The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (48 page)

‘Oh yes, sure. Is there anything else . . . ?’

‘No, there’s nothing else, thank you.’

When we left the room, I saw Sadhan staring out of the window, humming a strange tune. It was certainly not from a Hindi film.

‘What do you think, Mr Mitter?’ asked Mr Samaddar on our way back from Bamungachhi. ‘Is there any hope of unravelling this mystery?’

‘I need to think, Mr Samaddar. And I need to read these papers I took from your uncle’s room. Maybe that’ll help me understand the man better. Besides, I need to do a bit of reading and research on music and musical instruments. Please give me two days to sort myself out.’

This conversation was taking place in the car when we finally set off on our return journey. Feluda had spent a lot of time in searching the whole house a second time, but even that had yielded nothing.

‘Yes, of course,’ Mr Samaddar replied politely.

‘You will have to help me with some dates.’

‘Yes?’

‘When did Radharaman’s son Muralidhar die?’

‘In 1945, twenty-eight years ago.’

‘How old was his son at that time?’

‘Dharani? He must have been seven or eight.’

‘Did they always live in Calcutta?’

‘No, Muralidhar used to work in Bihar. His wife came to live with us in Calcutta after Muralidhar died. When she passed away, Dharani was a college student. He was quite bright, but he began to change after his mother died. Very soon, he left college and joined a
theatre group. A year later, my uncle moved to Bamungachhi. His house was built in—’

‘—Nineteen fifty-nine. Yes, I saw that written on the main gate.’

Radharaman Samaddar’s papers proved to be a collection of old letters, a few cash memos, two old prescriptions, a catalogue of musical instruments produced by a German company called Spiegler, musical notation written on pages torn out of a notebook, and press reviews of five plays, in which mention of a Sanjay Lahiri had been underlined with a blue pencil.

‘Hm,’ said Feluda, looking at the notation. ‘The handwriting on these is the same as that in Surajit Dasgupta’s letter.’ Then he went through the catalogue and said, ‘There’s no mention of a melochord.’ After reading the reviews, he remarked, ‘Dharanidhar and this Sanjay Lahiri appear to be the same man. As far as I can see, although Radharaman refused to have anything to do with his grandson, he did collect information on him, especially if it was praise of his acting.’

Feluda put all the papers away carefully in a plastic bag, and rang a theatre journal called
Manchalok
, to find out which theatre group Sanjay Lahiri worked for. It turned out that the group was called the Modern Opera. Apparently, Sanjay Lahiri did all the lead roles. Feluda then rang their office, and was told that the group was currently away in Jalpaiguri. They would be back only after a week.

We went out after lunch. I had never had to go to so many different places, all on the same day! Feluda took me first to the National Museum. He didn’t tell me why we were going there, and I didn’t ask because he had sunk into silence and was cracking his knuckles. This clearly meant he was thinking hard, and was not to be disturbed. We went straight to the section for musical instruments. To be honest, I didn’t even know the museum had such a section. It was packed with all kinds of instruments, going back to the time of the
Mahabharata
. Modern instruments were also displayed, although there was nothing that might have come from the West.

Then we went to two music shops, one in Free School Street, and the other in Lal Bazaar. Neither had heard of anything called melochord. ‘Mr Samaddar was an old and valued customer,’ said Mr Mondol of Mondol & Co. which had its shop in Lal Bazaar (Feluda had found one of their cash memos among Radharaman’s papers yesterday). ‘But no, we never sold him the instrument you are
talking about. What does it look like? Is it a wind instrument like a clarinet?’

‘No. It’s more like a harmonium, but much smaller in size. The sound it gives out is a cross between a piano and a sitar.’

‘How many octaves does it have?’

I knew the eight notes—sa re ga ma pa dha ni sa—made one octave. The large harmoniums in Mondol’s shop had provision for as many as three octaves. When Feluda told him a melochord had only one octave, Mr Mondol shook his head and said, ‘No, sir, I don’t think we can help you. This instrument might well be only a toy. You may wish to check in the big toy shops in New Market.’

We thanked Mr Mondol and made our way to College Street. Feluda bought three books on music, and then we went off to find the office of
Manchalok
. We found it relatively easily, but it took us a long time to find a photograph of Sanjay Lahiri. Finally, Feluda dug out a crumpled photo from somewhere, and offered to pay for it. ‘Oh, I can’t ask you to pay for that picture, sir!’ laughed the editor of the magazine. ‘You are Felu Mitter, aren’t you? It’s a privilege to be able to help you.’

By the time we returned home after stopping at a café for a glass of lassi, it was 7.30 p.m. The whole area was plunged in darkness because of load shedding. Undaunted, Feluda lit a couple of candles and began leafing through his books. When the power came back at nine, he said to me, ‘Topshe, could you please pop across to your friend Poltu’s house, and ask him if I might borrow his harmonium just for this evening?’

It took me only a few minutes to bring the harmonium. When I went to bed quite late at night, Feluda was still playing it.

I had a strange dream that night. I saw myself standing before a huge iron door, in the middle of which was a very large hole. It was big enough for me to slip through; but instead of doing that, Feluda, Monimohan Samaddar and I were all trying to fit a massive key into it. And Surajit Dasgupta was dancing around, wearing a long robe, and singing, ‘Eight-two-o-nine-one! Eight-two-o-nine-one!’

Mr Samaddar had told us he’d give us a call the following Wednesday. However, he rang us a day earlier, on Tuesday, at 7

a.m. I answered the phone. When I told him to hold on while I went to get Feluda, he said, ‘No, there’s no need to do that. Just tell your cousin I’m going over to your house straightaway. Something urgent’s cropped up.’

He arrived in fifteen minutes. ‘Abani Sen rang from Bamungachhi. Someone broke into my uncle’s room last night,’ he said.

‘Does anyone else know how to operate that German lock?’ Feluda asked at once.

‘Dharani used to know. I’m not sure about Abani Babu—no, I don’t think he knows. But whoever broke in didn’t use that door at all. He went in through the small outer door to the bathroom. You know, the one meant for cleaners.’

‘But that door was bolted from inside. I saw that myself.’

‘Maybe someone opened it after we left. Anyway, the good news is that he couldn’t take anything. Anukul came to know almost as soon as he got into the house, and raised an alarm. Look, are you free now? Do you think you could go back to the house with me?’

‘Yes, certainly. But tell me something. If you now saw Radharaman’s grandson, Dharani, do you think you could recognize him?’

Mr Samaddar frowned. ‘Well, I haven’t seen him for years, but . . . yes, I think I could.’

Feluda went off to fetch the photo of Sanjay Lahiri. When he handed it over to Mr Samaddar, I saw that he had drawn a long moustache on Sanjay’s face, and added a pair of glasses with a heavy frame. Mr Samaddar gave a start. ‘Why,’ he exclaimed, ‘this looks like—!’

‘Surajit Dasgupta?’

‘Yes! But perhaps the nose is not quite the same. Anyway, there is a resemblance,’

‘The photo is of your cousin Muralidhar’s son. I only added a couple of things just to make it more interesting.’

‘It’s amazing. Actually, I did find it strange, when Dasgupta walked in yesterday. In fact, I wanted to ring you last night and tell you, but I got delayed at the press. We were working overtime, you see. But then, I wasn’t absolutely sure. I hadn’t seen Dharani for fifteen years, not even on the stage. I’m not interested in the theatre at all. If what you’re suggesting is true . . .’

Feluda interrupted him, ‘If what I’m suggesting is true, we have to prove two things. One—that Surajit Dasgupta doesn’t exist in real
life at all; and two—that Sanjay Lahiri left his group and returned to Calcutta a few days before your uncle’s death. Topshe, get the number of Minerva Hotel, please.’ The hotel informed us that a Surajit Dasgupta had indeed been staying there, but had checked out the day before. There was no point in calling the Modern Opera, for they had already told us Sanjay Lahiri was out of town.

On reaching Bamungachhi, Feluda inspected the house from outside, following the compound wall. Whoever came must have had to come in a car, park it at some distance and walk the rest of the way. Then he must have jumped over the wall. This couldn’t have been very difficult, for there were trees everywhere, their overgrown branches leaning over the compound wall. The ground being totally dry, there were no footprints anywhere.

We then went to find Anukul. He wasn’t feeling well and was resting in his room. What he told us, with some difficulty, was this: mosquitoes and an aching head had kept him awake last night. He could see the window of Radharaman’s bedroom from where he lay. When he suddenly saw a light flickering in the room, he rose quickly and shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ But before he could actually get to the room, he saw a figure slip out of the small side door to the bathroom and disappear in the dark. Anukul spent what was left of the night lying on the floor of his master’s bedroom.

‘I don’t suppose you could recognize the fellow?’ Mr Samaddar asked.

‘No, sir. I’m an old man, sir, and I can’t see all that well. Besides, it was a moonless night.’

Radharaman’s bedroom appeared quite unharmed. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Even so, Feluda’s face looked grim. ‘Moni Babu,’ he said, ‘you’ll have to inform the police. This house must be guarded from tonight. The intruder may well come back. Even if Surajit Dasgupta is not Sanjay Lahiri, he is our prime suspect. Some collectors are strangely determined. They’ll do anything to get what they want.’

‘I’ll ring the police from next door. I happen to know the OC,’ said Mr Samaddar and went out of the room busily.

Feluda picked up the melochord and began inspecting it closely. It was a sturdy little instrument. There were two panels on it, both beautifully engraved. Feluda turned it over and discovered an old and faded label. ‘Spiegler,’ he said. ‘Made in Germany, not England.’ Then he began playing it. Although he was no expert, the sound that
filled the room was sweet and soothing. ‘I wish I could break it open and see what’s inside,’ he said, putting it back on the table, ‘and obviously I can’t do that. The chances are that I’d find nothing, and the instrument would be totally destroyed. Dasgupta was prepared to pay a thousand rupees for it, imagine!’

Despite his splitting headache, Anukul got up and brought us some lemonade again. Feluda thanked him and took a few sips from his glass. Mr Samaddar returned at this moment. ‘The police have been informed,’ he told us. ‘Two constables will be posted here from tonight. Abani Babu wasn’t home. He and Sadhan have gone to Calcutta for the day.’ ,

‘I see. Well, tell me, Moni Babu, who—apart from yourself—knew about Radharaman’s habit of hiding all his money?’

‘Frankly, Mr Mitter, I realized the money was hidden only after his death. Abani Babu next door is aware that we’re looking for my uncle’s money, but I’m sure he hasn’t any idea about the amount involved. If it was Dharani who came here disguised as Dasgupta, he may have learnt something that morning before my uncle died. In fact, I’m convinced Dharani had come only to ask for money. Then they must have had a row, and—’ Mr Samaddar broke off.

Feluda looked at him steadily and said, ‘—And as a result of this row, your uncle had a heart attack. But that didn’t stop Dharani. He searched the room before he left. Isn’t that what you’re thinking?’

‘Yes. But I know he didn’t find any money.’

‘If he had, he wouldn’t have returned posing as Surajit Dasgupta, right?’

‘Right. Perhaps something made him think the money was hidden in one of those two instruments.’

‘The melochord.’

Mr Samaddar gave Feluda a sharp glance. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘That’s what my instincts are telling me. But I don’t like taking shots in the dark. Besides, I can’t forget your uncle’s last words. He did use the word “key”, didn’t he? You are certain about that?’

Mr Samaddar began to look unsure. ‘I don’t know . . . that’s what it sounded like,’ he faltered, rubbing his hands in embarrassment. ‘Or it could be that my uncle was talking pure nonsense. It could have been delirium, couldn’t it? Maybe the word “key” has no significance at all.’

I felt a sudden stab of disappointment at these words. But Feluda
remained unruffled. ‘Delirium or not, there is money in this room,’ he said. ‘I can smell it. Finding a key is not really important. We’ve got to find the money.’

‘How? What do you propose to do?’

‘Just at this moment, I’d like to go back home. Please tell Anukul not to worry, I don’t think anyone will try to break in during the day. All he needs to do is not let any stranger into the house. There will be those police constables at night. I must go back and think very hard. I can see a glimmer of light, but unless that grows brighter, there’s nothing much I can do. May I please spend the night here?’

Mr Samaddar looked faintly surprised at this question. But he said immediately, ‘Yes, of course, if that’s what you want. Shall I come and collect you at 8 p.m.?’

‘All right. Thank you, Moni Babu.’

‘First of all, my boy, write down the name of the dead man.’

Feluda was back in his room, sitting on his bed. I was sitting in a chair next to him, a notebook on my lap and a pen in my hand.

‘Radharaman Samaddar,’ I wrote.

‘What’s his grandson called?’

‘Dharanidhar Samaddar.’

‘And the name he uses on the stage?’

‘Sanjay Lahiri.’

‘What’s the name of the collector of musical instruments who lives in Dehra Dun?’

‘Surajit Dasgupta.’

‘Who’s Radharaman’s neighbour?’

‘Abani Sen.’

‘And his son?’

‘Sadhan.’

‘What were Radharaman’s last words?’

‘In my name . . . key . . . key.’

‘What are the eight notes in the sargam?’

‘Sa re ga ma pa dha ni sa.’

‘Very well. Now go away and don’t disturb me. Shut the door as you go. I am going to work now.’

I went to the living room and picked up one of my favourite books to read. An hour later, I heard Feluda dialling a number on the telephone extension in his room. Unable to contain myself, I tiptoed
to the door of his room and eavesdropped shamelessly. ‘Hello? Can I speak to Dr Chintamoni Bose, please?’

Feluda was calling the heart specialist who had accompanied Mr Samaddar the day Radharaman died. I returned to the living room, my curiosity satisfied. Ten minutes later, there was the sound of dialling again. I rose once more and listened at the door.

‘Eureka Press? Who’s speaking?’

This time, Feluda was calling Mr Samaddar’s press. I didn’t need to hear any more, so I went back to my book.

When our cook Srinath came in with the tea at four, Feluda was still in his room. By the time I had finished my tea and read a few more pages of my book, it was 4.35. I was now feeling more mystified than ever. What on earth could Feluda be doing, puzzling over those few words I had scribbled in a notebook? After all, there wasn’t anything in them he didn’t know already. Before I could think any further, Feluda opened his door and came out with a half-finished Charminar in his hand. ‘My head’s reeling, Topshe!’ he exclaimed, a note of suppressed excitement in his voice. ‘Who knew it would take me so long to work out the meaning of a few words spoken by a very old man at his deathbed?’

In reply, I could only stare dumbly at Feluda. What he had just said made no sense to me, but I could see that his face looked different, which could simply mean that the light he had seen earlier was now much stronger than a glimmer.

‘Sa dha ni sa ni . . . notes from the sargam. Does that tell you anything?’

‘No, Feluda. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Good. If you could catch my drift, one would have had to assume your level of intelligence was as high as Felu Mitter’s.’

I was glad of the difference. I was perfectly happy being Feluda’s satellite, and no more.

Feluda threw his cigarette away, and picked up the telephone once again.

‘Hello? Mr Samaddar? Can you come over at once? Yes, yes, we have to go to Bamungachhi as soon as we can . . . I think I’ve finally got the answer . . . yes, melochord . . . that’s the important thing to remember.’

Then he replaced the receiver and said seriously, ‘There is a risk involved, Topshe. But I’ve got to take it, there is no other choice.’