The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘Why, what happened?’

  ‘Mr Majumdar hit a man instead of a tiger.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes. It’s the truth.’

  ‘You mean a local villager, or someone like that?’

  ‘No. That might have made matters simpler. The man who died was a professor of history in a college, and a Bengali. He was called Sudheer Brahma. Although he taught history, his main interest in life was ayurveda. While the Raja and Mr Majumdar were looking for a tiger, he was roaming around in the forest looking for herbs. Unfortunately, he was draped in a yellow wrapper. Mr Majumdar saw a flash of yellow through some thick foliage, and mistaking it for a tiger, fired a shot. The bullet went straight into Brahma’s stomach. He died instantly.

  ‘Prithvi Singh had to spend a lot of money and pull a lot of strings to keep this quiet. I should know, for I was a friend of Sudheer Brahma. Mr Majumdar got away with it that time, but in his heart he obviously knew he was a criminal. He had killed a man, never mind if it was only by mistake. He hadn’t paid for it, had he? So how long do you suppose he could go on living, weighed down by this awful load of guilt?’

  ‘Do you happen to think there is a link between the present tragedy and what happened so many years ago?’

  ‘You are a detective, Mr Mitter, you know about murder and motives. Perhaps I ought to tell you something. Sudheer Brahma had a son called Ramesh. He was sixteen when his father died. Naturally, he hated the idea of the whole thing being hushed up and the killer of his father going scot free. He told me he’d somehow settle scores with the killer when he grew up. He ought to be thirty-eight now.’

  ‘Have you been in touch with him all these years?’

  ‘No. I left Neelkanthapur twenty years ago. Then I spent a few years in Chhota Nagpur. Finally, I retired and came to Darjeeling. I don’t know if you’ve seen my house. It’s only a small cottage. I live there with my wife. My son works in Calcutta, and my daughter’s married.’

  ‘I see. Do you have reason to believe Ramesh Brahma is in Darjeeling at this moment?’

  ‘No. But to be honest, if he came and stood before me today, I doubt that I could recognize him after twenty-two years. All I can tell you is that he had seemed absolutely determined to avenge his father’s death.’

  Mr Mukherjee finished his tale. It was undoubtedly a strange tale, and one that I knew would give Feluda fresh food for thought.

  ‘Thank you very much indeed, for telling us all this,’ he said to Mr Mukherjee. ‘Even if Sudheer Brahma’s son isn’t here, the very fact that such an event had occurred in Mr Majumdar’s life is surprising. Mind you, he had hinted that there was something in his life he couldn’t talk about, and you yourself had vaguely mentioned something similar, but I could never have imagined it to be this! If you say you were actually present in Neelkanthapur when it happened, I see no reason to doubt your word.’

  There seemed no point in continuing to sit in one place. All of us rose to our feet, and Mr Mukherjee said goodbye. We began walking towards Observatory Hill. The familiar frown was back on Feluda’s face. He had clearly decided it was no longer an easy and simple case. ‘God knows if Mr Mukherjee’s story is going to help or hinder my thinking,’ he remarked, walking through the mist. ‘My thoughts, at this moment, are a bit like this place—covered by a haze, muddled and unclear. If only I could see a ray of sunshine!’

  A Nepali with a horse emerged from the mist. ‘Would you like a horse, babu?’ he asked. But we ignored him and walked on. The road curved to the left; on the right was a gorge. We turned left, trying to steer clear of the edge on our right. The railing by the side of the road was practically invisible. On a clear day, it was so easy to see Kanchenjunga from here, but today it seemed as though we were surrounded by an impenetrable white wall.

  Soon, the railing ended. We had to be doubly careful now, for if we went just a little too close to the edge on our right, there was every chance of slipping straight into the gorge. I was concerned to note that Feluda seemed so preoccupied that he was moving to the right, every now and then. Then he’d check himself and come back to the left side, closer to the hill. Lalmohan Babu kept muttering, ‘Mysterious, mysterious!’ Once I heard him say, ‘Hey, do you think the word “mysterious” has anything to do with “mist”?’

  Neither of us could reply, for we had all heard a noise and stopped. It was the sound of hurrying footsteps, coming from behind us. Whoever it was, was clearly in a hurry and we’d have to let him pass. But although the sound got louder, we couldn’t see anyone, until—suddenly—a shadowy figure materialized from nowhere and pushed Feluda hard in the direction of the gorge. Unable to maintain his balance, or do anything to tackle his attacker, Feluda went right over the edge. The figure disappeared with the same suddenness with which it had appeared, before any of us could see its face. Lalmohan Babu screamed. I remained still like a statue, aware of what had happened, but unable to move.

  At this moment, two Nepalis appeared, walking from the opposite direction. They stopped immediately, and asked, ‘Kya hua, babu?’

  I finally came to life, and told them. ‘Ek minute thahariye, hum dekhte hain,’ said one of them. A second later, both men vanished from sight, climbing down the hill with remarkable ease. We still stood foolishly, wondering what the men might find. But in less than thirty seconds, the mist began to lift, rapidly and miraculously. Vague outlines of trees and other objects became visible, almost as if an unseen hand had lifted a veil. I glanced around anxiously.

  What was that down below?

  A tree. A rhododendron. A man seemed to be wrapped around its trunk. Feluda! Oh yes, there couldn’t be a mistake. I could see his brown jacket and red-and-black scarf. The two Nepalis had seen him, too. They reached him a couple of minutes later, and helped him to his feet. Feluda stood up somewhat unsteadily.

  ‘Feluda!’ I cried.

  ‘Felu Babu!’ shouted Jatayu. Feluda looked up, then slowly raised a hand to indicate he wasn’t seriously hurt. Our two Nepali friends—an absolute Godsend in our moment of crisis—held his hands and guided him up the hill again. It wasn’t easy, but in about five minutes, Feluda was back with us. He was panting, his forehead was bleeding, and he had scratched his palms which showed streaks of blood.

  ‘Bahut, bahut shukriya!’ he said to his rescuers. They grinned, dusted him down and said he should go straight to the clinic in the Mall for first aid.

  We thanked them once more, and began walking back to the Mall. ‘Tapesh, do you have any idea who the man might have been?’ Lalmohan Babu asked me. I shook my head. I had seen nothing of his face except his beard. Even that had somehow seemed to be false. ‘How are you feeling now?’ Lalmohan Babu turned to Feluda.

  ‘Sort of wrecked,’ Feluda replied. ‘If it wasn’t for that tree, I would have broken every bone in my body. But this is exactly what I needed. Such a severe jolt has opened up my brain again. I have already found a very helpful clue. I think I am finally getting somewhere, Lalmohan Babu, though it is now obvious that the case is neither simple nor easy.’

  Nine

  The doctor on duty at the clinic was called Dr Bardhan. He examined Feluda thoroughly, and confirmed his injuries were not serious. But he was naturally curious to know what had happened, and we were obliged to tell him.

  ‘But who should want to attack you like this?’ he asked, puzzled. In order to explain that, Feluda had to tell him who he was. Dr Bardhan grew round-eyed.

  ‘You are the most famous investigator, the Pradosh Mitter? I have read so much about your cases, but never thought I’d get to meet you in person. Are you here to look into the death of Mr Majumdar?’

  ‘I am involved in it now, yes.’

  ‘He was one of my patients.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. A man with the most extraordinary will power. No one could tell how much he had suffered and, in fact, was still suffering. He kept himself busy with his hobby, and went about riding everywhere.’

  ‘Wh
at do you mean by suffering? Do you mind telling me?’

  ‘Well, to start with, his health wasn’t very good. Then he lost his wife seven years ago. She died of cancer. Apart from all that, there were problems with his son.’

  ‘You mean Samiran Babu?’

  ‘Yes. He was quite a gifted young man, but speculation in the stock exchange ruined him totally. He’s now up to his neck in debt. I felt very sorry for Mr Majumdar. Samiran was, after all, his only son. Since I was his doctor, he used to tell me many things, share his worries with me that he wouldn’t with anyone else. I am sure Samiran decided to visit this time only to ask his father for more money. But Mr Majumdar, I know, was so angry and disappointed with his son that he wouldn’t have helped him out. He may even have given him an ultimatum. The whole thing is so unpleasant, so shameful, I really fee! sad to think about it. Particularly ever since the murder. I feel afraid it isn’t over, something else might happen. I couldn’t tell you what, but I cannot shake off this feeling.’

  ‘Do you know if he made a will?’

  ‘No. But if he did, I’m sure he left everything to his son, unless he changed it recently.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Feluda, ‘you have no idea how much you’ve helped me. I came here to get first aid. But you’ve given me aid of a very different kind. It’s an added bonus. I cannot thank you enough.’

  Dr Bardhan waved his thanks aside and refused to accept a fee. When we came out of the clinic, Feluda said, ‘If you two wish to have a little rest, you can go back to the hotel. I must go to Nayanpur Villa. I have to begin my investigation all over again, keeping in mind every new thing I’ve learnt today. In my eyes, the whole case seems entirely different now.’

  Lalmohan Babu and I both said we had no intention of returning to the hotel. If Feluda could carry on working in spite of his brush with death, there was no reason for us to retire quietly. I couldn’t stop marvelling at his stamina. He had rolled at least a hundred feet down the hill.

  By the time we reached Nayanpur Villa, the mist had almost totally gone. The house had a rather sombre air about it, but the beauty that surrounded it was as breathtaking as ever. Rajat Bose came out as we got closer to the front veranda. Perhaps he had heard our footsteps on the cobbled driveway.

  ‘Namaskar,’ Feluda greeted him, ‘I can see that you’re feeling at a loose end. I need your help, Mr Bose.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think I might see Mr Majumdar’s study? I’d like to see your room as well, if I may, and ask some questions.’

  ‘Very well. Please come in.’

  ‘Where is Samiran Babu?’

  ‘He is probably having a bath.’

  ‘OK, let’s sit in the study.’

  We followed Mr Bose to the rear portion of the northern wing. Mr Majumdar’s study was large, tidy and comfortable. The pine wood behind the house was partially visible through a window. A heavy mahogany table stood before the window, together with two chairs. At the far end were other chairs and sofas for visitors. We walked over to this side. Feluda did not come with us. He took his time inspecting the room, occasionally picking up objects from the table. I saw him pick up a paper-knife and look at it closely.

  ‘It’s got quite a sharp blade,’ he remarked, ‘one could even kill with a small knife like this!’

  ‘I think it’s one of a pair, Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu piped up. ‘Pulak has used the other one on his set. In one of the scenes, the villain uses it to scratch his back.’

  Even from a distance the knife looked sharp and sort of lethal.

  Feluda put it back on the table.

  Rows of shelves stood on one side, packed with long, thick ledgers—Mr Majumdar’s scrapbooks. We had seen two of these already. Feluda took out a couple more and glanced idly through them. ‘Who used to cut out and paste these before you came?’ he asked Mr Bose.

  ‘Mr Majumdar used to do it himself.’

  ‘Did he leave this job entirely to you after your arrival?’

  ‘More or less. Lokenath helped me sometimes.’

  ‘You mean the bearer?’

  ‘Yes. He had finished school. He could read and write very well indeed.’

  ‘That’s unusual in someone working as a bearer. Could you tell us why he had chosen such a job?’

  ‘Mr Majumdar paid him well.’

  ‘I see. He chose a fine way to show his gratitude, didn’t he?’

  Mr Bose said nothing. Feluda continued to walk around the room, looking at and touching objects as he asked his questions.

  ‘What did you do before coming here?’

  ‘Work in a private firm.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Calcutta.’

  ‘How long did you stay in that job?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  ‘Did Mr Majumdar put in an advertisement for a secretary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are your qualifications?’

  ‘I have a degree in commerce. I graduated in 1957.’

  ‘What about your family? Where are they?’

  ‘I’m not married. My parents are both dead.’

  ‘Brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I have none.’

  ‘You mean you are totally alone in this world?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is this photograph?’

  Feluda had picked up a framed photograph from a shelf. It was a group photo, possibly of staff in an office. There were about thirty-five people, most of them standing in rows. Only a handful of people sat in chairs in the front row.

  ‘It was taken many years ago, when Mr Majumdar used to work for Bengal Bank. One of their managing directors was leaving. This photo was taken on the day of his farewell. Mr Majumdar was the Deputy Director then.’

  Feluda peered at the photo closely. ‘It doesn’t appear to contain the names of all these people. I can recognize Mr Majumdar, though.’

  ‘Perhaps there was a list at the bottom of the photograph. It may be hidden under the frame.’

  ‘May I keep it with me for a couple of days?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Feluda passed the photo to me. Lalmohan Babu and I looked at it. It wasn’t any different from the usual group photos taken in offices. Mr Majumdar was sitting in a chair. The man sitting next to him was probably the departing managing director.

  ‘Now I need to know how you spent your time on the day of the murder,’ Feluda said, taking out his notebook from the pocket of his jacket. He opened it and ran his eyes through the notes on a particular page. ‘Mr Majumdar used to come to his study at half past eleven every morning. You had to be here at that time, and you worked with him until half past twelve. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you work on that morning?’

  ‘Chiefly his correspondence. Mr Majumdar knew a lot of people, both in India and abroad. They wrote to him regularly. Replying to those letters took up a lot of time.’

  ‘What were you doing before Mr Majumdar joined you at half past eleven?’

  ‘The film unit arrived soon after breakfast. I was standing on the veranda on the other side, and watching them getting ready for the first shot.’

  ‘Which one was it?’

  ‘It had Verma and Mr Ganguli in it.’

  Lalmohan Babu gave a slight nod to confirm the accuracy of this statement.

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘Probably eleven o’clock. I’m not sure, I didn’t look at my watch. I left in a few minutes and came here.’

  ‘OK. What did you do when you finished your morning’s work? Did you have lunch with Mr Majumdar and his son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do after that?’

  ‘It was almost one o’clock by the time we finished eating. I went to my own room straight after that and spent half an hour reading.’

  ‘What were you reading?’

  ‘A magazine—Readers’ Digest.’

  ‘And th
en?’

  ‘Around two, I went for a walk in the pine wood. It’s a beautiful place. I go there whenever I can.’

  ‘So I’ve gathered. What did you do after that?’

  ‘I returned around half past two and went back to my room to rest. I came out of my room at four o’clock and started to watch the shooting again. Mr Ganguli was in the shot being taken.’

  Lalmohan Babu nodded once more.

  ‘When Mr Majumdar did not make an appearance after five o’clock, didn’t you find it odd?’ Feluda went on.

  ‘Frankly, I had lost track of time. There was this noisy generator running all the time, and dozens of people coming and going and shouting; it was so distracting I forgot to look at my watch.’

  ‘How was Mr Majumdar as a boss?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘He didn’t get angry or impatient with you?’

  ‘No. He was most amiable.’

  ‘Were you happy with your salary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lalmohan Babu told us about something he had heard the day before the murder, when he went to use the bathroom. He heard Mr Majumdar’s voice saying, “You are a liar. I don’t believe a single word you say.” Who do you think he might have been talking to?’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone except his son.’

  ‘Didn’t father and son get on?’

  ‘He was disappointed with his son, in some ways.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘He said things in my presence that seemed to imply it. You know, things like “Samiran has become rather reckless”, or words to that effect. He loved his son most undoubtedly, but that didn’t stop him from ticking him off every now and then.’

  ‘Do you know if he left a will?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but as far as I know, he did not.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He had once said to me, “I feel just fine at the moment. I’ll make a will only if my health gets any worse.”’