The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (8 page)

‘Do you know, Mr Sen,’ said Feluda, sipping his coffee, ‘what baffled me the most? It was your gout.’

Mr Sen raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? What’s so baffling about that? Can’t an old man get gout?’

‘Yes, but you go for long walks on the beach, don’t you? I saw your footprints on the sand but, like an idiot, thought they were Majumdar’s—I mean, Sarkar’s. But yesterday, I realized it was you.’

‘So what did that prove? Gout is extremely painful, but the pain does sometimes subside, you know.’

‘I’m sure it does. But your footprints tell a different story, Mr Sen. I didn’t raise this last night because I thought you wanted to keep it a secret. The trouble is, you see, it isn’t always possible to keep secrets from an investigator. The stick you use is pretty significant, isn’t it? Besides, your shoes aren’t both of the same size. I noticed that.’

Mr Sen sat in silence, looking straight at Feluda. Feluda resumed speaking. ‘The Veer Hospital in Kathmandu confirmed the news about Bilas Majumdar’s accident. But no one else had been brought there with similar injuries. Then I looked at my guide book and realized that there was another hospital called Shanta Bhavan in
Patan, which is near Kathmandu. I rang them, and was told that one Durga Gati Sen had been brought there with severe injuries in October last year. He remained there until early January. They even gave me the details of those injuries.’

The expression on Mr Sen’s face changed. He sighed after a short pause, and said, ‘Nishith knew I didn’t want anyone to learn about what had happened. If I had visitors in the morning, he always dressed my foot with a fresh bandage and told them I had gout. Today, Mahim has done this job. I certainly did not want this fact publicized, Mr Mitter. What happened to me was no less tragic than losing an ancient and valuable manuscript. But since you have already guessed the truth . . .’

He raised his trousers to expose his left leg.

To my complete amazement, I saw that the dressing finished three inches above his ankle. Beyond that was an artificial leg, made of wood and plastic!

‘W
ho was Jayadrath?’

‘Duryodhan’s sister, Duhshala’s husband.’

‘And Jarasandh?’

‘King of Magadh.’

‘Dhrishtadyumna?’

‘Draupadi’s brother.’

‘Arjun and Yudhisthir both owned conch shells. What were they called?’

‘Arjun’s was called Devdatt, and Yudhisthir’s was Anantavijay.’

‘Which missile causes such confusion in the enemy camp that they start killing their own men?’

‘Twashtra.’

‘Very good.’

Thank goodness. I had passed that little test. Of late, the Ramayan and Mahabharat had become staple reading for Feluda. I, too, had joined him and was thoroughly enjoying reading them. There was story, after story, after story. A new word has come into use these days—unputdownable. If you pick up a book to read, you cannot put it down till you’ve finished it. The Ramayan and the Mahabharat are like that—quite unputdownable.

Feluda was reading the Mahabharat in Bengali, written by Kaliprasanna Sinha. Mine was a simplified version meant for youngsters. Lalmohan Babu says he can recite large chunks of the Bengali Ramayan by heart. His grandmother used to read aloud from it when he was a child, so he still remembers quite a lot of it. We haven’t got the Bengali version in our house, but I think I’ll get a copy and test Lalmohan Babu’s memory one day. At the moment he is busy writing a new novel, so he hasn’t been visiting us all that frequently.

Feluda had to stop reading and glance at the front door, for someone had rung the bell. Feluda had returned only last Friday after solving a murder case in Hijli. He was in a relaxed mood, which was probably why he didn’t seem too keen to get up and find out who was at the door. As a matter of fact, he does not even need more than one case every month. His needs are so few that he can manage perfectly well on the fees he is paid for each case. Lalmohan Babu calls his lifestyle ‘totally unostentatious’. But he always finds it difficult to pronounce that word and ends up saying ‘unossenshus.’
Feluda therefore found a tongue-twister for him and told him to practise saying it several times, so that his tongue would stop getting stuck on long and difficult words. ‘Pick up these sixty-six thistle sticks’ was what he had suggested. Lalmohan Babu tried saying it once, and stumbled four times!

I have often heard Feluda say, ‘When a new character appears in your tale, you must describe his looks and clothes in some detail. If you don’t, your reader may imagine certain things on his own, which will probably not fit whatever you say later on.’ So here’s a description of the man who entered our living room: his height was probably 5’9”, age around fifty; the hair around his ears had turned grey; there was a mole on his chin, and he was wearing a grey safari suit. From the way he cleared his throat as he stepped into the room, he appeared to be feeling a little uneasy; and judging by the way his hand rose and covered his mouth when he cleared his throat, he was somewhat westernized in his behaviour.

‘Sorry I couldn’t ring you and make an appointment,’ he said. ‘All the roads are dug up in our area, so the phone lines are dead.’

Feluda nodded. We all knew about the dug up roads in Calcutta, and the effects they had had on the city.

‘My name is Subir Datta,’ our visitor went on. His voice was good enough for him to have been a television newsreader. ‘Er . . .
you
are the private inves-?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am here to talk about my brother.’

Feluda looked on in silence. The Mahabharat was lying closed on his lap, but he had placed a finger in it to mark his page.

‘But I must tell you something about myself. I am a sales executive in Corbett & Norris. You know Dinesh Choudhury in Camac Street, don’t you? We were in college together.’

Dinesh Choudhury was one of Feluda’s clients.

‘I see,’ said Feluda. Mr Datta began talking about his brother. ‘My brother was a biochemist. He had once made quite a name for himself, not here but in America. He was studying viruses, in the University of Michigan. His name is Nihar Datta. One day, there was an explosion in his laboratory. He was badly injured, and for a while it looked as if he wouldn’t survive. But a doctor in a local hospital saved his life. What he couldn’t save were his eyes.’

‘Your brother became blind?’

‘Yes. He then returned home. At the time of the accident, he was
married to an American woman. She left him after a while. He did not marry again.’

‘So it means his research remained incomplete?’

‘Yes. That depressed him so much that for six months, he did not speak to anyone. We thought he was having a nervous breakdown. But, gradually, he recovered and became normal again.’

‘How is he now?’

‘He is still interested in science. That much is clear. He has employed a young man—something like a secretary, you might say— who was a student of biochemistry. One of his tasks is to read aloud from scientific journals. On the whole, though, my brother isn’t entirely helpless. In the evenings, he goes up to the roof for a stroll, all by himself. All he has to guide him is his stick. Sometimes, he even goes out of the house and walks up to the main crossing. Inside the house, he is quite independent. He doesn’t need any help to go from one room to another.’

‘Does he have an income?’

‘He had written a book on biochemistry before he left America. He still gets royalties from its sale, so he has an income.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I mean, what happened that made you come to me?’

‘Yes, I am coming to that.’

Subir Datta took out a cigar from his pocket, lit it, and blew out quite a lot of smoke.

‘Last night, a thief stole into my brother’s room,’ he said.

‘What makes you think it was a thief?’ Feluda lifted the Mahabharat off his lap and put it on a table, as he asked that question.

‘My brother had no idea what had happened. He has a servant, but that fellow isn’t all that bright. His secretary arrived at nine, and saw the state the room was in. It was he who realized what had happened. Both drawers of my brother’s desk were half-open; some papers were scattered on the floor, everything on the desk was in disarray. And there were scratches around the keyhole on his Godrej safe. It was obvious that someone had tried to open it.’

‘Tell me, has any other house in your area been burgled recently?’

‘Yes. One of our neighbours was burgled. He lives only two houses away. A couple of policemen now come on regular rounds and keep an eye on the whole neighbourhood. We live in Ballygunj Park. Our house is nearly eighty years old. My grandfather built it. We were
once zamindars in Bangladesh. My grandfather moved to Calcutta in 1890, and began making chemical instruments. We had a large shop in College Street. My father ran the family business for some years. Then our business folded up, about thirty years ago.’

‘How many people live in your house?’

‘Very few, compared to the number we had before. My parents are no more. My wife died in 1975. Both my daughters are married, and my elder son is in Germany. Only three of us live in that house now—my brother, my younger son and myself. There are two servants and a cook. We live on the first floor. The ground floor has been divided into two flats. Both are let out.’

‘Who are your tenants?’

‘In the first flat, there’s Mr Dastur. He has his own business— electrical goods. In the other flat, that faces the rear of the house, there’s Mr Sukhwani. He has an antiques shop in Lindsay Street.’

‘Didn’t the burglar try breaking into their flats? They sound reasonably well off!’

‘Yes, they have both got money. Sukhwani’s rooms are full of expensive things, so he locks them at night. But Dastur says he feels suffocated in a locked room, so he keeps his bedroom unlocked.’

‘Why did the thief go to your brother’s room? I mean, what might have interested him? Do you have any idea?’

‘Look, all his research papers are kept in the safe. They are unquestionably most valuable, even though his research was never completed. But then, an ordinary thief would not understand their value. I think his aim was to steal whatever cash he could find. A blind man makes an easy target, as you can imagine.’

‘Yes. Since your brother is blind, I assume he doesn’t have a bank account? I mean, signing cheques would be . . . ?’

‘You’re right. Whatever royalty he earns is made out in my name, and deposited in my account. If my brother needs any money, I write a cheque and take it out. All his money is kept in the same safe. At a guess, I’d say that it has about thirty thousand rupees in it right now.’

‘Where do you keep the key?’

‘As far as I know, it is kept under my brother’s pillow. My main anxiety is because he cannot see. He sleeps with his bedroom door open. His servant—he’s called Koumudi—sleeps on the floor, just outside the threshold. He’s supposed to get up if my brother calls him during the night. But if a thief is reckless enough, and if Koumudi
doesn’t wake up, then my brother is quite vulnerable. There’s no way he can defend himself. Yet he refuses to inform the police. He has no faith in them—says they are all corrupt, and all they’d ever do is harass everyone, but never catch the culprit. So I told him about you, and he agreed that talking to you was a better idea. If you could come to our house, perhaps you could advise on what we might do to prevent such a thing. In fact, you might even be able to see if it was an inside job, or . . .’

‘Inside job?’ Feluda and I both pricked up our ears.

Mr Datta flicked the ash from his cigar into an ashtray, and lowered his voice as much as he could. ‘Look, Mr Mitter, I believe in plain speaking. Besides, I realize it’s not going to help you if I am not totally honest. To start with, I like neither of our tenants. Sukhwani came about three years ago. I’m no expert myself, but I’ve heard from others who know about art and antiques that Sukhwani is a shady character. The police have got their eye on him.’

‘And the other tenant?’

‘Dastur took that flat only four months ago. My elder son used to live in it before that. He’s now moved permanently to Germany. He works in an engineering firm in Dusseldorf, and has married a German woman. It’s not as if I’ve heard anything bad about Dastur. It’s just that he is amazingly quiet and withdrawn. That alone is a bit suspicious. And then there is . . . er . . .’

Mr Datta stopped. When he spoke again, he hung his head and kept his eyes fixed on the ashtray. ‘. . . there’s Shankar, my younger son. He’s completely beyond redemption.’ He fell silent again.

‘How old is he?’ Feluda asked.

‘Twenty-three. He had his birthday last month, though I didn’t get to see him that day.’

‘What does he do?’

‘Drugs, gambling, mugging, burglary . . . just name it. The police have arrested him three times. Every time, I have had to go and get him released. Our family is quite well known. So I still have a certain amount of influence . . . but God knows how long it’s going to last.’

‘Was Shankar at home the night you were burgled?’

‘He came in to have his dinner, though that’s something he doesn’t do every day. I did not see him after dinner.’

Before Mr Datta left, it was agreed that Feluda and I would go to Ballygunj Park that evening. It could not really be described as a
‘case’, but I could tell that Feluda was intrigued by the story of a scientist blinded by an explosion. He was probably thinking of Dhritarashtra, the blind king in the Mahabharat.

*

It took Uncle Sidhu just three and a half minutes to find a press cutting that reported an explosion in a laboratory in the University of Michigan, which made the rising biochemist, Nihar Ranjan Datta, lose his sight. The cutting was pasted in Uncle Sidhu’s scrapbook number 22. Mind you, he spent two minutes out of those three and a half in telling Feluda off, for not having visited him for a long time. Uncle Sidhu is not a relative, but is closer to us than any relative could ever be. If Feluda needs information about any past event, he goes to Uncle Sidhu instead of the National Library. His work gets done far more quickly, and with good cheer.

Uncle Sidhu frowned as soon as Feluda raised the subject. ‘Nihar Datta? The fellow who was working on viruses? Lost his vision after an accident?’

Good heavens, what a fantastic memory he had! No wonder Feluda called him Mr Photographic Memory. If he read or heard anything interesting, it was always immediately and permanently printed on his brain.

‘. . . but he wasn’t alone in the laboratory, was he?’ Uncle Sidhu ended with a query.

This was news to us.

‘What do you mean—not alone?’ Feluda asked.

‘What I mean,’ Uncle Sidhu moved to his bookshelf and lifted a scrapbook, ‘is that he had a partner. Here . . . look!’

He read out the news item in question from his scrapbook. It had happened in 1962. Another Indian biochemist called Suprakash Choudhury was working with Nihar Datta as his assistant. He was not harmed in any way when the accident took place as he was at the opposite end of the room. If Nihar Datta escaped certain death, it was because of Choudhury’s efforts. It was he who put the fire out and arranged for Mr Datta to be taken to hospital.

‘So what happened to this Choudhury?’

‘No idea. I couldn’t give you that information. I would have known if something important had happened to him and was reported in the press.
I
don’t go out of my way to make enquiries about people.

Why should I? How many people enquire about
me,
eh? But one thing is for sure. Had Choudhury done some really significant work in his field, I would certainly have heard about it.’