The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (21 page)

‘Now, isn’t that strange? If I had hidden that letter myself, why couldn’t I find it?’

‘The reason is simple, Mr Haldar. The object into which you had thrust that letter was resting under Anu’s pillow. Here it is.’

Feluda stretched a hand towards Inspector Hajra, who silently passed him the red toy machine-gun Anu had been bought only the other day. Feluda slipped a finger into its nozzle and brought out a rolled piece of paper—Napoleon’s letter.

The smile slowly faded from Achintya Haldar’s lips.

‘Was it you who had supplied Mr Datta’s costume and make-up?’ Feluda asked casually. ‘How were you going to split the money? Fifty-fifty?’

The mail’s son, Shankar, succeeded pretty quickly in catching the chandana and restoring it to its little owner. Anu, however, gave full credit for its recovery to Feluda.

Amitabh Haldar said Feluda was welcome to choose anything from his father’s collection as his reward. But Feluda shook his head. ‘No, Mr Haldar. I was not appointed to unravel this mystery, was I? My involvement was purely by accident, and I happened to have come here only because your son had invited me. How can I expect a six-year-old child to pay me a fee?’

Two days later, Lalmohan Babu arrived at our place, looking

‘Sir,’ he declared solemnly, looking straight at Feluda, ‘in view of your incredible intelligence and devastating powers of detection, I do hereby bestow an honorary title on you—ABCD.’

‘ABCD? What’s that?’

‘Asia’s Best Crime Detector.’

O
n Tuesday, 28 September 1982, a taxi drew up in front of the house of the Niyogis in Baikunthapur. The Niyogis had once been the zamindars in the area.

The durwan at the gate came forward, just as a middle-aged man got out of the taxi. He was of medium height. His cheeks were covered by a heavy stubble and his hair looked decidedly dishevelled. He wore a dark blue suit and tinted glasses.

The driver took out a brown suitcase from the boot and put it down on the pavement.

‘Niyogi sahib?’ asked the durwan.

The man nodded. The durwan picked up the suitcase.

‘Please come in,’ he said. ‘Babu has been waiting for you for some time.’

The present owner of the house, Soumyasekhar Niyogi, was reclining in an easy chair on the veranda. He nodded as the newcomer approached him and indicated a chair nearby. Soumyasekhar was nearly seventy. He was fairly well-preserved for his age, except that failing eyesight had necessitated wearing glasses with thick lenses.

‘Rudrasekhar?’ he asked.

The newcomer took out a passport from his pocket and held it open for inspection. Soumyasekhar looked at it briefly and smiled.

‘Awful, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You are my first cousin, and yet you have to show me your passport to prove it. But it’s easy enough to see that you’re a Niyogi.’

The other man looked faintly amused. ‘Never mind,’ Soumyasekhar continued, ‘I hope you got the letter I sent you after you wrote to me from Rome. What surprised us was that you didn’t get in touch all these years. Uncle left home in 1955, twenty-seven years ago. When he returned without you, we assumed there was a problem and you didn’t get on with each other. Uncle never talked about it, and we didn’t ask him anything, either. All we knew was that he had a son in Rome. Well, you’ve come now—I take it—to talk about the property?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wrote to you, didn’t I, that the last time I received a postcard from your father was ten years ago? So, in the eyes of the law, he is
no more. Have you spoken to a lawyer about this?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. You can stay here for as long as you like, and look at everything we’ve got. You’ll find Uncle’s studio upstairs. His paintings, and canvases and colours are all still there, just as he had left them. We didn’t touch anything. Then there are the bank passbooks. You’ll need to see those, obviously. It may well take six months for all formalities to be completed. I hope you can stay that long?’

‘Yes.’

‘You may have to travel to Calcutta from time to time. You’ve got a taxi, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll arrange for your driver to stay here. No problem!’

‘Gra . . . thanks!’

Rudrasekhar had started to say ‘Grazie’ in Italian, then changed his mind. ‘By the way, you wouldn’t mind eating Indian food every day, would you? I hear London has an Indian restaurant virtually at every street corner. What’s it like in Rome?’

‘There are a few.’

‘Well, that should help. I can only offer . . . why, Jagadish, what’s the matter?’

An old servant stood near the door. There were tears in his eyes. ‘Thumri . . . huzoor, Thumri is dead.’

‘What! Dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why, Bhikhu just took her for a walk, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but that was a long time ago. When neither of them returned when they should have, I went to look for them. I found Thumri’s body in the woods. Bhikhu has run away, huzoor.’

‘I . . . don’t . . . believe . . . this!’

Soumyasekhar had always been interested in music. One of his two fox terriers was called Kajri. The other was Thumri. Kajri had died a natural death a couple of years ago. Thumri was eleven. Until a few hours ago, she was alive and in perfect health.

Rudrasekhar rose quietly to his feet. The older man was clearly deeply distressed. He didn’t want to disturb him. It was time to find out where his room was.

Our car passed through the heavy traffic in Shibpur and turned onto the national highway. It felt like going into a new world.

When I say ‘our’ car, I really mean Jatayu’s car. Lalmohan Ganguli—alias Jatayu—the very successful writer of blood-curdling thrillers, owned this green Ambassador. But he was perfectly happy to let us use it whenever we wanted. ‘My car, sir,’ he had once said to Feluda, ‘is equal to yours. What I mean is, it’s your right—that is, it is a privilege for me to offer you the use of my car, considering all you’ve done for me.’

‘What have I done for you, Lalmohan Babu?’

‘Why, you’ve—you’ve opened such a lot of new doors for me! And it’s brought me renewed vigour and a totally different outlook. Just think of the many places I’ve now travelled to—Delhi, Bombay, Jaisalmer, Benaras, Simla, Nepal. Could I have done it without your help? No, sir! I had only heard of the saying “Travel broadens the mind”. Now I know what it means.’

This time, however, we were not going to travel very far. Mecheda was only a few miles from Calcutta. But according to Lalmohan Babu, living in Calcutta was no different from living in the black hole. So if one could get away even for a single day, it gave one a new lease of life.

Why, one might wonder, were we going to Mecheda, of all places? The reason was simple. We were going there to meet the numerologist, Bhabesh Chandra Bhattacharya. Lalmohan Babu had read about him—and his powers—nearly three months ago. Now he was determined to meet him in person.

Mr Bhattacharya, apparently, could use his knowledge of numbers to make amazing and accurate predictions. Hundreds of people were queueing up outside his house in Mecheda to seek his advice. Lalmohan Babu wanted to join the queue, for his last book had not sold quite as well as he had hoped. ‘There must have been something wrong with the title of the novel,’ he mused.

‘I don’t think so, Lalmohan Babu,’ Feluda told him. ‘All that happened was that you got carried away. Your hero gets hit by seven bullets, but even after that he’s alive and well. Now, that is a bit hard to swallow, isn’t it? I mean, even for the readers of your adventure series?’

‘What are you saying, Felu Babu?’ Jatayu sounded indignant. ‘My
hero Prakhar Rudra isn’t an ordinary man, and my readers know it. He’s a super-super-super man of extraordinary—’

‘All right, all right, we believe you!’

This time, Feluda had declared himself perfectly happy with the plot of his latest novel. But Lalmohan Babu was not going to take any risks.

‘I must consult this numerologist,’ he said. Hence our visit to Mecheda.

We had left Calcutta at 7.30 this morning and hoped to reach Mecheda by half-past nine. By 1.30 p.m., we planned to be back home.

There wasn’t much traffic on the highway, and we drove at 80 km per hour. Soon, we passed Kolaghat. Mecheda wasn’t far from here. A couple of minutes later, we saw a strange car by the side of the road, its owner standing helplessly by its side. Our arrival made him jump and wave madly. Our car screeched to a halt.

‘A most unfortunate business,’ the gentleman said, wiping his face with a large handkerchief. ‘One of the tyre’s gone, but I think I left the jack in my other car.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lalmohan Babu reassured him, ‘my driver will sort things out. Have a look, Haripada.’

Haripada took out a jack and passed it to the other man, who began working on the flat tyre immediately.

‘How old is your car?’ Feluda asked.

‘It’s a 1936 model. Armstrong Siddeley.’

‘Does it often give you trouble on a long run?’

‘No, never. I join the vintage car rally every year. Er . . . are you going far?’

‘Only up to Mecheda. We don’t expect to spend more than half an hour there.’

‘Well then, why don’t you come to my house from there? Turn left as you get out of Mecheda. I live just eight kilometres away, in Baikunthapur.’

‘Baikunthapur?’

‘Yes, that’s where my parents live in our ancestral home. I live in Calcutta, but I’m visiting them at the moment. Our house is two hundred years old—I’m sure you’ll enjoy a short visit. You could have lunch with us, and return to Calcutta in the evening. Do say yes. I’d like to show you how very grateful I am for your help.’

Feluda frowned. ‘Baikunthapur . . . I have seen that name recently
somewhere.’

‘Yes, you may have read Bhudev Singh’s article in the
Illustrated Weekly
.’

‘Oh, yes. Now I remember. It was published about six weeks ago.’

‘Yes, although I must confess I haven’t read the article myself. Someone told me about it.’

‘It’s about someone from the Niyogi family in Baikunthapur. He was an artist, who went to Rome.’

‘My great-uncle, Chandrasekhar,’ the gentleman smiled. ‘I am a Niyogi, too. My name is Nobo Kumar.’

‘I see. I am Pradosh Mitter, and this is Lalmohan Ganguli. Here’s my cousin Tapesh.’

Nobo Kumar raised his eyebrows. ‘Pradosh Mitter? The investigator?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, then you’ve got to come to our house! Why, you’re a famous man! Besides, to tell you the truth, I had already thought of contacting you.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s been a murder. You may laugh at this, for the victim was not a man but a dog.’

‘What! When did this happen?’

‘Last Tuesday. It was a fox terrier. My father was very fond of it.’

‘Why do you say it was a murder?’

‘A servant took the dog out for a walk. Neither of them returned. The dog’s body was found in the woods. It looked as though it was poisoned. Biscuit crumbs lay everywhere.’

‘How very strange! Have you any idea who—?’

‘No. The dog was eleven years old. It wouldn’t have lived for long, anyway. That’s why the whole business strikes me as extremely mysterious. Anyway, I don’t expect you to carry out an investigation. I’d simply be grateful for a visit. I could show you where Chandrasekhar painted. His studio was left untouched.’

‘All right,’ said Feluda. ‘I must admit that article made me curious about the Niyogi family. We’ll be there, say around eleven?’

‘OK. You’ll find a petrol pump soon after you leave Mecheda. They’ll be able to tell you how to get to Baikunthapur.’

Mr Niyogi returned the jack to Haripada, and we drove off.

‘So many interesting people have lived in our time, but we don’t
often get to know about them,’ Feluda remarked. ‘Chandrasekhar Niyogi left the country at the age of twenty-four. He went to an academy in Rome to study art, and married an Italian girl. He came back home years later after his wife died. He became quite well known as a painter of portraits. Various wealthy people—including maharajahs of a few princely states—commissioned him to paint their portraits. One of these maharajahs got to know him quite well. It was he who wrote that article. Chandrasekhar eventually left home in his old age and is said to have become a sanyasi.’

‘Yes, most interesting,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘but I can’t get something out of my mind. Have you ever heard of a dog being murdered?’

‘No, I’ve got to admit I haven’t.’

‘In that case, Felu Babu, I would urge you to get on with it. If you solved this mystery for Nobo Kumar Niyogi, I can assure you you won’t be disappointed. A man who can afford to maintain three vintage cars must be absolutely loaded. Just think about it!’

We had made an appointment with Bhabesh Bhattacharya, so it was relatively easy to meet him. He might have been a school teacher—wearing thick glasses, a loose shirt, a cotton chadar draped over his shoulders. He was sitting very straight before a small desk, on top of which lay a few finely sharpened pencils and a fat, bound ledger.

‘Lalmohan Gangopadhyaya?’ he asked, glancing at the postcard Lalmohan Babu had sent him.

‘Yes.’

‘Age?’ Lalmohan Babu told him.

‘Date of birth?’

‘Sixteenth August.’

‘Hm. Leo. All right, what can I do for you?’

‘Well . . . I am a writer, you see. I have thought of three names for my next novel, but I can’t decide which would be the best.’

‘What are these names?’

‘Hullabaloo in Honolulu, Hell in Honolulu,
and
The Honolulu Holocaust.
’

‘Hm. Please wait.’

Mr Bhattacharya wrote the names down in his ledger and began making some calculations. Then he said, ‘Your name adds up to twenty-one. Your date of birth and the month you were born in gives us six. Both can be divided by three. I suggest you use the third title. When is your book coming out?’

‘The first of January.’

‘No, make it the third. Anything to do with the book must be divisible by three.’

‘I see. And . . . er . . . how will it . . . I mean . . . ?’

‘Don’t worry. It’ll sell well.’

Lalmohan Babu smiled, paid a hundred rupees and came out with us.

‘A bit expensive, wasn’t he?’ I asked.

‘Maybe. But I don’t mind. I’m positive this book’s going to be a hit. Oh, I can’t tell you how relieved I feel!’

‘Does that mean you’ll come back to Mecheda every time you write a book?’

‘Why not? It would only mean two visits every year. When there is a guarantee of success . . .’ I said nothing more.

We got into the car once more and set off for Baikunthapur. It took us twenty minutes to reach the home of the Niyogis. ‘Niyogi Palace’, said a marble slab at the gate.

That the house was old was easy enough to see. One portion of it looked as though it had recently been repaired and restored. Perhaps that was where the family lived. A long drive lined with palms ended in a large portico. Nobo Kumar came out, beaming.

‘Welcome!’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you came. I was afraid you might change your mind. Do come in. This way—’

We were taken to the first floor. ‘I’ve told my father about you. He’ll be very pleased to meet you,’ Nobo Kumar informed us.

‘Who else lives in this house?’ Feluda asked idly.

‘Only my parents. My mother suffers from asthma, you see. The country air suits her much better. Then there is Bankim Babu. He used to be Baba’s secretary. Now he’s become a kind of manager. Besides these people, there are a few servants, that’s all. I visit occasionally. I was going to come with my family a few days later, for Puja. But a guest arrived, so I came earlier than the others. My uncle from Rome—Chandrasekhar’s son—is visiting, you see. I thought Baba might need my help.’

‘Were you in touch with your uncle all these years? I mean, after
Chandrasekhar left home?’

‘No. This is his first visit. I think he’s here to sort out his share in our property.’

‘Did Chandrasekhar die?’

‘We don’t know. We haven’t heard from him—or of him—for years and years. So I assume the law would regard him as dead.’

‘Did he live here when he returned from Rome?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t he live in Calcutta?’

‘That would not have made any difference. He had to travel a lot. His clients were spread all over the country. It didn’t really matter where he lived.’

‘Do you remember having seen him?’

‘I was six when he left. All I can remember is his affection for me.’ We were ushered into the living room. A beautiful, huge chandelier hung from the ceiling. I had never seen anything like it before. On one of the walls was a life-size portrait of a bearded man. He wore an achkan; a sword hung at his waist; on his head was a turban from which glittered pearls and rubies. The portrait dominated the whole room.

‘My great-grandfather, Anant Nath Niyogi,’ explained Nobo Kumar. ‘Chandrasekhar painted it soon after he got back from Italy. By that time Anant Nath had forgiven him for having left the country and married an Italian woman.’

‘Why,’ I had to ask, ‘does it say “S. Niyogi” at the bottom? His name was Chandrasekhar, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. But people in Italy called him Sandro. So he used “S” in his signature.’

There were other smaller paintings by S. Niyogi in the room. Each bore evidence of the painter’s skill. He had undoubtedly been blessed with a rare gift.

A bearer came in with glasses of sherbet. Feluda picked one up, and said, ‘That article said something rather interesting about your great-uncle’s private collection of paintings. Apparently, he had a painting by a world famous artist, but he had told Bhudev Singh, the writer, not to mention it to anyone since no one would believe him if he did. Do you happen to know anything about it?’

‘There is a painting, yes. Everyone in our family knows about it. It’s a painting of Jesus Christ. But I couldn’t tell you if the artist was world famous or not. You can see it for yourself when you go to the
studio. That is where it has always hung.’

‘Bhudev Singh himself must know whose work it is.’

‘Yes, I’m sure he does. He and Chandrasekhar were very close friends.’

‘Doesn’t your uncle know anything about it? After all, he’s Chandrasekhar’s son, isn’t he?’

Nobo Kumar shook his head. ‘He didn’t get on very well with his father, from what I gather. Besides, he doesn’t seem interested in art at all.’

‘That means no one from your family would have any idea about the real value of the painting?’

‘Yes, that’s right. My father’s interest lies in music. He wouldn’t know any more about paintings and artists than I would. And the same applies to my brother, Nondo Kumar.’

‘Why, does he have a lot to do with music as well?’

‘No, his passion was acting. You see, we have a travel agency in Calcutta. Our father wanted Nondo and me to be partners. Everything was fine, until 1975 when Nondo left suddenly for Bombay. Apparently, he knew somebody from Hindi films who got him a few roles. He’s been living in Bombay since then.’

‘Is he successful?’

‘I don’t think so. I remember seeing his pictures in film magazines soon after he left, but nothing recently.’

‘Are you in regular touch?’

‘No, not at all. All I know is that he lives in a flat on Napean Sea Road. I think the building’s called “Sea View”. I redirect his mail occasionally, that’s all.’

We finished our drink and went down to meet Nobo Kumar’s father. He was sitting on an easy chair on a large veranda, holding a paperback very close to his eyes. Nobo Kumar introduced us.

‘Have you told him about Thumri?’ the old gentleman asked. ‘Yes, Baba,’ Nobo Kumar replied with a slightly embarrassed air, ‘but Mr Mitter and the others are simply paying us a visit, they’re not here on business.’

Soumyasekhar frowned. ‘I cannot see why you aren’t taking the matter seriously. Is it just because Thumri was a dog? Don’t you think a heartless killer like that should be punished? Not only did he kill a poor, defenceless animal, but he also threatened my servant. I am sure of it, or he wouldn’t have run away. The whole business strikes me as decidedly fishy, and I’m sure any detective worth his
salt would find it a challenge. What do you say, Mr Mitter?’

‘You are absolutely right,’ Feluda replied.

‘Good. I am glad to hear it, and shall feel gladder if you can actually catch the culprit. Oh, by the way,’ he turned to his son, ‘have you met Robin Babu?’

‘Robin Babu? Who is he?’ Nobo Kumar sounded surprised.

‘He is a journalist. Quite young. He wrote to me about coming here to do research on Chandrasekhar. He’s got a fellowship or a grant or something, to write Chandrasekhar’s biography. Well, he turned up a couple of days ago, and has already collected a lot of material. He might even go to Italy. He talks to me every morning for about an hour, and records everything. A smart young man. I like him.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘In his room, I expect. I gave him one of the bedrooms on the ground floor. He’ll be around for another ten days, I think. He works very hard.’

‘I had no idea you had two guests to look after!’

‘Well, to tell you the truth, neither requires any real looking after. I hardly ever get to see my cousin from Rome; and when I do, he speaks very little. I’ve never seen anyone quite so taciturn.’

‘Has he talked about his father at all?’

‘No. When Chandrasekhar returned to India, his son was in his late teens. The relationship between father and son was not a happy one, it seems. I think Rudra avoids talking to me because he thinks I might ask awkward questions. It is strange, isn’t it, that I do not know my own first cousin? He had to show me his passport to prove his identity!’

‘Was it an Indian passport?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘You did look properly, Baba, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. But I needn’t have bothered. You only have to look at him to see the family resemblance.’

‘He’s arrived only to claim his share in the property, hasn’t he?’ Feluda remarked.

‘Yes, and there shouldn’t be any problem in his getting what is rightfully his. He didn’t even know that his father left home a second time. I told him when he wrote to me from Rome that there had been no news of his father for ten years. That was when he decided to come.’

‘Does he appear to know anything at all about that famous painting Chandrasekhar brought with him?’ Feluda was clearly still curious.

‘No. Rudrasekhar is an engineer. He knows nothing of art. But . . . someone else is interested in that painting.’

‘Who?’ Nobo Kumar looked up.

‘A man called Somani. Bankim would have his details. He was acting on behalf of someone from Europe—or was it America?—who had, apparently, offered a lakh for the painting. Somani was prepared to pay me twenty-five thousand right away. If the buyer was satisfied it wasn’t a fake, he’d pay me the balance, he said.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘A couple of weeks ago, before Rudra’s arrival. I told Somani he d have to wait until Rudra got here, as he was the rightful owner. I could not sell it.’

‘Did Somani come back?’ Feluda asked.

‘Oh yes. A most persistent man. He talked to Rudra this time.’. ‘Do you know what was said?’

‘No. All I can tell you is that if Rudra wants to sell any of his father’s belongings, he has every right to do so.’

‘Yes, but surely not before all legal formalities have been completed?’

‘No, he’ll certainly have to wait until then.’

We met the other guests at lunch. Robin Babu looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps I had seen his photo in some journal. He was clean-shaven, and of medium height. He had very bright eyes.

‘Oh, I’ve discovered such a lot of curious facts about Chandrasekhar,’ he told us. ‘There is a wooden case in his studio, packed with the most interesting stuff.’

‘Rudrasekhar’s presence must be an additional help, I’m sure?’ said Feluda. ‘He can tell you about Chandrasekhar’s life in Italy.’

‘I haven’t yet talked to him since he has been so busy himself. I am, at the moment, trying to find out what happened after Chandrasekhar returned home.’

I looked at Rudrasekhar. He said, ‘Hm,’ and no more.

In the evening, we set off for a walk with Nobo Kumar, to look at some local old, beautiful terracotta temples. But we were only halfway there, walking through a large field, when a storm broke out. We tried running back to the house, but it started to rain even
before we reached the front gate. Lightning ripped the sky, and we could hear frequent thunder. By the time we stepped into the house, we were all drenched. Great sheets of water were cascading down from the heavens.

‘I have never,’ Lalmohan Babu declared, ‘seen it rain like this. Isn’t there something dramatic about it?’

He was right. Having lived in a city all my life, I hadn’t seen such torrential rain out in the open, either. It soon became clear that the rain was not going to stop in a hurry. And that meant we could not return to Calcutta.

Nobo Kumar wasn’t the least bit put out. ‘These sudden storms and heavy rain are not unusual,’ he told us. ‘All it means is that you must spend the night here.’

‘But . . .’ Feluda began. Nobo Kumar cut him short, ‘It’s not a problem at all, believe me. We have at least ten spare bedrooms in this house, all fully furnished. And I could even lend you some clothes. Don’t worry about a thing!’

We were given two adjoining rooms on the ground floor. Both rooms were huge, with matching furniture. Lalmohan Babu climbed onto his massive bed and said, ‘Aaah . . . this reminds me of that tale in which a common man becomes an emperor for a day.
Arabian Nights,
isn’t it?’

I wasn’t sure, but I could see what he meant. The white marble dishes in which lunch was served were fit for a king, I had thought. At night, the marble dishes disappeared. We were served dinner on plates made of pure silver.

‘We didn’t get to see Chandrasekhar’s studio,’ said Feluda over dinner. ‘I’ll take you there tomorrow morning,’ Nobo Kumar replied. ‘It’s directly above your room.’

The rain stopped just as we were getting ready to go to bed. I looked out of the window. A few stars were peeping out from torn shreds of clouds. There was something eerie about the silence outside. Our room faced the garden. A number of fireflies buzzed outside, and from somewhere came the faint sound of a transistor radio.

Lalmohan Babu rose at half-past ten and went to his room. There was a communicating door between his room and ours, which he thought was ‘convenient’.

It was through this door that he slipped in in the middle of the night and woke Feluda. I woke only a few seconds later.

‘What’s the matter?’ Feluda was asking when I opened my eyes, ‘So late—’

‘Sh-h-h-h! Listen carefully!’

We both pricked our ears.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

The noise was coming from above. There was someone walking upstairs. At one point, I thought I heard a click. The noise subsided in about three minutes, and silence fell once more.