by Satyajit Ray
‘What is this farce?’ asked Ratanlal, taking a seat.
‘You may call it a farce, Mr Banerjee, but I think to the others it’s a serious matter,’ Feluda replied.
‘Have you found the necklace?’ asked Mrs Biswas in an urgent whisper.
‘You’ll get the answer to your question in due course,’ Feluda said to her. ‘Please bear with me.’ Then he ran his eyes over the assembled group and announced, ‘The mystery has been solved. Needless to say, nothing could have been achieved without the assistance of the police. All I want to do now is explain what happened. I hope all your questions will be answered as I proceed.’
‘I hope you won’t take long. I have a dinner to go to,’ Ratanlal muttered.
‘I will take not a second longer than is necessary. May I begin?’ There was a moment’s silence. Then Mr Biswas said, ‘Please do.’ Feluda started to speak again, ‘The chief thing to remember is that we had two cases on our hands: the stolen necklace and the murder of Mr Sukius. I questioned each one of you. Some of you lied to me, or tried to hide things, or just refused to answer me. Suspicion could fall on many of you regarding the necklace. Young Prasenjit here has got into the unfortunate habit of taking drugs. He needs money all the time. Sometimes he can borrow it, at other times he is lucky at cards. The second suspect might have been Mr Sudarshan Som. He has spent a large part of his life depending on charity. He might have stolen the necklace in a desparate attempt to start life afresh. Then there was Mr Saldanha. His shop isn’t doing well at all. He is certainly in need of money. Only one person seemed above suspicion. It was Mr Biswas, because he said his business was flourishing, he had enough money. However, someone else told me that that was not the case. Mr Biswas was apparently going through a rough patch financially, which had led to his drinking heavily. Of course, whether this information was correct or not is another matter.
‘Let me now turn to the murder of Mr Sukius. He was writing a letter when he was killed. It was addressed to me, and he had nearly finished it. The reason why he was writing was that he was leaving for Kanpur the same day. He knew he couldn’t meet me, so he tried to tell me in a letter all that he knew.
‘I learnt two things from his letter. One, Jayant Biswas had finally agreed to sell Shakuntala’s necklace to him, for two hundred thousand rupees. He was going to pass it on to Mr Sukius three days after their agreement. But Sukius was killed before this three-day period was over.
‘Two, there is someone present in this room who had borrowed fifty thousand rupees from Mr Sukius six weeks ago. He had promised to return the amount with interest in a month, but despite several reminders, failed to keep his promise. Mr Sukius then threatened to take legal action. He was killed because whoever had borrowed the money didn’t want him to tell me any of this. Sadly for him, things didn’t work out quite the way he had planned. His accomplice—a hired hooligan—did his job and killed his quarry, but did not remove the letter the deceased had been writing. Obviously, he had no idea what had been said in that letter. The police have now arrested this man and he has offered to show us who had employed him.’
Feluda turned to Inspector Pandey. ‘Ask your man to come over here, please.’
The man in handcuffs and the constable were waiting at the far end. At a nod from the inspector, they brought the man forward.
‘Tell me, Shambhu Singh, do you see the man who hired you to kill Mr Sukius?’ Feluda asked slowly.
The man ran his gaze swiftly through the group.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.
‘Can you point him out?’
‘Easily. There he is!’ Shambhu Singh raised his handcuffed hands and pointed. The pipe from Ratanlal’s mouth fell to the ground with a loud clatter.
‘What nonsense is this?’ he barked.
‘Nonsense or farce, your game is up, Mr Banerjee,’ Feluda said calmly. A second later, he continued to speak as everyone sat tense and taut in their seats.
‘Will you tell us why you borrowed that large sum of money, Mr Banerjee?’ Feluda asked.
‘I will not!’
‘Very well. Allow me to speak for you. What you spent was always in excess of your income, wasn’t it? Sukius wrote to me about your visits to singers and dancers and the kind of money you spent on them. When we went to your flat, we could smell attar. Perhaps you had been entertaining a singer, who was hurriedly sent inside when we rang the bell? You do not use attar yourself, do you? If you were in the habit of using attar yourself, you would have used it on the day of the party. This may well be a trait you inherited from your grandfather. He, too, was fond of all the good things in life, I believe. And like you, money had become a serious problem for him in his old age. His daughter had helped him out. You turned to Sukius.’
‘Oh my God!’ Ratanlal whispered, his head bent low. ‘I am finished.’
Inspector Pandey and a constable went over to him.
‘I haven’t finished,’ Feluda went on. ‘We still have the first mystery to explain. Mr Biswas wanted to take the necklace and sell it to Sukius, but someone else got hold of it before him.’
‘Who?’ Mrs Biswas gasped.
‘Let me clarify something. At first, most people assumed someone had crept out of the room during the film show and removed the necklace. But that was not the case. I had been standing behind the projector. The room wasn’t totally dark and I did remove my eyes from the screen from time to time to look at the others. If anyone left the room, I would certainly have seen him, or her. No one did. Prasenjit was restless. He left his seat and moved to a different chair, but he remained in the room. Then Mr Sukius came in. That was all.’
‘So when . . . how? . . .’ Mrs Biswas could barely speak.
‘The necklace was taken before the film began.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ Mrs Biswas now sounded a little impatient. ‘Sheela went and took it out. Then she brought it here, so you could look at it.’
‘Ah yes. But did she put it back?’
‘Of course she did.’
‘No. Sheela did not put it back, but kept it with herself. I had realized this, but couldn’t see why she should have done so. At first it was in her room. Then, much later, she dug up a flower pot and hid it in there. This is something I learnt from Sheela herself. Look, here’s your necklace.’
Feluda took out the necklace from his pocket and placed it on a coffee table. Everyone gasped in unison.
‘But . . . but. . . why did she do such a thing?’ Mrs Biswas asked, casting a perplexed glance at her daughter.
‘Because the night before, she had overheard you and your husband talking. Her room is next to yours, and there’s a communicating door. This door happened to be open. She heard you tell your husband that you had finally overcome your reservations and were willing to sell the necklace to Sukius. Sheela did not want such a precious heirloom to be lost. So she did the only thing she could have done, and removed it from sight. It is because she did so that you can still say it’s yours. I do hope it will never leave this house. You must not let go of something like this. It would be nothing short of a crime, Mrs Biswas!’
‘Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu asked when we were back in our hotel, ‘Lucknow means good-fortune-right-at-this-moment, doesn’t it?’
‘Luck-now? Yes, if you want to put it like that.’
‘Well, who is the lucky one here?’
‘Why, you are! Didn’t you get to witness the brilliance of my intelligence, all for free?’
‘And think of the Biswas family,’ I put in. ‘Aren’t they lucky to have a clever girl like Sheela and to have their necklace back?’
‘True,’ Lalmohan Babu agreed. ‘A girl like Sheela is one in a million. What do you say, Felu Babu?’
‘If there is anyone who appreciates the real value of Shakuntala’s necklace,’ Feluda declared, ‘it is Mary Sheela Biswas.’
Feluda in London
One
‘I bought a new television, but it didn’t do me any good,’ Lalmoha
n Babu complained. ‘There’s really nothing worth seeing. I tried watching the Mahabharata, but had to switch it off after just five minutes.’
‘It’s a pity you’re not interested in sports,’ Feluda said. ‘If you were, you could have watched some good programmes. Tennis, cricket, football . . . everything’s covered, games played both here and abroad.’
‘Doordarshan had written to me recently, saying they’d like to make a TV serial from one of my stories.’
‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose so, though I cannot imagine who might play Prakhar Rudra, my hero. Can you think of an actor in Bengal who might suit the part? I mean, it’s not like America, is it? They even found someone to play Superman! He looks as though he’s climbed out of the pages of the comic!’
Durga Puja had started. A song from a Hindi film was being played on a loudspeaker. We could hear it clearly from our living room. When he had finished complaining against Doordarshan, Lalmohan Babu tried singing the same song, but had to give up soon. His grandfather was supposed to have been a classical singer, but he himself could not sing even a single note without going out of tune.
We had already had tea, but were wondering whether to have a second round, when a car stopped outside our house. The door bell rang a moment later.
I opened the door to find a tall and handsome gentleman. His complexion was as fair as a European’s.
‘Is this where Pradosh Mitter lives?’ he asked.
‘Yes, please come in.’
I showed him into our living room. Dressed traditionally in a dhoti and kurta, he had a sophisticated air about him.
‘Please sit down,’ Feluda offered. ‘I am Pradosh Mitter.’
Our visitor took a sofa and looked enquiringly at Lalmohan Babu. ‘He is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli,’ Feluda explained. Lalmohan Babu said ‘namaskar’, but our visitor did not respond. He appeared somewhat preoccupied. There was a few seconds’ silence.
‘I heard about you from one of your clients,’ he said finally. ‘Sadhan Chakravarty.’
‘Yes, I worked for him last year. How can I help you? Is there a particular problem?’
‘I don’t even know whether it merits being described as a problem. You must decide that. But yes, there is something bothering me.’
He took out an envelope from his pocket. In it was a photograph. He brought it out carefully and handed it to Feluda. I peered over Feluda’s shoulder and saw two young boys—seventeen or eighteen years old—standing together, smiling at the camera. Both were dressed in shirts and trousers. It was an old photo and its colour had faded considerably.
‘Can you recognize any of these boys?’ our visitor wanted to know.
‘The one on the left is you,’ Feluda replied.
‘Yes, that’s the one I can recognize too.’
‘The other one must be your friend.’
‘Presumably, but I have no idea who he is. I found this photo only recently, while going through some old papers in a drawer. There’s only one thing I’d like you to do: find out who this boy is. I mean, I need to know where he is now, what he does for a living, how did he and I happen to meet, the lot. I will, of course, pay your fee and any other expenses.’
‘Haven’t you made enquiries on your own?’
‘Yes, I’ve shown the photo to a few old classmates who now go to the same club as me, but none of them could remember that other boy. If you look at the photo carefully, you’ll see it’s impossible to tell whether the boy is Indian or not.’
‘Well, his hair is dark, but his eyes seem light. Why, did you know many foreigners when you were young?’
‘I spent five years in England as a young boy. Four of those years were spent in school, then I did one year of college. My father was a doctor there. Then we returned to India. The problem is, I had a serious accident before we left. I fell off my bicycle and fractured my skull. As a result, I suffered partial loss of memory. Even today, I cannot recall anything of the years I spent in England.’
‘Surely you know which school and college you went to?’
‘My father told me, many years ago. I went to a college in Cambridge. I don’t remember its name, nor could I tell you the name of the school.’
‘Have you received any treatment to bring back this lost memory?’
‘Yes. Conventional medicine hasn’t helped. Now I am trying ayurvedic stuff.’
‘What happened when you returned from England?’
‘I was admitted to St Xavier’s College here in Calcutta. My father made all the arrangements. I wasn’t fully recovered.’
‘Which year was that?’
‘1952. I joined the intermediate year.’
‘I see.’
Feluda stared at the photo for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Do you think this other boy is related to some special incident? Some particularly significant event in your life?’
‘Yes, the thought has indeed crossed my mind. Sometimes, I feel as if I can recall a few things vaguely. This boy’s face keeps coming back to me, but for the life of me I cannot remember his name, or where I met him. It’s an extremely awkward situation. We must have been close friends. I’d be very interested to learn if he’s still around somewhere and whether he remembers me, I realize it won’t be a simple task to trace him, but perhaps you won’t mind the challenge?’
‘Very well, I’ll take the job. But obviously, I cannot tell you how long it might take to finish it. Suppose I have to go to England to make enquiries?’
‘If you do, I will pay for you and your assistant to go and stay there. I will also get you the foreign exchange you’ll be allowed to take from here. That must tell you how keen I am to get to the bottom of this mystery.’
‘Is your father still alive?’
‘He’s no more. He died five years after we returned from England. My mother died ten years ago. I have a wife and a daughter. My daughter’s married. She lives in Delhi. Here’s my card.’
I looked curiously at the card. Ranjan K. Majumdar, it said. The address given was 13 Roland Road, followed by a telephone number.
‘Thank you, I’ll be in touch. I may well need to ask you more questions.’
‘I will do my best to answer them, Mr Mitter, but I’ve already explained the basic problem. Shall I leave the photo with you?’
‘Yes, I’ll get a copy made and return the original to you. Oh, by the way, I need to know where you work. I mean, what do you do for a living?’
‘Sorry, I ought to have told you myself. I am a chartered accountant. I did B. Com from St Xavier’s. My firm is called Lee & Watkins.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Mitter. Goodbye.’
With a general nod in our direction, Mr Majumdar left.
‘A unique case,’ Lalmohan Babu commented when he had gone. ‘No doubt about that. I don’t think I’ve ever handled a case like this.’
‘May I see the photo?’
Feluda handed him the photo of the two boys. Lalmohan Babu looked hard at it, frowning. Then he shook his head.
‘Mr Majumdar was right. It’s impossible to tell whether that boy is English or Indian. How on earth will you proceed, Mr Mitter?’
‘I’ll think of a way. Leave it to me, Mr Ganguli.’
Two
Feluda knew a chartered accountant called Dharani Mukherjee. He rang him the same day. Mr Mukherjee said he knew Ranjan Majumdar very well since both were members of the Saturday Club. On being asked what kind of a man Mr Majumdar was, Mr Mukherjee said he was quiet and reserved, and did not speak to many people. Usually, he was seen sitting alone. He drank occasionally, but never in excess. Mr Mukherjee knew that he had spent a few years in England in his childhood, but could tell us nothing more.
The next day, Feluda got hold of a list of students who had attended the intermediate year at St Xavier’s in 1952. ‘I think I’ve heard of one of them. He’s a homeopath,’ said Feluda, quickly scanning the list. ‘Topshe, see if you can
get me the telephone number of Dr Hiren Basak.’
I found his number in two minutes. Feluda rang up and made an appointment to see him the next morning at half past eleven.
Lalmohan Babu turned up the next day to find out if we had made any progress. We went to Dr Basak’s chamber in his car. The crowded waiting room bore evidence of the doctor’s popularity. His assistant greeted us and took us straight into the consulting room.
Dr Basak rose as he saw us, a smile on his face.
‘What brings you here, Mr Mitter? You don’t fall ill often.’
‘No, no, it isn’t illness that’s brought me here today, Dr Basak. I’ve come only to ask you some questions as a part of my investigations.’
‘Yes?’
‘Were you a student at St Xavier’s?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Will you please look at this photo and tell me if you can recognize these boys?’
Feluda took out the photo from its cellophane wrapper and gave it to Dr Basak. He had already returned the original to Mr Majumdar. This was a copy he had had made. The doctor frowned as he looked at it. ‘I seem to recognize one of them,’ he said after a while. ‘He used to be in my batch. I think his name was Ranjan. Yes, that’s right. Ranjan Majumdar.’
‘And the other one? I am more interested in him.’
‘No, sorry, Mr Mitter. I never saw the other boy in my life.’
‘Didn’t he go to St Xavier’s? I mean, wasn’t he in your batch as well?’
‘No, I am certain of that.’
Feluda put the photo away.
‘Would there be any point in speaking to any of your other batchmates?’
‘No, I don’t think so. It’ll only be a waste of time.’
‘Even so, I’d be very grateful if you could do something for me.’
‘I am willing to do what I can.’
Feluda took out the list of students. ‘Please go through this and tell me if you know how any of these men might be contacted.’
