The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (38 page)

We left Inspector Poddar and went to see Indranarayan’s bedroom. It was at the end of a long veranda. His study was only a few feet away. The back door was just across the veranda, so if anyone did come through that door, it must have taken him only a few seconds to get to the study.

The bedroom was sparsely furnished. We could see nothing except a bed, a cupboard and a couple of suitcases. Then we went to
his study. There were two large shelves on one side, stacked with endless papers and files and folders. Perhaps every line Indranarayan had ever written over the last seventeen years was stored on those shelves. A door led to the veranda outside. On its right was a desk and a chair. Obviously, that was where the murder had taken place. A fountain pen, two ballpoints, pencils, ink, a paperweight and a table lamp were strewn about the desk. Besides these was a violin case.

‘Let’s have a look at the Strings of Amity,’ Feluda said, opening the case. The violin inside looked almost new. Clearly, Indranarayan had taken very good care of this instrument. It must be a hundred years old, I thought. Feluda shut the case again.

Apart from the desk, there was a sofa in the room, a chair and a small marble side-table. On the wall hung two framed certificates of merit given to Indranarayan, an English landscape and a photograph of Ramakrishna Paramahansa.

We sat down on the sofa. Mr Mallik took the chair. A servant brought four glasses of lassi and placed them on the side-table. Feluda took a sip from a glass, and began his questions.

‘Where is your own room, Mr Mallik?’

‘Diagonally opposite this one. That room in the far end of the veranda is the library. Mine is next to it.’

‘When do you usually go to sleep?’

‘Quite late at night, occasionally later than one o’clock. I do my main work—that is, collecting information on Kandarpanarayan—only at night. I began by interviewing Keertinarayan. He was twenty-two when his grandfather died, so he had had the chance to get to know him a little. When I finished talking to him, I started studying old letters and diaries and other documents.’

‘Does that mean you were awake that night when Indranarayan was killed?’

‘Yes, I must have been. But you see, that music hall stands between my room and this one. It is impossible to see or hear anything from that distance.’

‘How did it get to be known that Ashwini Bhaur from Binapani Opera had come to visit that night?’

‘Santosh knew about it. The police found the piece of paper he had sent in through Santosh with his name on it. It was Santosh who noted what time Mr Bhaur left.’

‘Couldn’t you hear Indranarayan play his violin?’

‘I might have. But he played almost every night, so there was no reason for me to pay any special attention. I couldn’t tell you definitely whether I heard him play that particular night or not.’

‘Did Kandarpanarayan keep a diary regularly?’

‘Yes, but only for fifteen years. He started when he was twenty-five and stopped at the age of forty.’

‘That means there’s a record of his visit to England?’

‘Oh yes. It’s an amazing account. He made a lot of friends there, and moved freely among the aristocracy. Then he went to France from London. After spending some time in Paris, he went to the French Riviera. As you know, there are famous casinos in this area, and it’s a sort of Mecca for gamblers. Kandarpanarayan won a few lakhs in roulette. A rare achievement for a Bengali, especially at that time.’

‘Where did the Acharyas have the zamindari?’

‘In Kantipur, East Bengal. They owned a lot of land.’

Feluda lit a Charminar and inhaled deeply. ‘Who discovered the body?’ he asked after a short pause.

‘Santosh. He returned at quarter to one, and saw that the light in this room was still on. So he came to check if Indranarayan was still working here, and discovered what had happened. Then he ran across to tell me, and I went upstairs to wake the others.’

‘Who decided to go to the police?’

‘Devnarayan. Old Mr Acharya was against the idea, but his son did not listen to him.’

‘How did you get on with Indranarayan?’

‘Very well, I think. I had interviewed him, too, particularly about his violin. He told me its quality was exceptionally good, and its sound more melodious than any he had ever heard. No one had touched it for nearly seventy years. But when Indranarayan began playing it, he realized what a superb instrument it was.’

‘What did you think of him as a person?’

‘He was a man in love with his work. He used to come to the library occasionally to consult books on history, especially when be began writing a historical play. Kandarpanarayan’s son— Keertinarayan’s father, that is—Darpanarayan had done his MA in history. So the library has a good collection of history books.’

‘I see. Could you now please tell me a little about the other brothers? The eldest is Devnarayan, I gather. The second brother’s
called Harinarayan, and Indranarayan was the youngest. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Indranarayan was a bachelor. And I believe Devnarayan is a widower?’

‘Yes, that’s right. His wife died seven years ago.’

‘Doesn’t he have children?’

‘Yes, but they are grown up. His son’s in America, studying. His daughter’s married. She lives in Pune.’

‘What kind of a man is Devnarayan?’

‘Very reserved and serious.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He works for the Stockwell Tea Company. I believe he is a very senior officer there.’

‘When does he normally get back from work?’

‘Not before half past nine. He goes to his club after work. That’s where he spends most evenings.’

‘Did he seem greatly disturbed by his brother’s death?’

‘To tell you the truth, Mr Mitter, the three brothers weren’t particularly fond of one another. The two older brothers looked down upon Indranarayan for his association with jatras.’

‘But Keertinarayan was very fond of his youngest son, wasn’t he?’

‘Absolutely. He loved Indranarayan most of all. I have no doubt about this since I have heard Keertinarayan say many things that implied he was partial to Indranarayan in many ways.’

‘Has Keertinarayan made a will?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘In that case, even his will may show his fondness for Indranarayan.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Feluda paused once more to light another cigarette. Lalmohan Babu had brought out his little red notebook and started to scribble in it. Perhaps a possible plot for a new story had suddenly occurred to him.

‘Now I need to know about the second brother,’ Feluda resumed. ‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a chartered accountant. He works for Skinner & Hardwick.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Well, he’s married with a family, so there’s an obvious difference
with Devnarayan. On the whole, he’s a cheerful man, very fond of western music.’

‘Records and cassettes?’

‘Yes, but only on Sundays. On other days, he goes to his club and returns around ten in the night.’

‘Which club does he go to?’

‘Saturday Club.’

‘Does his brother go to the same club?’

‘No, he goes to the Bengal Club.’

‘Harinarayan has a daughter, I believe.’

‘Yes, Leena. She’s about fourteen, a very intelligent girl. She goes to the Calcutta Girls’ School, and is learning to play the piano. She was devoted to her uncle. His death has upset her very much.’

‘And her father? Is he not upset?’

‘If he is, he doesn’t show it. He always seemed to consider himself superior to his younger brother.’

‘Perhaps neither brother liked the fact that Indranarayan was earning a lot of money from jatras?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I must talk to both brothers myself. When do you think I should call?’

‘If you come on Saturday in the morning, you’ll find both at home.’

‘OK. Tell me, when did you start working on this biography and what made you do it?’

‘I started six months ago. What happened was that I decided to write a novel, set in the nineteenth century. So I went to the National Library to do a bit of reading, and found references to Kandarpanarayan Acharya. This made me curious and I made some enquiries. Then I came to know that his family lived here. So I met Keertinarayan one day, and told him what I wanted to do. He agreed to let me stay here to do my research, on one condition: that I worked as his secretary, for which he’d pay me separately. This was fine by me, so I left my old job and moved in. I work exclusively for Keertinarayan, but I don’t think anyone else in the family has ever had any objection to my research. I seem to get on quite well with everyone.’

‘I see. Oh, by the way—’ Feluda took out his wallet and brought out a piece of paper. It was the same paper that had ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HUKUM CHAND’ written on it.

‘This must have slipped out of your pocket when you came to visit us. What is it? A message on a birthday cake, or a telegram?’

Mr Mallik appeared totally taken aback. ‘Why,’ he said, looking at the piece of paper Feluda held out, ‘I’ve never seen this before! I couldn’t have had it in my pocket. Who is this Hukum Chand? I have no idea!’

‘How did you get to our house?’

‘I took a bus.’

‘Was it crowded? Could someone have dropped it in your pocket?’

‘Yes, that’s possible. But why should anyone do such a thing? It just doesn’t make any sense!’

‘Never mind. If this doesn’t belong to you, I think I’ll keep it with me,’ said Feluda, putting the message back in his wallet.

There was no doubt that this piece of paper was part of a bigger mystery.

We had gone to Bosepukur on a Thursday, and were supposed to go back there on Saturday. We were therefore free on Friday. Lalmohan Babu turned up in the morning, although he normally came only on Sunday. The beginning of a new case was clearly causing him great excitement.

He flopped down on a chair and said, ‘There’s lots to do, isn’t there? Surely we must visit some of these jatra companies?’

‘Certainly. Since you’re here already, let’s take your car and go to Bharat Opera.’

‘And then I suppose we need to find the manager of Binapani, Ishan—’

‘No, not Ishan. Ashwini. Ashwini Bhaur. Yes, we have to speak to him as well. Topshe, go and find their address.’

I looked it up in the telephone directory and discovered it was in Suresh Mallik Street.

‘I know where it is,’ Lalmohan Babu informed us. ‘I used to go there regularly at one time. There used to be a gym.’

‘You used to go to a gym?’ Even Feluda couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Yes, believe me. I did push-ups and used barbells, and a chest expander. When I eventually stopped going there, my chest
measured forty-two inches. Not bad for a man of my height, eh?’

‘So what happened to that chest and those muscles?’

‘They . . . disappeared. What would a writer do with muscles, anyway? Whatever muscles I have left are in my brain. But I still walk a lot, miles daily. That’s why I can still keep up with you.’

We left after a cup of tea. Lalmohan Babu’s driver got very excited on being told where we were going. He had seen many shows staged by Bharat Opera and knew about the murder. ‘It was Indra Acharya alone who made Bharat Opera what it is today. If you can catch his killer, sir, you will do us all a great service,’ he said to Feluda.

The traffic being heavy today, it took us forty-five minutes to reach Bharat Opera in Muhammad Shafi Lane. A dark, middle-aged man greeted us as we entered.

‘Who would you like to see?’ he asked lazily.

Feluda produced his card. The man’s demeanour underwent a swift change. His expressionless eyes began glinting with interest.

‘Are you looking for Sarat Babu, our proprietor?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Just a minute, please.’

The man disappeared behind a door. We found ourselves a bench and a chair and sat down. Lalmohan Babu glanced around and said, ‘You wouldn’t say this company was doing so well just by looking at this room, would you?’

The same man came back in a couple of minutes and said, ‘Please come with me. Sarat Babu’s office is upstairs.’

We went up a narrow staircase. I caught strains of a harmonium. Were people rehearsing somewhere in the building? Even if they had lost a valuable member of their team, the show had to go on.

The office of the proprietor, Sarat Bhattacharya, was very different from the room downstairs. It was a large and spacious room, with a big table in one corner surrounded by several sturdy chairs, photographs of artists gracing the walls and a huge Godrej almirah placed opposite the table. A fan whirred noisily overhead.

The man seated behind the table was obviously the proprietor. He was bald, except for a few grey strands around his ears, his eyebrows thick and bushy, his age possibly between fifty and sixty-five.

‘You are Pradosh Mitter?’ he asked, looking at Feluda.

‘Yes, and this is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli, who writes crime thrillers,’ Feluda replied.

‘Oh, you are the famous Jatayu? Very pleased to meet you, sir.

Everyone in my family is a devoted fan.’

Lalmohan Babu coughed politely, then we sat down. Feluda began speaking.

‘Indranarayan’s father asked me to investigate his son’s murder. That’s why I’m here.’

Sarat Babu shook his head. ‘What can I tell you, except that his death has almost destroyed my company? I could perhaps get someone to write good plays, but no one could ever write the kind of songs Indra Babu wrote. They were superb, utterly beautiful. People used to flock to our shows just to hear his songs.’

‘We’ve heard he was being tempted to leave your group and join another.’

‘That may well be. But it had no effect on Indra Babu. He was very close to me, he’d never have left my group. He was only twenty-five when he first came to me. I gave him his first break. He often used to tell me how grateful he was because of that. But now . . . I’ve been crippled, my company paralysed.’ Sarat Babu stopped to wipe his eyes. Then he went on, ‘Someone attacked him a few days before the murder. You knew that, didn’t you? Well, I couldn’t say for sure whether that is related to the actual murder. After all, there’s no dearth of petty thieves in this area. But anything could have happened if those boys hadn’t turned up. There really isn’t anything more I could tell you. If you must make enquiries, go to Binapani. Whoever did this, killed not just Indra Babu but Bharat Opera as well.’

We rose and said goodbye. It was time now to make our way to Binapani. It didn’t prove too difficult to find their office. Rehearsals were in full swing. We could hear many voices, raised high and trembling with emotion—a prerequisite of all jatras. It didn’t take us long to find the manager. One look at Feluda’s card made him lose his temper.

‘Is this to do with the murder in Bosepukur?’ he bellowed. ‘Yes,’ Feluda replied, ‘I’ve been asked to investigate. I’d like to ask you a few questions since you had met the victim just before he was killed.’

‘The police have already been here and asked a thousand questions. Why must you do the same? Anyway, I know nothing about the murder. I had gone simply to make him an offer, which he more or less accepted. I told him Binapani was strong and big enough to pay him much more than Bharat. I wanted him to join our
company, Mr Mitter. As such, I wanted him to stay alive. Neither I nor our company stood to gain anything by his death.’

‘No? Not even if it meant harming your chief rival, nearly destroying them?’

‘No, sir. We wouldn’t stoop so low, ever. Yes, we do try to get artists from other groups to leave them and join our own. But we wouldn’t dream of actually taking someone’s life just to damage a rival company. No way!’

‘All right. You just said Indranarayan had more or less accepted your offer. Can you prove it?’

‘I had originally made my offer in writing. I can show you the reply he sent me.’

A postcard was dug out of a file and handed to Feluda. ‘I am considering the proposal you have made,’ Indranarayan had written, ‘Please contact me in a month.’ This meant he hadn’t rejected Binapani’s offer outright. He had been tempted.

‘Did you have an argument that night?’ Feluda asked.

‘Look, I spent some time trying to convince him, make him see how much better off he’d be if he accepted our offer. Now, I may have raised my voice while speaking, I don’t know. I wouldn’t call it arguing. In any case, Indra Babu was a very level-headed person. That’s why his work was always so good. He told me it was hard for him to end his relationship with Bharat Opera. He was writing a new play for them, and couldn’t make a final decision until it was finished. Then he would get in touch with me again. That was all. Those were his last words. I came away after that, at a quarter to eleven.’

We thanked Mr Bhaur and left.

‘It’s more complicated than I thought,’ Feluda remarked a little later, as we sat having coffee in a restaurant in Chowringhee.

‘You mean you no longer think Binapani hired a professional killer?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

‘No, I don’t think Binapani had anything to do with it. But the question is, who did? Who could have wanted him out of the way, and why? He seems to have known very few people, and those who did know him, all say they liked him very much. Of course, what Mr Bhaur just told us need not be true. Who knows, Indranarayan may well have refused his offer. We have only Mr Bhaur’s word that he didn’t. After all, there were no witnesses.’

‘What about the people in the house?’

‘Yes, that possibility cannot be ruled out. Keertinarayan was very fond of his youngest son. In fact, he liked him the most. If it came to be known that Keertinarayan had made a will in which he had left Indranarayan more than his other two sons, either of them might have wanted to remove Indranarayan from the scene.’

‘Hey, that’s brilliant!’ Lalmohan Babu said admiringly.

‘No, there is a problem with that. You see, murder isn’t all that easy. No one can kill another human being unless there is the most pressing need to do so. In this case, certainly at this moment, we are unaware of any such need either of those brothers might have felt. So let’s not jump to any conclusions before both brothers have been interviewed.’ Feluda stopped speaking, but continued to frown.

‘Now what’s bothering you?’ I asked.

‘The second brother, Harinarayan.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s fond of music, western classical. I know very little about it, so I’d be at a disadvantage, wouldn’t I? How could I possibly ask him anything about a subject I myself know almost nothing of?’

‘Is that all? Felu Babu, I can help you out. I have an encyclopaedia of western music; just one volume, seven hundred and fifty pages. You’ll get from it whatever information you need.’

‘Really? What are you doing with an encyclopaedia like that?’

‘It’s a part of a set. There are many other sections including science and medicine and history and art.’

‘Good. Do you think you could let me have that volume sometime today?’

‘Of course, no problem. For you, sir, any time.’

‘Thank you.’

We left the restaurant and went straight to Lalmohan Babu’s house. Feluda got his book, and we returned in a taxi.

After this, it became impossible to speak to Feluda for the rest of the day. He disappeared into his room clutching the encyclopaedia, and shut the door firmly behind him.