‘Well, he certainly wasn’t hiding in my room, I can tell you that!’ Mr Datta said emphatically. ‘In fact, I wasn’t home when he arrived.’
‘Well, Mr Datta, we checked with the post office. They confirmed that you had gone there at ten o’clock and sent two telegrams. Then you—’
‘Then I went to look for a strap for my watch.’
‘Yes, so you told us. Unfortunately, no one in the local shops can remember having seen you.’
‘So what? What are you saying, Mr Mitter? Is your entire investigation dependent on what busy shop assistants can remember about their customers?’
‘No. I saw no reason to pay a lot of attention to what the shop assistants had to say. Equally, I didn’t think there was any reason to assume that you were telling us the truth.’
‘Why? Why would I tell lies?’
‘Because you yourself might have gone into Parvaticharan’s study at ten-fifteen.’
‘Have you gone mad? Didn’t you just say you had seen Sadhan Dastidar coming out of the sitting room upstairs? And now you’re suggesting I was there at the same time?’
‘Yes. Suppose Mr Dastidar did not come at all? Suppose it was you who went in his place?’
This remark was followed by pindrop silence. Mr Datta seemed bereft of speech. My head started reeling. What on earth was Feluda talking about?
Suddenly, Mr Datta burst out laughing.
‘You are joking Mr Mitter, aren’t you? I mean, are you implying that Parvaticharan was either totally insane, or completely senile? If I went in wearing a beard, wouldn’t he have recognized me?’
‘No. How could he, Mr Datta? You took off your glasses, you put on a false beard and a moustache, and you changed your clothes. Parvaticharan was sitting in his room, expecting to see a man he hadn’t seen for seven years. Why shouldn’t he think you were that same man? Because you were the same man, weren’t you? What is the difference between Sadhan Dastidar and Hrishikesh Datta, tell me? How was Parvaticharan to know that his new secretary was really his old one in disguise? As Sadhan Dastidar, you did have a real beard. You shaved it off. Dastidar didn’t wear glasses, but you decided Hrishikesh Datta should. And you waited all this while to settle old scores. You could never forget the humiliation of being fired, could you?’
The expression on Mr Datta’s face had changed completely. His lips trembled, but he couldn’t speak. Two constables went and stood by his side. But Feluda had not finished.
‘You used the heavy paperweight to kill your employer. Then you thrust in into a pocket of your jacket, and threw it into the pond. After that, it took you only a couple of minutes to discard your disguise and come out once more as Hrishikesh Datta. Am I right?’
Mr Datta said nothing. I could see that the collar of his shirt was drenched with perspiration, even in December.
‘There’s one more thing. Do the words “Take care, Sadhu” mean anything to you? Didn’t you hear these words recently from a bird, the same chandana that went missing? Superstitious as you are, didn’t you think the bird knew about your plan and was warning you? And isn’t that why you took it out of its cage and released it outside? But it fought back, didn’t it, and left its mark on your arm?’
This time, Hrishikesh Datta found his tongue. ‘Absurd!’ he exclaimed, jumping up from his chair in excitement. ‘That’s utterly ridiculous. Where did it hurt me? Can you see a mark anywhere on my arms?’
‘Inspector Hajra, will you please tell one of your men to take off his wristwatch from his right arm?’
Mr Datta did his best to stop him, but one of the constables undid the clasp of his watch and it slipped off easily. Even from a distance I could see an inch-long scratch, which he had safely hidden under the strap of his watch.
‘I . . . didn’t mean to kill him. You must believe me, you must!’ Mr Datta’s voice was barely audible. His whole body shook.
‘I do. Your idea of revenge wasn’t murder. Nevertheless, he died. All you had wanted to do was steal that letter Napoleon wrote, knowing how precious it was to Parvaticharan. You knew Pestonji was prepared to buy it. So you—’
‘No, no, it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it!’ Mr Datta shouted desperately.
‘Please let me finish. I do know the whole story, I assure you. You were not alone in this, were you? You took that letter, went to your room to change your make-up, and then passed it on to your accomplice. But knowing that the police were bound to search the house, your accomplice hid it quickly, in what he thought was a perfectly safe place. Isn’t that so, Achintya Babu?’
The last question shot out like a bullet. But Achintya Haldar, it turned out, was made of sterner stuff than we had expected. He remained perfectly unperturbed, and stared back at Feluda with a smile on his lips.
‘Pray continue, Mr Mitter,’ he said sarcastically, ‘do tell us more.’
‘You went to your nephew’s room a little after half past ten, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did. So what? He wanted me to see his new toy. Surely there was nothing wrong with that?’
‘No. But I’m sure your are aware that a thief broke into your nephew’s room shortly after the murder. He didn’t get what he was looking for. Are you going to deny that you were that thief, and you had stolen into little Anu’s room in the hope of retrieving that letter because you had hidden it in there? I know it was you who rang Pestonji and offered to bring him the stolen letter. But you didn’t find it, so nobody turned up in Pestonji’s house.’
‘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.’
Tintoretto’s Jesus
One
On 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.
Two
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.’ r />
‘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.’