The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘Yes, most interesting,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘but I can’t get something out of my mind. Have you ever heard of a dog being murdered?’

  ‘No, I’ve got to admit I haven’t.’

  ‘In that case, Felu Babu, I would urge you to get on with it. If you solved this mystery for Nobo Kumar Niyogi, I can assure you you won’t be disappointed. A man who can afford to maintain three vintage cars must be absolutely loaded. Just think about it!’

  Three

  We had made an appointment with Bhabesh Bhattacharya, so it was relatively easy to meet him. He might have been a school teacher—wearing thick glasses, a loose shirt, a cotton chadar draped over his shoulders. He was sitting very straight before a small desk, on top of which lay a few finely sharpened pencils and a fat, bound ledger.

  ‘Lalmohan Gangopadhyaya?’ he asked, glancing at the postcard Lalmohan Babu had sent him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Age?’ Lalmohan Babu told him.

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘Sixteenth August.’

  ‘Hm. Leo. All right, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well . . . I am a writer, you see. I have thought of three names for my next novel, but I can’t decide which would be the best.’

  ‘What are these names?’

  ‘Hullabaloo in Honolulu, Hell in Honolulu, and The Honolulu Holocaust.’

  ‘Hm. Please wait.’

  Mr Bhattacharya wrote the names down in his ledger and began making some calculations. Then he said, ‘Your name adds up to twenty-one. Your date of birth and the month you were born in gives us six. Both can be divided by three. I suggest you use the third title. When is your book coming out?’

  ‘The first of January.’

  ‘No, make it the third. Anything to do with the book must be divisible by three.’

  ‘I see. And . . . er . . . how will it . . . I mean . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll sell well.’

  Lalmohan Babu smiled, paid a hundred rupees and came out with us.

  ‘A bit expensive, wasn’t he?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t mind. I’m positive this book’s going to be a hit. Oh, I can’t tell you how relieved I feel!’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll come back to Mecheda every time you write a book?’

  ‘Why not? It would only mean two visits every year. When there is a guarantee of success . . .’ I said nothing more.

  We got into the car once more and set off for Baikunthapur. It took us twenty minutes to reach the home of the Niyogis. ‘Niyogi Palace’, said a marble slab at the gate.

  That the house was old was easy enough to see. One portion of it looked as though it had recently been repaired and restored. Perhaps that was where the family lived. A long drive lined with palms ended in a large portico. Nobo Kumar came out, beaming.

  ‘Welcome!’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you came. I was afraid you might change your mind. Do come in. This way—’

  We were taken to the first floor. ‘I’ve told my father about you. He’ll be very pleased to meet you,’ Nobo Kumar informed us.

  ‘Who else lives in this house?’ Feluda asked idly.

  ‘Only my parents. My mother suffers from asthma, you see. The country air suits her much better. Then there is Bankim Babu. He used to be Baba’s secretary. Now he’s become a kind of manager. Besides these people, there are a few servants, that’s all. I visit occasionally. I was going to come with my family a few days later, for Puja. But a guest arrived, so I came earlier than the others. My uncle from Rome—Chandrasekhar’s son—is visiting, you see. I thought Baba might need my help.’

  ‘Were you in touch with your uncle all these years? I mean, after Chandrasekhar left home?’

  ‘No. This is his first visit. I think he’s here to sort out his share in our property.’

  ‘Did Chandrasekhar die?’

  ‘We don’t know. We haven’t heard from him—or of him—for years and years. So I assume the law would regard him as dead.’

  ‘Did he live here when he returned from Rome?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t he live in Calcutta?’

  ‘That would not have made any difference. He had to travel a lot. His clients were spread all over the country. It didn’t really matter where he lived.’

  ‘Do you remember having seen him?’

  ‘I was six when he left. All I can remember is his affection for me.’ We were ushered into the living room. A beautiful, huge chandelier hung from the ceiling. I had never seen anything like it before. On one of the walls was a life-size portrait of a bearded man. He wore an achkan; a sword hung at his waist; on his head was a turban from which glittered pearls and rubies. The portrait dominated the whole room.

  ‘My great-grandfather, Anant Nath Niyogi,’ explained Nobo Kumar. ‘Chandrasekhar painted it soon after he got back from Italy. By that time Anant Nath had forgiven him for having left the country and married an Italian woman.’

  ‘Why,’ I had to ask, ‘does it say “S. Niyogi” at the bottom? His name was Chandrasekhar, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But people in Italy called him Sandro. So he used “S” in his signature.’

  There were other smaller paintings by S. Niyogi in the room. Each bore evidence of the painter’s skill. He had undoubtedly been blessed with a rare gift.

  A bearer came in with glasses of sherbet. Feluda picked one up, and said, ‘That article said something rather interesting about your great-uncle’s private collection of paintings. Apparently, he had a painting by a world famous artist, but he had told Bhudev Singh, the writer, not to mention it to anyone since no one would believe him if he did. Do you happen to know anything about it?’

  ‘There is a painting, yes. Everyone in our family knows about it. It’s a painting of Jesus Christ. But I couldn’t tell you if the artist was world famous or not. You can see it for yourself when you go to the studio. That is where it has always hung.’

  ‘Bhudev Singh himself must know whose work it is.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he does. He and Chandrasekhar were very close friends.’

  ‘Doesn’t your uncle know anything about it? After all, he’s Chandrasekhar’s son, isn’t he?’

  Nobo Kumar shook his head. ‘He didn’t get on very well with his father, from what I gather. Besides, he doesn’t seem interested in art at all.’

  ‘That means no one from your family would have any idea about the real value of the painting?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. My father’s interest lies in music. He wouldn’t know any more about paintings and artists than I would. And the same applies to my brother, Nondo Kumar.’

  ‘Why, does he have a lot to do with music as well?’

  ‘No, his passion was acting. You see, we have a travel agency in Calcutta. Our father wanted Nondo and me to be partners. Everything was fine, until 1975 when Nondo left suddenly for Bombay. Apparently, he knew somebody from Hindi films who got him a few roles. He’s been living in Bombay since then.’

  ‘Is he successful?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I remember seeing his pictures in film magazines soon after he left, but nothing recently.’

  ‘Are you in regular touch?’

  ‘No, not at all. All I know is that he lives in a flat on Napean Sea Road. I think the building’s called “Sea View”. I redirect his mail occasionally, that’s all.’

  We finished our drink and went down to meet Nobo Kumar’s father. He was sitting on an easy chair on a large veranda, holding a paperback very close to his eyes. Nobo Kumar introduced us.

  ‘Have you told him about Thumri?’ the old gentleman asked. ‘Yes, Baba,’ Nobo Kumar replied with a slightly embarrassed air, ‘but Mr Mitter and the others are simply paying us a visit, they’re not here on business.’

  Soumyasekhar frowned. ‘I cannot see why you aren’t taking the matter seriously. Is it just because Thumri was a dog? Don’t you think a heartless killer like that should be punished? Not only did he kill a poor,
defenceless animal, but he also threatened my servant. I am sure of it, or he wouldn’t have run away. The whole business strikes me as decidedly fishy, and I’m sure any detective worth his salt would find it a challenge. What do you say, Mr Mitter?’

  ‘You are absolutely right,’ Feluda replied.

  ‘Good. I am glad to hear it, and shall feel gladder if you can actually catch the culprit. Oh, by the way,’ he turned to his son, ‘have you met Robin Babu?’

  ‘Robin Babu? Who is he?’ Nobo Kumar sounded surprised.

  ‘He is a journalist. Quite young. He wrote to me about coming here to do research on Chandrasekhar. He’s got a fellowship or a grant or something, to write Chandrasekhar’s biography. Well, he turned up a couple of days ago, and has already collected a lot of material. He might even go to Italy. He talks to me every morning for about an hour, and records everything. A smart young man. I like him.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In his room, I expect. I gave him one of the bedrooms on the ground floor. He’ll be around for another ten days, I think. He works very hard.’

  ‘I had no idea you had two guests to look after!’

  ‘Well, to tell you the truth, neither requires any real looking after. I hardly ever get to see my cousin from Rome; and when I do, he speaks very little. I’ve never seen anyone quite so taciturn.’

  ‘Has he talked about his father at all?’

  ‘No. When Chandrasekhar returned to India, his son was in his late teens. The relationship between father and son was not a happy one, it seems. I think Rudra avoids talking to me because he thinks I might ask awkward questions. It is strange, isn’t it, that I do not know my own first cousin? He had to show me his passport to prove his identity!’

  ‘Was it an Indian passport?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You did look properly, Baba, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I needn’t have bothered. You only have to look at him to see the family resemblance.’

  ‘He’s arrived only to claim his share in the property, hasn’t he?’ Feluda remarked.

  ‘Yes, and there shouldn’t be any problem in his getting what is rightfully his. He didn’t even know that his father left home a second time. I told him when he wrote to me from Rome that there had been no news of his father for ten years. That was when he decided to come.’

  ‘Does he appear to know anything at all about that famous painting Chandrasekhar brought with him?’ Feluda was clearly still curious.

  ‘No. Rudrasekhar is an engineer. He knows nothing of art. But . . . someone else is interested in that painting.’

  ‘Who?’ Nobo Kumar looked up.

  ‘A man called Somani. Bankim would have his details. He was acting on behalf of someone from Europe—or was it America?—who had, apparently, offered a lakh for the painting. Somani was prepared to pay me twenty-five thousand right away. If the buyer was satisfied it wasn’t a fake, he’d pay me the balance, he said.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago, before Rudra’s arrival. I told Somani he d have to wait until Rudra got here, as he was the rightful owner. I could not sell it.’

  ‘Did Somani come back?’ Feluda asked.

  ‘Oh yes. A most persistent man. He talked to Rudra this time.’. ‘Do you know what was said?’

  ‘No. All I can tell you is that if Rudra wants to sell any of his father’s belongings, he has every right to do so.’

  ‘Yes, but surely not before all legal formalities have been completed?’

  ‘No, he’ll certainly have to wait until then.’

  We met the other guests at lunch. Robin Babu looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps I had seen his photo in some journal. He was clean-shaven, and of medium height. He had very bright eyes.

  ‘Oh, I’ve discovered such a lot of curious facts about Chandrasekhar,’ he told us. ‘There is a wooden case in his studio, packed with the most interesting stuff.’

  ‘Rudrasekhar’s presence must be an additional help, I’m sure?’ said Feluda. ‘He can tell you about Chandrasekhar’s life in Italy.’

  ‘I haven’t yet talked to him since he has been so busy himself. I am, at the moment, trying to find out what happened after Chandrasekhar returned home.’

  I looked at Rudrasekhar. He said, ‘Hm,’ and no more.

  In the evening, we set off for a walk with Nobo Kumar, to look at some local old, beautiful terracotta temples. But we were only halfway there, walking through a large field, when a storm broke out. We tried running back to the house, but it started to rain even before we reached the front gate. Lightning ripped the sky, and we could hear frequent thunder. By the time we stepped into the house, we were all drenched. Great sheets of water were cascading down from the heavens.

  ‘I have never,’ Lalmohan Babu declared, ‘seen it rain like this. Isn’t there something dramatic about it?’

  He was right. Having lived in a city all my life, I hadn’t seen such torrential rain out in the open, either. It soon became clear that the rain was not going to stop in a hurry. And that meant we could not return to Calcutta.

  Nobo Kumar wasn’t the least bit put out. ‘These sudden storms and heavy rain are not unusual,’ he told us. ‘All it means is that you must spend the night here.’

  ‘But . . .’ Feluda began. Nobo Kumar cut him short, ‘It’s not a problem at all, believe me. We have at least ten spare bedrooms in this house, all fully furnished. And I could even lend you some clothes. Don’t worry about a thing!’

  We were given two adjoining rooms on the ground floor. Both rooms were huge, with matching furniture. Lalmohan Babu climbed onto his massive bed and said, ‘Aaah . . . this reminds me of that tale in which a common man becomes an emperor for a day. Arabian Nights, isn’t it?’

  I wasn’t sure, but I could see what he meant. The white marble dishes in which lunch was served were fit for a king, I had thought. At night, the marble dishes disappeared. We were served dinner on plates made of pure silver.

  ‘We didn’t get to see Chandrasekhar’s studio,’ said Feluda over dinner. ‘I’ll take you there tomorrow morning,’ Nobo Kumar replied. ‘It’s directly above your room.’

  The rain stopped just as we were getting ready to go to bed. I looked out of the window. A few stars were peeping out from torn shreds of clouds. There was something eerie about the silence outside. Our room faced the garden. A number of fireflies buzzed outside, and from somewhere came the faint sound of a transistor radio.

  Lalmohan Babu rose at half-past ten and went to his room. There was a communicating door between his room and ours, which he thought was ‘convenient’.

  It was through this door that he slipped in in the middle of the night and woke Feluda. I woke only a few seconds later.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Feluda was asking when I opened my eyes, ‘So late—’

  ‘Sh-h-h-h! Listen carefully!’

  We both pricked our ears.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

  The noise was coming from above. There was someone walking upstairs. At one point, I thought I heard a click. The noise subsided in about three minutes, and silence fell once more.

  Sandro Niyogi’s studio was above our room, Nobo Kumar had said. Was someone in there?

  ‘You two wait here,’ Feluda whispered, ‘I’ll be right back.’ He went out, barefoot. Lalmohan Babu and I sat on the bed, holding our breath until he came back in five minutes. It felt like five hours. Somewhere, a clock struck two.

  ‘Did you see anyone?’ asked Lalmohan Babu. ‘Yes. I saw him come down the stairs.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘The journalist. Robin Babu.’

  Four

  The next morning, Feluda said nothing about the previous night’s experience. All he asked Nobo Kumar over breakfast was, ‘Doesn’t the studio stay locked?’

  ‘Yes, normally it does. But we’ve had to keep it unlocked lately. Robin Babu works in there. Rudrasekhar, too, visits the stud
io occasionally. So we don’t bother with locking it any more. Baba has got the key.’

  He took us to the studio after breakfast. It was on the second floor. The wall facing north was made almost entirely of glass, since the light from that end was supposed to be the best for an artist to paint by.

  There were stacks of paintings on the floor. Stretched white canvases were scattered in a corner, together with paints, brushes and palettes. An easel stood by the window. It looked as though the artist had stepped out only for a minute.

  ‘Everything he used appears to have been brought from abroad,’ Feluda remarked, testing some of the paints and a bottle of linseed oil, ‘and they are still in reasonably good condition. Rudrasekhar could make a lot of money simply by selling these. Any Indian artist would jump at the chance to buy such good quality stuff.’

  A number of portraits hung at the far end. Nobo Kumar pointed at one of these and said, ‘That’s Chandrasekhar’s self-portrait.’

  A handsome man with sharp features stared from the canvas, dressed in western clothes. Long, black hair rippled down to his shoulders. He had a beard and a moustache, very neatly trimmed.

  ‘Yes, that is the picture that was published with the article,’ said Feluda.

  ‘You may be right,’ Nobo Kumar replied. ‘Baba told me Bhudev Singh’s son had come down for a day to take pictures for his father’s article.’

  ‘Where is that famous painting?’

  ‘This way.’ Nobo Kumar took us to the far corner.

  The painting of Jesus hung from a golden frame. There was a crown of thorns on his head. His eyes held a faraway look. One hand was placed across his chest. A halo encircled his head and, beyond it, were trees and hills and a river. The sky could be glimpsed behind the hills. It appeared to be overcast and held a hint of lightning. The whole effect was most impressive.

  We stared at the painting for a whole minute. None of us knew anything about it—not even the artist’s name—and yet, it seemed to have a mysterious captivating power.