-half feet tall, with bluish-black skin the colour and smoothness of well-polished steel. He wore a knee-length dark red gown made of velvet, joined at the waist by a sliver band. The features of his face coupled with his perfectly sculpted bald head gave the impression of a mythological god.

  This stranger now bent over Craig and pressed the sides of his temple with his right hand. He continued to press for about ten seconds and then loosened his grip. Immediately, one could observe a tangible change in Craig; it was as if his body had gained a new lease of life. Resting his hands on the bed, he pulled himself up into a sitting position. Taking a deep breath, he said in clear English, ‘I’ve brought up Odin with my own hands and he is a trustworthy servant. Among his many other abilities, he has this capacity to revitalize an ailing person for a brief period so that the person is able to normally converse with his friends.’

  Mr Craig stopped talking. When I heard Odin’s name I realized my assumption had not been all wrong. Craig himself regarded his nurse as a divine being. In Norwegian mythology, the figure of Odin ranks very high amongst the other celestial figures. Odin’s figure now quietly receded into the darkness.

  Both Somerville and I were rendered speechless as well as alarmed. As Papadopoulos was a lot younger, he was quite restless—he had cleared his throat twice and was constantly squeezing his hands.

  ‘Odin and Thor,’ Craig said. ‘They both do most of my work. You’ll get to know Thor in due course.’

  Thor is the name of yet another powerful Norwegian god.

  Papadopoulos could no longer restrain himself.

  ‘You’d written about a scientist.’

  A smile appeared at the corners of Craig’s lips. His eyes sparkled.

  ‘That scientist is on his deathbed right now,’ Craig said. ‘He himself had invited you to come over. His name is Alexander . . .’

  Papadopoulos looked quite disappointed. I hadn’t expected this reply either. We all looked at each other. Craig resumed talking.

  ‘It may not be that easy to believe this, but very soon you’ll get some proof. Out of the forty rooms in this castle, one is a laboratory. Over the past ninety-two years I’ve been conducting numerous experiments.’

  Craig paused for a moment. The reason was obvious. He could very well guess that when we heard his age as ninety-two this would obviously pose a few questions in our minds. He himself offered us the answer before we could question him.

  ‘Due to my own scientific capacity, I was able to add to my longevity three times. But this time it’s proving impossible.’

  Every time he paused, I could feel an extraordinary stillness in the atmosphere. Not a single sound could be heard in the entire castle.

  ‘Napoleon and I both share the same birthday. It’s 5th May 1821.’

  ‘You’re a hundred-and-fifty years old?’ Papadopoulos sounded flabbergasted as he asked the question in a loud voice.

  Smiling gently, Craig remarked, ‘If you’re so taken in by this fact alone then I wonder how would you react about what is to follow next?’

  Papadopoulos fell silent. Craig continued to talk.

  ‘I was a student of science in the university. I was a favourite student of Prof. Rasmussen. He would tell me: “You should be teaching, researching . . . you have an assured future.” But there was another side to my personality. I was addicted to adventure. I left home at the age of twenty-seven. From Europe, I landed up in South America
. My mind diverted to gambling. And my luck turned out to be extraordinarily good. I acquired more than a hundred thousand reals in just one night alone, playing roulette in Rio de Janeiro. I invested that money in diamond prospecting; Africa was yet to discover diamonds. As a result, I decided to stay back in Brazil. All my possessions—this grand assemblage—what lies behind it are diamonds. Do you know how much this diamond costs?’

  He held up his right hand. On his middle finger was a ring with a huge sparkling diamond. He didn’t wait for our answer.

  ‘I returned to my own country after staying in Brazil for twenty years. By then I was a multimillionaire. That’s when the idea of building a castle struck me. I was obsessed with the idea of collecting precious objects. And I needed an appropriate place to house them. I built a castle. I began to live in it alongside these items. Many people do not like to stay alone. But I quite enjoyed it. It was only me and my objects of desire. After that I never left home. Whatever I have collected since has been acquired strictly through correspondence. The post office delivers whatever I order. Then one day, when I’d crossed the age of sixty, out of the blue, my one and only companion, my dog, died. The thought then dawned on me—one day I too will die, I’ll have to leave behind this entire treasure. I began to wonder if through an artificial process, with the help of science, one can increase one’s longevity. The laboratory was created. After forty-five years, the words of Prof. Rasmussen finally rang true. I could still undertake hard work. I started my research. You can see the result of that work. But . . .’

  The three of us were listening to him spellbound. Papadopoulos had stopped squeezing his hands. Craig had now started breathing heavily. I noticed he looked exhausted.

  ‘But . . . my invention cannot keep anyone alive for an indefinite period. I was aware of this and hence I had to invest heavily both on finance as well as on time, working on another experiment.’