by Satyajit Ray
‘Let me now tell you of certain things I experienced myself.
‘I was curious about one of the inhabitants of Nayanpur Villa, although initially I had no reason to suspect him. It was Mr Rajat Bose. He told me in answer to my questions that he had a degree in commerce, and had finished his graduation in 1957.
‘My enquiries revealed that no one by the name of Rajat Bose had obtained a degree in commerce that particular year.’
I quickly glanced at Mr Bose. He was looking both upset and tense.
‘Can you explain this, Mr Bose? Did you tell me a lie, or is my information wrong?’ Feluda was looking straight at him.
Rajat Bose cleared his throat a couple of times. Then he took a deep breath, and spoke very rapidly. ‘I did not murder Birupaksha Majumdar, but God knows I wanted to. Oh yes, I did, a thousand times. He killed my father, and then he paid and bribed people to hush it all up. He was a criminal!’
‘Believe me, Mr Bose, I have every sympathy with you on that score. But now I’d like you to answer a few more questions, and I want the truth.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Mr Bose was still breathing hard. ‘On the day of the murder, Lokenath had mixed a single pill in a glass of milk—as he did every day—and went to call Mr Majumdar, who was watching the shooting. The glass of milk as well as the bottle of pills were both lying in the empty dining room. You tried to seize this opportunity to pour the remaining pills into the milk, didn’t you?’
‘Look, I already told you I wanted to avenge my father’s death.’
‘Yes, but Lokenath came back before you could actually put your plan to action. Isn’t that right? He saw what you were about to do, and you decided he should never get the chance to open his mouth.’
‘He was a fool! I wanted him to help me. I told him everything—but he refused.’
‘So you attacked him, didn’t you? He managed to struggle free, and ran towards the pine wood with the bottle of pills. You followed him with a weapon in your hand—that sharp paper-knife in Mr Majumdar’s study. You did manage to catch him, but before you actually struck him with your weapon, he threw the bottle on a rock, and it broke to pieces. Tell me, isn’t that exactly how it happened?’
Mr Bose didn’t reply. His sudden burst of courage had petered out completely. Now he broke down, and covered his face with his hands. Two constables walked over to him and stood behind his chair.
‘I have another little query. The initials “R.B.” on your suitcase stand for Ramesh Brahma, don’t they? You started calling yourself Rajat Bose simply to keep the same initials?’
Mr Bose nodded silently.
After a brief pause, Feluda resumed speaking.
‘Yesterday, something else happened. There was an attempt on my own life. Someone took advantage of the thick fog, and tried to push me into a gorge.’
This piece of information was greeted with complete silence from his audience.
Everyone was staring at Feluda, simply hanging on to his words. ‘I couldn’t see his face, but could make out that he was wearing a false beard. When he actually pushed me towards the edge of the cliff, I caught a faint whiff of a scent. It was Yardley Lavender. It wasn’t altogether an unfamiliar scent. I had smelt it before, sitting in the restaurant in Dum Dum airport.’
Rajen Raina spoke unexpectedly, ‘I use that scent myself, Mr Mitter. But if you think no one uses it except me, you couldn’t be making a bigger mistake.’
Feluda smiled. ‘I knew you would say that. I haven’t yet finished speaking, Mr Raina.’
‘Very well. What else do you have to say?’
Instead of giving him a reply. Feluda looked at Inspector Saha, who quietly passed him a briefcase. Feluda took out an envelope from it, and the framed group photo of all the employees of Bengal Bank.
‘Do you recognize this photograph, Mr Raina?’ Feluda asked.
‘I have never seen it before.’
‘No? But you yourself are present in the group!’
‘What do you mean?’
Feluda opened the envelope and took out another photo. It was the enlargement of a single face.
‘I have to admit I had to work in this one,’ Feluda said. ‘I drew the beard, for when the photo was taken, you didn’t have it. Now can you recognize the fellow? It’s a photo of Mr V. Balaporia, who used to work in the accounts department of Bengal Bank.’
Mr Raina didn’t bother to ask for the photo to get a closer look. He began wiping his face nervously. I peered at it and saw that the face staring at the camera was of Raina himself.
‘How were you to know the person in whose house you were going to shoot would turn out to be an ex-boss? Much less did you anticipate that he would recognize you instantly. But it took you no time to judge just how badly your film career was going to be affected if any scandal from your past got to be known. Mr Majumdar had told you you had been recognized, hadn’t he? You denied it, to which he said, “You are a liar. I do not believe a single word you say.”
‘Well, that takes care of the motive. If we now look for an opportunity to kill, remember there was a forty-five-minute break during lunch. You could easily have slipped into Mr Majumdar’s room during that time. When he had taken you and Mr Verma to look at that statue of Krishna, you must have noticed the dagger lying next to it on the shelf.’
Inspector Saha rose and made his way to where Raina was sitting. Pulak Ghoshal was sitting next to him, clutching his head. I could well imagine his profound distress. Lalmohan Babu leant towards me, and whispered, ‘I don’t understand one thing. Why should Mr Majumdar write the word “vish”?’
Feluda heard him. ‘I am coming to that,’ he said. ‘When Mr Raina walked into Mr Majumdar’s room, he woke unexpectedly and saw him. Even after being stabbed, he remained alive for a few seconds, and tried to write the killer’s name during that time. Unfortunately, he couldn’t finish. Mr Raina, can you tell us the full name Mr Majumdar had tried to write?’
Rajen Raina remained silent.
‘Shall I tell everyone, then?’
Raina didn’t speak.
‘Very well. I learnt through my enquiries that the “V” in Balaporia’s name stood for “Vishnudas”. It was this name that Mr Majumdar was trying to write moments before his death. He didn’t get beyond “Vish”.’
‘Sorry! Oh God, I am so sorry!’ wailed Vishnudas Balaporia, alias Rajen Raina. Feluda now turned his eyes on Samiran Majumdar.
‘I am a mere child, compared to him!’ Samiran Babu exclaimed, meeting Feluda’s gaze.
‘True. Please be good enough to open your suitcase now, and take out the statue of Krishna,’ Feluda said dryly.
Pulak Ghoshal joined us at Keventer’s in the evening.
‘Darjeeling proved to be quite unlucky,’ he observed morosely. ‘I think I’ll reshoot in Simla. Rajen Raina can be replaced by Arjun Mehrotra. What do you think of that?’
‘Brilliant!’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘I think he’ll really suit the part. But. . . you’ll still retain the bits I appear in, won’t you?’
‘Of course. I’ll go back and start shooting in November, which means I can finish by February. I have another four films to work on. Each one of them must be done by the end of next year.’
‘What! All four of them, one after the other?’
‘Yes. I’m not doing too badly, I must admit, by the grace of God!’ Feluda turned to Lalmohan Babu.
‘I think we can give him the same title you bestowed on me,’ he said.
‘How?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, raising his eyebrows. ‘How would you get ABCD?’
‘Asia’s Busiest Cinema Director.’
The Magical Mystery
One
Magic was among the many things that Feluda knew a lot about. Even now, occasionally, I caught him standing before a mirror, with a pack of cards, practising sleight of hand. It was for this reason that when we heard that a magician called Surya Kumar had arrived in Calcutta, the three of us decided to go to his show one day.
The third person, naturally, was our friend, Lalmohan Ganguli (alias Jatayu), the writer of popular crime thrillers. The organizers of the show were well known to Feluda, so we only had to ask before we were given three tickets for seats in the front row.
When we arrived, about thirty percent of the auditorium was empty. The show started. The items presented were not bad, but there was something lacking in the personality of the magician. He had a goatee, and was wearing a silk turban studded with sequins. But his voice was thin, and that was where the problem lay because a magician’s job is to talk incessantly. He has to have a good voice.
One of the things that happened as a result of our sitting in the front row was that the magician called Jatayu to the stage to hypnotize him. Hypnotism, it turned out, was something the man knew well. He handed a pencil to Jatayu and said, ‘This is a bar of chocolate. Take a bite. How do you like it?’ Lalmohan Babu bit the pencil in his hypnotized state and answered, ‘Lovely. Delicious chocolate!’
He remained on the stage for five minutes. In that time, the magician made a complete fool of him, which the audience enjoyed hugely. Even after he came to his senses, it seemed as if the sound of applause would never die down.
The next day was a Sunday. Lalmohan Babu arrived from his house in Gorpar, as usual, in his green Ambassador, on the dot of nine o’clock. We continued to talk about the magic show. ‘That man,’ said Feluda, ‘hasn’t quite made it yet, has he? So many seats were empty yesterday. Did you notice?’
‘Yes, but he certainly knows hypnotism,’ Lalmohan Babu observed. ‘You must give him full credit for making me do all those weird things. My God, I chewed a pencil and thought it was a chocolate. Then he had me bite a stone and declare it was a sandesh. Just imagine!’
Srinath came in with the tea, and with his arrival, came the sound of a car stopping outside our house. This was followed quickly by a knock on the front door. We were not expecting anyone. I opened the door to find a man of about thirty.
‘Is this Pradosh Mitter’s house?’
‘That’s right,’ Feluda said. ‘Please come in.’
The gentleman stepped in. He was slim, fair and wore glasses. He looked quite smart.
‘I tried quite hard to get you on the phone,’ he said, sitting in one corner of our sofa, ‘but I just couldn’t get through. So I decided to come in person.’
‘That’s all right. What can I do for you?’
‘My name is Nikhil Burman. You may have heard of my father, Someshwar Burman.’
‘The man who used to perform Indian magic?’
‘Yes.’
‘One doesn’t hear his name any more. Has he retired?’
‘Yes, about seven years ago. He hasn’t performed in that time.’
‘But he never did perform on a stage, did he?’
‘No. He used to perform sitting on the ground on a mattress, surrounded by people. He was quite well known in some princely states. Many rajas watched his shows. He also travelled quite a lot to gather information on Indian magic. His findings are all described in a large notebook. He calls it his manuscript. What has happened, you see, is that someone wants to buy it from him. He’s been offered twenty thousand rupees. My father cannot make up his mind about whether or not he should sell it. So he’d like you to read his manuscript and give him your views.’
‘May I ask who has made the offer?’
‘Another magician. Surya Kumar Nandi.’
How amazing! Only yesterday, we were at Surya Kumar’s show. This was telepathy! At least, that’s what Feluda would call it.
‘Very well,’ Feluda replied, ‘I’ll have a look at your father’s notebook. This will give me the chance to meet him, which is something I should like very much.’
‘Baba, too, is an admirer of yours. He says it’s only rarely that one can find a man as intelligent as you. Could you visit us in a day or two? Baba is at home every evening.’
‘All right. We can come this evening, if you like.’
‘Splendid. Say, around half past six?’
‘Fine.’
Two
Someshwar Burman’s house—a massive affair—was in Rammohan Roy Sarani. He came from a family of zamindars in East Bengal, but had been residing in Calcutta for a long time. Most of the rooms in his house were now lying empty. Apart from servants, there were only five people in the house: Someshwar Burman, his son Nikhil, Mr Burman’s secretary, Pranavesh Roy, his friend Animesh Sen, and an artist called Ranen Tarafdar. He was said to be drawing a portrait of Someshwar Burman. We learnt all these facts from Mr Burman himself. It was difficult to guess his age, because his hair was almost wholly untouched by grey. His eyes were bright, as the eyes of a magician ought to be. We were all seated in the living room on the ground floor. Nikhil Babu ordered some tea for us.
‘My father was a homoeopath,’ Someshwar Burman told us. ‘He had a thriving practice. I studied law, but never worked as a lawyer. My grandfather had been a tantrik. Perhaps it was he who influenced me. I was interested in magic even as a young boy. I remember watching an old magician in a park in Allahabad. The sleight of hand he could perform was just amazing. That’s what made me get more interested in traditional Indian magic. What is shown on a stage is always done with the help of equipment and gadgets. That does not mean anything to me. Indian magic depends purely on the dexterity of the magician. That’s what I call real magic. So once I’d finished college, I left home to learn this kind of magic. and gather as much information as I could. I was lucky to have a father who was both understanding and generous. He was happy to see me take an interest in something new. In our family, you see, people have always worked in different fields. There have been doctors, lawyers, singers, actors, the lot. And many of them were very successful in their chosen profession, just as I was as a magician. Rajas used to invite me to their states. I used to sit on the floor in their palaces, and pull off trick after trick, before a gaping audience. I earned a lot of money, too, though I did not have a set fee. What I received was always far in excess of my expectations.’
The tea had arrived by this time. Feluda picked up a cup and said, ‘Tell us something about your manuscript. I hear you have written about Indian magic?’
‘Yes,’ Someshwar Burman replied. ‘I’m not aware of anyone else having worked in this area. I’ve often written articles about my research and findings, which is how some people have come to know about the existence of my manuscript. That’s the reason why Surya Kumar came to me, or else he could never have known that such a manuscript existed. Mind you, he had heard my name as a magician long ago.’
‘Does he want to buy your manuscript?’
‘That’s what he says. He came straight to my house. I liked the young man; in fact, I could feel a certain amount of affection for him. But I cannot accept his offer. It is my belief that the work I have put into writing that manuscript is very important, and certainly worth more than twenty thousand. That’s why I want you to read it. You know a lot about a variety of subjects, don’t you? I have read about your cases. That’s the impression I got.’
‘Very well. I’ll be glad to read your manuscript.’
Someshwar Burman turned to his secretary. ‘Pranavesh, go and get that notebook.’ His secretary left.
‘We went to Surya Kumar’s performance yesterday,’ Feluda told him.
‘How did you like it?’
‘Well, it was so-so. The only thing he’s really good at is hypnotism. Everything else was done with the help of gadgets.’
Someshwar Burman suddenly picked up a biscuit from a plate, and closed his hand over it. He opened his hand in the next instant, but the biscuit had gone. It came out of Lalmohan Babu’s pocket a second later.
‘That’s terrific!’ Feluda exclaimed. ‘Why did you stop performing? You’re obviously so gifted.’
Mr Burman shook his head. ‘No, I do not wish to have shows any more. Now I must spend all my time over my manuscript. If the book is ever published, I do think people will
find it useful. No other book has been written on this subject.’
‘In that case, I will certainly read what you have written, and return your notebook the day after tomorrow, in the evening. Is that all right?’
‘Yes, certainly. Thank you very much.’
Feluda told me the next day that he had finished reading the entire manuscript. It appeared that he had spent the whole night on it. ‘The man’s handwriting is beautiful, and it’s a gold mine. When it’s published, I’m sure the book will be an enormous success. Mr Burman must not part with his manuscript even for fifty thousand rupees, let alone twenty!’
In the evening, we returned to Mr Burman’s house and Feluda told him what he thought. Mr Burman seemed quite reassured by Feluda’s words. ‘That certainly takes a load off my mind!’ he said. ‘I was in a dilemma, you see, but if you liked the book so much, I think I know what to do. Pranavesh is typing it out. He has told me how impressed he’s felt by some of the facts I have described. My friend Animesh has also said the same thing. Now I can refuse Surya Kumar’s offer without any hesitation. Oh, by the way, someone stole into my room last night.’
‘What!’
‘Yes. I woke before he could take anything. In fact, he ran away as soon as I said, who is it?’
‘Has anything ever been stolen from your house before?’
‘No, never.’
‘Is there anything valuable in your room?’
‘Yes, but I keep it in a safe. They key to the safe is always kept under my pillow’.
‘Do you mind telling me what it is? I am deeply curious.’
‘No, I don’t mind at all.’
Mr Burman rose and went upstairs. He returned in about three minutes, and placed something on the table. It was a six-inch high statue of Krishna, with a flute in his hand.
