by Satyajit Ray
Mr Biswas cleared this throat. ‘There is only one question in my mind,’ he said. ‘Why did your secretary go to the forest in the middle of the night? The motive for killing, I think, is relatively simple. We didn’t find a wallet or any money or any other valuables on his person. So whoever killed him simply wanted those, I think. Plain robbery, there’s your motive.’
‘If that was the case,’ Feluda said quietly, lighting a cigarette, ‘he could simply have been knocked unconscious with a rod, or even a heavy walking stick. He did not have to be killed.’ Mr Biswas laughed again, a little dryly this time. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but if you rule out robbery, can you think of a suitable motive, Mr Mitter? Torit Sengupta worked for Mr Sinha-Roy, his world consisted of books and papers, he arrived here five years ago, didn’t go out much and didn’t know anyone except those in this house. Who would wish to kill a man like that, unless he—or they—came upon him by chance and decided to rob him of what possessions he had?’
Feluda frowned in silence.
‘Yes, I know an amateur detective wouldn’t appreciate the idea of a simple robbery,’ Mr Biswas mocked. ‘You like complications, don’t you? You like mysteries? Well then, here’s a first class mystery for you, Mr Mitter: why did Mr Sengupta go into the forest in the first place? What was he doing there? Try and solve that one!’
No one made a reply. Mr Sanyal was sitting next to his friend in absolute silence. Mahitosh Babu was still looking pale and exhausted. He kept shaking his head and muttering under his breath, ‘I don’t understand . . . nothing makes sense . . .!’
There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. We rose a minute later. To my surprise, Mr Biswas spoke quite kindly before we left. ‘You may carry on with your own investigation, Mr Mitter,’ he said, ‘we don’t mind that in the least. After all, you were the first person to notice the stab wound.’
We left the drawing room, but did not return to our own. Feluda went out of the front door, through the portico and turned right to go behind the house, past the old stables, and possibly where elephants used to be kept.
I glanced up once we were at the back of the house, and saw a row of windows on the first floor. Some were shut, others open. Through one of the open windows, I could see Lalmohan Babu’s towel hanging on his bedpost. Had it not been there, it would have been impossible to identify our own room. There was a door on the ground floor, directly below our window. Perhaps this acted as the back door. Mr Sengupta might have slipped out of it to go to the forest last night.
About fifty yards away, there was a tiny hut with a thatched roof. A group of men were huddled before it. I recognized one of them. It was Mahitosh Babu’s chowkidar. Perhaps the hut belonged to him. Feluda strode forward in that direction, closely followed by Lalmohan Babu and me. The forest Kalbuni stretched in the background, behind which lay a range of bluish-grey mountains.
The chowkidar gave us a salute as we got closer.
‘What is your name?’ Feluda asked him.
‘Chandan Mishir, huzoor.’ He was an old man, with close-cropped hair and wrinkles around his eyes. From the way he spoke, it was obvious that he chewed tobacco. Feluda started chatting with him. From what he told us, it appeared that the local people were far more worried about the man-eater than about Mr Sengupta’s death. Chandan—who had spent fifty years working for the Sinha-Roys—had seen or heard of mad elephants in the jungle which came out at times, but there hadn’t been a man-eater for at least thirty years.
It was Chandan’s belief that the tiger had been injured by a poacher, which now hampered its ability to find prey in the forest. This could well be true. Or maybe the tiger was old. Sometimes tigers became man-eaters when their teeth became worn and weak. I had even read that trying to eat a porcupine might injure a tiger to such an extent that it would then be forced to kill humans, which is easier than hunting other animals in the wild.
‘Do the locals want Mahitosh Babu to kill this tiger?’ Feluda asked.
Chandan scratched his head. ‘Yes, of course. But our babu has never been on a shikar in these parts. He’s been to the jungles in Assam and Orissa, but not here,’ he said.
This came as a big surprise to us all.
‘Why? Why hasn’t he ever hunted here?’
‘Babu’s grandfather and father were both killed by tigers, you see. So Mahitosh Babu went away from here.’
We had no idea his father had also been killed by a tiger. Chandan told us what had happened. Apparently, Mahitosh Babu’s father had shot a tiger from a machaan. The tiger fell and lay so still that everyone thought it had died. Ten minutes later, when he climbed down from the machaan and went closer to the tiger, it sprang up and attacked him viciously. Although he was taken to a hospital, his wounds turned septic and he died in a few days.
Feluda stood frowning when Chandan finished his tale. Then he pointed at the hut and said, ‘Is that where you live?’
‘Ji, huzoor.’
‘When do you go to sleep?’
Chandan looked profoundly startled by this question. Feluda stopped beating about the bush.
‘The man who was killed last night—’
‘Torit Babu?’
‘Yes. He left the house quite late at night and went into the forest. Did you see him go?’
‘No, not last night. But I saw him go in there the day before yesterday, and a few days before that. He went there more than once, often in the evening. Last night . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I saw not Torit Babu, but someone else.
The expression on Feluda’s face changed instantly. ‘Who did you see?’ he asked urgently.
‘I don’t know, huzoor. The torch Torit Babu used to carry was a large one—an old one with three cells. This man had a smaller torch, but its light was just as strong.’
‘Is that all you saw? Just the light from a torch? Nothing else?’
‘No, huzoor. I didn’t see who it was.’
Feluda started to ask something else, but had to stop. One of the servants from the house was running towards us.
‘Please come back to the house, sir!’ he called. ‘Babu wants to see you at once.’
We quickly went back to the front of the house. Mahitosh Babu was waiting for us near the portico.
‘You were right,’ he said as soon as he saw Feluda, ‘Torit was not killed by a passing hooligan in the forest.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘The murder weapon was taken from our house. Remember the sword I showed you yesterday? It is missing from my grandfather’s room!’
Seven
It was the servant called Kanai who had first noticed that the sword was missing when he went in to dust the room. He informed his master immediately. The room was not locked, since it contained several books and papers which Mahitosh Babu frequently needed to refer to. All the servants were old and trusted. Nothing had been stolen from the house for so many years that people had stopped worrying about theft altogether. What it meant was that anyone in the house could have taken the sword.
Feluda examined the glass case carefully, but did not find a clue. It was just the sword that was missing. Everything else was in place. ‘I’d like to see Mr Sengupta’s bedroom, and the study where he worked,’ Feluda said when he had finished. ‘But before I do that, I need to know if you suspect anyone.’
Mahitosh Babu shook his head. ‘No, I simply cannot imagine why anyone should want to kill him. He hardly ever saw anyone outside this house. All he did was go on long walks. If that sword was used to kill him, then it has to be someone from this house who did it. No, Mr Mitter, I cannot help you at all.’
We made our way to Mr Sengupta’s bedroom. It was as large as ours. Among his personal effects were his clothes, a blue suitcase, a shoulder bag and a shaving kit. On a table were a few magazines and books, a writing pad and a couple of pencils. A smaller bedside table held a flask, a glass, a transistor radio and a packet of cigarettes. The suitcase wasn’t locked. Feluda opened it
, to find that it was very neatly packed. ‘He was obviously all set to leave for Calcutta,’ he remarked, closing it again.
Five minutes later, we came out of the bedroom and went into his study.
‘What exactly did his duties involve?’ Feluda asked Mahitosh Babu.
‘Well, he handled all my correspondence. Then he made copies of my manuscripts, since my own handwriting is really quite bad. He used to go to Calcutta and speak to my publishers on my behalf, and correct the proofs. Of late, he had been helping me gather information about my ancestors to write a history of my family. This meant having to go through heaps of old letters and documents, and making a note of relevant details.’
‘Did he use these notebooks to record all the information?’ Feluda asked, pointing at the thick, bound notebooks neatly arranged on a desk. Mahitosh Babu nodded.
‘And are these the proofs for your new book he was correcting?’ Stacks of printed sheets were kept on the desk, next to the notebooks. Feluda picked up a few sheets and began leafing through them.
‘Tell me, was Mr Sengupta a very reliable proof-reader?’ Mahitosh Babu looked quite taken aback by the question. ‘Yes, I think so. Why do you ask?’
‘Look, there’s a mistake in the first paragraph of the first page, which he overlooked. The “a” in the word “roar” is missing; and . . . again, look, the second “e” in “deer” hasn’t been printed. But he didn’t spot it.’
‘How strange!’ Mahitosh Babu glanced absently at the mistakes Feluda pointed out.
‘Had he seemed worried about something recently? Did he have anything on his mind?’
‘Why, no, I hadn’t noticed anything!’
Feluda bent over the desk, and peered at a writing pad on which Mr Sengupta had doodled and drawn little pictures.
‘Did you know he could draw?’
‘No. No, he had never told me.’
There was nothing else to see. We stepped out of the room and reached the veranda outside. A deep, familiar voice reached our ears, speaking in a somewhat theatrical fashion: ‘Doomed . . . doomed! Destruction and calamity! The very foundation of truth is being rocked . . . the end is nigh!’
We only heard his voice. Devtosh Babu remained out of sight. His brother sighed and said, ‘Every summer, he gets a little worse. He’ll be all right once the rains start, and it cools down.’
We had reached our room. Feluda said, ‘I was thinking of going back to the forest tomorrow. I need to search . . . find things for myself. What do you say?’
Mahitosh Babu thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘Well, I don’t think the tiger will return to the spot where Torit’s body was found, at least not during the day. That’s what my experience with tigers tells me, anyway. So if you stay relatively close to that area, you’re going to be safe. To tell you the truth, what I find most surprising is that a large tiger is still left in Kalbuni!’
‘May we take Madhavlal with us, and a jeep?’
‘Certainly.’
Mahitosh Babu left. The police had to be informed about the missing sword.
It was now quite dark outside, although the sky was absolutely clear. Lalmohan Babu switched the fan on and sat down on his bed.
‘Did you think you’d get a murder mystery on a short holiday? It’s a bonus, isn’t it, Felu Babu? You have to thank me for it,’ he laughed.
‘Sure, Lalmohan Babu, I am most thankful,’ Feluda replied, sounding a little preoccupied. He had picked up two things from Torit Sengupta’s room and brought them back with him. One was a book on the history of Coochbehar, and the other was the writing pad. I saw him staring at the little pictures, frowning deeply.
‘These are not just funny doodles,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I am sure it has a meaning. What could it be? Why do I feel there’s something familiar about these pictures?’
Lalmohan Babu and I went and stood next to him. Mr Sengupta had drawn a tree on the pad. A tree with a solid trunk and several leafy branches. A few leaves were lying loose at the bottom of the tree. Their base was broad, but they tapered off to end on a thin narrow point. I had no problem in recognizing them. They were peepul leaves.
But that was not all. He had drawn footprints, going away from the tree, towards what looked like a couple of hands I peered more closely. Yes, they were two hands—or, rather, two open palms. He had even drawn tiny lines on them, just as they appear on human hands. Behind these was a sun. Not a full round one, but one that had only half-risen. Between the two hands was a tiny cross. Something began stirring in my own mind. This picture was meant to convey a message. Was it a message that perhaps I had heard before? Where? I began to feel quite confused.
Feluda cleared all confusion in less than a minute. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ he exclaimed softly. ‘Of course! Well done, Mr Sengupta, well done!’ Then he caught me looking expectantly at him. ‘Do you see what this is, Topshe? It’s a picture of the puzzle. Torit Sengupta had cracked it, possibly quite soon after they found it among Adityanarayan’s papers. Let’s have a look.’ He opened his notebook. “Old man hollow”. Now, that’s the only bit that’s not clear. But “pace to follow” means fifty-five paces—those are the footprints—going from the “people’s tree”, which is simply a peepul tree. Adityanarayan called it a people’s tree either because it sounded similar to “peepul”, or because it was for some reason important to people. That rising sun, as! had guessed myself, means the east. So, fifty-five paces to the east of a peepul tree are . . .’
‘ . . . Two hands?’ Lalmohan Babu asked hopefully.
‘Yes and no. Look at the picture. They are palms. So there must be two palms—palm trees—near the peepul. And if you dig the ground between these palms, you’ll probably find the treasure.’
‘It makes no sense to me,’ Lalmohan Babu complained. ‘Tell me what the whole message is.’
‘But I just did! In the forest somewhere, there is a peepul tree. Fifty-five paces—that would be about fifty-five yards—to the east of this tree are two palms. And . . .’
‘OK, between those palms—“below them stands”—so you mean below the ground is the buried treasure, whatever that might be. I get it now. But, Felu Babu, there may be dozens of peepul trees in that forest and scores of palms, all within fifty yards of one another. How many will you look for?’
Feluda was silent, still frowning. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘the first line—“old man hollow”—is probably an indicator. I mean, that’s what actually identifies the tree, and tells you which particular peepul tree to look for. But what can it mean? Even this picture doesn’t tell us anything, does it? The old man—’ he had to stop.
‘Who is talking of old men?’ asked Devtosh Babu, lifting the curtain and walking into the room. He was still wearing the same purple dressing gown. Didn’t he have anything else to wear?
‘Oh, please do come in, sir, have a seat,’ Feluda invited. Devtosh Babu paid no attention to him. ‘Do you know why Yudhisthir’s chariot got stuck to the ground?’ he asked. He had said this before. Why was he obsessed with Yudhisthir’s chariot?
‘No. Why?’ Feluda answered calmly.
‘Because he had told a lie. He had to be punished. One single lie . . . and it can finish you.’
‘Devtosh Babu,’ Feluda said conversationally, ‘may I ask you something?’
He looked perfectly amazed. ‘Ask me something? Why? No one ever asks me anything.’
‘I’d like to, because I know about your knowledge of local history. Can you tell me if there’s a tree associated with an old man? I mean, here in the forest? Did an old man sit under a tree?’
It was a shot in the dark. But it made Devtosh Babu’s sad and intense face suddenly break into a smile. It transformed his whole appearance.
‘No, no. No old man actually sat under the tree. It was in the tree itself.’
What! Was he talking nonsense again? But his eyes and his voice seemed perfectly normal.
‘There was a hollow in the tree trunk,’ he explained quick
ly, ‘that looked like the face of an old man. You think I’m mad, don’t you? But I swear, that hollow looked exactly as though an old man was gaping with his mouth open. We loved that tree. Grandfather used to call it the tree of the toothless fakir. He used to take us there for picnics.’
‘What kind of a tree was it?’
‘A peepul. Have you seen the temple of the Chopped Goddess? That was Raju’s doing. This tree was behind the temple. In fact, it was from this same tree that Mahi—’
‘Dada! Come back here at once!’ shouted a voice outside the door. Devtosh Babu broke off, for his brother had appeared at the door, looking and sounding extremely cross. Mahitosh Babu stepped into the room. His face was set, his eyes cold.
‘Did you take your pills?’ he asked sternly.
‘What pills? I am fine, there’s nothing wrong with me. Why should I have to take pills?’
Without another word, Mahitosh Babu dragged his brother out of our room. We could hear him scolding him as they moved away, ‘Let the doctor decide how you are. You will kindly continue to take the pills you have been prescribed. Is that understood?’
Their footsteps died away.
‘Pity!’ Lalmohan Babu remarked. ‘He seemed quite normal today, didn’t he?’
Feluda did not appear to have heard him. He was looking preoccupied again.
‘The tree of the toothless fakir,’ he said under his breath. ‘Well, that takes care of both the old man and the hollow. All we need to do now, friends, is find the temple of the Chopped Goddess!’
Eight
Feluda did not go to bed until late that night. Lalmohan Babu and I stayed up with him until eleven, talking about Torit Sengupta’s death. None of us could figure out why a young and obviously intelligent man like him had to die such an awful and mysterious death. Even Feluda could not find answers to a lot of questions. He made a list of these:
