The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II

by Satyajit Ray

  Feluda: Yes, he’s sixty-two. He seems quite strong and agile.

  Doesn’t talk much.

  Bhudev: Possibly because he’s too ashamed to speak of himself. Perhaps he’s realized how disappointed his father was with him—so much so that, in the end, he left his home, his career, everything. We used to have arguments about this. I kept telling Chandra he mustn’t give up and turn his back on life, his talent was far too great to be wasted. But he did not listen to me.

  Feluda: Did he stay in touch?

  Bhudev: Yes, he used to write to me occasionally. But I haven’t heard from him for a long time now.

  Feluda: Do you remember when he last wrote to you?

  Bhudev: Wait, I should have it somewhere . . . ah, here it is. A postcard from Hrishikesh, written in September 1977.

  Feluda: Nineteen seventy-seven? That’s only five years ago! That means—legally speaking—he’s still alive!

  Bhudev: Yes, of course. I say, that had never occurred to me!

  Feluda: Rudrasekhar, therefore, cannot claim his father’s property. At least, not yet.

  The next day, Bhudev Singh showed us everything worth seeing in Bhagwangarh—the Bhawani temple, Laxmi Narayan Gardens, ruins of the old city, and even a herd of deer in a forest.

  In the evening, he arranged to have us driven straight to Nagpur. Mr Nagpal turned up as we were leaving, and handed a piece of paper to Feluda. It bore the Armenian’s name and address.

  Bhudev Singh brushed aside our thanks for his wonderful hospitality. ‘Mr Mitter,’ he said, laying a hand on Feluda’s shoulder, ‘please see that the Tintoretto does not fall into the wrong hands.’

  We reached home at around 11 a.m. the next day. The phone rang almost immediately as we stepped in. It was Nobo Kumar calling from Baikunthapur.

  ‘Come here at once,’ he said urgently, ‘we’ve got problems.’

  Seven

  We left in half an hour.

  ‘Do you think that painting’s been stolen?’ Lalmohan Babu enquired.

  ‘Yes, that is what I am afraid of.’

  ‘I wasn’t really all that interested in the painting before. But now, having read that book and talked to the Rajah, I feel sort of personally involved with Tontiretto.’

  Feluda was frowning, so deep in thought that he didn’t even try to correct Lalmohan Babu.

  This time, Lalmohan Babu’s driver drove faster and we reached Baikunthapur in a couple of hours.

  A few new people had arrived in the Niyogi household—Nobo Kumar’s wife and two children.

  But two people were missing. One of them was Rudrasekhar, who had left for Calcutta very early that morning.

  The other was Bankim Babu.

  He had been murdered.

  Someone had struck him on his head with a heavy object. Death must have been instantaneous. His body was found by a servant in the studio. The police surgeon had placed the time of death between 3 and 5 a.m.

  ‘I rang you first,’ said Nobo Kumar, ‘but you appeared to be out. So I had to inform the police.’

  ‘You did right,’ Feluda said. ‘But tell me, is the picture still here?’

  ‘That’s what’s so strange. Mind you, it’s easy enough to see who the killer might be. I had found his behaviour extremely suspicious right from the start. He was clearly in need of money, but to go through the legal system would have taken at least six months, so I guess . . .’

  ‘No. It would have taken much longer. I learnt from Bhudev Singh he had heard from Chandrasekhar only five years ago.’

  ‘Really? Well, in that case, his son has no legal rights at all.’

  ‘That wouldn’t stop him from stealing, would it?’

  ‘But that’s the whole point! He didn’t steal the picture. It’s still hanging in the same spot.’

  ‘That is most peculiar,’ Feluda had to admit. ‘What do the police say?’

  ‘They are still asking questions. The main thing now is to catch our departed guest. Last night, I was here with my family, my parents, Robin Babu and our servants. I didn’t see Rudrasekhar at dinner.’

  ‘I am curious about Robin Babu.’

  ‘He seems all right. He normally works in his room until two in the morning. Our bearer brings him his morning tea at eight. Rudrasekhar used to get up at the same time. But today, while Robin Babu was still in his room, Rudrasekhar had gone. He left at six-thirty, apparently. With him went his artist.’

  ‘What artist?’

  ‘An artist arrived the day you left, at Rudrasekhar’s invitation, to assess the value of everything in the studio. I suspect he wanted to sell the whole lot.’

  ‘I assume he didn’t speak to you before he left?’

  ‘No, not a word to me or anyone else. Our chowkidar saw him leave. At first I thought he had just gone up to speak to his lawyers. But now I’m sure he’s not going to come back.’

  ‘May I see his room?’

  ‘Certainly. It’s through here.’

  We were sitting in a room on the ground floor. A door on our right opened into a room that had been given to Rudrasekhar. It looked like something straight out of a film, set in the nineteenth century. The bed and the stands for hanging a mosquito net, the writing desk and the dressing table were all old, the likes of which would be difficult to find nowadays.

  ‘This room was originally my grandfather, Suryasekhar Niyogi’s,’ Nobo Kumar informed us. ‘In his old age, he couldn’t climb stairs at all. So he stayed on the ground floor permanently.’

  ‘The bed hasn’t been made yet,’ Feluda observed.

  ‘The morning’s been so chaotic! I bet the maid who usually makes beds simply forgot her duties.’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame her. Who’s got the next room?’

  ‘That is . . . was . . . Bankim Babu’s.’

  There was a communicating door between the two rooms, but it appeared to be locked. We trooped out and entered the other room through another door. This room looked much more lived in. Clothes hung from a rack, under which were some shoes and chappals. A table stood in a corner, piled high with books, papers, writing material and a Remington typewriter. A few framed photos hung on the wall. No one had bothered to make the bed in this room, either.

  Feluda suddenly strode forward and stood by the bed. Then he slipped his hand under the mosquito net and lifted the pillow. A small blue travelling alarm clock lay under it.

  ‘Hey, I used to do this when I was in school,’ Lalmohan Babu said casually. ‘I used to set the alarm very early in the morning, particularly before my exams, and place it under my pillow, so it didn’t wake others.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Feluda, looking at the clock. ‘Bankim Babu set the alarm at 3.30 a.m.’

  ‘Half-past three? That early?’ Nobo Kumar sounded amazed.

  ‘Yes, and that was when he probably went to the studio. I believe he was suspicious of something. He tried to tell me about it the last time I was here, but then seemed to change his mind.’

  Nobo Kumar offered to take us to the studio where the murder had taken place. Before we could move, however, his children burst into the room and grabbed Lalmohan Babu’s hands. ‘Are you the famous Jatayu? Hey, we’ve read all your books!’ they exclaimed. ‘Come on, tell us a story!’

  They dragged him back to the front room. Lalmohan Babu couldn’t help feeling flattered. He smiled and beamed, forgetting for the moment the rather sombre atmosphere in the house. But, as it turned out, he wasn’t quite as good at telling stories as he was at writing them. We left him there, struggling to get a few sentences together before the children interrupted with, ‘No, no, no! That’s from The Sahara Shivers!’ or, ‘We know that one. It’s in The Vampire of Vancouver!’

  Nobo Kumar took Feluda and me to the studio on the second floor.

  Feluda stepped in, but stopped short, staring at a small table kept in the centre of the room.

  ‘Wasn’t there a bronze statue on this one?’ he asked. ‘The figure of a man on horseback?’

  ‘Y
es, you’re right.’ Inspector Mondol took it away to check it for fingerprints. He seemed to think that was what had been used to kill Bankim Babu.’

  ‘I see.’

  The three of us walked slowly towards the painting of Jesus. It seemed to have a special glow today. Had it been cleaned?

  Feluda strode right up to the picture and peered at it closely for a few moments. Then he asked a totally absurd question.

  ‘Did they have green flies in Italy during the Renaissance?’

  ‘Green flies in Italy? What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Yes, the little green flies that buzz around lamps, especially after heavy rain. That’s what I mean, Mr Niyogi. Did they exist in Venice in the sixteenth century?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about Venice. But we’ve certainly had them here in Baikunthapur. Why, even yesterday—’

  ‘In that case, two questions come to mind. How come two little insects are stuck in the totally dry paint of an ancient painting, and second, why did they get into a room which was supposed to be in total darkness all through the night? I mean every night?’

  ‘Oh my God! What are you saying, Mr Mitter?’

  ‘This is not the original painting. In the original, the face of Jesus did not have two small flies stuck on it; nor were the colours so bright. This painting is a copy; very cleverly done, no doubt, but a copy, nevertheless. It must have been painted at night, by candlelight, which explains why the insects came in and got stuck in the wet paint.’

  Nobo Kumar’s face went white.

  ‘Where is the original?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s been removed. Possibly only this morning. And it’s not difficult to guess who took it, is it?’

  Eight

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Niyogi.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  Rudrasekhar came forward and took a chair opposite Mr Somani. A large, modern office desk lay between them. The room was air-conditioned, blocking out all noise from outside. An electronic clock on a shelf showed the time mutely.

  Hiralal Somani spoke again. ‘Have you got the painting?’ Instead of giving him a straight answer, Rudrasekhar asked another question. ‘You wish to buy it for someone else, don’t you?’

  Hiralal did not reply. Rudrasekhar continued, ‘I have come to collect the name and address of the actual buyer.’

  Hiralal’s eyes remained fixed on Rudrasekhar’s face. ‘I shall ask you once more, Mr Niyogi,’ he said coldly. ‘Have you got the painting?’

  ‘I am not obliged to tell you that.’

  ‘Then I am not obliged, either, to give you the information you want.’

  ‘Think again, Mr Somani!’

  Rudrasekhar leapt to his feet. In his hand was a revolver, aimed at Somani. ‘Tell me, Mr Somani,’ his breath came in short gasps, ‘I need to know. I want to contact the buyer. Today.’

  Somani quickly leant forward, pressing with his right knee a white button fixed under the desk. A door behind Rudrasekhar opened immediately and two men slipped in.

  Before he knew it, one of them had grabbed Rudrasekhar’s right arm and taken the revolver from him. The other caught his left hand and twisted it behind his back.

  ‘It’s no use, Mr Niyogi. You know you can’t escape. These two men will go with you and bring the painting from your hotel. I hope you won’t be foolish enough to resist.’

  Twenty minutes later, a taxi drew up outside a hotel on Sadar Street. Rudrasekhar, accompanied by the two men, emerged from it and walked in. It seemed as though he was merely taking a couple of friends to his room. One of them had his hand in his pocket, but no one could have guessed he was clutching a revolver.

  They went into Room 19. The gun came out. Rudrasekhar realized there was absolutely nothing he could do. With a sigh, he opened a suitcase lying on the bed, and brought out a thin, flat board wrapped in a newspaper.

  The man whose hands were free snatched it from him and unwrapped it quickly. The tranquil face of Jesus gazed at him. The man wrapped the painting again. Then, with calm deliberate movements, he took out a silk handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around Rudrasekhar’s mouth. A second later, Rudrasekhar was lying flat on the floor, knocked unconscious. The two men tied him up with a nylon rope and left. All of this took less than five minutes.

  It took them another fifteen minutes to get the packet to Somani. He glanced briefly at the painting, and handed it back to one of the men. ‘Pack this properly,’ he said. Then he turned to the other.

  ‘I have to send an urgent cable. Go to the Park Street post office immediately and send it now,’ he instructed, quickly writing on a sheet of paper. It said:

  Mr Walter Krikorian

  Krikorian Enterprises

  14 Hennessey Street

  Hong Kong

  ARRIVING SATURDAY NINTH OCT.

  —SOMANI

  Nine

  Inspector Mondol came in the evening—a slim, brisk and efficient man. He had heard of Feluda, as it turned out.

  ‘You solved the case of that double murder in Kharagpur, didn’t you? In 1978?’ he asked.

  I remembered the case well. A goonda had been hired to kill one of a pair of identical twins. He didn’t want to take any risks, so he killed both. Feluda’s name became quite well known after he solved this case.

  ‘Yes,’ Feluda replied. ‘What do you think of the present case?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say. The chief suspect has run away, as you know. There is no doubt that he did it, but I am still doubtful about his motive.’

  ‘Are you aware that the man walked away with a most valuable object?’

  ‘What! Why, no one mentioned this before!’

  ‘Well, Mr Niyogi realized it after you had gone. Er . . . I had something to do with this discovery.’

  ‘I can believe that. What was it?’

  ‘A painting. It was in the studio. Perhaps Bankim Babu caught the man in the act.’

  ‘Yes, that would certainly give him a strong motive.’

  ‘Have you questioned the journalist?’

  ‘Yes, of course. To tell you the truth, I find it distinctly odd that two virtual strangers were staying in the same house as guests. But Robin Babu seemed perfectly straightforward. Besides, we found some fingerprints on that bronze statue. They didn’t match his.’

  ‘Did you try and trace Rudrasekhar’s taxi? WBT 4122?’

  ‘That’s terrific, you’ve got quite a memory! Yes, we did find the taxi. It took Rudrasekhar from here to a hotel in Sadar Street. But he wasn’t there. We’re making enquiries at other hotels, but so far we haven’t had any luck. If he wants to sell what he stole, he’s most likely to do that in Calcutta, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, one can’t be too sure about that.’

  ‘Why not? You mean he may leave the city?’

  ‘He may even leave the country.’

  ‘You don’t say—’

  ‘I think there’s a flight to Hong Kong today.’

  ‘Hong Kong? It will become a case for Interpol if he goes to Hong Kong. I couldn’t do a thing if he left the country!’

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure that that is where he’s gone. But even if you cannot do anything to help, I’ve got to at least try and catch him.’

  ‘You will go to Hong Kong?’ Nobo Kumar failed to hide his surprise.

  ‘I have to make a few enquiries first. Then I shall decide.’

  ‘Well, if you do decide to go, let me know. I know a Bengali businessman there. Purnendu Pal. He and I were at college together. He runs a shop for Indian handicrafts. I believe he’s doing quite well.’

  ‘All right. I’ll take his address from you.’

  ‘I’ll get him to come and meet you at the airport. If necessary, you can even stay at his flat.’

  Inspector Mondol rose. ‘Good luck!’ he said. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

  He left. We returned to our room.

  ‘Good,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘we’ll get to use our passports at last!’

&nbs
p; Two years ago, an Arab was murdered in Bombay. Feluda had been called in by his friend, Inspector Patwardhan. It had begun to look as though we would have to go to Abu Dhabi for investigations. So we got our passports made and were all set to go, when word came that the culprit had given himself up.

  Lalmohan Babu had been sorely disappointed. ‘We were so close to going abroad, Tapesh Bhai!’ he had lamented. ‘We’ve been to Kathmandu, I know, and of course Nepal is a foreign country. But to travel somewhere with your passport is . . . something, isn’t it?’

  That ‘something’ might happen this time. Looking excited, Lalmohan Babu began to make some observations on the crime rate in Hong Kong, but was interrupted by the sound of a small cough just outside the door.

  ‘May I come in?’ asked the voice of the journalist, Robin Chowdhury.

  ‘Yes, please do,’ said Feluda.

  Robin Babu walked in. Once again, he made me think I had seen him somewhere before. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember where it might have been.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Feluda offered him a chair.

  ‘I believe you are an investigator?’ he asked as he sat down.

  ‘Yes, that’s my profession.’

  ‘The job of a biographer can sometimes be almost like a detective’s. New pieces of information, like fresh clues, often shed a different light on events.’

  ‘Why, did you discover something new about Chandrasekhar?’

  ‘You see, I had taken two cases from the studio. Both were filled with letters, legal documents, old bills and catalogues. But, amongst these, I found this press cutting. Look!’

  He held out a piece of an old and yellow newspaper. A few lines on it had been highlighted. This is what is said:

  La moglie Vittoria con il figlio Rajsekhar annunciano con profondo dolore la scomparsa del loro Rudrasekhar Niyogi.

  Roma, Juli 27, 1955

  ‘Why, this is written in Italian!’ Feluda exclaimed.