by Satyajit Ray
The old servant appeared almost instantly. ‘Bring that bird over here,’ his master commanded. ‘I’d like these people to see it.’
Gokul disappeared and came back a minute later with a parrot in a cage. Mr Majumdar turned to it and said softly, ‘Go on, sweetie. Say it. Shut the door . . . say it!’
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the parrot spoke in an amazingly clear voice. ‘Shut the door!’ it said. I gave a start. I had never heard a bird speak so distinctly. But that wasn’t all. ‘O big fat hen!’ the bird added. This time, I saw Feluda turn his head sharply. Before anyone could say anything, the parrot said both things together, very rapidly: ‘Shut the door, O big fat hen!’
‘What does it mean?’ Feluda asked after a moment’s pause. Mr Majumdar burst out laughing. ‘I am not going to tell you. All I can say is that what you just heard was a code, and it has to do with that locked chest over there. You have twelve hours to work it out.’
‘I see. May I ask why the bird has been taught to say it?’
‘You may indeed, and I am going to tell you why. Age does strange things to one’s memory. About three years ago, one day, I suddenly discovered that I couldn’t remember the combination that would open the chest. Can you believe that? After using the same numbers for years, almost every day, it had simply vanished from my mind, just like that. All day, I tried to remember the numbers. Then, finally, it came back in a flash, in the middle of the night. I could have written it down, but didn’t want to, in case it fell into the wrong hands. It was far better to keep it in my head, but now I realized I could no longer depend ort my memory. So the next morning, I made up that code and taught my parrot to say it. Now it says it every now and then, just as other parrots say, “Radhey Shyam” or “how are you?”’
Feluda was still staring at the chest. I saw him frown suddenly and get up to peer at it closely. Then he picked up the candle and began examining its lid.
‘What is it?’ Mr Majumdar asked anxiously. ‘What have you found? Do your trained eyes tell you anything?’
‘I think, Mr Majumdar, someone tried to force this chest open.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mr Majumdar had stopped smiling.
Feluda put the candle back on the table. ‘There are some marks on it,’ he said. ‘Ordinary dusting and cleaning couldn’t have left marks like those. But is there anyone who’d want to open it?’
Mr Majumdar thought for a moment. Then he said slowly, ‘Not many people live here, Mr Mitter. Apart from myself, there’s Gokul, Rajen, my driver Monilal, a cook and a mali. Vishwanath—that’s my son—arrived five days ago. He lives in Calcutta and visits me rarely. He’s here now because of my illness. You see, last Monday I had been sitting in the garden. When I tried to get up, everything suddenly went dark and I fell down on the bench. Rajen rang Vishwanath from Plassey, and he came the next day with a doctor from Calcutta. It appears to have been a mild stroke. In any case, I know I haven’t got long to live. But . . . don’t tell me I have to spend my last few days in doubt and anxiety? Always afraid that a thief might get into my room and force open that chest?’
‘No, no. There is no need to jump to conclusions. I may be quite wrong,’ Feluda said reassuringly. ‘Those marks may have appeared when the chest was first installed in that corner. I can’t see very clearly in the light from one candle, so I cannot tell whether those marks are old or new. I’ll have another look in the morning. Is your servant trustworthy?’
‘Absolutely, He’s been with me for thirty years.’
‘And Rajen?’
‘Rajen has also spent a good many years here. But then, where’s the guarantee that someone who has honoured my trust until today won’t betray it tomorrow?’
Feluda nodded in agreement. ‘No, there’s no guarantee at all, unfortunately. Anyway, tell Gokul to keep an eye on things. I don’t really think there’s any immediate danger.’
‘Oh. Good.’ Mr Majumdar appeared relieved. We rose.
‘Gokul will show you your room,’ he said. ‘You’ll find blankets and quilts and mosquito nets. Vishwanath has gone to Behrampore, he should be getting back soon. You must have your dinner as soon as he returns. Tomorrow morning, if you like, you can go for a ride in my car, though there isn’t much to see in this area.’
Feluda picked up the books from the table and thanked him again. Before saying good night, Mr Majumdar reminded him about the code. ‘If you can crack it, Mr Mitter, I will give you the whole set by Gaboriau.’
Gokul came back with a lantern and took us to our room. It was smaller than Mr Majumdar’s but with less furniture, which made it easier to move about. Two beds had been made with considerable care. A lantern burnt in a corner. Feluda sat down on the spotless sheet that covered his bed, and said, ‘Can you remember the code?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. Here’s my notebook and a pen. Write it down. I would love to get those books by Gaboriau.’
I wrote the words down. None of it made any sense. How on earth was Feluda going to find its meaning?
‘I simply cannot see how the numbers for a combination lock can be hidden in this strange message!’ I complained. ‘I mean, this is pure nonsense, isn’t it? How can a hen shut a door?’
‘That’s where the challenge lies, don’t you see? Nobody’s actually asking a hen to shut a door. That much is obvious. Each word has a separate meaning. I have to figure it out somehow by tomorrow morning.’
Feluda got up and opened a window. The moon had risen by this time, and everything was bathed in moonlight. I went and stood by his side. Our room overlooked the rear portion of the house. ‘There’s probably a pond over there on the right,’ Feluda remarked, pointing. Through a thick growth of plants and shrubs, I could see the shimmering surface of water. The only noise that could be heard was that of jackals calling in the distance, and crickets chirping in the bushes. Never before had I visited a place so totally isolated and remote.
Feluda shut the window again to keep out the cold night air. In the same instant, we heard a car arrive. It was obviously a different car, not the American one we had travelled in.
‘That’s probably Vishwanath Majumdar,’ Feluda remarked. Good, I thought. This might mean we’d soon be called in to dinner. To tell the truth, I was feeling quite hungry. We had left after an early lunch, since our train was at two o’clock. We did get ourselves a cup of tea and some sweets at Ranaghat, but even that was a long time ago. Ordinarily, I would probably not be thinking of food at eight in the evening, but since there was nothing else to do in a place like this, I quite liked the idea of dinner and an early night.
Looking around in the room, my eyes suddenly fell upon something I hadn’t noticed before. It was the portrait of a man that took up most of the opposite wall. There could be no doubt that he was one of Mr Majumdar’s ancestors. He was sitting in a chair, looking rather grim. His torso was bare, which showed to perfection his very broad shoulders. His eyes were large, and his moustache thick, its edges turning upwards. His hair rippled down to his shoulders.
‘I bet he used to wrestle, and use heavy clubs regularly,’ Feluda whispered. ‘Perhaps he was the first bandit who became a zamindar.’
There were footsteps outside. Both of us looked at the door. Gokul had left a lantern on the veranda. A shadow blocked out its light for a second, then fell on the threshold. It was followed by the figure of a man. Could this be Vishwanath Majumdar? Surely not? This man was wearing a short dhoti and a grey kurta, had a bushy moustache and glasses with thick lenses. He was peering into the room, trying to find us.
‘What is it, Rajen Babu?’ Feluda asked.
Rajen Babu finally found what he was looking for. His eyes came to rest upon Feluda.
‘Chhoto Babu has just returned,’ he said in a gruff voice that suggested he might have a cold. ‘I have asked Gokul to serve dinner. He’ll come and call you in a few minutes.’
He left. ‘What is that smell, Feluda?’ I asked as soon as he had
gone.
‘Naphthalene. I think he just took that woollen kurta out of a suitcase and put it on.’
Silence fell once more as the sound of footsteps faded away. Had Feluda not been with me, I could never have spent even five minutes in such an eerie atmosphere. How did Mr Majumdar and the others manage to live here day after day? Suddenly, I remembered someone had been murdered in this house. God knew in which room it had taken place.
Feluda, in the meantime, had dragged the table with the lantern on it closer to his bed and opened his notebook to look at the code. I heard him mutter, ‘Shut the door . . . shut the door . . .’ a couple of times. Thoroughly bored, I decided to step out of the room and stand on the veranda outside.
Oh God, what was that? My heart nearly jumped into my mouth. Something was moving in the distance, where the faint light from the lantern gave way to complete darkness. I forced myself to stay silent and stared at the moving object. A couple of seconds later, I realized it was only a cat, not black or white, but one with stripes on its body like a tiger. It returned my stare sombrely, then gave a yawn before walking lazily back into the darkness. A few moments later, the parrot gave a raucous cry, and then all was silent once more. I wondered where Vishwanath Majumdar’s room was. Was it on the ground floor? Where did Rajen Babu live? Why had we been given a room from which it was impossible to hear noises in other parts of the house?
I came back to the room. Feluda was sitting crosslegged on the bed, his notebook in his lap. ‘Why are they taking so long?’ I couldn’t help sounding cross. Feluda looked at his watch. ‘You’re right, Topshe. Rajen Babu left at least fifteen minutes ago.’ He then went back to staring at his notebook.
I began going through the books Feluda had been given. One was on analysing fingerprints, one was simply called Criminology, and the third was called Crime and its Detection. I picked up the fourth, but could not understand what its name meant. It was full of pictures, chiefly of firearms. Had Feluda brought his revolver?
No, why should he? After all, he hadn’t come here to solve a crime. There was no reason for him to have brought his revolver. I put the books in our suitcase and was about to sit down, when the sound of an unfamiliar voice startled me again. Another man was standing at the door. This time, there was no problem in recognizing him. He wasn’t Gokul, or Rajen Babu, or the driver Mondal. He had to be Kalikinkar’s son, Vishwanath.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said, folding his hands and looking at Feluda. ‘My name is Vishwanath Majumdar.’
Now I could see that he resembled his father to a great degree. He had the same eyes and the same nose. He was probably in his mid-forties. His hair was still black, he was clean-shaven and had very thin lips. I took an instant dislike to him, though I couldn’t find a proper reason for it. It was perhaps simply because he had made us wait a long time, and I was tired. Or it could be that—but this could just be my imagination—when he smiled, his eyes remained cold and aloof. He seemed as though he wasn’t really pleased to see us. Perhaps it was only our departure that would make him happy.
Feluda and I went with him down to the ground floor to the dining room. I had half expected to be asked to sit down on the floor for a traditional meal, but found to my surprise that there was a dining table. Silver plates and bowls and glasses were placed on it.
When we were all seated, Vishwanath Majumdar said, ‘I like having a bath twice a day, be it summer or winter. That’s what took so long, I’m afraid.’
He was still reeking of perfumed soap and, possibly, an expensive cologne. Clad in grey trousers, a white silk shirt and a dark green sleeveless pullover, he was clearly a man fond of the good things in life.
We began eating. Several little bowls were placed in a semicircle around our plates, each containing a different dish. There were three different vegetables, daal and fish curry.
‘Have you spoken to my father?’ Vishwanath Majumdar asked. ‘Yes. I am rather embarrassed by what he did.’
‘You mean the books he gave you?’
‘Yes. Even if those books were still available, they would have cost at least a thousand rupees.’
Vishwanath Majumdar laughed. ‘When he told me he had asked you to come here, I was at first quite annoyed with him,’ he told us. ‘I didn’t think it was fair to invite people from the city to a place like this.’
‘Why not?’ Feluda protested. ‘Why should you have objected to that? I have lost nothing by coming here. On the contrary, I have gained such a lot!’
Vishwanath Majumdar did not pay much attention to these words. ‘Speaking for myself,’ he declared, ‘I’d be perfectly happy to go back tomorrow. The last four days have been quite enough for me, thank you. I have no idea how my father can live here permanently.’
‘Doesn’t he go out at all?’
‘No. He spends most of his time in that dark room. He used to go out and sit in the garden a couple of times every day. But now the doctor has forbidden all movement.’
‘Did you say you were returning tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Father is not in any immediate danger. Will you be catching the train at half past ten?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. That means I shall leave soon after you get to the station.’ Feluda poured daal over his rice. ‘Your father is interested in so many different subjects. Are you interested in anything other than your business?’
‘No, sir. I simply don’t have the time for anything else once my day’s work is done. I am entirely happy being a businessman, and no more.’
By the time we said good night to Vishwanath Majumdar and returned to our room, it was half past nine. It didn’t really matter what time my watch showed, for time seemed to have very little significance here. Seven o’clock had seemed like midnight.
‘Do you mind if I keep my pillow on the other side?’ I asked Feluda.
‘No, but why do you want to do that?’
‘I have no wish to see that grim face on the wall the minute I open my eyes in the morning.’
Feluda laughed. ‘All right. I think I’ll do the same,’ he said. ‘I must say I don’t like the look in his eyes, either.’
Just before going to bed, Feluda picked up the lantern and turned its light down. The room seemed to shrink in size. In just a few minutes, I could feel my eyes growing heavy with sleep. But, just as I was about to drop off, I heard Feluda muttering, which made me open them at once.
‘Shut the door . . . and open the gate . . . no, that’s wrong. Pick up sticks. Yes, that comes first.’
‘Feluda!’ I cried, slightly alarmed. ‘Wake up, Feluda! You are talking in your sleep. What’s the matter with you?’
‘No, no,’ I heard him chuckle in the darkness. ‘I am fully awake, and no, I haven’t gone mad, I assure you. What has just happened, Topshe, is that I think I’ve won that set by Gaboriau.’
‘What! You’ve cracked the code?’
‘Yes, I think so. It was actually ridiculously simple. I should have spotted it at once.’
‘It still makes no sense to me.’
‘That’s only because you aren’t thinking. How were you taught to count when you were a child?’
‘Very simply. One, two, three, four . . . that was all.’
‘Was it? Think, dear boy, think. Did no one try to make it easier for you? Weren’t you taught a rhyme?’
‘A rhyme to go with numbers? You mean something that began with one, two . . . no, I don’t think . . . hey, wait a minute! Feluda, Feluda, I know what you mean! Yes, I’ve got it.’ I sat up in excitement. I could dimly see Feluda turn his head to look at me. He was grinning.
‘Very well. Let’s have it, then.’
Softly, I began to chant a rhyme I had been taught in nursery school:
‘One, two
Buckle my shoe.
Three, four
Shut the door.
Five, six
Pick up sticks.
Seven, eight
Open the gate.
Nine, ten
A big fat hen.
Eleven, twelve
Dig and delve . . .’
‘That’ll do. Now what do you think the full message means?’
‘Shut the door . . . that would mean three and four. Big fat hen would mean nine and ten. Right?’
‘Right. But there’s an “O” before “big fat hen”. That means the whole number is 340910. Simple, isn’t it? Now, go to sleep.’
I lay down again, marvelling at Feluda’s cleverness. But just as I began to close my eyes once more, footsteps sounded on the veranda. It was Rajen Babu again. What did he want at this time of night?
‘Yes, Rajen Babu?’ Feluda called.
‘Chhoto Babu told me to find out if you needed anything.’
‘No, no. We’re fine, thank you.’
Rajen Babu disappeared silently. This time, sleep came very quickly. All I was aware of as I closed my eyes was that the moonlight that had seeped through closed shutters had suddenly gone pale. I thought I heard distant thunder, and the cat meeaowed a couple of times. Then I fell asleep.
When I woke in the morning, Feluda was opening the windows. ‘It rained last night,’ he said. ‘Did you hear it?’
I hadn’t. But now I could see through the window that the clouds had gone. The sun shone brightly on the leaves I could see from my bed.
Gokul appeared with two cups of tea half an hour later. Looking at him in daylight, I was considerably surprised. Not only did he seem old, but his face held an expression of deep distress.
‘Has Kalikinkar Babu woken up?’ Feluda asked. Perhaps Gokul was hard of hearing. He did not answer Feluda’s question at first. All he did was stare at him vacantly. Feluda had to raise his voice and ask again before he nodded and left the room quickly.
We made our way to old Mr Majumdar’s room at a round seven-thirty, and found him exactly as we’d left him the night before. He was still lying in his bed, a blanket covering most of his body including his arms. The window next to his bed was shut, possibly to avoid direct sunlight. The only light that came into the room was through the open door. I noticed a photograph on the wall over his bed. It must have been taken many years ago, for it showed a much younger Kalikinkar Majumdar. His hair and beard were both jet black.
