‘OK, that’s all you need to know. You won’t confuse between clubs and spades, diamonds and hearts, will you?’
‘No, no, of course not.’
‘Fine. We’ll dress as Oriya cooks, and play “twenty-nine”. We’ll have to include your driver, Haripada. I’ll organize our costumes and make-up. Don’t open your month unless you have to. And if you do, remember to speak with an Oriya accent.’
‘OK.’
Lalmohan Babu’s eyes took on a new glint. Even I began to feel very excited. The plot had certainly started to thicken. Lalmohan Babu left at twelve o’clock, agreeing to return at seven and have dinner with us. Then we’d get dressed and go over to Jodu Naskar Lane at eleven. It had struck us all as a quiet and peaceful place. We’d sit under a lamp-post and start playing. Haripada offered to bring a pack of cards in the evening, and an old cotton sheet. Lalmohan Babu would have to be taught the basic rules of ‘twenty-nine’ before we left.
The only person who didn’t appear even remotely excited was Feluda. He spent the whole day reading the music encyclopaedia, while I forced myself to sit quietly and turn the pages of a magazine.
Lalmohan Babu arrived with his driver on the dot of seven. Since this time we had to dress a lot more simply, it took us much less time to put on our disguises, and we were ready by ten-thirty. Feluda had dropped a packet of tea leaves in a bucket of water, and then soaked four white dhotis in it. When they were dry, they looked crumpled and dirty. We wore these, and wrapped cotton shawls around our shoulders. Haripada hadn’t forgotten the cards and the sheet. Lalmohan Babu was shown how to play the game, and allowed to practise a couple of times. When we set off, I heard him mutter under his breath, ‘Jack-ace-ten-king-queen-eight-seven.’
We parked our car in a dark corner on the main road and walked over to Jodu Naskar Lane. Not a soul was about. On Feluda’s request, Mr Poddar had removed the constable on duty. The house of the Acharyas stood sprawling. Among the room from which this lane could be seen was the library and Mr Mallik’s room. The back door was at the far end, where the rooms ended. It was closed. Lights were on both in the library and Mr Mallik’s room, but it was impossible to tell which of the two he might be in.
We spread the sheet under a lamp-post and began playing. Feluda brought out a packet of paan from under his shawl and passed it around.
‘Keep your paan tucked inside your mouth, and don’t spit,’ he whispered, looking at Lalmohan Babu.
A clock—possibly the grandfather clock in the big house—struck eleven.
‘Nineteen,’ called Lalmohan Babu. He was Feluda’s partner. Feluda now produced a packet of beedis, gave one to Haripada and lit one himself. Still there was no one to be seen except a rickshaw-walla where the lane ended, but he was fast asleep. It was probably a moonless night for the sky seemed darker than usual, although there were no clouds.
‘Turupo maruchi kain?’ asked Lalmohan Babu. I looked at him in surprise. I had no idea he could actually speak in Oriya. Feluda probably thought this was going too far, so he said, ‘Sh-sh!’ giving Lalmohan Babu a warning glance. Although we were supposed to be playing only to kill time, ‘twenty-nine’ was such an interesting game that I soon lost all track of time, until the clock struck the half-hour. Good heavens, was it half past eleven already? The others seemed just as deeply engrossed in the game. Lalmohan Babu picked up a beedi absentmindedly, tried to light it, failed and threw, it away. A few minutes later, a dog barked somewhere. Another barked back at the first one and, at this precise moment, Feluda laid a hand on my knee. I looked up quickly.
A man had turned into the lane and was walking towards us. He was wearing a dhoti and a kurta and, like us, a grey cotton shawl. It was quite nippy out in the open. He passed us by and crossed over to the other side. Now he was walking alongside the Acharyas’ house, past all the windows that overlooked this lane. Then he stopped in front of the door.
Tap, tap, tap!
He knocked three times. I could hear him knock only because I was straining my ears. The door opened, making a crack just about wide enough for the man to pass through. By now we had all recognized him.
It was the manager of Binapani Opera, Ashwini Bhaur.
A little later, the clock struck twelve. Fifteen minutes had passed since Mr Bhaur’s arrival. He came out only a couple of minutes later. Was he carrying anything in his hands? I couldn’t see, for both his hands were hidden under his shawl. He began walking rapidly, and soon disappeared from sight.
Our vigil was over and very successful, too. I glanced at Feluda. ‘Let’s finish this game. Then we can go,’ he said under his breath.
Nine
Feluda rang Mr Mallik from his room the following morning. I picked up the extension in our living room and heard the whole conversation.
‘Hello, Mr Mallik?’
‘Yes, how are you?’
‘Fine, thanks. Is everything all right?’
‘Why, yes! I think so.’
‘Could you please do something for me? Go and see if everything’s OK in Indranarayan’s study. Yes, I’ll hold.’
Mr Mallik disappeared, but was back in thirty seconds.
‘Oh my God, Mr Mitter, there’s been a disaster!’
‘Disaster? What’s happened?’
‘Every new play and all the new songs have gone.’
‘I had guessed as much. That’s why I rang.’
‘What can it mean?’
‘Another mystery has been added to all the others, that’s all.’
‘Will you come here now?’
‘I’ll go, if need be. But before that I must speak to the police.’ Feluda replaced the receiver, then picked it up again to dial Inspector Poddar’s number.
‘Hello, Mr Poddar? Thank you every much for removing your man from duty last night. It really worked. I hope you’re keeping an eye on Ashwini Bhaur. He stole some valuable papers from Indranarayan Acharya’s room last night.’
‘This man is a crook,’ Mr Poddar said. ‘He cannot even give us a proper alibi. He left the deceased alive and well, he says, but apparently Bhaur did not return home immediately. His story is that he took a taxi and it broke down on the way. I don’t think that’s true. What progress have you made?’
‘I have made good progress, I should say, but you may not agree with some of my views or accept my conclusion since we’ve approached this case from different angles.’
‘Never mind the angle or your views. All I want is that the culprit should be caught.’
I knew Feluda was not going to tell me what he had meant by different angles, so I didn’t even bother to ask. Feluda said goodbye to Inspector Poddar and told me he was going out. ‘I have to put in an advertisement in the personal column of the Statesman. I’m in need of a good violin.’
A small advertisement appeared the next day. If anyone wanted to sell a violin, preferably made abroad and in good condition, they were asked to write to a box number.
Two days later, Feluda received a response to this advertisement. He read the letter and said, ‘Lowdon Street. That’s where I have to go.’ An hour later, he was back.
‘They were asking for far too much,’ he announced, looking glum. ‘Is this sudden interest in a violin simply the result of reading that encyclopaedia? You mean you seriously want to learn to play it, at your age?’
‘It is,’ declared Feluda solemnly, ‘never too late to learn.’
This mystified me even more, but Feluda refused to say another word. Lalmohan Babu turned up later in the day and took me aside to make a complaint. ‘I like everything about your cousin, Tapesh, except his habit of sinking into silence every now and then. Why can’t he tell us what he’s thinking?’
The next day, which was a Saturday, Feluda suddenly seemed to have cheered up. I even heard him humming under his breath. ‘We must visit Keertinarayan Acharya today. I’ll ring him now,’ he said.
‘Have you finished your investigation?’ Mr Acharya asked when Feluda called him.
&
nbsp; ‘Yes, I think so. But I need to have a meeting in your house to explain everything. Your two sons and Mr Mallik would have to be present.’
‘That’s no problem. They’re all at home. What time should we expect you?’
‘Ten o’clock.’
Feluda rang Inspector Poddar after this and told him to reach Bosepukur by ten. ‘We need you to be there, for today this story is going to reach its climax,’ he said.
Lalmohan Babu arrived at nine. We had a cup of tea, and left at nine-thirty.
We were taken to the same sitting room on the first floor where we had first met Keertinarayan. He was waiting for us. ‘Go and call the others, Pradyumna,’ he said. Mr Mallik left to call his two sons. Devnarayan was the first to arrive.
‘I hear the police have made a lot of progress,’ he said irritably. ‘Why then do we have to listen to a lecture from this man?’
‘I have made a lot of progress, too, Mr Acharya, but in a different way. Besides, murder is not the only crime committed in this case. I think you ought to know that. I will try to explain everything very clearly.’
Devnarayan grunted and sat down. The pipe that always seemed to dangle from his lips had had to be abandoned for the moment, possibly out of respect for his father. Maybe that was the real reason why he was so cross.
Harinarayan arrived in a few minutes. He didn’t say anything, but his brows were knitted in a deep frown. So obviously, he wasn’t feeling very pleased, either.
Feluda began speaking when everyone was seated. ‘Indranarayan Acharya was killed on the night of 7 October between twelve and half past twelve. When I began to think of a possible motive for the murder, I learnt that he had been his father’s favourite child. If Keertinarayan had made a will, it was very likely that he had left most of his assets to Indranarayan. In the event of Indranarayan’s death, this would naturally have to be changed. However, even if a new will meant a greater share for the two remaining brothers, neither could actually get anything until their father died. There was therefore no immediate gain for them after Indranarayan’s death.
‘Another fact was brought to my attention. I learnt that Binapani Opera had been trying to get Indranarayan to leave Bharat and join their own company. But Indranarayan had refused to do so. As such, Binapani might well have hired a killer to do the job, with the sole purpose of causing Bharat Opera irreparable loss. Binapani’s manager, Ashwini Bhaur, had met Indranarayan that same night. He was killed about an hour after Mr Bhaur left.
‘Leena then told us something very useful. We learnt from her that Indranarayan had written five plays and nearly twenty songs which had never been used. I don’t have to spell out how valuable these must be to any jatra company. Whoever killed Indranarayan did go through the papers on his desk, but did not take anything, possibly because he didn’t have enough time. Last Sunday, Ashwini Bhaur came and took everything away.
‘It then became clear that the most likely motive for the murder was stealing Indranarayan’s works. However, an outsider could not have done it. He wouldn’t have known what these plays and songs looked like, or where they were kept. Someone from within the family would have had that information. It was also much easier for someone in the house to steal these papers after the murder, when there would have been ample time and opportunity. Now, I had to find out if anyone in this family was facing a financial crisis. I made some enquiries and was told that Harinarayan had lost heavily in cards and owed people a lot of money. Yet, I couldn’t see him going to the extent of killing his brother, stealing his papers and then selling them to a jatra company. Who, then, needed money so desperately? As I was trying to work this out, I discovered something accidentally.
‘When Mr Mallik called on us on Keertinarayan’s request, a piece of paper had dropped out of his pocket. The words written on it were “Happy Birthday” and “Hukum Chand”. When I showed this piece of paper to Mr Mallik, he said it did not belong to him; nor did he have any idea how it might have got into his pocket. I thought no more about it until last Saturday, when my eyes happened to fall on the last page of the Statesman. There was information about race horses. I realized instantly that “Happy Birthday” and “Hukum Chand” were names of horses. This made me suspect that Mr Mallik went to the races, but wanted to keep it a secret. I went to the race course the same evening, and saw Mr Mallik placing bets. There could be no doubt after this that he was a gambler. People who frequently go to the races are often in need of money. If he had suffered heavy losses, Mr Mallik certainly had a motive for killing Indranarayan and a suitable opportunity. Mr Mallik was in his room that night, supposedly working. It would’ve taken him only a few minutes to walk across, past the music hall, and get into Indranarayan’s study.
‘Mr Mallik, it turned out subsequently, was not only a killer, but also a liar. He didn’t lie to me only about going to the races. He rang me one day to tell me a thief had stolen into Indranarayan’s room and, in trying to chase him away, Mr Mallik had fallen and hurt his knee. As a result of this, he said, he was walking with a limp. This morning, however, I noticed that on at least two occasions he forgot to limp.
‘Ashwini Bhaur came here at a quarter to twelve last Sunday night, and took the plays and the songs from Indranarayan’s room. I know this for a fact because when he came, I was sitting outside with my friends, playing cards. We all saw him. The light was on in Mr Mallik’s room. It is my belief that it was he who stole all the vital papers and then made a deal with Binapani. It was he who let Mr Bhaur in that night, and it was he whom Mr Bhaur paid. If any of this is wrong or untrue, perhaps Mr Mallik will be good enough to correct me.’
Mr Mallik didn’t say a word. His face had turned pale, his body was trembling. He sat staring at the floor. Behind him stood Inspector Poddar. There were two other constables in the room.
‘That explains the mystery behind Indranarayan’s murder,’ Feluda resumed, ‘but that isn’t all. Let me tell you about the second crime. On my first visit to this house, one little thing had struck me as odd. It was Indranarayan’s violin. I couldn’t see how an instrument that was a hundred years old could look so new. But I knew nothing of violins then, so I paid no attention. What I did learn the same day was that Kandarpanarayan used to call his violin “The Strings of Amity”. Recently, I have had the chance to read two things: one was a music encyclopaedia, and the other was Kandarpanarayan’s diary. I learnt from the encyclopaedia that in the sixteenth and seventeenth century in Italy, there had been various violin makers who had reformed and made great improvements on the instrument, both in its appearance and sound. Three names among these violin makers are revered even today: Antonio Stradivari, Andrea Guarneri and Nicolo Amati. All of them had lived in the seventeenth century. Amati was the first among these men to bring about a revolution in the making of violins in Cremona.
‘I did not see the connection between “Amati” and “amity” until I read Kandarpanarayan’s diary.’ Feluda took out a piece of paper from his pocket and read from it. ‘This is what he wrote: “I bought an Amati today from a musician who was sunk in debt and who sold it to me for two thousand pounds. It has a glorious tone.”
‘Two thousand pounds in those days would have equalled twenty thousand rupees. Today, a violin like that would fetch at least a hundred thousand rupees.
‘Such an old and extraordinary violin was lying around in this house, being played occasionally by Indranarayan. How many people were aware of its real value? I don’t think either Keertinarayan or Devnarayan had any idea. But two people knew about it. One of them was Pradyumna Mallik, who had read Kandarpanarayan’s diary; and the other was Harinarayan, who knew about western classical music. He must have known about violins and their makers. At any rate, I am sure he knew that the name of the maker is always inscribed inside a violin. You can see it if you peer through the gaps by the side of a violin. These gaps are shaped like the letter “S”.
‘My suspicions fell on Harinarayan the minute I realized “amity” stood for
“Amati”. It was obvious that the real Amati had been removed after Indranarayan’s death and replaced by a newer and cheaper version. The original had been sold. I put in an advertisement in a newspaper, offering to buy a good quality violin, made abroad. A Mr Rebello wrote in response to my advertisement. He turned out to be an antiques dealer. He told me he had an old violin which he could sell me for one hundred and fifty thousand rupees. I asked him if he had bought it from Harinarayan Acharya. He told me that he had and said it was the only Amati in India.
‘That, I think, explains everything about the second crime. And that, Mr Acharya, is the end of my lecture.’
No one spoke. Not a single voice uttered one word in protest. There was not a single denial from either criminal. Inspector Poddar arrested Mr Mallik and took him away. Harinarayan continued to sit still like a statue, holding his head in his hands. Devnarayan left the room in silent disgust.
After a long time, Keertinarayan sighed. ‘If only Hari had had the sense to tell me about his debts, I would’ve helped him out, and we’d never have lost such a valuable possession. But I still can’t believe what Pradyumna Mallik did. How could he be so totally dishonest, how could he stoop so low? Now, of course, there’s no question of allowing him to write my ancestor’s biography. All I can hope for is that he gets his just desserts.’
Mr Acharya said all that, but it was still important to him that the biography of Kandarpanarayan be written. After a while, he turned to Lalmohan Babu.
‘You are a writer of thrillers, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Why don’t you try writing about Kandarapanarayan’s life? You’ll find his life more full of mystery and thrill than anyone else you’ve ever heard of.’
Lalmohan Babu bowed, with as much modesty as he could assume. ‘Please don’t, sir . . . I am immensely honoured, but I am only a very small and ordinary writer. I’m not even worthy of your consideration.’
Much later, on our way back, he made a confession to Feluda. ‘Me? Write someone’s biography in a house where there’s been a murder? Are you mad? Long live my pot-boilers, long live my hero Prakhar Rudra, and—above all—long live The Three Musketeers!’