The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (49 page)

Mr Samaddar’s driver was old, but that didn’t stop him from driving at eighty-five kilometres per hour when we reached VIP Road. Feluda sat fidgeting, as though he would have liked to have driven faster. Soon, we had to reduce our speed as the road got narrower and more congested. However, only a little while later, it shot up to sixty, despite the fact that the road wasn’t particularly good and it had started to get dark.

There was no one at the main gate of Radharaman’s house. ‘Perhaps it’s not yet time for those police constables to have arrived,’ Feluda remarked.

We found Sadhan in the garden with his airgun.

‘Why, Sadhan Babu, what are you killing in the dark?’ Feluda asked him, getting out of the car.

‘Bats,’ Sadhan replied promptly. There were a number of bats hanging from the branches of a peepul tree just outside the compound.

The sound of our car had brought Anukul to the front door. Mr Samaddar told him to light a lantern and began unlocking the German lock. ‘I’m dying to learn how you solved the mystery,’ he said. I could understand his feelings, for Feluda hadn’t uttered a single word in the car. I, too, was bursting with curiosity.

Feluda refused to break his silence. Without a word, he stepped into the room and switched on a powerful torch, It shone first on the wall, then fell on the melochord, still resting peacefully on the small table. My heart began to beat faster. The white keys of the instrument gleamed in the light, making it seem as though it was grinning from ear to ear. Feluda did not move his arm. ,‘Keys . . .’ he said softly. ‘Look at those keys. Radharaman didn’t mean a lock and a key at all. He meant the keys of an instrument, like a piano, or—’

He couldn’t finish speaking. What followed a split second later took my breath away. Even now, as I write about it, my hand trembles.

At Feluda’s words, Mr Samaddar suddenly sprang in the air and pounced upon the melochord like a hungry tiger on its prey. Then he picked it up, struck at Feluda’s head with it, knocked me over and ran out of the door.

Feluda had managed to raise his arms in the nick of time to protect his head. As a result, his arms took the blow, making him drop the
torch and fall on the bed in pain. As I scrambled to my feet, I heard Mr Samaddar locking the door behind him. Even so, I rushed forward, to try and push it with my shoulder. Then I heard Feluda whisper, ‘Bathroom.’ I picked up the torch quickly, and we both sped out of the small bathroom door.

There was the sound of a car starting, followed by a bang. A confused babble greeted us as we emerged. I could hear Anukul shouting in dismay, and Abani Sen speaking to his son very crossly. By the time we reached the front door, the car had gone, but there was someone sitting on the driveway.

‘What have you done, Sadhan?’ Mr Sen was still scolding his son furiously. ‘Why did do you that? It was wrong, utterly wrong—!’

Sadhan made a spirited reply in his thin childish voice, ‘What could I do? He was trying to run away with Dadu’s instrument!’

‘He’s quite right, Mr Sen,’ Feluda said, panting a little. ‘He’s done us a big favour by injuring the culprit, though in the future he must learn to use his airgun more carefully. Please go back home and inform the police. The driver of that car must not be allowed to get away. Tell them its number is WMA 6164.’

Then he walked over to the figure sitting on the driveway and, together with Anukul, helped him to his feet. Mr Samaddar allowed himself to be half pushed and half dragged back into the house, without making any protest. A pellet from Sadhan’s airgun had hit one corner of his forehead. The wound was still bleeding.

The melochord was still lying where it had fallen on the cobbled path. I picked it up carefully and took it back to the house.

Feluda, Mr Sen, Inspector Dinesh Guin from the Barasat police station and I were sitting in Radharaman’s bedroom, drinking tea. A man—possibly a constable—stood at the door. Another sat huddled in a chair. This was our culprit, Monimohan Samaddar. The wound on his forehead was now dressed. Sadhan was also in the room, standing at the window and staring out. On a table in front of us was the melochord.

Feluda cleared his throat. He was now going to tell us how he had learnt the truth. His watch was broken, and one of his arms was badly scraped. He had found a bottle of Dettol in the bathroom, and dabbed his arm with it. Then he had tied a handkerchief around his arm. If he was still in pain, he did not show it.

He put his cup down and began speaking. ‘I started to suspect Monimohan Samaddar only from this afternoon. But I had nothing to prove that my suspicions weren’t baseless. So, unless he made a false move, I could not catch him. Fortunately, he lost his head in the end and played right into my hands. He could never have got away, but Sadhan helped me in catching him immediately . . . Something he told me about working late on Monday first made me suspicious, not at the time, but later. He said he got very late on Monday evening because he had to work overtime. This was odd since a friend of mine lives in the same area where his press is, and I have often heard him complain that they have long power cuts, always starting in the evening and lasting until quite late at night. So I rang the Eureka Press, and was told that no work had been done on Monday evening because of prolonged load shedding. Moni Babu himself had left the press in the afternoon, and no one had seen him return. This made me wonder if a man who had told me one lie hadn’t also told me another. What if Radharaman’s last words were different from what I had been led to believe? I remembered he wasn’t the only one present at the time of his death. I rang Dr Chintamoni Bose, and learnt that what Radharaman had really said was, “Dharani . . . in my name . . . key . . . key.” It was Dharani’s name that Moni Babu had failed to mention. Dharani was, after all, Radharaman’s only grandchild. He was still fond of him. If there were good reviews of his performance, Radharaman kept those press cuttings. So it was only natural that he should try to tell his grandson—and not his nephew—the secret about his money. I don’t think he had even recognized his nephew. Nevertheless, it was his nephew who heard his last words. He could make out that Radharaman was talking about his hidden money. But he couldn’t find a key anywhere, so he decided to come to me, the idea being that I would find out where the key was, and Moni Babu would grab all the money. Nobody knew if there was a will. If a will could not be found, everything Radharaman possessed would have gone directly to Dharani. In any case, I doubt very much if Radharaman would have considered leaving anything to his nephew. It is my belief that he wasn’t particularly fond of Moni Babu.’

Feluda stopped. No one spoke. After a brief pause, he continued, ‘Now, the question was, why did Moni Babu lie to me about working late on Monday? Was it because he spent Monday evening indulging in some criminal activity, which meant that he needed an
alibi? Radharaman’s room was broken into that same evening. Could the intruder have been Moni Babu himself? The more I thought about it, the more likely did it seem. He was the only one who could use the combination lock, go into the room, unbolt the bathroom door, then come out again and lock the main door to the bedroom. That small bathroom door was most definitely bolted from inside when I saw it during the day. No cleaner could have come in after we left since it’s not being used at all. I suspect Moni Babu had worked out what his uncle had meant by the word “key”, so he’d come back in the middle of the night to steal the melochord. Am I right?’

All of us turned to look at Mr Samaddar. He nodded without lifting his head. Feluda went on, ‘Even if Moni Babu could get away with stealing the melochord, I am positive he could never have decoded the rest of Radharaman’s message. I stumbled on the answer only this evening, and for that, too, I have to thank little Sadhan.’

We looked at Sadhan in surprise. He turned his head and stared at Feluda solemnly. ‘Sadhan,’ Feluda said, ‘tell us once again what your Dadu said about music and people’s names.’

‘Those who have melody in their names,’ Sadhan whispered, ‘are bound to have melody in their voices.’

‘Thank you. This is merely an example of Radharaman’s extraordinary intelligence. “Those who have melody in their names,” he said. All right, let’s take a name. Take Sadhan, for instance. Sadhan Sen. If you take away some of the vowels, you get notes from the sargam—sa dha ni sa ni. When I realized this, a new idea struck me. His last words were “in my name . . . key”. Could he have meant the keys on the melochord that corresponded with his own name? Radharaman—re dha re ma ni. Samaddar—sa ma dha dha re. Dharanidhar was a singer, too; and he had melody in his name as well—dha re ni dha re. What a very clever idea it was, simple yet ingenious. Radharaman was obviously interested in mechanical gadgets. That German combination lock is an example. The melochord was also made in Germany, by a company called Spiegler. It was made to order, possibly based on specifications supplied by Radharaman himself. It acted as his bank. Thank goodness Surajit Dasgupta hadn’t walked away with it, although I’m sure Radharaman would have emptied its contents before handing it over. Maybe he didn’t feel the need for a bank any more. Maybe he
knew he didn’t have long to live . . . I learnt two other things. Surajit Dasgupta is a genuine musician, absolutely passionate about music and instruments. The few books on music I have read in the last two days mentioned his name. I was quite mistaken in thinking it was Dharani in disguise. Dharani is truly away in Jalpaiguri, he hasn’t the slightest idea of what’s going on. What we have to do now is see if there is anything left for him to inherit. He wants to form his own group, according to an interview published in Manchalok. So I’m sure a windfall would be most welcome. Topshe, bring that lantern here.’

I picked up the lantern and brought it closer to the melochord. Feluda placed it on his lap. ‘It’s had to put up with some rough handling today,’ he said, ‘but it was designed so well that I don’t think it was damaged in any way. Now let’s see what Radharaman’s brain and German craftsmanship has produced.’ Feluda began pressing the keys that made up Radharaman’s full name—re dha re ma ni sa ma dha dha re. A sweet note rang out with the pressing of every key. As Feluda pressed the last one, the right panel slid open silently. We leant over the instrument eagerly, to find that there was a deep compartment behind this panel, lined with red velvet, and packed with bundles of hundred rupee notes.

Sheer amazement turned us into statues for a few moments. Then Feluda began pulling out the bundles gently. ‘I think we have at least fifty thousand here,’ he said. ‘Come on, Mr Sen, help me count it.’

A bemused Abani Sen rose to his feet and stepped forward. The light from the lantern fell on Feluda’s face and caught the glint in his eye. I knew it wasn’t greed, but the pure joy of being able to use his razor-sharp brain once more, and solve another mystery.

O
ld Man hollow,
pace to follow,
people’s tree.
Half ten, half again
century.
Rising sun,
whence it’s done,
can’t you see?
Between hands,
below them stands,
yours, it be.

Feluda said to me, ‘When you write about our adventure in the forest, you must start with this puzzle.’

‘Why? We didn’t get to know of the puzzle until we actually got there!’

‘I know. But this is just a technique, to tickle the fancy of the reader.’

I wasn’t happy with this answer. Feluda realized it, so a couple of minutes later, he added, ‘Anyone who reads that puzzle at the outset will get the chance to use his own intelligence, you see.’

So I agreed to start my story with it. I should, however, point out at once that it’s no use trying to work out what it means. It’s not easy at all. In fact, it took even Feluda quite a long time to discover its meaning, although when he eventually explained it to me, it seemed simple enough.

In talking about our past experiences, I have so far used real names and real places. This time, I have been specifically asked not to do so. I had to turn to Feluda for advice on fictitious names I might use. ‘You can mention the place was near the border of Bhutan, there’s no harm in that,’ Feluda said, ‘but you can change its name to Laxmanbari. The chief character might be called Mr Sinha-Roy. Many old zamindar families used to have that name. In fact, some of them originally came from Rajputana. They came to Bengal and joined the army of Todar Mal to fight the Pathans. Then they simply stayed on, and their descendants became Bengalis.’

I am doing what Feluda told me to do. The names of places and people are fictitious, but not the events. I shall try to relate
everything exactly as I saw or heard it.

The story began in Calcutta. It was Sunday, 27 May. The time was 9.30 a.m. My summer holidays had started. Of late, the maximum temperature had hit 100°F, so I was keeping myself indoors, pasting stamps from Bhutan into my stamp album. Feluda had recently finished solving a murder case (catching the culprit by using a common pin as a clue), which had made him quite famous. He had also been paid a fat fee. At this moment he was resting at home, stretched out on a divan, reading Thor Heyerdahl’s
Aku-Aku
. A minute later, Jatayu turned up.

Lalmohan Ganguli—alias Jatayu—the writer of immensely popular crime thrillers, had started visiting us at least twice a month. The popularity of his novels meant that he was pretty well off. As a matter of fact, he was once rather proud of his writing prowess. But when Feluda pointed out dozens of factual errors in his books, Lalmohan Babu began to look upon him with a mixture of respect and admiration. Now, he got his manuscripts corrected by Feluda before passing them on to his publisher.

Today, however, he was not carrying a sheaf of papers under his arm, which clearly meant that there was a different reason for his visit. He sat down on a sofa, took out a green face towel from his pocket, wiped his face with it, and said without looking at Feluda, ‘Would you like to see a forest, Felu Babu?’

Feluda raised himself a little, leaning on his elbow. ‘What is your definition of a forest?’

‘The same as yours, Felu Babu. Cluster of trees. Dense foliage. That sort of thing.’

‘In West Bengal?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where? I can’t think of any place other than the Sunderbans, or Terai. Everything else has been wiped clean.’

‘Have you heard of Mahitosh Sinha-Roy?’

The question was accompanied by a rather smug smile. I had heard of him, too. He was a well-known shikari and a writer. Feluda had one of his books. I hadn’t read it, but Feluda had told me it was most interesting.

‘Doesn’t he live in Orissa, or is it Assam?’ Feluda asked.

‘No, sir,’ Lalmohan Babu replied, taking out an envelope from his pocket with a flourish, ‘he lives in the Dooars Forest, near the border of Bhutan. I dedicated my latest book to him. We have exchanged
letters.’

‘Oh? You mean you dedicate your books even to the living?’ Perhaps I should explain here the business of Lalmohan Babu’s dedications. Nearly all of them are made to famous people who are now dead.
The Antarctic Anthropophagi
was dedicated to the memory of Robert Scott;
The Gorilla’s Grasp
said, ‘In the memory of David Livingstone’, and
The Atomic Demon
(which Feluda said was the most nonsensical stuff he had ever read) had been dedicated to Einstein. Then, when he wrote
The Himalayan
Hemlock
, he dedicated it to the memory of Sir Edmund Hillary. Feluda was furious at this.

‘Why, Lalmohan Babu, why did you have to kill a man who is very much alive?’

‘What! Hillary is alive?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, looking both apologetic and embarrassed, ‘I didn’t know. I mean . . . he hasn’t been in the news for a long time, and he does go about climbing mountains, doesn’t he? So I thought perhaps he had slipped and . . . well, you know . . .’ His voice trailed away.

The mistake was rectified when the second edition of the book came out.

Mahitosh Sinha-Roy might be a well-known shikari, but was he really as famous as all these other people? Why was the last book dedicated to him?

‘Well, you see,’ Lalmohan Babu explained, ‘I had to consult his book
The Tiger and the Gun
quite a few times when I was writing my own. In fact,’ he added with a smile, ‘I used a whole episode. So I felt I had to please him in some way.’

‘Did you succeed?’

Lalmohan Babu took out the letter from its envelope. ‘Yes. He wouldn’t send an invitation otherwise, would he?’

‘Well, he may have invited you, but surely he didn’t include me?’ Lalmohan Babu looked faintly annoyed. ‘Look, Felu Babu,’ he said, frowning, ‘I know you would never go anywhere unless you were invited. You are well known yourself, and you have your prestige. I am well aware of that. What happened was that I told him that the book had seen four editions in four months. And I also told him—only a hint, that is—that I knew you. So he sent me this letter. Read it yourself. We’ve both been invited.’

The last few lines of Mahitosh Sinha-Roy’s letter said, ‘I believe your friend Pradosh Mitter is a very clever detective. If you can bring
him with you, he might be able to help me out in a certain matter. Please let me know if he agrees to come.’

Feluda stared at the letter for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Is he an old man?’

‘What do you mean by old?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, his eyes half-closed.

‘Say, around seventy?’

‘No, sir. Mr Sinha-Roy is much younger than that.’

‘His writing is like an old man’s.’

‘How can you say that? This writing is absolutely beautiful.’

‘I agree. But look at the signature. I think the letter was written by his secretary.’

It was decided that we would leave for Laxmanbari the following Wednesday. We could go up to New Jalpaiguri by train. After that we’d have to go by car to Laxmanbari, which was forty-six miles away. Mahitosh Babu had already offered to send his own car to collect us at the New Jalpaiguri station.

It came as no surprise to me that Feluda agreed to visit a forest so readily. My own heart was jumping with joy. The fact was that one of our uncles was a shikari as well. Our ancestral home was in the village of Shonadeeghi, near Dhaka. My father was the youngest of three brothers. The oldest worked as the manager of an estate in Mymansinh. He was renowned in the area for having killed wild deer, boars and even tigers in the Madhupur forest to the north of Mymansinh. The second brother—Feluda’s father—used to teach mathematics and Sanskrit in a school. However, that did not stop him from being terrific at sports, including swimming, wrestling and shooting. Unfortunately, he died very young after only a brief spell of illness. Feluda was nine years old at the time. Naturally, his father’s death came as an enormous shock to everyone. Feluda was brought to our house and raised by my parents. My own father has never shown any interest in anything that calls for great physical strength, but I do know that his will power and mental strength is much stronger than most people’s.

Feluda himself has always been fascinated by tales of shikar. He has read every book written by Corbett and Kenneth Anderson. Although he’s never been on a shikar, he did learn to shoot and is now a crack shot. There is no doubt in my mind that he could easily
kill a tiger, should he be required to do so. He has often told me that the mind of an animal is a lot less complex than that of humans. Even the simplest of men would have a more complex mind than a ferocious tiger. Catching a criminal was, therefore, no less difficult than killing a tiger.

Feluda was trying to explain this to Lalmohan Babu in the train. Lalmohan Babu was carrying the first book Mahitosh Sinha-Roy had written. The front page had a photograph of the writer, which showed him standing with one foot on a dead Royal Bengal tiger, a rifle in his hand. His face wasn’t clear, but it was easy to spot the set of his jaws, his broad shoulders and an impressive moustache under a sharp, long nose.

Lalmohan Babu stared at the photo for a few seconds and said, ‘Thank goodness you are going with me, Felu Babu. In front of such a personality, I’d have looked like a . . . a worm!’ Jatayu’s height was five foot four inches, and at first glance his appearance suggested that he might be a comedian on the stage or in films. Anyone even slightly taller and better built than him made him look like a worm. Certainly, when he stood next to Feluda, the description seemed apt enough.

‘What is strange,’ he continued, ‘is that although this is his first book—and he began writing at the age of fifty—it reads as though it’s been written by an experienced writer. He has a wonderful style.’

‘He probably turned to writing when hunting as a sport was banned by the Indian government,’ Feluda remarked. ‘Many other shikaris have proved to be skilful writers. Corbett’s language is wonderful. Perhaps it’s something to do with being close to nature. Think of the sages who wrote the scriptures. Didn’t they live in jungles?’

I had noticed lightning ripping the sky soon after we left Calcutta. By the time we reached the New Farakka station, it was past midnight. I woke when the train stopped to find that it was pouring outside, and there was frequent thunder. However, when we alighted at New Jalpaiguri in the morning, there was no evidence of rain, although the sky was overcast.

The man who had been sent to meet us turned out to be Mahitosh Babu’s secretary, Torit Sengupta. He was under thirty, thin, fair, wore glasses with thick black frames, and his hair was dishevelled. He greeted us politely, but without any excessive show of warmth. I told myself hurriedly that it might not necessarily mean he was
displeased to see us. Feluda had warned me often enough not to jump to conclusions or judge people simply by their outward behaviour. But Mr Sengupta was clearly an intelligent man, for he didn’t have to be told who amongst us was Lalmohan Ganguli, and who was Pradosh Mitter.

We stopped for ten minutes to have toast and omelettes. Then we climbed into the jeep waiting outside. Our luggage consisted only of two suitcases and a shoulder-bag. There was plenty of room in the jeep to sit comfortably. ‘Mr Sinha-Roy sent his apologies for not being able to receive you himself,’ Mr Sengupta said before we started. ‘His brother has not been keeping well. So he had to stay home because the doctor was expected.’

This was news to us. None of us knew Mahitosh Babu had a brother.

‘I hope it’s nothing serious?’ Feluda asked. I could tell he wasn’t happy about staying in a house where someone was ill. Our visit might well turn into an imposition on our host.

‘No, no,’ Mr Sengupta replied, ‘Devtosh Babu—that’s his brother—doesn’t have a physical problem. His problems are mental, and he’s been . . . well, not quite normal . . . for many years. But don’t get me wrong. He isn’t mad. In fact, he seems fine most of the time. But occasionally he gets very restless. So the doctor has to put him on sedatives.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Sixty-four. He’s older by five years. He was once a very learned man. He had . . . has . . . an extensive knowledge of history.’

I looked out of the jeep. To the north were the Himalayas. Somewhere in that direction lay Darjeeling. I had been there three times, but never to Laxmanbari. It wasn’t very warm as there was no sun. The scenery changed as soon as we left the town. We passed a few tea estates. Now I could see mountains even to the east.

‘Bhutan,’ Mr Sengupta said briefly, pointing at these. The tea estates gave way to forests soon after we crossed the river Teesta. At one point, we saw a herd of goats emerging from a wood. Lalmohan Babu got very excited, and shouted, ‘Look, deer, deer!’

‘At least he didn’t say tigers. Thank heaven for that!’ Feluda muttered under his breath.

‘There is a forest called Kalbuni within a mile of where we live,’ Mr Sengupta informed us. ‘It was once full of tigers, many of which were killed by the Sinha-Roys. Now, I’m not sure if any Royal
Bengals are left, but about three months ago there were rumours of a man-eater in Kalbuni.’

‘Rumours? How do you mean?’

‘Well, the body of an adivasi boy was found in the jungle. There were scratches on it that suggested it had been attacked by a tiger.’

‘Just scratches? Didn’t the tiger eat the flesh?’

‘Yes, the flesh was partially eaten. But a hyena or a jackal may have been responsible for that.’

‘What did Mahitosh Babu have to say?’

‘He wasn’t here at the time. He had gone to visit his tea estate near Hasimara. The officers of the Forest Department thought it might be a tiger, but when Mr Sinha-Roy got back, he said that couldn’t be. A lot has been done in these few months to find that tiger, without success whatsoever.’

‘I see. No one else was attacked after that one incident?’

‘No.’

The very mention of a man-eater gave me goose pimples. But Mahitosh Babu must have been right. Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Highly interesting!’ and began staring at the trees, a frown across his brows.

We crossed a small river, went past a village and another forest, and turned left. The road was unpaved here, so our ride became noticeably bumpy. It did not last for very long, however. Only five minutes later, I saw the top of a building, towering over the trees. The rest of it came into view in a few moments. The trees thinned out to reveal a large mansion that stood behind tall iron gates. Once it must have been white, but now there were black marks all over its walls, making the whole house look as if it had been attacked and left badly bruised. Only the window panes glowed with colour. Not a single one from the colours of a rainbow was missing.