Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries

by Saradindu Bandyopadhyaya

  I had shed my muslin mantle and was putting away the chess pieces in their box. I asked him, ‘What makes you say that?’

  Byomkesh lit a cigarette and came and perched on the charpoy. ‘He said he was leaving me fifty rupees and left sixty instead,’ he told me. ‘The man is intelligent, but a trifle careless about money.’

  ‘Tell me, Byomkesh,’ I asked, ‘how could you make out so easily that he used to be in the civil services?’

  ‘It wasn’t all that difficult,’ he replied. ‘The way he was dressed is not how the average Bengali is turned out. Neither does the average Bengali hand out printed cards to introduce himself. That indicates a specific kind of background. His speech too, bears a magisterial sort of languor. But all that is immaterial; what I’m keen to know is his reason for coming to me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He had two problems. One had to do with being the recipient of broken motor parts; the other was the film actress Sunayana. Which one is the main reason?’

  ‘The former seems likely to me. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I am not sure. Nishanathbabu is reserved by nature. Perhaps he is reluctant to reveal his true motives, even to me.’

  I considered this for a while and said, ‘But he is no longer of the age when a man pursues a film actress.’

  ‘What is more important is that he lacks the temperament; otherwise, a doddering debauch is not an unfamiliar phenomenon in this country. What I did gauge about his disposition from his refined speech was his scant respect for the human species. Not that he despises it—a mild cynicism, a touch of remote interest tinged with derision is more like it. A blend of tamarind and bitter gourd, you could say.’

  At the mention of these two items, I remembered that Putiram had been instructed that day to prepare a chutney with those very ingredients. I rose to take a bath and get ready for lunch. ‘What are you going to do now?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing, except cogitate over the matter of the motor parts,’ he replied. ‘Right now, my priority is to pursue the absconding actress Sunayana.’

  Byomkesh meditated and silently puffed on his cigarette for a while before finally asking, ‘Why was Nishanathbabu so curious about the word “blackmail”? How would he benefit from knowing whether the word has a Bengali equivalent or not?’

  Massaging hair oil into my scalp, I replied, ‘I believe that is the subconscious at play. Perhaps, Lal Singh is out of prison and is trying to threaten him by sending those broken parts.’

  ‘Even if that were true, why would he try to blackmail Nishanathbabu? The latter hasn’t done anything illegal; a judge handing out a death sentence to a criminal is not against the law. Of course, Lal Singh may be out to take revenge. Perhaps he has been nursing a grudge for these twelve years. But that didn’t appear to be the case from Nishanathbabu’s demeanour. If he suspected Lal Singh, he would, at least, have taken the trouble to find out if he had been released from jail or not.’

  Byomkesh tossed out the cigarette stub and lay back on the charpoy. He mumbled to himself, ‘I believe Nishanathbabu’s memory is exceptionally keen.’

  ‘How did you come to that conclusion?’

  ‘In his tenure as a sessions judge, he must have presided over thousands of criminal cases. It is impossible to remember the names and particulars of each and every one of the offenders. But he has remembered Lal Singh all right.’

  ‘Lal Singh threw a shoe at him. That might be the reason why he remembers him.’

  ‘That might well be so,’ Byomkesh replied, preparing to light another cigarette.

  ‘Oh no, no, not another one!’ I protested. ‘Please get going now. It’s nearly one o’clock.’

  2

  That evening, Byomkesh said to me, ‘A lot of well-known writers like you are now fraternizing with members of the film circle. Do you happen to know anybody there?’

  It so happened that I hardly had any dealings with the littérateur-brotherhood. The highbrow authors didn’t set much store by me since my reputation was that of a writer of detective stories. Nor had I any particular desire to establish a rapport with those who had changed camps and joined the world of glamour after making a name for themselves as writers. My only friend in these quarters was scriptwriter Indu Roy. Although he was associated with the cinema, he behaved like a normal person.

  When I mentioned his name to Byomkesh he said, ‘That’s fine. I think he has a telephone. Why don’t you find out if he knows anything about Sunayana?’

  I rummaged through the directory and located Indubabu’s number. I found him at home and in reply to my question, he said, ‘Sunayana? Why no, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Of course, I don’t keep myself updated about these people, anyway …’

  I said, ‘Could you name someone who would have this kind of information at his disposal?’

  Indubabu pondered over this for a while and asked, ‘Why don’t you try Ramen Mullick—do you know him?’

  ‘No. Who is he? Is he from the film world?’

  ‘Not exactly, but he is a film encyclopedia. There isn’t a person in the film fraternity about whom he doesn’t know every itsy-bitsy detail. Let me give you his address and you can look him up. He is a very hospitable person—you’ll be bowled over by his amiability.’ And he gave me Ramen Mullick’s address.

  That evening, Byomkesh and I arrived at Ramen Mullick’s residence. He was dressed to go out and about to leave, but he invited us into the drawing room. Ramenbabu appeared to be wealthy as well as refined. He was tall, well built and around forty years old. His face, like a papaya fruit, was heavier in the jowls and narrower at the temples, the moustache slim and well tended. He was wearing the native dress, a pleated silk dhoti and a fashionably crinkled kurta; on his feet were polished pump shoes.

  The referral from Indubabu, along with Byomkesh’s own credentials, completely floored Ramenbabu. Within minutes, he had sent for some sandesh and sweet lassi chilled with ice cubes. In the midst of all the hospitality, Byomkesh broached the subject of Nishanathbabu and said, ‘I’ve heard that you are a veritable encyclopedia of the film world and there isn’t a person in that field whose intimate secrets are not known to you.’

  With shy modesty, Ramenbabu admitted, ‘That is a hobby of mine. One must have one in order to live. So, are you looking for anyone in particular?’

  ‘Yes. A couple of years ago, a woman called Sunayana …’

  Intrigued, Ramenbabu exclaimed, ‘Sunayana! You mean … Netyakali?’

  ‘Netyakali?’

  ‘Sunayana’s real name is Netyakali. Has some new information about her come to light?’

  Byomkesh said, ‘We know nothing about Sunayana, except the name. We have come to you in the hope of discovering more.’

  Ramenbabu said, ‘Oh … I thought you might have come on behalf of the police … but anyway, about Netyakali, I happen to know quite a bit—except for the head and the tail.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘I do not know from where she came, nor where she disappeared to.’

  ‘This is truly mysterious! I get a whiff of police involvement as well! Do please tell me everything you know.’

  Ramenbabu handed us cigarettes, then struck a match and lit them for us. Then he began, ‘Incidentally, I was fortunate enough to have followed Netyakali’s career in films from its very inception. And the reason why I collected every little detail on the affair until the curtain came down was that Murari happened to be a friend of mine. Perhaps you haven’t heard of Murari Dutta. We shall come to him later.

  ‘Nearly two and a half years ago, I was busy chatting one morning in the office of Gourharibabu, the owner of Gourango Studios. A new girl came to see him while I was there. At the time, Gourharibabu had just started a production of The Poison Tree—the famous novel by Bankim Chandra Chatterjee. The casting for the main roles was already over and only the minor parts remained to be filled.

  ‘That was the first time I saw Netyakali. She was nothing much to look at.
But she was young and there was a certain allure to her. Gourharibabu agreed to try her out.

  ‘At the screen test, Gourharibabu was dazzled. He had thought of casting her as a maid or something similar; but after watching her perform, he said she would play Kundanandini, the heroine. But Netyakali wouldn’t agree to that because she didn’t want to play a widow. So Gourharibabu cast her as Kamalmoni, the other major female character. Since a name like Netyakali doesn’t work in movies, she was renamed Sunayana.’

  Byomkesh asked, ‘Why was she reluctant to play a widow?’

  ‘Young actresses often shy away from playing widows’ roles. But Netyakali had offered a novel excuse; she said that she came from a middle-class home and only a financial contingency had pushed her into films. She didn’t want to play a widow and invite misfortune on her husband. Quite the case of being in for a penny but not the pound.’

  ‘Extraordinary! So, then?’

  ‘Gourharibabu hired her and put her on the company payroll. The shooting commenced. In due course, the film was released. Of course, the film itself flopped, but Kamalmoni bowled everyone over. What was truly magnificent was Sunayana’s make-up. She used to do her own make-up; so skilful was she at it, that she could scarcely be recognized as Netyakali on the screen.’

  ‘Really? And what about the other films she worked in?’

  ‘There was just one other film in which she acted—Tarok Ganguly’s The Golden Maid. She played Shyama, the domestic help. Oh, what a glorious performance that was! And it was impossible to tell that Shyama, the maid, was the same woman as Kamalmoni of The Poison Tree. A different look altogether! I sometimes wonder if her “real” face too wasn’t just make-up.’

  ‘I suppose there are no photos of her “real” face?’

  ‘No. If there were, the police could have used them.’

  ‘Hmm. Do go on.’

  Ramenbabu passed around another round of cigarettes and continued, ‘So this was the history of Sunayana’s film career. Meanwhile, something else was brewing. Within a couple of months of joining the cast of The Poison Tree, Sunayana met Murari at the studios. You wouldn’t know Murari, but I am sure you have heard of the famous jewellers Dutta and Das? Murari was from the Dutta family. He was immensely wealthy.

  ‘Murari was my friend—you could say we were goblet-pals. Some of us are afflicted by what is known as a philandering streak, which isn’t harmful, of course. Well, Murari wasn’t immune to it. Nothing serious—just a bit of fun on festive occasions. But when he saw Sunayana, Murari fell for her, head over heels. Sunayana was no houri or princess, but each to his own, I suppose! Murari became a regular fixture at Gourango Studios, day in and day out.

  ‘Murari was about my age. I wouldn’t have thought he’d indulge in such adolescent behaviour at his age. But Sunayana was a hard nut to crack. Nobody knew where she lived; she took the bus to work and went back the same way; she never used the transport provided by the studio. All his efforts to discover where she lived were to no avail.

  ‘Murari used to confide in me. I would often reason with him that Sunayana was a much-married lady and extremely devoted to her husband. It was no use even looking her way. But Murari wouldn’t listen. He was in the grip of passion—what difference did such obstacles make to the way he felt?

  ‘Nearly seven months went by. Sunayana paid no heed to Murari but he persevered diligently in his efforts to woo her; this was how things stood.

  ‘Sunayana’s job in The Golden Maid was done. She took two months’ pay in advance from the studio since she was supposed to go on vacation to Kashmir. At this point, Murari came to me one day and said, “It’s all set.” I was surprised, and yet not really so. Women—you never know with them. I had no idea then that Sunayana was pretending to capitulate for some ulterior motive of her own.

  ‘Murari was in charge of the Bagbazaar store of the Dutta and Das company. There was a furnished room behind the store that doubled as Murari’s parlour. He often spent the night there.

  ‘The following morning, there was a furore. Murari had been found dead in his parlour and diamond jewellery worth some twenty thousand rupees was missing from the shop’s display.

  ‘The police arrived and the body was sent for post-mortem. But they found no clues as to who had killed Murari. I was probably the only one aware of who had gone to Murari’s room that night. He had not told anybody else.

  ‘Now, I was in a dilemma. I had no intention of getting entangled in a murder investigation; yet the truth had to be told. Eventually, out of a sense of duty, I went and reported everything to the police.

  ‘The police had been totally in the dark; now they woke up and raised a storm. They took out a warrant in Sunayana’s name. But where was Sunayana? She had vanished off the face of the earth. It was impossible to get anything from the photos of her that we had. Everybody in the studio knew what she looked like, but following this incident, no one had laid eyes on her.

  ‘Which is why I said the head and the tail of the Sunayana episode are missing from the public eye. Nobody knows where she came from nor whose daughter or wife she had been; and neither does anyone know where she disappeared to.’

  Ramenbabu fell silent. Byomkesh too was lost in thought for a while. Then he asked, ‘Was the cause of Muraribabu’s death established?’

  ‘They found he was poisoned.’

  ‘Do you know what kind of poison was used?’

  ‘Yes, that one—the name eludes me—the poison from tobacco.’

  ‘Tobacco! You mean nicotine?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, nicotine. Who knew that such deadly poison could be produced from tobacco? Here—’ he offered us the tin of cigarettes.

  Smiling, Byomkesh stood up and said, ‘Thanks, but no more. We have wasted enough of your time already; you were going somewhere—’

  ‘Oh no, no. Going out is a daily routine, but it’s not every day that I get to hobnob with men of your stature. I was just on my way to an audition for a female singer. She is new, but has a great voice. Since it’s not too late, why don’t you join me and take in a few thumris?’

  Byomkesh grinned and said, ‘My understanding of music is minimal and the performance would fall on deaf ears. And Ajit doesn’t appreciate anything but the purest classical renditions. So, not tonight. We are very grateful to you for your time. If we need any help in future, we shall look you up again.’

  ‘Absolutely. Any time you need me, just say the word.’

  ‘Okay then, namaskar.’

  ‘Namaskar, see you later.’

  3

  When I woke up the following morning, I heard Byomkesh talking to someone on the phone in the next room. From a few phrases here and there, I gathered that he was recounting Sunayana’s tale to Nishanathbabu.

  Nishanathbabu’s visit had stoked our stifled, sweltering lives with renewed vigour. So, when Byomkesh ended his conversation over the phone and came into my room with the words, ‘Ajit, wake up, we are going to Mohanpur,’ I wasted no time and leaped out of bed.

  ‘When do we have to go?’

  ‘Immediately. And Ramenbabu is invited too. I got the impression from Nishanathbabu’s remarks that he believes the ex-actress, Sunayana Devi, to be somewhere close at hand. If his suspicions are well-founded, then Ramenbabu has to go there and identify the culprit.’

  We arrived at Ramenbabu’s house by eight o’clock. He was ensconced in his drawing room, reading the Anandabazaar. He was clad in a lungi and a sleeveless vest and he greeted us with delight.

  On hearing of Byomkesh’s proposal, he stood up enthusiastically and exclaimed, ‘Won’t I go? You bet I will! Please give me five minutes and I’ll get dressed.’ He went inside.

  True to his word, he was dressed in five minutes—the perfect dandy, just the way we had seen him the previous evening.

  At the Sealdah station, he wouldn’t allow us to purchase the tickets, insisting on buying the three tickets for the first class compartment himself. It was as if his enthusiasm a
nd impatience were greater by far.

  In about an hour, we had reached our destination. The station was quite deserted; we went outside to find a man standing by the paan stall, chewing on one and nattering on with the shopkeeper. Byomkesh went up to him and asked, ‘Could you tell us the way to Golap Colony?’

  The man shut one eye and inspected us thoroughly; then, he asked in a wry tone, ‘So you want to go to the zoo?’

  ‘Zoo?’

  ‘Well, it’s a zoo all right, Golap Colony is. Strange place … weird people. It even beats the Alipore Zoo. It’s not very difficult getting there. There, you can see the chariot from the zoo; climb on to it and it will roll on to its destination.’

  We hadn’t noticed it, but in a corner of the station’s compound stood a ramshackle little buggy. It was long and narrow, like the vans that transported girls to school. It carried the name ‘Golap Colony’ in gold paint that had worn so thin that the letters were now hardly discernible. The horse was standing alone, occasionally flicking out a hoof to shoo away the flies; there seemed to be no other soul around.

  We approached the carriage and found a man sitting on the footrest behind, lost in his enjoyment of a smoke. He was a Muslim and looked quite old. His beard was sparse, his face riddled with pockmarks, and a wealth of experience was etched into the bleary eyes. He wore shabby pyjamas and a vest. He dropped the beedi when he saw us, stood up and asked, ‘Are you from Calcutta?’

  ‘Yes. We’d like to go to Golap Colony.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, the boss has told me to pick you up. But the problem is …’

  So this was Mushkil Mian. Byomkesh asked, ‘What is the problem?’

  Mushkil replied, ‘Rashikbabu was also supposed to be on this train. But he hasn’t come. So I’ll have to wait for the next train. But you gentlemen can wait inside the van.’

  ‘Who is Rashikbabu?’ I asked.

  Mushkil replied, ‘One of the gentlemen who work at the farm; he commutes every day. I don’t know why he is late today. Do wait a while. The next train should be here any minute.’