by Satyajit Ray
‘And there are matchsticks, Feluda!’ I said. There were three matchsticks lying by a pillar.
‘Yes, I guess if you tried to light a cigarette standing here in this strong wind, you’d be bound to waste a few,’ Feluda replied.
We walked in through the gate. I was bursting with curiosity to go and find out what was inside the house. The door to the drawing room was open, rattling in the wind. Feluda inspected the prints on the floor. They were not very clear, for a fresh layer of sand had already settled over them. But there was no doubt that someone wearing shoes had walked on this veranda pretty recently.
Another thing became visible as Feluda removed some of the sand with his foot—a dark stain, which to me looked like paan juice. Lalmohan Babu, however, quickly stepped back and declared it had to be blood. Then he muttered something about it being time for breakfast. This clearly meant he had no wish to go into the house and would much rather go back to the hotel. I felt my own heart beating faster, partly in excitement and partly in fear. Only Feluda remained completely unperturbed. ‘I think we ought to visit your house of death,’ he announced, pushing the door gently. It swung open with a loud creak.
A musty, slightly foul smell wafted out immediately. Perhaps there were bats inside. It was totally dark in the room. If there were windows, they were obviously shut, and we ourselves were blocking the light coming in through the open door. Feluda crossed the threshold and stepped in. I followed him a second later. Only Lalmohan Babu hesitated outside. ‘All clear?’ he asked after a while in a voice that sounded unnaturally loud.
‘Oh yes. And things will no doubt soon become even clearer. Come and see what’s inside,’ Feluda invited. By now my eyes had got a little focused in the dark, and I had seen what Feluda was referring to. There was a small trunk and bedding, wrapped carelessly in a durrie. Both had been dumped in a corner.
‘The police are wasting their time,’ Feluda said slowly. ‘Nishith Bose has not gone to Calcutta.’
‘Well then, where is he?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, surprised. He had finally joined us in the room.
Feluda did not reply.
‘Hmm. Very interesting,’ he muttered, staring at something else. I followed his gaze. In another corner was a small heap, consisting of long, narrow pieces of wood and reams and reams of cheap yellow paper, tied with strings.
‘Any idea what this might mean?’ Feluda asked.
‘Those pieces of wood . . . why, they look like the wood used for manuscripts!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘And . . . oh!’ He seemed bereft of speech.
‘It seems Nishith Bose had started a regular factory,’ I said slowly, ‘for making fake manuscripts. I guess all he had to do was chop bits of wood down to the right size, then place bits of paper between them, and wrap the whole thing up in red silk. It would certainly have looked like an ancient manuscript.’
‘Exactly,’ said Feluda. ‘It is my belief that many of Mr Sen’s manuscripts are fake. What he had bought was genuine, of course, but since then someone has removed the original piece and replaced it with plain paper. The real stuff has been sold to people like Hingorani.’
‘Oh, ho, ho, ho!’ Lalmohan Babu suddenly found his tongue. ‘Remember that strip of paper I saw on our first visit to Mr Sen’s house? The one I thought was a snake? That must have been a piece of paper used for making dummies of real manuscripts.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Feluda said firmly.
We were standing in the middle of the room. There were two side doors, one on our right and the other on our left. Presumably, they led to other rooms. Through the open front door—through which we had walked a few minutes ago—a strong sea breeze blew in with considerable force. The door to our right opened unexpectedly, making a loud noise that sounded almost like a gunshot. What followed next froze my blood. Even now, my heart trembles as I write about it.
Lalmohan Babu was the first to look through the open door. He made a strange noise in his throat, his eyes began popping out, and he’d probably have fainted; but Feluda leapt forward and caught him before he could sink to the floor. In speechless horror, I stared at the figure that lay on the floor in the next room. It was a man. No, it was the dead body of a man; and even I could tell he had lain there, dead, for quite some time, although his eyes were still open. I had no difficulty in recognizing him.
It was D.G. Sen’s secretary, Nishith Bose.
Eleven
Feluda had to miss breakfast that day.
Once Lalmohan Babu had recovered somewhat, we went to the Railway Hotel as it was closer and rang the police from there. Then we returned to our own hotel.
Feluda left us soon afterwards. ‘I have a few things to do, particularly in the Nulia colony, so I’ve got to go,’ he said. He had already told us—even without touching the body—that Mr Bose had been killed with a blunt instrument, though there was no sign of the weapon. Who knew when Lalmohan Babu had called the broken old Bhujanga Niwas the ‘House of Death’, he was actually speaking the truth?
There was, however, a piece of good news. D.G. Sen and his son appeared to have got back together. While coming out of Bhujanga Niwas, I happened to glance at Sagarika and saw both father and son on the roof. Mahim Sen gave us a cheerful wave, so presumably all was well. How this sudden change in their relationship had occurred, I could not tell. It was most mystifying.
Feluda returned at a quarter to eleven. I suddenly remembered he had booked a call to Nepal. ‘Did your call come through?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I just finished speaking.’
‘Did you call Kathmandu?’
‘No, Patan. It’s an old town near Kathmandu, on the other side of the river Bagmati.’
‘Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu squeaked, ‘I can’t get over the shock. Look, I am still shivering.’
‘Do stop, Lalmohan Babu. At least, save some of it for tonight.’
‘Why—what is happening tonight?’
‘Tonight,’ Feluda replied calmly, ‘we’ll have to stand—not on one leg, mind you—but stand still and wait.’
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Why? What for?’
‘You’ll learn, by and by.’
Lalmohan Babu opened his mouth once more, then shut it, looking crestfallen. But then, like me, he wasn’t unfamiliar with the kind of mood Feluda was in. One could ask him a thousand questions, but he wouldn’t give a straight answer.
‘Dr Senapati is quite a smart young doctor,’ Feluda said, changing the subject.
‘Why, have you been to his clinic already?’ I asked.
‘Yes. He has been treating Mr D.G. Sen. He went to America last April. It was he who brought that medicine.’
‘Diapid?’ The name had got stuck in my memory for some reason. ‘Since you ask, I can tell you’ll never need to use it yourself,’ Feluda laughed. God knows what this cryptic remark meant. I didn’t dare ask.
Inspector Mahapatra rang an hour later. The police surgeon had finished his examination. According to him, Nishith Bose had been killed between 6 and 8 p.m. last evening, with a blunt instrument. There was still no sign of the weapon. But the police had found traces of blood under the sand below the veranda. Presumably, the murder took place near the front gate. Mr Bose’s body was then dragged inside.
A sudden idea flashed through my mind, but I chose not to say anything to Feluda. Could it be possible that whoever killed Mr Bose had attacked Feluda, using the same instrument? Perhaps that was why there was blood on his head, even without an open wound?
At around half past twelve, I began to feel hungry. Lalmohan Babu, too, started to comment on the heavenly smell emanating from the kitchen. But, at this moment, Bilas Majumdar turned up.
‘Would you like to go?’ he asked without any preamble.
‘Where to?’ Feluda asked, busily scribbling something in his notebook.
‘A place called Keonjhargarh, in an airconditioned limousine supplied by the tourist department. There’s room for six. But I found
only one other person to go with me, an American called Steadman. He’s a wildlife enthusiast as well. You’ll find it interesting, I’m sure, if you come with us.’
‘When are you leaving?’
‘Straight after lunch.’
‘No, thank you. I’m afraid I’ve got some work this afternoon. In fact, if you could stay back for a few hours, I might be able to show you a sample of the wildlife in Puri!’
‘No, Mr Mitter, thank you very much.’ Mr Majumdar smiled and left.
A minute later, we heard a heavy American car start. Then it turned around and sped towards the north.
When was the last time I had been under such tense excitement? I couldn’t remember.
We had dinner at nine that evening. An hour later, Feluda announced it was time to go. ‘You’ll have to be suitably dressed,’ he told me. ‘Don’t wear kurta-pajamas, and don’t wear white. I don’t need to tell you what you must wear to hide in the dark, do I?’
No, there was no need to do that, I thought, my mind going back to our experience in the graveyard in Park Street.
‘My instincts tell me something is going to happen tonight,’ Feluda added, ‘but there is no guarantee that it will. So prepare yourselves for possible disappointment.’
I looked at the sky as we went out, and saw that there were no stars. Lalmohan Babu, who had formed a habit of looking up at the sky every now and then (not in search of stars or the moon, but for signs of the skylab), quickly raised his head and said, ‘Had the wind been blowing in a different direction, the pieces might have fallen into the sea. Now . . . anything can happen.’
Although Bhujanga Niwas was surrounded by sand, the actual beach was about fifty yards away from it. There were a few makeshift shelters where the beach started, presumably for the guests in the Railway Hotel who came to bathe in the sea. Large reed mats had been fixed over bamboo poles to create these shelters. Feluda stopped beside one of these. Behind us was the sea, still roaring loudly, but now hardly visible in the dark. If anyone went walking past our shelter, we’d be able to see his figure, but we might not recognize him. There was no chance of being seen ourselves. Feluda could not have chosen a better spot in which to hide. It was still not clear why we were hiding, and I knew he wouldn’t tell me even if I asked. Annoyed with his habit of keeping things to himself, Lalmohan Babu had once said to him, ‘You, Felu Babu, should make suspense films. People would die holding their breath. Much better than even Hotchkick, that would be!’
I could see Mr Sen’s house from where we were standing. The light in his room on the second floor was still on. A light on the first floor had just gone out. Only one window on the ground floor was visible over the compound wall. A light was on, so perhaps Laxman Bhattacharya was still awake.
We were all sitting on the sand under the shelter, in absolute silence. Speaking would have been difficult, in any case, because of the noisy waves. By now my eyes had got used to the darkness and I could see a few things. On my left was Lalmohan Babu. The few remaining strands of hair around his bald head were blowing hard in the strong wind, rising like tufts of grass. Feluda sat on my right. I saw him raise his left hand and peer at his wrist. Then he slipped his hand into his shoulder bag and took out an object—his Japanese binoculars.
He placed it to his eyes. I knew what he was looking at. D.G. Sen was standing near his open window. After a few moments, he moved aside and picked something up with his right hand.
What was it?
Oh, a glass tumbler. What was he drinking from it?
The light on the ground floor had gone out. Now Mr Sen switched off his own light. Immediately, the darkness around us seemed to grow more dense. However, I could still vaguely see my companions, especially if they made a movement.
Lalmohan Babu took out his torch from his pocket. I quickly leant over and whispered in his ear: ‘Don’t switch it on!’ In reply, he turned his head and muttered: ‘This is a blunt instrument. It may come in handy, even if I don’t switch it on.’ He moved his head away; and, at this moment, I saw something that made my heart fly into my mouth. On our right, about ten yards away, was another shelter. A man was standing next to it. God knows when he had appeared. Lalmohan Babu had seen him, too. He dropped the torch in astonishment.
And Feluda?
He hadn’t seen him. He was looking straight at Sagarika. I forced myself to look in the same direction, and spotted instantly what Feluda had already seen.
A man was walking out of Sagarika. Was he going to come towards us? No. He made his way to the broken and abandoned Bhujanga Niwas. He slowed down as he got closer to the building, then stopped near one of the pillars. What was he going to do?
It became clear in the next instant. A second man appeared from behind the house and joined the first. There were now two male figures standing before the gate. It was impossible to tell if they spoke to each other, but they separated in a few seconds and started to walk in different directions. The one who had come from Sagarika was making his way back—!
On no! Lalmohan Babu had jabbed at his torch carelessly and switched it on by accident. Feluda snatched it from his hand and threw it down on the sand. But, in the same instant, someone fired a gun. A bullet came and hit one of the bamboo poles of our shelter, making an ear-splitting noise and missing Lalmohan Babu’s neck by a few inches.
‘Get the other one!’ hissed Feluda and shot up like a rocket to chase the second man. To my own surprise, I discovered that those few words from Feluda were enough to make me forget fear. I jumped to my feet without a word and began sprinting towards the first man.
It did not take me long to catch up with him. I threw myself at his legs, a bit like a rugby player doing a ‘flying tackle’, and managed to grab them both. The man tripped and fell flat on his face. I lost no time climbing on to his back. Then I looked around for Feluda.
Two silhouettes were standing at a slight distance, facing each other. I saw one of them raise a hand and aim for the other’s chin. A second later, the second figure was knocked down on the ground. I even heard the faint thud as he fell.
In the meantime, Lalmohan Babu had joined me and was dancing around with his blunt instrument in his hand, waiting for a suitable opportunity to strike the figure wriggling under me. However, another soft thud soon told me that, in his excitement, he had dropped his weapon on the sand once more.
‘Bring him over here!’ Feluda shouted.
This time, Lalmohan Babu was of real help. He took one leg, and I caught the other. Together, we dragged the man to join Feluda. Feluda was standing with one foot on the chest of his opponent, and the other on his right hand. The revolver this hand had held a few moments ago was lying nearby.
‘Until today, you had no injury on your chin. But after this, I think there will be a permanent mark,’ Feluda declared solemnly, shining his pocket torch on the man.
The word ‘wildlife’ suddenly flashed through my mind. Pinned down by his feet, staring back at Feluda, his eyes wild with anger, was Bilas Majumdar. His left hand was still curled around an object wrapped in red silk. Another manuscript! Feluda bent down and snatched it away. Then he turned and shone his torch on our prisoner. ‘What is your third eye telling you, Laxman Babu?’ Feluda asked, ‘Did you know what was written in your own destiny?’
Suddenly, several shadows emerged from the darkness. Who on earth were these people?
‘Hello, Mr Mahapatra,’ Feluda greeted one of them, ‘I’m going to hand these two culprits over to you, but I haven’t yet finished. I’d like us all to go and sit in the living room of Bhujanga Niwas. These two men must come with us.’
Four constables stepped forward and grabbed Bilas Majumdar and Laxman Bhattacharya. ‘Mahim Babu, are you there?’ Feluda called.
‘Oh yes. Here I am!’ Mahim Sen raised a hand. With a start, I realized he was the man we had first seen standing near a shelter. ‘I think Father’s about to join us. Look, there he is, with a torch,’ he added, pointing.
‘We’v
e made seating arrangements in the front room of that building,’ said Mr Mahapatra, pointing at Bhujanga Niwas. ‘There will be room for all, don’t worry.’
‘Why, it’s just fine outside, why not—?’ began Lalmohan Babu, but I don’t think anyone heard him, for everyone had already started walking towards Bhujanga Niwas.
Twelve
‘Come in, Mr Sen, we’re all waiting for you,’ Feluda opened the door. Mahim Sen came in with his father. Three lanterns had been lit in the room, the police had clearly worked quite hard at cleaning and dusting. It looked a different room altogether.
Father and son took two chairs.
‘Here’s your Kalpasutra,’ said Feluda, offering him the manuscript he had just recovered from Bilas Majumdar. Mr Sen looked visibly relieved as he took it, but asked with considerable anxiety, ‘What about the other one?’
‘I am coming to that. You’ll have to bear with me. I hope you didn’t take a sleeping pill today?’
‘No, no, of course not. That’s what led to this disaster. God knows what he put in my glass of water yesterday!’ Mr Sen glared at Laxman Bhattacharya.
‘What I fail to understand is why you went to this humbug in the first place. Didn’t you know there were other much better doctors in town?’
‘I did, Mr Mitter. But he came to me himself, and everyone else said he was very good. So I thought I should give him a chance. Besides, he said he knew of old manuscripts and scrolls . . . he could get me a few . . .’
‘That’s your biggest weakness, isn’t it? And he took full advantage of it. Anyway, I hope the Diapid has worked? That’s supposed to be the best among modern drugs to bring back lost memory.’
‘It’s worked like a charm!’ Mr Sen exclaimed. ‘My memory is coming back to me, exactly as if one door is being opened after another. Thank God Dr Senapati came to me himself and gave me that medicine. You see, I had even forgotten that it was he who used to treat me before!’
‘Well then, tell me, Mr Sen, can you recognize this gentleman?’ Feluda flashed his torch on Bilas Majumdar. Mr Sen stared at him for a few seconds, then said slowly, ‘Yes, I could recognize him yesterday from the look in his eyes and his voice. But still, I wasn’t sure.’
