Feluda looked at him steadily and said, ‘—And as a result of this row, your uncle had a heart attack. But that didn’t stop Dharani. He searched the room before he left. Isn’t that what you’re thinking?’
‘Yes. But I know he didn’t find any money.’
‘If he had, he wouldn’t have returned posing as Surajit Dasgupta, right?’
‘Right. Perhaps something made him think the money was hidden in one of those two instruments.’
‘The melochord.’
Mr Samaddar gave Feluda a sharp glance. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘That’s what my instincts are telling me. But I don’t like taking shots in the dark. Besides, I can’t forget your uncle’s last words. He did use the word “key”, didn’t he? You are certain about that?’
Mr Samaddar began to look unsure. ‘I don’t know . . . that’s what it sounded like,’ he faltered, rubbing his hands in embarrassment. ‘Or it could be that my uncle was talking pure nonsense. It could have been delirium, couldn’t it? Maybe the word “key” has no significance at all.’
I felt a sudden stab of disappointment at these words. But Feluda remained unruffled. ‘Delirium or not, there is money in this room,’ he said. ‘I can smell it. Finding a key is not really important. We’ve got to find the money.’
‘How? What do you propose to do?’
‘Just at this moment, I’d like to go back home. Please tell Anukul not to worry, I don’t think anyone will try to break in during the day. All he needs to do is not let any stranger into the house. There will be those police constables at night. I must go back and think very hard. I can see a glimmer of light, but unless that grows brighter, there’s nothing much I can do. May I please spend the night here?’
Mr Samaddar looked faintly surprised at this question. But he said immediately, ‘Yes, of course, if that’s what you want. Shall I come and collect you at 8 p.m.?’
‘All right. Thank you, Moni Babu.’
‘First of all, my boy, write down the name of the dead man.’
Feluda was back in his room, sitting on his bed. I was sitting in a chair next to him, a notebook on my lap and a pen in my hand.
‘Radharaman Samaddar,’ I wrote.
‘What’s his grandson called?’
‘Dharanidhar Samaddar.’
‘And the name he uses on the stage?’
‘Sanjay Lahiri.’
‘What’s the name of the collector of musical instruments who lives in Dehra Dun?’
‘Surajit Dasgupta.’
‘Who’s Radharaman’s neighbour?’
‘Abani Sen.’
‘And his son?’
‘Sadhan.’
‘What were Radharaman’s last words?’
‘In my name . . . key . . . key.’
‘What are the eight notes in the sargam?’
‘Sa re ga ma pa dha ni sa.’
‘Very well. Now go away and don’t disturb me. Shut the door as you go. I am going to work now.’
I went to the living room and picked up one of my favourite books to read. An hour later, I heard Feluda dialling a number on the telephone extension in his room. Unable to contain myself, I tiptoed to the door of his room and eavesdropped shamelessly. ‘Hello? Can I speak to Dr Chintamoni Bose, please?’
Feluda was calling the heart specialist who had accompanied Mr Samaddar the day Radharaman died. I returned to the living room, my curiosity satisfied. Ten minutes later, there was the sound of dialling again. I rose once more and listened at the door.
‘Eureka Press? Who’s speaking?’
This time, Feluda was calling Mr Samaddar’s press. I didn’t need to hear any more, so I went back to my book.
When our cook Srinath came in with the tea at four, Feluda was still in his room. By the time I had finished my tea and read a few more pages of my book, it was 4.35. I was now feeling more mystified than ever. What on earth could Feluda be doing, puzzling over those few words I had scribbled in a notebook? After all, there wasn’t anything in them he didn’t know already. Before I could think any further, Feluda opened his door and came out with a half-finished Charminar in his hand. ‘My head’s reeling, Topshe!’ he exclaimed, a note of suppressed excitement in his voice. ‘Who knew it would take me so long to work out the meaning of a few words spoken by a very old man at his deathbed?’
In reply, I could only stare dumbly at Feluda. What he had just said made no sense to me, but I could see that his face looked different, which could simply mean that the light he had seen earlier was now much stronger than a glimmer.
‘Sa dha ni sa ni . . . notes from the sargam. Does that tell you anything?’
‘No, Feluda. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Good. If you could catch my drift, one would have had to assume your level of intelligence was as high as Felu Mitter’s.’
I was glad of the difference. I was perfectly happy being Feluda’s satellite, and no more.
Feluda threw his cigarette away, and picked up the telephone once again.
‘Hello? Mr Samaddar? Can you come over at once? Yes, yes, we have to go to Bamungachhi as soon as we can . . . I think I’ve finally got the answer . . . yes, melochord . . . that’s the important thing to remember.’
Then he replaced the receiver and said seriously, ‘There is a risk involved, Topshe. But I’ve got to take it, there is no other choice.’
Five
Mr Samaddar’s driver was old, but that didn’t stop him from driving at eighty-five kilometres per hour when we reached VIP Road. Feluda sat fidgeting, as though he would have liked to have driven faster. Soon, we had to reduce our speed as the road got narrower and more congested. However, only a little while later, it shot up to sixty, despite the fact that the road wasn’t particularly good and it had started to get dark.
There was no one at the main gate of Radharaman’s house. ‘Perhaps it’s not yet time for those police constables to have arrived,’ Feluda remarked.
We found Sadhan in the garden with his airgun.
‘Why, Sadhan Babu, what are you killing in the dark?’ Feluda asked him, getting out of the car.
‘Bats,’ Sadhan replied promptly. There were a number of bats hanging from the branches of a peepul tree just outside the compound.
The sound of our car had brought Anukul to the front door. Mr Samaddar told him to light a lantern and began unlocking the German lock. ‘I’m dying to learn how you solved the mystery,’ he said. I could understand his feelings, for Feluda hadn’t uttered a single word in the car. I, too, was bursting with curiosity.
Feluda refused to break his silence. Without a word, he stepped into the room and switched on a powerful torch, It shone first on the wall, then fell on the melochord, still resting peacefully on the small table. My heart began to beat faster. The white keys of the instrument gleamed in the light, making it seem as though it was grinning from ear to ear. Feluda did not move his arm. ,‘Keys . . .’ he said softly. ‘Look at those keys. Radharaman didn’t mean a lock and a key at all. He meant the keys of an instrument, like a piano, or—’
He couldn’t finish speaking. What followed a split second later took my breath away. Even now, as I write about it, my hand trembles.
At Feluda’s words, Mr Samaddar suddenly sprang in the air and pounced upon the melochord like a hungry tiger on its prey. Then he picked it up, struck at Feluda’s head with it, knocked me over and ran out of the door.
Feluda had managed to raise his arms in the nick of time to protect his head. As a result, his arms took the blow, making him drop the torch and fall on the bed in pain. As I scrambled to my feet, I heard Mr Samaddar locking the door behind him. Even so, I rushed forward, to try and push it with my shoulder. Then I heard Feluda whisper, ‘Bathroom.’ I picked up the torch quickly, and we both sped out of the small bathroom door.
There was the sound of a car starting, followed by a bang. A confused babble greeted us as we emerged. I could hear Anukul shouting in dismay, and Aba
ni Sen speaking to his son very crossly. By the time we reached the front door, the car had gone, but there was someone sitting on the driveway.
‘What have you done, Sadhan?’ Mr Sen was still scolding his son furiously. ‘Why did do you that? It was wrong, utterly wrong—!’
Sadhan made a spirited reply in his thin childish voice, ‘What could I do? He was trying to run away with Dadu’s instrument!’
‘He’s quite right, Mr Sen,’ Feluda said, panting a little. ‘He’s done us a big favour by injuring the culprit, though in the future he must learn to use his airgun more carefully. Please go back home and inform the police. The driver of that car must not be allowed to get away. Tell them its number is WMA 6164.’
Then he walked over to the figure sitting on the driveway and, together with Anukul, helped him to his feet. Mr Samaddar allowed himself to be half pushed and half dragged back into the house, without making any protest. A pellet from Sadhan’s airgun had hit one corner of his forehead. The wound was still bleeding.
The melochord was still lying where it had fallen on the cobbled path. I picked it up carefully and took it back to the house.
Feluda, Mr Sen, Inspector Dinesh Guin from the Barasat police station and I were sitting in Radharaman’s bedroom, drinking tea. A man—possibly a constable—stood at the door. Another sat huddled in a chair. This was our culprit, Monimohan Samaddar. The wound on his forehead was now dressed. Sadhan was also in the room, standing at the window and staring out. On a table in front of us was the melochord.
Feluda cleared his throat. He was now going to tell us how he had learnt the truth. His watch was broken, and one of his arms was badly scraped. He had found a bottle of Dettol in the bathroom, and dabbed his arm with it. Then he had tied a handkerchief around his arm. If he was still in pain, he did not show it.
He put his cup down and began speaking. ‘I started to suspect Monimohan Samaddar only from this afternoon. But I had nothing to prove that my suspicions weren’t baseless. So, unless he made a false move, I could not catch him. Fortunately, he lost his head in the end and played right into my hands. He could never have got away, but Sadhan helped me in catching him immediately . . . Something he told me about working late on Monday first made me suspicious, not at the time, but later. He said he got very late on Monday evening because he had to work overtime. This was odd since a friend of mine lives in the same area where his press is, and I have often heard him complain that they have long power cuts, always starting in the evening and lasting until quite late at night. So I rang the Eureka Press, and was told that no work had been done on Monday evening because of prolonged load shedding. Moni Babu himself had left the press in the afternoon, and no one had seen him return. This made me wonder if a man who had told me one lie hadn’t also told me another. What if Radharaman’s last words were different from what I had been led to believe? I remembered he wasn’t the only one present at the time of his death. I rang Dr Chintamoni Bose, and learnt that what Radharaman had really said was, “Dharani . . . in my name . . . key . . . key.” It was Dharani’s name that Moni Babu had failed to mention. Dharani was, after all, Radharaman’s only grandchild. He was still fond of him. If there were good reviews of his performance, Radharaman kept those press cuttings. So it was only natural that he should try to tell his grandson—and not his nephew—the secret about his money. I don’t think he had even recognized his nephew. Nevertheless, it was his nephew who heard his last words. He could make out that Radharaman was talking about his hidden money. But he couldn’t find a key anywhere, so he decided to come to me, the idea being that I would find out where the key was, and Moni Babu would grab all the money. Nobody knew if there was a will. If a will could not be found, everything Radharaman possessed would have gone directly to Dharani. In any case, I doubt very much if Radharaman would have considered leaving anything to his nephew. It is my belief that he wasn’t particularly fond of Moni Babu.’
Feluda stopped. No one spoke. After a brief pause, he continued, ‘Now, the question was, why did Moni Babu lie to me about working late on Monday? Was it because he spent Monday evening indulging in some criminal activity, which meant that he needed an alibi? Radharaman’s room was broken into that same evening. Could the intruder have been Moni Babu himself? The more I thought about it, the more likely did it seem. He was the only one who could use the combination lock, go into the room, unbolt the bathroom door, then come out again and lock the main door to the bedroom. That small bathroom door was most definitely bolted from inside when I saw it during the day. No cleaner could have come in after we left since it’s not being used at all. I suspect Moni Babu had worked out what his uncle had meant by the word “key”, so he’d come back in the middle of the night to steal the melochord. Am I right?’
All of us turned to look at Mr Samaddar. He nodded without lifting his head. Feluda went on, ‘Even if Moni Babu could get away with stealing the melochord, I am positive he could never have decoded the rest of Radharaman’s message. I stumbled on the answer only this evening, and for that, too, I have to thank little Sadhan.’
We looked at Sadhan in surprise. He turned his head and stared at Feluda solemnly. ‘Sadhan,’ Feluda said, ‘tell us once again what your Dadu said about music and people’s names.’
‘Those who have melody in their names,’ Sadhan whispered, ‘are bound to have melody in their voices.’
‘Thank you. This is merely an example of Radharaman’s extraordinary intelligence. “Those who have melody in their names,” he said. All right, let’s take a name. Take Sadhan, for instance. Sadhan Sen. If you take away some of the vowels, you get notes from the sargam—sa dha ni sa ni. When I realized this, a new idea struck me. His last words were “in my name . . . key”. Could he have meant the keys on the melochord that corresponded with his own name? Radharaman—re dha re ma ni. Samaddar—sa ma dha dha re. Dharanidhar was a singer, too; and he had melody in his name as well—dha re ni dha re. What a very clever idea it was, simple yet ingenious. Radharaman was obviously interested in mechanical gadgets. That German combination lock is an example. The melochord was also made in Germany, by a company called Spiegler. It was made to order, possibly based on specifications supplied by Radharaman himself. It acted as his bank. Thank goodness Surajit Dasgupta hadn’t walked away with it, although I’m sure Radharaman would have emptied its contents before handing it over. Maybe he didn’t feel the need for a bank any more. Maybe he knew he didn’t have long to live . . . I learnt two other things. Surajit Dasgupta is a genuine musician, absolutely passionate about music and instruments. The few books on music I have read in the last two days mentioned his name. I was quite mistaken in thinking it was Dharani in disguise. Dharani is truly away in Jalpaiguri, he hasn’t the slightest idea of what’s going on. What we have to do now is see if there is anything left for him to inherit. He wants to form his own group, according to an interview published in Manchalok. So I’m sure a windfall would be most welcome. Topshe, bring that lantern here.’
I picked up the lantern and brought it closer to the melochord. Feluda placed it on his lap. ‘It’s had to put up with some rough handling today,’ he said, ‘but it was designed so well that I don’t think it was damaged in any way. Now let’s see what Radharaman’s brain and German craftsmanship has produced.’ Feluda began pressing the keys that made up Radharaman’s full name—re dha re ma ni sa ma dha dha re. A sweet note rang out with the pressing of every key. As Feluda pressed the last one, the right panel slid open silently. We leant over the instrument eagerly, to find that there was a deep compartment behind this panel, lined with red velvet, and packed with bundles of hundred rupee notes.
Sheer amazement turned us into statues for a few moments. Then Feluda began pulling out the bundles gently. ‘I think we have at least fifty thousand here,’ he said. ‘Come on, Mr Sen, help me count it.’
A bemused Abani Sen rose to his feet and stepped forward. The light from the lantern fell on Feluda’s face and caught the glint in his eye. I kne
w it wasn’t greed, but the pure joy of being able to use his razor-sharp brain once more, and solve another mystery.
The Royal Bengal Mystery
One
Old Man hollow,
pace to follow,
people’s tree.
Half ten, half again
century.
Rising sun,
whence it’s done,
can’t you see?
Between hands,
below them stands,
yours, it be.
Feluda said to me, ‘When you write about our adventure in the forest, you must start with this puzzle.’
‘Why? We didn’t get to know of the puzzle until we actually got there!’
‘I know. But this is just a technique, to tickle the fancy of the reader.’
I wasn’t happy with this answer. Feluda realized it, so a couple of minutes later, he added, ‘Anyone who reads that puzzle at the outset will get the chance to use his own intelligence, you see.’
So I agreed to start my story with it. I should, however, point out at once that it’s no use trying to work out what it means. It’s not easy at all. In fact, it took even Feluda quite a long time to discover its meaning, although when he eventually explained it to me, it seemed simple enough.
In talking about our past experiences, I have so far used real names and real places. This time, I have been specifically asked not to do so. I had to turn to Feluda for advice on fictitious names I might use. ‘You can mention the place was near the border of Bhutan, there’s no harm in that,’ Feluda said, ‘but you can change its name to Laxmanbari. The chief character might be called Mr Sinha-Roy. Many old zamindar families used to have that name. In fact, some of them originally came from Rajputana. They came to Bengal and joined the army of Todar Mal to fight the Pathans. Then they simply stayed on, and their descendants became Bengalis.’
I am doing what Feluda told me to do. The names of places and people are fictitious, but not the events. I shall try to relate everything exactly as I saw or heard it.