by Satyajit Ray
‘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.’
‘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.
Three
‘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 catalo
gue 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!’
Four
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 fac
e 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.
