The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (47 page)

We drove down Jessore Road, and took a right turn after Barasat. This road led straight to Bamungachhi. Mr Samaddar stopped here at a small tea shop and treated us to a cup of tea and jalebis. This took about fifteen minutes. By the time we reached Radharaman Samaddar’s house, it was past eight o’clock.

A bungalow stood in the middle of a huge plot of land (it measured seven acres, we were told later), surrounded by a pink boundary wall and rows of eucalyptus trees. The man who opened
the gate for us was probably the mali, for he had a basket in his hand. We drove up to the front door, passing a garage on the way. A black Austin stood in it.

As I was getting out of the car, a sudden noise from the garden made me look up quickly. I found a boy of about ten standing a few yards away, wearing blue shorts and clutching an air gun. He returned my stare gravely.

‘Is your father at home?’ asked Mr Samaddar. ‘Go tell him Moni Babu from Calcutta has come back, and would like to see him, if he doesn’t mind.’

The boy left, loading his gun.

‘Is that the neighbour’s son?’ Feluda asked.

‘Yes. His father, Abani Sen, is a florist. He has a shop in New Market in Calcutta. He lives right next door. He has his nursery here, you see. Occasionally, he comes and spends a few weeks with his family.’

An old man emerged from the house, looking at us enquiringly. ‘This is Anukul,’ Mr Samaddar said. ‘He had worked for my uncle for over thirty years. He’ll stay on until we know what should be done about the house.’

There was a small hall behind the front door. It couldn’t really be called a room, all it had was a round table in the middle, and a torn calendar on the wall. There were no light switches on the wall as the whole area did not receive any electricity at all. Beyond this hall was a door. Mr Samaddar walked over to it, and said, ‘Look, this is the German lock I told you about. One could buy a lock like this in Calcutta before the Second World War. The combination is eight-two-nine-one.’

It was round in shape, with no provision for a key. There were four grooves instead. Against each groove were written numbers, from one to nine. A tiny object like a hook stuck out of each groove. This hook could be pushed from one end of the groove to the other. It could also be placed next to any of the numbers. It was impossible to open the lock unless one knew exactly which numbers the hooks should be placed against.

Mr Samaddar pushed the four hooks, each to rest against a different number—eight, two, nine and one. With a faint click, the lock opened. It seemed almost as though I was in a magic show. ‘Locking the door is even easier,’ said Mr Samaddar. ‘All you need to do is push any of those hooks away from the right number. Then it
locks automatically.’

The door with the German lock opened into Radharaman Samaddar’s bedroom. It was a large room, and it contained all the furniture Radharaman’s nephew had described. What was amazing was the number of instruments the room was packed with. Some of these were kept on shelves, others on a long bench and small tables. Some more hung on the wall.

Feluda stopped in the middle of the room and looked around for a few seconds. Then he opened the almirah and the chest, and went through both. This was followed by a search of the table drawers, a small trunk he discovered under the bed (all it revealed was a pair of old shoes and a few rags) and all the instruments in the room. Feluda picked them up, felt their weight and turned them over to see if any of them was meant to be operated by a key. Then he stripped the bed, turned the mattress over, and began tapping on the floor to see if any part of it sounded hollow. It didn’t. It took him another minute to inspect the attached bathroom. He still found nothing. Finally, he said, ‘Could you please ask the mali to come here for a minute?’ When the mali came, he got him to remove the contents of two flower-pots kept under the window. Both pots were empty. ‘All right, you can put everything back into those pots, and thank you,’ he told the mali.

In the meantime, Anukul had placed a table and four chairs in the room. He then put four glasses of lemonade on the table, and withdrew. Mr Samaddar handed two glasses to us, and asked, ‘What do you make of all this, Mr Mitter?’ Feluda shook his head. ‘If it wasn’t for those instruments, it would’ve been impossible to believe that a man of means had lived in this room.’

‘Exactly. Why do you suppose I ran to you for help? I’ve never felt so puzzled in my life!’ Mr Samaddar exclaimed, taking a sip from his glass.

I looked at the instruments. I could recognize only a few like the sitar, sarod, tanpura, tabla and a flute. I had never seen any of the others, and I wasn’t sure that Feluda had, either. ‘Do you know what each one of these is called?’ he asked Mr Samaddar. ‘That string instrument that’s hanging from a hook on the wall over there. Can you tell me its name?’

‘No, sir!’ Mr Samaddar laughed. ‘I know nothing of music. I haven’t the slightest idea of what these might be called, or where they came from.’

There were footsteps outside the room. A moment later, the boy with the airgun arrived with a man of about forty. Mr Samaddar did the introductions. The man was Abani Sen, the florist who lived next door. The boy was his son, Sadhan. ‘Mr Pradosh Mitter?’ he said. ‘Of course I’ve heard of you!’ Feluda gave a slight smile, and cleared his throat. Mr Sen took the empty chair and was offered the fourth glass of lemonade. ‘Before I forget, Mr Samaddar,’ he said, picking it up, ‘do you know if your uncle had wanted to sell any of his instruments?’

‘Why, no!’ Mr Samaddar sounded quite taken aback.

‘A gentleman came yesterday. He went to my house since he couldn’t find anyone here. He’s called Surajit Dasgupta. He collects musical instruments, very much like your uncle. He showed me a letter written by Radharaman Babu, and said he’d already been to this house and spoken to Radharaman Babu once. Anukul told me later he had seen him before. The letter had been written shortly before your uncle died. Anyway, I told him to come back today. I had a feeling you might return.’

‘I have seen him, too.’

This came from Sadhan. He was playing with a small instrument that looked a bit like a harmonium, making slight tinkling noises. His father laughed at his words. ‘Sadhan used to spend most of his time in or around this house. In fact, he still does. He and his Dadu were great friends.’

‘How did you like your Dadu?’ Feluda asked him.

‘I liked him a lot,’ Sadhan answered, with his back to us, ‘but sometimes he annoyed me.’

‘How?’

‘He kept asking me to sing the sargam.’

‘And you didn’t want to?’

‘No. But I can sing.’

‘Ah, only songs from Hindi films.’ Mr Sen laughed again.

‘Did your Dadu know you could sing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had he ever heard you?’

‘No.’

‘Well then, how do you think he knew?’

‘Dadu often used to tell me that those whose names carry a note of melody are bound to have melodious voices.’

This made very little sense to us, so we exchanged puzzled glances.
‘What did he mean by that?’ Feluda asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you ever hear him sing?’

‘No. But I’ve heard him play.’

‘What!’ Mr Samaddar sounded amazed. ‘Are you sure, Sadhan? I thought he had given up playing altogether. Did he play in front of you?’

‘No, no. I was outside in the garden, killing coconuts with my gun. That’s when I heard him play.’

‘Could it have been someone else?’

‘No, there was no one in the house except Dadu.’

‘Did he play for a long time?’ Feluda wanted to know.

‘No, only for a little while.’

Feluda turned to Mr Samaddar. ‘Could you please ask Anukul to come here?’

Anukul arrived in a few moments. ‘Did you ever hear your master play any of these instruments?’ Feluda asked him.

‘Well . . .’ Anukul replied, speaking hesitantly. ‘My master spent most of his time in this room. He didn’t like being disturbed. So really, sir, I wouldn’t know whether he played or not.’

‘I see. He never played in your presence, did he?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did you ever hear anything from outside, or any other part of the house?’

‘Well. . . only a few times . . . I think . . . but I can’t hear very well, sir.’

‘Did a stranger come and see him before he died? The same man who came yesterday?’

‘Yes, sir. He spoke to my master in this room.’

‘When did he first come?’

‘The day he died.’

‘What! That same day?’ Mr Samaddar couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Yes, sir.’ Anukul had tears in his eyes. He wiped them with one end of his chaddar and said in a choked voice, ‘I came in here soon after that gentleman left, to tell my Babu that the hot water for his bath was ready, but found him asleep. At least, I thought he was sleeping until I found I just couldn’t wake him up. Then I went to Sen Babu’s house and told him.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Mr Sen put in. ‘I rang Mr Samaddar immediately, and told him to bring a doctor. But I knew there wasn’t
much that a doctor could do.’

A car stopped outside. Anukul left to see who it was. A minute later, a man entered the room, and introduced himself as Surajit Dasgupta. He had a long and drooping moustache, broad side-burns and thick, unruly hair. He wore glasses with a very heavy frame. Mr Sen pointed at Mr Samaddar and said, ‘You should speak to him, Mr Dasgupta. He’s Radharaman Babu’s nephew.’

‘Oh, I see. Your uncle had written to me. So I came to meet—’

‘Can I see that letter?’ Mr Samaddar interrupted him.

Surajit Dasgupta took out a postcard from the inside pocket of his jacket and passed it on to Mr Samaddar. Mr Samaddar ran his eyes over it, and gave it to Feluda. I leant across and read what was written on it: ‘Please come and meet me between 9 and 10 a.m. on 18 September. All my musical instruments are with me in my house. You can have a look when you come.’ Feluda turned it over to take a quick look at the address: Minerva Hotel, Central Avenue, Calcutta 13. Then he glanced at the bottle of blue-black ink kept on the small table next to the bed. The letter did seem to have been written with the same ink.

Mr Dasgupta sat down on the bed, with an impatient air. Mr Samaddar asked him another question. ‘What did you and my uncle discuss that morning?’

‘Well, I had come to know about Radharaman Samaddar only after I read an article by him that was published in a magazine for music lovers. So I wrote to him, and came here on the eighteenth as requested. There were two instruments in his collection that I wanted to buy. We discussed their prices, and I made an offer of two thousand rupees for them. He agreed, and I started to write out a cheque at once. But he stopped me and said he’d much rather have cash. I wasn’t carrying so much cash with me, so he told me to come back the following Wednesday. On Tuesday, I read in the papers that he had died. Then I had to leave for Dehra Dun. I got back the day before yesterday.’

‘How did he seem that morning when you talked to him?’ Mr Samaddar asked.

‘Why, he seemed all right! But perhaps he had started to think that he wasn’t going to live for long. Some of the things he said seemed to suggest that.’

‘You didn’t, by any chance, have an argument, did you?’

Mr Dasgupta remained silent for a few seconds. Then he said
coldly, ‘Are you, holding me responsible for your uncle’s heart attack?’

‘No, I am not suggesting that you did anything deliberately,’ Mr Samaddar returned, just as coolly. ‘But he was taken ill just after you left, so . . .’

‘I see. I can assure you, Mr Samaddar, your uncle was fine when I left him. Anyway, it shouldn’t be difficult for you to make a decision about my offer. I have got the money with me.’ He took out his wallet. ‘Here’s two thousand in cash. It would help if I could take the two instruments away today. I have to return to Dehra Dun tomorrow. That’s where I live, you see. I do research in music’

‘Which two do you mean?’

Mr Dasgupta rose and walked over to one of the instruments hanging on the wall. ‘This is one. It’s called
khamanche
, it’s from Iran. I knew about this one, but hadn’t seen it. It’s quite an old instrument. And the other was—’

Mr Dasgupta moved to the opposite end of the room and stopped before the same instrument Sadhan had been playing with. ‘This is the other instrument I wanted,’ he said. ‘It’s called melochord. It was made in England. It is my belief that the manufacturers released only a few pieces, then stopped production for some reason. I had never seen it before, and since it’s not possible to get it any more, I offered a thousand for it. Your uncle agreed to sell it to me for that amount.’

‘Sorry, Mr Dasgupta, but you cannot have them,’ said Feluda firmly. Mr Dasgupta wheeled around, and cast a sharp look at us all. Then his eyes came to rest on Feluda. ‘Who are you?’ he asked dryly.

‘He is my friend,’ Mr Samaddar replied, ‘and he is right. We cannot let you buy either of these. You must appreciate the reason. After all, there is no evidence, is there, that my uncle had indeed agreed to sell them at the price you mentioned?’

Mr Dasgupta stood still like a statue, without saying a word. Then he strode out of the room as quickly as he could.

Feluda, too, rose to his feet, and walked slowly over to the instrument Mr Dasgupta had described as a
khamanche
. He didn’t seen perturbed at all by Mr Dasgupta’s sudden departure. The instrument looked a little like the small violins that are often sold to children by roadside hawkers, although of course it was much larger in size, and the round portion was beautifully carved. Then he went across to the melochord, and pressed its black and white keyboard. The sweet notes that rang out sounded like an odd mixture of the
piano and the sitar.

‘Is this the instrument you had heard your Dadu play?’

‘Maybe.’

Sadhan seemed a very quiet and serious little boy, which was rather unusual for a boy of his age.

Feluda said nothing more to him, and moved on to open the almirah once more. He took put a sheaf of papers from a drawer, and asked Mr Samaddar, ‘May I take these home? I think I need to go through them at some length.’