The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (11 page)

I returned to the living room and spent the next three minutes simply staring at the furniture. I knew I must not touch anything. Besides, the two constables were both gaping at me.

‘Come on, Topshe!’

Feluda had emerged from the bedroom.

‘Are you going to be here for some time?’ Bakshi asked.

‘Yes, I’ll go and see the old Mr Datta. Let me know if you find anything interesting.’

Subir Datta was waiting upstairs. He took us to his brother’s room.

Nihar Datta was reclining in his easy chair. He was wearing his dark glasses, and his stick was lying on his bed. So far, I had seen that stick clutched in his hand, so I had not realized that it had a silver handle. A design was carved on it, and in its centre, were the letters G B D. The stick must have once belonged to his grandfather, Golok Bihari Datta.

On being told of our arrival, he raised his head slightly and said, ‘Yes, I heard their footsteps. Sound and touch . . . only these two things have helped me survive for twenty years. And I have memories . . . thoughts of what might have been. Some say it was just my misfortune.
I
know it had nothing to do with fate or fortune. You asked me that day, Mr Mitter, whether the explosion was a result of negligence. Today, I am prepared to tell you frankly that the whole thing was planned, just to destroy my work. Jealousy can make some people stoop incredibly low. As a detective, I am sure you can appreciate that.’

Mr Datta stopped. Feluda said, ‘You mean you think Suprakash Choudhury was responsible for the explosion?’

‘No Bengali could have a greater enemy than a fellow Bengali. You can believe that, can’t you?’

Feluda was staring steadily at the dark glasses. Nihar Datta appeared to be waiting for an answer.

‘Have you ever mentioned this to anyone else, in the same way?’

‘No, never. When I woke up in hospital, this was the first thing that came to my mind. But I did not say anything. What good would it have done? The damage was done, anyway. Even if the culprit responsible was punished, I would not have got my sight back, or completed my research.’

‘But how did it help Suprakash Choudhury? Did he think he could steal your papers, finish the research alone and make a name for himself?’

‘Yes, that’s what he must have thought. But he was wrong. I’ve already told you, Mr Mitter. There was no way he could have got anywhere without my help.’

We were sitting on the bed. Feluda was deep in thought. Ranajit
Banerjee had come into the room, and was standing by the table. Subir Datta had left the room, possibly to attend to something.

‘I’m not sure about the money,’ said Feluda. ‘Perhaps the police will find it easier to recover it. But what I can’t accept is that all those valuable papers should be stolen while I was present in this house! I will do my utmost to get those back.’

‘You may do exactly as you please.’

We left soon after this. The police were still interviewing everyone. Bakshi promised to call Feluda and tell him of their findings.

‘Don’t forget to tell me about the New Corinthian Lodge!’ Feluda reminded him.

*

We returned home at half past ten. Feluda spent the rest of the morning pacing in his room, stopping occasionally, sitting or lying down, frowning, shaking his head, muttering to himself, and sighing from time to time. Obviously, various questions, doubts and suspicions were chasing one another in his mind. Then, suddenly, he turned to me and said, ‘Can you remember the general layout of the ground floor in Golok Lodge?’

I thought for a moment and said, ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘How would one go from Sukhwani’s flat to Dastur’s?’

I thought again. ‘As far as I can remember, the passage that runs past both flats towards the inner part of the house has a door in its centre. It probably stays locked. But if it was opened, one could easily slip through that door and go from one flat to another.’

‘Right. As things stand, if Sukhwani had wanted to visit Dastur, he’d have had to go round the garden, walk down the passage between the compound wall and the house, and come straight to the front door to gain entry.’

‘But what about the collapsible gate at the front of the house? Would that be open in the middle of the night?’

‘No, of course not.’

Then he began pacing again, muttering under his breath, ‘X Y Z . . . X Y Z . . . X is the research, Y is the money, and Z is murder. What we need to find out is whether these three are tied together by the same thread, or whether they are separate.’

While he was still muttering, I couldn’t help saying, ‘Feluda, do
you know what I think? I think Suprakash Choudhury disguised himself as Dastur and came to live in Nihar Datta’s house.’

To my surprise, Feluda did not dismiss the idea. On the contrary, he patted my back and said, ‘Such an idea has already occurred to me, but I have to say you aren’t far behind in getting brainwaves. If Dastur was Suprakash in disguise, then presumably he was there only to steal the research papers. But the question is, if he stole the envelope, where did it go? Besides, how could he have stolen it himself? He’d never been to the first floor!’

I had an answer to that. Really, I
had
become quite clever. ‘Why should Dastur have to go anywhere? Suppose he was in league with Shankar? Shankar could have stolen that envelope, passed it to Dastur, and been paid for it!’

‘Excellent!’ said Feluda. ‘At last, you have become a worthy assistant of mine. But it still doesn’t explain the murder.’

‘Ranajit Banerjee could have figured our that Dastur and Suprakash were the same. Mr Banerjee knows Mr Datta’s history, and has enormous respect for him. So, is it not possible that he should want to kill the man who destroyed Mr Datta’s entire career as a scientist?’

Feluda shook his head. ‘No. Murder isn’t such a simple business, Topshe. Banerjee’s motive could not be strong enough. It’s a great pity that the police haven’t yet found anything suspicious in Dastur’s room. He was obviously a most cautious man.’

‘You know what I feel, Feluda?’

Feluda stopped pacing and looked at me. I said, ‘If
you
had searched the room instead of the police, you would have found various clues.’

‘Ah. You think so?’

I couldn’t ever imagine Feluda losing confidence in himself. But the way he said, ‘You think so?’, that was what the words seemed to imply. What he said next made my heart sink further.

‘I doubt if even Einstein’s brain could have functioned in this heat and so many power cuts.’

Inspector Bakshi rang us around two o’clock. They had found a secret compartment in the heel of a shoe belonging to Dastur. It was crammed with American dollars and German marks, worth about seventeen thousand rupees. However, they had found no papers or documents that might help identify the man. No new electronics shop could be located that knew of Dastur; nor had his friend been
traced. There were virtually no letters in the flat. The only personal letter they found had been written from Argentina. It simply proved that Dastur had spent some time in South America.

The second piece of news that Bakshi gave us was that they had shown Shankar’s photo to the manager of New Corinthian Lodge. The manager had recognized him, and told the police that Shankar and his friends had hired a room in his hotel and spent the previous night drinking and playing cards. They paid their bill in the morning and left. According to Bakshi, it was ‘only a matter of minutes’ before Shankar was arrested.

Feluda heard what Bakshi had to say, put the phone down and said, ‘If Shankar Datta had used some of the stolen money to settle his hotel bill, that really would have been most convenient. But anyway, at least it proves he could not have killed Dastur. He has an alibi.’

I had learnt the meaning of the word ‘alibi’ some time ago. But at first I couldn’t figure out how to explain it to those who might not know it. When I asked Feluda, he just said, ‘Write what it says in the dictionary.’ So an alibi is ‘a plea that accused was elsewhere when the crime was committed’. In other words, Shankar could very easily say, ‘When the murder took place, I was in a hotel playing cards with my friends!’

Even after Bakshi’s telephone call, Feluda continued to be restless. At around three, I saw that he had changed and was dressed to go out. He had to get some information, he said. It was half past four by the time he returned. I read the Mahabharat during that time, and nearly finished it.

I was reading the bit where, on their final journey, the Pandavas begin falling one by one—and Arjun was just about to fall—when the phone rang suddenly. I answered it. It was Subir Datta, asking for Feluda. Feluda picked up the extension in his own room. I placed my ear to the phone in the living room and heard the whole conversation.

‘Hello.’

‘Mr Mitter?’

‘Yes?’

‘The sealed envelope with my brother’s research papers has been found.’

‘In Mr Dastur’s room?’

‘Yes, that’s right. It was stuck with some Sellotape to the underside
of the bed. But one side came unstuck and it was left dangling. Our servant, Bhagirath, found it.’

‘Does your brother know about it?’

‘Yes. But he seems very depressed—he’s not really interested in anything at all. He did not leave his chair today, even once. I have asked our family physician to take a look at him.’

‘Any news about your son?’

‘Yes. The entire gang has been arrested near G T Road.’

‘And the stolen money?’

‘No, that wasn’t found. Perhaps they kept it safe somewhere else. But Shankar is denying the whole thing—says he had nothing to do with the theft.’

‘What do the police say about the murder?’

‘They suspect Sukhwani. Besides, they’ve found a new clue. There was a crumpled piece of paper outside Dastur’s window.’

‘Did it say anything?’

‘It was just a one-line warning:
you know what excessive curiosity can do.
’

‘What does Sukhwani have to say about all this?’

‘He’s denying everything. It’s true that one can’t get to Dastur’s flat from his, but a hired killer could easily have climbed up to the first floor, then gone down the stairs and killed Dastur.’

‘Hmm . . . all right, I’ll go over to your house.’

Feluda replaced the receiver. Then I heard him mutter to himself: ‘X is the same as Y. Now we need to find out about Z.’ A second later, he called out to me, ‘Destination Golok Lodge. Get ready, Topshe!’

‘Leaving, are you?’

Ranajit Banerjee was walking towards the front gate as we arrived at Golok Lodge. A constable was posted outside, so obviously the police were keeping their eye on the house.

‘Yes,’ Mr Banerjee replied. ‘Mr Datta told me I would not be required today.’

‘How is he?’

‘The doctor’s seen him. He said so much has happened lately that Mr Datta is in a state of shock. His blood pressure is fluctuating.’

‘Is he talking to people?’

‘Oh yes, yes!’ Mr Banerjee said reassuringly.

‘I’d like to look at the envelope found in Dastur’s room. Could you please come back to the house, unless you’re in a tearing hurry? Is that envelope now back in the safe?’

‘Yes.’

‘I won’t keep you long—promise! I don’t suppose I’ll visit this house again.’

‘But . . . the envelope is sealed!’ Mr Banerjee said a little uncertainly. ‘I just want to hold it in my hand,’ Feluda replied.

Mr Banerjee raised no further objection.

The house was dark, as on previous days. The power supply would not be resumed till ten o’clock. Now it was only a quarter past six. Kerosene lamps burned on the passage on the first floor, and on the landing. But they did nothing to dispel the gloom in nooks and corners.

Mr Banerjee showed us into the living room and went to inform Subir Datta. Before he left the room, he told us that if Nihar Datta objected to taking the envelope out, it could not be shown to anyone.

‘That goes without saying,’ Feluda told him.

Subir Datta looked quite tired. He had spent all day keeping press reporters at bay, he said. ‘The only good thing is that this entire business has made everyone think of my brother again. People had almost forgotten his name!’

Mr Banerjee returned a minute later, carrying a long white envelope. ‘Mr Datta didn’t mind . . . because I mentioned your name. He would not have allowed anyone else to look at his papers.’

‘Amazing!’ exclaimed Feluda, peering closely at the envelope under a kerosene lamp. To me, it appeared an ordinary long envelope. There was a red seal on one side; and on the other, on the bottom left hand corner, were the words ‘Department of Biochemistry, University of Michigan, Michigan, USA’. What was so amazing about that? Mr Datta and Mr Banerjee were seated on the sofa in the dimly lit room. Perhaps they were feeling just as puzzled.

Feluda returned to his chair, still staring at the envelope. Then he ignored the other two men completely, and began talking only to me. He sounded like a schoolteacher. As a matter of fact, he had used the same tone many times in the past, to enlighten me on various subjects.

‘You see, Topshe, English typefaces are an extraordinary business.
Bengali has ten or twelve different typefaces; English has two thousand. Once I had to read up on this subject while investigating a case. Each typeface belongs to a particular group, and each group has a particular name. For instance, this typeface here is called Garramond,’ Feluda pointed at the printed words on the envelope. Then he continued, ‘Garramond came into being in the sixteenth century in France. Then it began to be used everywhere in the world. Countries like England, Germany, Switzerland and America didn’t just use this typeface but, in their own factories, made the mould required to use it. Even India has started doing that now. The funny thing is, if you look very carefully, you will always find a subtle difference between Garramond used in one country and another. The formation of certain letters usually gives away this difference. For example, the letters on this envelope should have been American Garramond. But they have turned into Indian Garramond. In fact, you may even call it Calcutta Garramond!’

The silence in the room became charged with tension. Feluda’s eyes were now fixed on Ranajit Banerjee’s face. I had seen pictures of waxworks of famous people in Madame Tussaud’s in London. Every feature looked amazingly lifelike, except the eyes. Only the glass eyes were an indication that those figures were lifeless. Ranajit Banerjee was alive, but his eyes were unseeing. They looked very much like the eyes of those wax figures.

‘Please don’t mind, Mr Banerjee, I feel obliged to open this envelope!’

Ranajit Banerjee raised his right hand as if he wanted to stop Feluda, but let it fall almost immediately.

With a sharp, rasping noise, Feluda’s fingers tore open one side of the envelope. Then the same fingers took out a sheaf of ruled foolscap paper. Yes, the sheets were ruled—but that was all. There was no writing on them. Each sheet was blank.

The glassy eyes were now closed; Ranajit Banerjee’s head was bent, his elbows were placed on his knees, and his face was buried in his hands.

‘Mr Banerjee,’ Feluda said grimly, ‘You said yesterday something about a thief breaking in. That was a lie, wasn’t it?’

Mr Banerjee could not speak. All he could do was make a sound that was more like a groan than anything else. Feluda continued to speak: ‘You just had to create the impression that there had been a
burglar the previous night, because you were getting ready to steal everything yourself and had to make sure that no suspicion should fall on you. Then yesterday afternoon, when you saw your chance, you opened the safe and removed thirty-three thousand rupees and Nihar Datta’s research notes. I don’t think this printed envelope was ready yesterday. You had it printed last night. Why, may I ask?’

Ranajit Banerjee finally raised his face and looked at Feluda. When he spoke, his voice sounded choked. ‘Yesterday, when Mr Datta heard Dastur’s voice, he knew it was Suprakash Choudhury. He said to me, “The fellow has become greedy again, after twenty years.
He
must have removed my papers.” So I. . .’.

‘I see. So you thought this was your chance to pin the theft on Dastur. When the police left, it was you who fixed the envelope with Sellotape to the underside of Dastur’s bed, am I right? But you made sure that it could be seen if someone bent low enough.’

Mr Banerjee let out a wail. ‘Forgive me, please forgive me! I swear I will return everything tomorrow—both the money and the papers. I . . . simply . . . I simply couldn’t stop myself . . . the temptation was just too much.’

‘Yes, you shall certainly return everything, or I’ll have to hand you over to the police.’

‘Yes, I appreciate that. But may I please make a request? Please don’t tell the old Mr Datta anything about this. He is very fond of me. I don’t think he could withstand the shock.’

‘Very well. Nihar Datta will learn nothing, I promise you. But you were such a brilliant student . . . why did you have to do such a thing?’

Ranajit Banerjee looked blankly at Feluda.

‘I went to meet your professor—Professor Bagchi. You see, I began to have doubts about you when I saw those scratch marks around the keyhole on the safe. No thief would be so careless, especially when someone was actually sleeping in the room, and a servant was just outside the door. Anyway, Professor Bagchi told me what a bright future you had. If you had taken your final exams, he thought you would have obtained a first class degree. Why did you abandon your studies and suddenly take the job of a secretary here? Was it to try and find a short cut to a Nobel Prize? Is that what tempted you?’

A mixture of fear, shame and remorse made Ranajit Banerjee completely speechless. I could see that, like me, Feluda was feeling most sorry for the man.

‘You may go home now, but you must return at once with the money and the papers. We cannot wait until tomorrow. If you wait a moment, I will arrange for one of the constables to go with you. It wouldn’t be wise to travel with such a lot of cash.’

Ranajit Banerjee nodded, like an obedient child.

In spite of what Subir Datta had told us about his son, the news that he was not the thief must have come as a major relief. At least, that was what the look on his face and his voice implied.

‘Will you go and see my brother?’ he asked.

‘Certainly,’ Feluda replied. ‘That’s really why I am here.’

We followed Subir Datta into his brother’s room.

‘So you’re here?’ Nihar Datta asked, still reclining in his chair. ‘Yes, sir. Your research papers have been found, I hear. You must be feeling quite relieved?’

‘They no longer mean anything to me,’ Mr Datta’s voice sounded low and dispirited. I had no idea a man could grow so pale in just one day. Even the day before, he had appeared quite strong.

‘Perhaps not. But they are still of great value to us, to many scientists in this world,’ said Feluda.

‘If you say so.’

‘I would like to ask you just one more question. After that, I promise I won’t bother you again.’

A thin, wan smile appeared on Nihar Datta’s lips. ‘Bother me? No, Mr Mitter, no one can possibly bother me now.’

‘Well then, here’s my question. Yesterday, I had seen ten sleeping pills on your table. There are still ten of them lying there. Does that mean you did not take a pill last night?’

‘No, I didn’t. But tonight, I shall’

‘Thank you. We will now take our leave.’

‘Wait!’

Nihar Datta offered Feluda his right hand. Feluda grasped it. The two shook hands most warmly. ‘You will understand. You have a special vision,’ Mr Datta said.

*

Feluda seemed quiet and withdrawn even after we got home. But I wasn’t prepared to be kept in the dark any longer. ‘You have to tell me everything!’ I said. ‘Don’t just beat about the bush.’

In reply to my question, Feluda suddenly made a reference to the Ramayan. This was his way of adding further suspense—I could never tell why he did that.

‘Six days after Dasharath sent Ram into exile, he remembered that, as a young prince, he had committed a crime. That was the reason why he was suffering so much in his old age. Can you remember what that crime was?’

It was some time since I’d last read the Ramayan, but I could remember that particular story.

‘A blind sage lived in a forest. His son was filling his pitcher from a river one night. Dasharath heard that noise from a distance, and thought it was an elephant drinking water. He shot one of his special arrows that could hit the source of any sound. The arrow found its target and killed the young boy.’

‘Good. Dasharath had the power to reach a target simply going by the sound it made, even if it was dark and he couldn’t see anything. Nihar Datta could do the same.’

‘Nihar Datta?’ I nearly fell off my chair.

‘Yes, sir. He did not take the sleeping pill because he knew he would have to stay awake and alert during the night. When everyone else went to sleep, he walked down the stairs barefoot and went to Dastur—or, if you like, Suprakash’s room. His nephew used that room at one time. So he knew its layout. In his hand was a weapon— a stout stick with a solid silver handle. He went close to the bed and struck, not once but three times!’

‘But . . . but . . .’ I felt totally confused. What on earth was Feluda talking about? Mr Datta was blind, for heaven’s sake!

‘Don’t you remember something?’ Feluda sounded a little impatient. ‘What did Sukhwani say about Dastur?’

It came back to me in a flash. ‘Dastur used to snore very loudly!’

‘Exactly. That means Nihar Datta could make out where on his pillow Dastur’s head was resting, whether or not he had turned on his side—everything. For someone with ears as sharp as Mr Datta’s, no other detail was necessary. If one blow wasn’t enough, three certainly were.’

After a few moments of stunned silence, I said slowly, ‘Was
that
the unfinished business? Revenge?’

‘Yes. A desire for revenge can produce enormous energy, even if a person is blind. It was this desire that had kept him alive so far.
Now he is very close to death . . . and no one can touch him, not even the law.’

*

Nihar Ranjan Datta lived for another seventeen days. Just before he died, he made a will and left all his research papers and savings to his trusted and talented secretary, Ranajit Banerjee.