The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (37 page)

Samrat Ashok
would be ready in two days. On that score, at least, Indranarayan had nothing to worry about. If the truth were known, he had written four other plays and all were ready. But he hadn’t said anything to the owner of Bharat Opera. He knew very well that not every play could be a guaranteed success. The mood of the audience changed frequently, and a sensible playwright had to judge very carefully what kind of stories or what themes would prove popular. In that context,
Samrat Ashok
was going to be well suited to current tastes.

No, Indranarayan wasn’t worried about his play. What was causing him anxiety was something quite different. It was now ten in the night. The manager of Binapani Opera, a man called Ashwini Bhaur, was expected to call in a few minutes. This would be his fifth visit. Another group called Nobo Natya had also sent its manager to speak to him, but they were not as big and powerful as Binapani. Both wanted him to leave Bharat Opera and join their own group. After seventeen years with Bharat Opera, Indranarayan naturally found it difficult to make a decision. God had given him a special gift that had made him famous. But he also had a strong sense of loyalty.

His mind went back to the night when he had been attacked. Perhaps what Pradosh Mitter had said was right. Perhaps it had no connection with other rival groups. Indranarayan had so far been quite unaware of how strongly the feeling of rivalry ran between various theatre groups. Now he knew. However, on that particular night, it must have been an ordinary thief who had hit him with the simple intention of knocking him unconscious to steal his wallet. If he had seriously wanted to crack his skull open, surely he could’ve
done so? Thank goodness those two boys turned up when they did. It was because of their timely arrival that even his wallet was safe. There had been around a hundred and fifty rupees in it that day.

Santosh, the bearer, came in with a slip. ‘Ashwini Bhaur’, it said. ‘Ask him to come in,’ Indranarayan told him. Ashwini Bhaur came in and took a chair.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘You tell me,’ Indranarayan replied.

‘I’ve nothing new to tell you, Mr Acharya. This is my fifth visit. You must make a decision now, one way or another.’

‘Yes, I know that. But surely you realize I need to think things through? I can’t just leave Bharat Opera after so many years without giving them sufficient notice.’

‘Yes, but you won’t be the first one to switch from one group to another. You know about Sanjay Kumar, don’t you? Didn’t he leave New Opera after ten years and go over to Bharat? It happens all the time. Besides, how can you ignore the amount we’re offering you? We know how much you’re getting from Bharat. Fifteen thousand, right? We’re going to give you twenty. Your annual income will be in the region of two hundred and fifty thousand. You’ll be very well looked after and treated with as much affection and respect as you are in Bharat. Your name will be highlighted in the credits. We’ll accept all your terms, as far as we possibly can.’

‘Look, Ashwini Babu, I’ll take another day or two to finish this play I am writing. Please wait until it’s been written, and it’s out of my mind. Right now, I can’t think of anything else. Could you come back after three days?’

‘All right. But does that mean—?’

‘I wouldn’t ask you to come back if my intention was to disappoint you. But you must consider my position too. Money isn’t everything, is it? If Bharat Opera come to know about your offer, they may decide to increase my salary to match it. What would you expect me to do if that happened? And that isn’t all. A long-standing relationship like this cannot be wiped out in a day.’

‘Very well, I will leave you in peace now, Indra Babu, and come back a week later. You ought to be able to make a final decision in that time. Keeping people hanging in suspense isn’t very nice, is it? Well, goodbye, Indra Babu. Good night.’

‘Good night.’

Indranarayan rose from his chair and went with Mr Bhaur to see
him off at the front door. Then he returned and went back to writing. He was very happy with the way the last scene was coming along. If he could keep it up till the very last line,
Samrat Ashok
might well turn out to be the most successful play he had ever written.

Indranarayan went on writing. A few green flies flew in through an open window and began buzzing around. This happened every night. It was most annoying, as were regular power cuts. Of late, however, the power supply had improved. Indranarayan waved the flies away and turned his attention to his play. He had to get on with his job.

But he couldn’t go on for long. Totally unbeknown to him, a shadowy figure slipped into his room and walked stealthily up to his chair to stand directly behind him.

Then it raised an arm and struck a blow with an iron rod. Instantly, a curtain of darkness fell before Indranarayan. His eyes closed, forever.

I gave a violent start as I opened the newspaper.

Indranarayan Acharya had been killed in his own house, the day before yesterday. How strange! He had come to visit us only ten days ago.

Feluda had already read the news. He shook his head with deep regret.

‘I couldn’t save him even after he came to me for help. But at that stage there was nothing for me to work on. How could I have given him any help?’

A small thing was bothering me. ‘First he was attacked in an alley,’ I said, ‘and then someone broke into his house to kill him. I must say the killer has enormous daring.’

‘You can’t say that without looking at the victim’s house and seeing for yourself which room he stayed in. Besides, if someone was desperate to kill him, he wouldn’t hesitate to steal into his house, would he?’

‘I guess not. But they didn’t ask you to make an investigation, did they?’

‘No, they obviously decided to go to the police. But I happen to
know the local inspector, Monilal Poddar. He might be able to give us some information.’

I had met Monilal Poddar before. Plump and heavily moustached, he was a cheerful man who often teased Feluda, but at the same time, respected him a great deal.

As it happened, we didn’t have to wait for the police to tell us anything. Indranarayan’s father, Keertinarayan, himself sent word to Feluda. Three days after the murder took place, our door bell rang at nine in the morning. The visitor turned out to be a man in his early forties, his appearance smart and polished. I found him wiping his face when I opened the door. Although it was October, it was still pretty warm. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for barging in like this,’ he said, ‘but I simply couldn’t get through on the telephone. I have been sent here by the old Mr Acharya—Keertinarayan. You may have heard of the murder in his house. He’d like your assistance in the matter.’

‘I see. And you are—?’

‘Oh, sorry. I should have introduced myself first. My name is Pradyumna Mallik. I am currently writing the biography of Kandarpanarayan Acharya, the one who had gone to England. I used to work for a newspaper, but I gave that up and became a full-fledged writer. At this moment, I am working as Keertinarayan’s secretary and collecting material for my book. Keertinarayan, as you may know, used to be a barrister. He retired four years ago. His health isn’t very good.’

‘Why does he want my help? Haven’t they told the police?’

‘Yes, his sons informed the police. But the old man himself has different views. He’s very fond of crime fiction. He feels this is a job for a private investigator. He’ll pay your fee, naturally.’

‘Have you learnt anything further about the murder?’

‘No, not really. Someone stood behind Indranarayan and struck him on the head with a blunt instrument. He was seated at his desk at the time. According to the police surgeon, he was killed between twelve and half past twelve at night. His room was on the ground floor. He had a bedroom and a study. He used to work until quite late every night. You’re aware of his connection with the jatra, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. In fact, Indranarayan had met me before he died, and told me quite a few things about himself and his family.’

‘Well then, that makes things easier. Indranarayan had had one
visitor that night. It was the manager of Binapani Opera. I think his name is Ashwini Bhaur. He came at ten o’clock, and the bearer, Santosh, said he heard him having an argument with Indranarayan. But he left at eleven. The police have already spoken to him. No one knows if he came back later. There is a door at the back that is often left unlocked until about one o’clock. The servants go out of the house after dinner to meet their friends, and normally don’t return until well after midnight. So if Mr Bhaur returned an hour later and slipped in through the back door, no one could have seen him. But anyway, you will obviously make your own enquiries, provided you agree to take on the job. If you do, you can visit Keertinarayan at eleven today. He’ll be free at that time.’

I knew Feluda would agree, for he had developed a curiosity about the Acharyas and had enjoyed his meeting with Indranarayan. It was agreed that we would reach Bosepukur by eleven. Mr Mallik wiped his face once more and left.

‘What’s that piece of paper doing here?’ Feluda asked a few moments after he had gone. I noticed a folded piece of paper lying in one corner of the settee which had been occupied by Mr Mallik. I picked it up and passed it to Feluda, who unfolded it and spread it out. It said:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

HUKUM CHAND

The words had been written with a ballpoint pen.

Feluda frowned for a few seconds, staring at these words. Then he said, ‘Hukum Chand . . . the name sounds familiar. Perhaps the message is going to be written on a birthday cake. Hukum Chand may be a friend of Keertinarayan. Or perhaps Mr Mallik had been told to send a telegram with that message.’ Feluda folded the paper again and put it in his pocket. ‘What we must do now is inform the third Musketeer. We have to use his car and, in any case, he’s going to be most displeased if we leave him out.’

Lalmohan Babu turned up in his green Ambassador within an hour of being told, having waited only to have a quick shower and dress smartly. ‘It seems we’ll spend these Puja holidays solely trying to solve this mystery,’ he said when Feluda finished filling him in. ‘It’s good in a way. I always find it hard to fill my time after finishing a novel. This will give me something to do. Oh, by the way, my
neighbour, Rohini Babu, happens to know the Acharyas. He said he had never seen such a strange family. Apparently, the sons don’t get on with their father; neither is there any love lost between the brothers. It’s hardly surprising someone in that family’s been killed.’

We left for Bosepukur. When our car drew up at the portico of the Acharya residence, it was five minutes past eleven. A servant opened the door as we rang the bell. Mr Mallik was standing behind him. ‘I heard your car arrive,’ he said. ‘My room is also on the ground floor. Please come with me, I’ll take you to Mr Acharya.’

The house was huge, large enough to be called a mansion. Kandarpanarayan himself might have had it built, or perhaps it had been built even earlier, possibly a hundred and fifty years ago. We went up a wide wooden staircase, our feet making quite a racket. Large oil paintings of ancient Acharyas hung by the stairs. A marble statue stood where the stairs ended. A number of vases stood here and there, most of which appeared to be Chinese. A grandfather clock stood on one side. There was a veranda, from which one could see a hall down below. It was, I learnt later, a music hall. A row of rooms stood on the other side of the veranda. Mr Mallik took us to one of these. It was a living room, well-furnished with sofas and a carpet and two small chandeliers. Lalmohan Babu and I sat on a sofa. Mr Mallik left to call Mr Acharya. Feluda paced restlessly for a while, then took a smaller sofa.

Keertinarayan Acharya arrived in two minutes. He was clean-shaven, and his complexion was remarkably fair. Most of his hair was white, but I was surprised to note that even at his age, some of it had still remained black. He wasn’t particularly tall, but there was something in his personality that would make him stand out in a room full of people. As a barrister, he must have been successful. He was dressed in a silk kurta-pyjama, over which he wore a mauve dressing gown. The glasses he wore were of the kind that’s known as ‘half-glass’.

‘Which one of you is the investigator?’ he asked.

Feluda introduced himself and the two of us. Jatayu’s name made Mr Acharya raise his eyebrows.

‘A writer of crime stories? Why, I’ve never read any of your stuff!’

‘What I write,’ Lalmohan Babu said as modestly as he could, ‘simply isn’t good enough for a discerning reader like yourself.’

‘Even so, if you can write crime stories, there must be an investigator in you. See if between yourselves you can find a solution
to this mystery. Indra was my youngest child. He had been rather neglected in his childhood. But he never complained, or did anything to cause me concern. He was always fond of music. When it became clear that he wasn’t really interested in studies, I decided to let him develop his other interests in whatever way he fancied. Even as a child, he used to write songs and plays. He even played the violin. My grandfather had brought a violin from Europe—the Strings of Amity.’

‘What? Strings of what?’

‘Amity. My grandfather had a rather strange sense of humour. The violin, for some obscure reason, was called the Strings of Amity. He called his first Lagonda car his Pushpak Rath; a gramophone record was a Sudarshan Chakra . . . and so on. I could spend hours telling you about my grandfather. The truth is, Mr Mitter, Indra’s death has shaken me profoundly. That is the simple reason why I have asked you to investigate. I do realize being associated with jatras could not have been something an Acharya might feel proud of, but lately Indra was being paid fifteen thousand rupees a month. Now, how many people can achieve that? And how could Indra have got to this stage unless he had real talent? I myself was fond of the theatre and music. So I saw no reason to try and stop him. He could have fallen into bad company, but he didn’t. All he ever seemed to care about was his work. In no way did he bring shame or dishonour to his family. On the contrary, I should think he did just the opposite.’

‘Did you know he had been attacked recently? If the blow had landed on his head instead of his shoulder, he’d probably have been killed.’

‘Yes, I did come to know about it. In fact, it was I who told him to consult you.’

‘What do you think is the motive behind his murder? Rivalry between one jatra company and another?’

‘I couldn’t say. That’s for you to find out, isn’t it? All I can say is that if Indra had any enemies at all, they were sure to have been from one jatra company or the other. He didn’t know many people outside that world. As I told you before, his only passion was his work.’

‘The police must have met everyone and asked questions already.’

‘So they did. But there’s no reason why you cannot do the same, although you won’t find either of my other sons at home. They’ll be
back in the evening. If you wish to ask Pradyumna anything, you may do so. Besides, there are all the servants and my daughter-in-law. She is my second son Hari’s wife. My eldest, Devnarayan, is a widower. Hari has a daughter called Leena. She was very attached to Indra. Oh, by the way, how much is your fee?’

‘I take a thousand in advance. Then, if everything works out well, I take another thousand when a case is finished.’

‘I see. Very well. I will give you a cheque for a thousand rupees right away. You see, Mr Mitter, I am nearly eighty, a diabetic and I’ve suffered a stroke. Anything can happen to me any time. I’d like to see my son’s killer caught and punished before I die.’

‘I will do my best, I assure you. May I ask you something?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you happen to know anyone called Hukum Chand?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I used to know a Hukum Singh, but that was many years ago.’

‘Thank you.’

Feluda decided to start his enquiries with Pradyumna Mallik. He came in as soon as Mr Acharya left. ‘The inspector wants to see you,’ he said.

‘Who, Mr Poddar?’

‘Yes, he’s waiting downstairs.’

The three of us made our way back to the ground floor. Lalmohan Babu hadn’t said a word, but I knew he had listened carefully to the entire exchange. He had told me once that it was the duty of a writer to observe and take, in how people talked and what they said. ‘Besides,’ he had added, ‘I don’t think, Tapesh, that we help your cousin in his work as much as we should. We need to keep our eyes and ears open. Being just a passive spectator is of no use to anyone, is it?’

Monilal Poddar grinned from ear to ear on seeing us.

‘As a piece of metal to a magnet, eh?’ he asked Feluda.

‘You could say that. But I was expecting you to have solved the mystery by the time I got here.’

‘Well, it’s a relatively simple case, I think. Just a matter of rivalry and jealousy between groups. The victim was a big asset to Bharat Opera. So other groups were trying to buy him off. When that proved difficult, they got someone to kill him just to damage Bharat Opera anyhow. Theft might have been a motive, too. Someone had been through his papers on his desk. Perhaps he was looking for a
new play.’

‘Have you spoken to the manager of Bharat Opera?’

‘Yes, but have you heard what Binapani Opera did? Their manager, Ashwini Bhaur, came to see Indranarayan the same night. He tried hard to tempt him, even offered to pay him twenty thousand a month. But Indranarayan made no commitment. His loyalties were still with Bharat Opera. Mr Bhaur left at a quarter to eleven. The murder took place between twelve and half past twelve. The rear entrance was open. According to the bearer, Indranarayan was still working in his room, playing the violin occasionally. Perhaps he was writing or composing a new song. That was when he was killed. Struck on the head by a heavy, blunt instrument as he was leaning over his desk, writing. The killer couldn’t have found a better opportunity.’

‘Have you found the weapon?’

‘No. Indranarayan’s room on the ground floor was tucked away in a corner. All the servants had gone out after dinner. The chief bearer, Santosh, apparently goes out every evening for a drink or two with his mates. By the time he returns and locks the back door, it’s usually one o’clock. The front door was locked, naturally, and there was a chowkidar. But anyone could have slipped in through the back door, there was no one to see or hear anything. There is a little lane behind the house called Jodu Naskar Lane. It must have made things very easy for the killer.’

‘May I please see the victim’s bedroom and study?’

‘Of course, you’re most welcome. But I’d be grateful if you could pass on any new information you might get, just as I’ve told you everything I knew. It will help us both, don’t you see . . . heh heh heh!’