by Satyajit Ray
‘Thank you.’
We had to ask a couple of people before Hookins was pointed out to us. He didn’t look very old, though all his hair had turned white. We found him trimming a hedge.
‘You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?’ Feluda began. ‘Yes,’ Hookins replied, ‘but I’m soon going to retire. I am sixty-three, you know, although I can work as hard as any other man. My house in Chatworth Street is two miles from here. I come walking every day.’
‘How do you get on with the students? Do you come across many of them?’
‘Oh, all the time. They love me. Many of them stop by for a chat, some even offer me a smoke, or a beer. I get on very well with them.’
‘Can you remember things that happened in the past? How good is your memory?’
‘Pretty good, though sometimes I forget things that happened recently. Why do you ask?’
‘Can you cast your mind back forty years ago?’
‘What for?’
‘Boys here take boats out on the river, don’t they?’
‘So do girls.’
‘Yes, but can you remember an instance where a boat capsized and a boy died?’
Hookins was silent for a few moments. He had stopped smiling. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I remember. It was very sad. An English boy—can’t remember his name. He couldn’t swim, so he drowned.’
‘Didn’t he have an Indian friend?’
‘Yes, I think he did.’
‘Was this Indian boy in the boat with him?’
‘Maybe he was . . . maybe . . .’
‘Where were you when it happened?’
‘I wasn’t far, just sitting behind a bush, taking a break. I was smoking, I think.’
‘Did you actually see anything?’
‘No. I ran to the river only when I heard cries for help. But I could not save the boy.’
‘Then you must remember if there was anyone else in the boat.’ Hookins frowned, lost in thought. Then he sighed and shook his head.
‘No, sir. I can’t remember anything else. It was my wedding day too. Yes, sir, that’s why I remember the day so well. Later in the afternoon, I got married to Maggie—the best wife one could have.’
Nine
We returned to London. Much to our surprise, another Indian rang Feluda the next morning. It was a South Indian gentleman called Satyanathan.
‘I saw your ad in the Times, Mr Mitter,’ he said on the phone, ‘but I couldn’t ring you earlier as I was a little busy. I could tell you a few things about Peter Dexter. Would it be all right if I came to your hotel at eleven?’
‘Sure.’
Mr Satyanathan arrived on time. He was quite dark, but his hair was totally white.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you before,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘Do you live in London?’
‘Yes, in north London—in Kilburn. I teach in a school. Peter Dexter and I went to college together.’
‘Really? Do you remember a Ranjan Majumdar?’
‘Oh yes. He and Peter were friends, though they fought a lot.’
‘Why?’
‘It was chiefly because of Peter’s attitude towards Indians. He hated them. The only reason why he treated Ranjan differently was the colour of Ranjan’s skin. He was fair enough to pass off as a European. Peter used to say to him: you are half English, I think, you cannot be a genuine Indian.’
‘How did Peter treat you?’
‘Need I spell it out? You can see for yourself how dark I am. He used to call me a dirty nigger. I didn’t have the courage to protest.’
‘Do you remember Peter’s death?’
‘Of course. I even remember the day. It was the day before Whit Sunday. Peter should never have got into a boat when he couldn’t swim.’
‘Who else was with him?’
‘Ranjan.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. The sight of Ranjan standing with his clothes dripping wet still keeps coming back to me. I was in my room when it happened. I rushed out only when I heard our gardener Hookins shouting outside. Ranjan had jumped into the river to save his friend, but it was too late. Reginald went in next, but even he couldn’t save his brother.’
‘Reginald was Peter’s younger brother, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, younger by only a year. He was exactly the same. He used to get into trouble frequently with Indian boys, saying nasty, provoking things. The authorities had given him several warnings, to no avail. It was Reginald’s belief that Ranjan could easily have saved Peter, but didn’t. That’s what he went around telling everyone: he deliberately let him drown.’
‘Ranjan Majumdar did not spend more than a year in Cambridge, did he?’
‘No. He, too, had a serious accident. His family took him back to India after that.’
Mr Satyanathan had no further information to give. He rose, said goodbye and left. When Feluda came back to the room after seeing him off, he was frowning. Later, over lunch, Lalmohan Babu commented, ‘Why, Felu Babu, you seem dissatisfied. What might be the reason?’
‘I feel doubtful about something.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, I can’t help feeling Hookins did not tell us all he knew. For some reason, he kept certain facts to himself.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘There’s only one thing we can do. Let’s go back to Cambridge and find his house. He told us the name of his street. Do you remember what it was, Topshe?’
‘Chatworth Street.’
‘Good. I think all we need to do is ask the police in Cambridge. They’ll tell us how to find it. I’ believe the English police are most helpful.’
After lunch, Feluda said he had to go out briefly for some work. We’d go to Cambridge when he got back. There were frequent trains to Cambridge, so getting there would not be a problem.
We finally left at half past four. It was dark by the time we reached Cambridge. The streetlights had been switched on. We came out of the station and began walking down the main road. Feluda spotted a constable in a few moments.
‘We’re looking for Chatworth Street,’ he said to him. ‘Could you please point us in the right direction?’
The man gave us such excellent directions that we had no difficulty in finding it. It took us about half an hour to get there. Chatworth Street was a narrow lane, very obviously not a posh area. There was no one about, except a man who came out of his house to pick up a fat cat sleeping near his gate. Feluda hastened his speed to speak to him before he disappeared.
‘Excuse me, do you happen to know where Mr Hookins lives?’
‘Fred Hookins? Number sixteen.’
We thanked the man, and found the house easily enough. Each house had its number clearly written. When we knocked on the front door of number sixteen, Hookins himself opened it.
‘You! What are you doing here?’
‘May we come in,’ please?’
‘Yes, certainly.’ Hookins moved aside to let us go through. We stepped into a small lounge.
A settee and a chair seemed to fill the whole room. We sat down. ‘Well?’ Hookins looked enquiringly at Feluda.
‘I’d like to ask you a few more questions.’
‘About the drowning?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve already told you all I know.’
‘I’d like to ask some different questions, if I may.’
‘All right.’
‘Mr Hookins, do you seriously believe that someone sitting in a boat that’s only cruising along a river very slowly can fall into the water and drown?’
‘Any boat can capsize in a storm. There was a high wind that day.’
‘I went to a library today and found the report published the day after the accident. It mentions Peter Dexter’s death, but there’s no mention of a storm. I looked at the weather report for that day. The wind speed had been 20-25 mph. Would you call that a very high wind?’
Hookins did not reply. In the silenc
e that followed, all I could hear was a table clock ticking away.
‘You are hiding something, Mr Hookins. What is it?’
‘It happened so long ago . . .’
‘Yes, but it’s important. You were very close to one of those two boys, weren’t you?’
Hookins cast a startled look at Feluda. His eyes held both surprise and suspicion.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘I have spotted two objects on that shelf over there: a Ganesh and an ivory Buddha. Where did you get those?’
‘Ron gave those to me.’
‘Ron? You mean Ranjan?’
‘Yes. I called him Ron, and sometimes I called him John.’
‘I see. Now tell me this: didn’t you hear anything before you heard Peter cry for help? Remember, you must not tell lies before Indian gods, or you’ll rot in hell forever.’
‘I couldn’t hear what they were actually saying. I only heard their voices.’
‘That means they were talking loudly?’
‘Perhaps . . . perhaps . . .’
‘Do you know what I think? I think they were fighting, having a violent argument. Peter stood up in his anger, and then lost his balance. The boat did not capsize, but he fell into the water.’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Hookins blurted out, ‘Peter tried to attack Ron . . . he would have hit him . . . but the boat gave a sudden lurch and he . . . he just fell over.’
‘Does that mean Peter was responsible for his own death?’
‘Of course.’
‘But consider something else. Your Cam isn’t a big river. In our country we would call it a canal. Now, it can’t be easy to drown in a small river like that when there’s someone trying to get you out.’
‘I saw him drown, with my own eyes!’
‘You’re still hiding something from us, aren’t you? Mr Hookins, I have travelled thousands of miles in search of the truth. I will not leave until I have it. You must tell me what really happened. Why did Peter Dexter drown so easily?’
Hookins looked around helplessly, like a cornered animal. Then he broke down.
‘All right, all right!’ he cried. ‘You want the truth? I’ll give it to you. When Peter fell into the water, he was unconscious.’
‘Unconscious?’ Feluda gave Hookins a sharp glance. Then he said under his breath, ‘I see. Ranjan was rowing, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘That means he had an oar in his hand?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he used it as a weapon? He struck Peter with his oar, Peter lost consciousness and fell out of the boat. Ranjan jumped in after him, but actually did nothing to save Peter. He only pretended to be trying to help him. In other words, it was Ranjan who was responsible for Peter’s death.’
Hookins struck his forehead with his palm. ‘I didn’t want to cause you any pain. That’s why I was trying to hide the truth. Had I been in Ranjan’s shoes, I’d have done exactly the same. Peter was abusing him loudly. He was saying: “It’s only your skin that’s white. If I scratch it, I’ll find it’s black under the surface. You are nothing but a dirty black native.” If Ranjan lost his head after this, can anyone blame him?’
‘Was there any other witness?’
‘Yes, only one.’
‘Who?’
‘Reginald.’
‘Reginald Dexter?’
‘Yes. We were both sitting by the river, smoking. We both saw what happened, we heard every word. But later, I said Peter tried to attack Ron and fell into the water. I said this to protect Ron. But Reginald went around telling the truth. Luckily for Ron, everyone knew how he felt about Indians. So no one believed him. Thank God for that. Ron was such a nice boy, so kind and generous.’
‘But surely there was an inquest?’
‘Of course.’
‘You were asked to give evidence, presumably?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you told the same lies?’
‘Yes. I was determined to save Ron. We told the same story, and we stuck to it.’
‘What about Reginald?’
‘He was called by the coroner, too; and naturally he described what had really happened. But he was so obviously a racist that no one took him seriously. The coroner thought he was making things up just to get Ranjan into trouble. The official verdict was death by accident.’
Feluda rose. ‘Thank you, Mr Hookins. I have no more questions.’
It was time for dinner by the time we got back to our hotel. As we were collecting our keys, one of the receptionists looked at Feluda and said, ‘Mr Mitter?’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a telegram for you.’
Feluda opened it quickly. It had been sent by Ranjan Majumdar. It said: CAN RECALL EVERY THING. RETURN IMMEDIATELY.
‘Perfect timing,’ Feluda remarked. ‘We’ve finished our job, we’re going back tomorrow and now Mr Majumdar’s memory comes flooding back!’
On the flight back home, Feluda said we should go straight to Mr Majumdar’s house from the airport. Our flight was supposed to land in Calcutta at 1 p.m. I felt deeply concerned. What was Mr Majumdar going to do, now that he knew he had once killed someone?
Lalmohan Babu’s car met us at the airport. The driver was told to take us to Roland Road.
My heart gave a sudden jump as Mr Majumdar’s house came into view. Why was a police van standing in front of it?
We clambered out and went in quickly. The familiar figure of Inspector Mandal met us at the front door. He looked grim. ‘It happened at around eight o’clock this morning,’ he said without any preamble.
‘What happened?’
‘You haven’t heard? Mr Majumdar has been killed. Apparently, an Englishman come to see him early this morning. No one knows who he was. Would you like to make your enquiries, Mr Mitter?’
‘No.’
Lalmohan Babu arrived at our house at seven-thirty the next morning. He seemed greatly disturbed. ‘Have you seen today’s paper?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘Page five in the Statesman?’
Feluda picked up the paper. Neither of us had had the chance to look at it. The front page had news of Mr Majumdar’s death.
‘Page five, page five!’ Lalmohan Babu cried impatiently. ‘Look at the third column!’
Feluda read it out slowly:
Suicide in hotel room
The staff and guests in a hotel in Sadar Street were disturbed last night by the sound of a gunshot. Enquiries revealed that the guest in room number seven had shot himself. He was found lying on the floor, a revolver in his hand. According to the hotel register, his name was Reginald Dexter. He had come from a tea estate called Khoirabari, near Darjeeling.
The Mystery of The Pink Pearl
One
‘What is there to see in Sonahati?’ asked Lalmohan Babu. ‘Well, according to this book I’ve been reading, called Travelling in Bengal,’ Feluda replied, ‘there ought to be an old Shiv temple and a large lake. I think it’s called Mangal Deeghi. It was built by one of their zamindars. Even twenty years ago, Sonahati was little more than a village. Now it has a school, a hospital and even a hotel.’
Lalmohan Babu looked at his watch and said, ‘Another ten minutes, I should think.’ It was a new quartz he had bought recently. ‘The way it keeps time is really most terrific, he had told us.
We were on our way to Sonahati at the invitation of their Recreation Club. We were accompanied by one Navjeevan Haldar, who was a famous professor of history, and had written several books. The club had organized a joint reception for Prof Haldar and Feluda. We would spend two days in Sonahati, staying at the house of the wealthiest man there, called Panchanan Mallik. He was also the president of the club. Rumour had it that he was a collector of antiques.
‘I didn’t really think you’d accept this invitation,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked, looking at Feluda.
‘I just wanted to get out of Calcutta for a couple of days,’ Feluda replied. ‘At least the air in Sonahati will be cleaner. Besides, a fr
iend of mine—Someshwar Saha—lives there. He’s a lawyer. We used to be classmates. I am looking forward to seeing him again.’
Our train reached Sonahati more or less on time. A small group came towards us as soon as we got out. Two of them were carrying garlands, which they promptly placed around Feluda and Prof Haldar’s necks. The man who had garlanded Feluda said, ‘Namaskar. I am the secretary of our club. My name is Naresh Sen. It was I who wrote to you. And this is Panchanan Mallik.’
A middle-aged man stepped forward, a welcoming smile on his lips. I noticed he had gold buttons on his kurta.
‘We are deeply honoured to have you here,’ he said. ‘I hope you won’t find it too inconvenient to stay in my house. I mean, we couldn’t offer you all the facilities of a big city.’
‘Please don’t worry about that. I’m sure we’ll all enjoy ourselves,’ Feluda said.
‘You are a well-known personality as well, I hear,’ Mr Mallik turned to Lalmohan Babu.
‘Well, I . . . I do a bit of writing,’ Jatayu tried looking modest. Mr Mallik’s blue Ambassador was parked outside the station. We climbed into it.
‘I have heard about your collection,’ Feluda remarked as we drove off. ‘In fact, I think I read a report on it somewhere.’
‘Yes, it’s an old passion of mine. I have collected quite a few things. Prof Haldar here may be particularly interested for many of the items have a historical significance. My latest acquisition is the Maharshi’s shoe.’
‘The Maharshi’s shoe? What does that mean?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, puzzled.
‘Don’t you know about it? Prof Haldar, I am sure, has heard the story.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘Maharshi Debendranath, Rabindranath Tagore’s father, was an extremely wealthy man, as you all know. Once he received an invitation from a maharaja. He knew many other rich people had been invited. So he went and saw that the others had turned up in their most expensive clothes. Everywhere he looked, he saw silk kurtas, jamavar shawls, gold chains and priceless jewels. But what was he dressed in? Tight white pyjamas, a long white achkan and a plain white shawl. People were amazed. Why was he dressed so simply? Then they saw his feet. The Maharshi was wearing a pair of white naagras, on which shone two huge diamonds.’
