The Rhythm of Riddles: 3 Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Read online

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said from the back.

  Everyone turned towards me. ‘Did you hear the sound?’ asked Bhupesh-babu. ‘It came from the lane beneath this window here. I’d just opened the window when there was a bang down there. I looked out and saw a man running out of the lane.’

  Our building was situated on the main road. A narrow, paved blind lane connected the road to our back door; the servants took this route in and out of the house. I felt a misgiving. ‘The room beneath this one is occupied. The sound didn’t come from that room, did it?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Bhupesh-babu. ‘Someone does live in the room beneath mine, but I don’t know his name.’

  Ram-babu and Banamali-babu exchanged glances, after which Ram-babu cleared his throat and said, ‘The room downstairs is occupied by Natabar Nashkar.’

  ‘Let’s go and see,’ I said. ‘If he’s in he can tell us what the sound was.’

  None of the three seemed keen, but I was Byomkesh the truth-seeker’s friend. How could I not investigate the source of the sound? ‘Let’s take a quick look before we start our game,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have bothered if it had been an everyday sort of sound, but even if someone came through the lane to throw a cracker into Natabar-babu’s room we should find out, shouldn’t we?’

  They accompanied me reluctantly.

  There was a lock on the manager Shibkali-babu’s door, and the door to the pantry was shut too. The dining room was unlocked, for it held nothing but a few low stools. Only the door to Natabar-babu’s room was closed without being locked. It would not be incorrect to presume that he was in, therefore. ‘Natabar-babu!’ I called out.

  There was no reply. When a relatively louder call did not elicit a response either, I pushed on the door gently. The doors parted slightly.

  The room was dark, nothing was visible; but there was a faint smell. The smell of gunpowder. We exchanged startled looks.

  ‘There must be a switch by the door,’ sad Bhupesh-babu. ‘Wait, let me turn on the light.’

  Pushing me aside he peeped into the room, then reached in to grope for the switch. There was a click, and the light came on.

  The first thing we saw in the unforgiving overhead light was Natabar-babu’s corpse. Dressed in a white sweater and a dhoti, he lay on his back in the middle of the room, his limbs splayed out. A thick stream of blood had flowed out of the area near his chest. Natabar Nashkar had not been particularly handsome even when alive; he was of medium build with a protruding stomach, his bloated face deeply pockmarked. But death had made his appearance even more grotesque. I shall not describe that horror. You could tell from his expression how hideous an emotion the fear of death is.

  Frozen briefly into a statue by the sight, Ram-babu emitted a sound like a hiccup from his throat. He stared at the corpse with unbelieving eyes, as if in a trance. Suddenly sinking his nails into Ram-babu’s arms, Banamali-babu said, ‘He’s dead, dada!’ It wasn’t clear to me whether his expression was one of sorrow or wonder or joy.

  ‘There’s no doubt he’s dead,’ Bhupesh-babu said, his face pale. ‘He died of a gunshot. There. Can you see it on the window sill?’

  The window, which had no bars, was open—on its sill lay a pistol. The picture became clear; standing outside the window, the assailant had shot Natabar Nashkar, then left after depositing the pistol on the window sill.

  Hearing quick footsteps behind me, I turned. Shibkali Chakraborty, the manager of the boarding house, was approaching. He had an emaciated frame, he walked with undue haste, his eyes were unnecessarily distraught; when he spoke, he wasn’t satisfied unless he had repeated himself several times. ‘All of you here? Here? What’s the matter? What’s the matter?’ he said when he was near us.

  ‘See for yourself.’ We moved away from the door to give him a clear view. Shibkali-babu jumped out of his skin when he saw the blood-soaked corpse. ‘Oh my god, oh my god. Natabar Nashkar is dead. Blood, blood. How did he die?’

  ‘You can find out for yourself over there,’ I said, pointing at the window.

  ‘Oh god, a pistol, a pistol,’ Shibkali-babu babbled again in terror as soon as he saw the gun. ‘Natabar-babu has been murdered with a pistol. Who murdered him? When was he murdered?’

  ‘I have no idea who murdered him,’ I replied, ‘but I do know when he was murdered. About five minutes ago.’

  I explained everything to him briefly. He stared at the corpse in distress.

  I had not noticed earlier, but suddenly I realized that Shibkali-babu was dressed in a brown shawl. My heart leapt into my mouth. Controlling my palpitations, I said, ‘Weren’t you home? Did you go out?’

  ‘What? Yes I … was out on work,’ he replied in agitation. ‘But … but … what is the way out? What is to be done … what is to be done?’

  ‘The first thing to be done is to inform the police,’ I said.

  ‘True, true,’ responded Shibkali-babu. ‘That’s right, that’s right. But I do not have a telephone. You have a telephone, Ajit-babu, if you could …’

  ‘I shall telephone the police immediately,’ I said. ‘But none of you must enter the room; wait here till the police arrive.’

  I dashed upstairs. As I was about to enter my room I saw my own reflection in the mirror. I was dressed in a brown shawl too.

  We were acquainted with Pranab Guha, the police-inspector in our locality at that time. A competent, middle-aged man, he was not, however, favourably inclined towards Byomkesh. While he did not express his amiability in any manner of harshness of speech or rudeness, he spoke to Byomkesh with excessive obsequiousness, chuckling softly at the end. Possibly their natures were mutually abhorrent; besides, Pranab-babu did not care for the coarse touch of an unofficial hand in official matters.

  Having listened to my account on the telephone, he said sarcastically, ‘Really! A crime in the detective’s den! But when you have Byomkesh-babu there, why do you need me? Let him conduct the investigation.’

  ‘Byomkesh is not in Calcutta,’ I said testily. ‘Had he been here, he would definitely have taken up the case.’

  ‘Oh all right, I’ll come round then,’ said Inspector Pranab. He put the phone down with a chuckle. I went back downstairs.

  Pranab-babu arrived with his entourage half-an-hour later. He chuckled when he caught sight of me, then inspected the corpse gravely. Lifting the pistol gingerly from the window sill, he wrapped it in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Eventually, having dispatched the corpse, he occupied the only chair in the room and proceeded to interrogate all the inmates of the house.

  I told him whatever I knew. I am summarizing the statements of the others—

  Shibkali-babu, the manager, was sworn to a vow of celibacy—a bachelor, in other words. He had been running the boarding house for the past twenty-five years; it was his wife, his child, his family … Natabar Nashkar had taken up residence in this ground floor room three years earlier, and had occupied it ever since. He was approximately fifty years of age, and not given to consorting with the others. Ram-babu and Banamali-babu used to visit him in his room once in a while. Shibkali-babu bore no ill-will towards Natabar Nashkar, for Natabar paid his dues promptly on the first of every month … Shibkali-babu had learnt that afternoon of potatoes being sold cheap at a particular warehouse, so he had gone to the godown to purchase potatoes. But the potatoes had been sold out already, so he had returned empty-handed.

  Bhupesh-babu worked at an insurance office; he had been transferred to Calcutta a month-and-a-half earlier. He was about forty-five, a widower with no children. He had no home to speak of; he had travelled all over the country in course of work. Bhupesh-babu gave an accurate account of how he had gathered a group of people to play bridge, and of that evening’s incidents; he mentioned the man in the brown shawl too. He had not seen the man’s face clearly; from the back you cannot see the face of a man who is running away; so he was unlikely to recognize the man were he to see him again.

  The statements given by
Ramchandra Roy and Banamali Chanda were similar. I observed that although Ram-babu remained composed throughout the questioning, Banamali-babu appeared somewhat perturbed. Both of them used to live in Dhaka earlier, working in the same British firm. Their wives, children and family had all been killed in the riots at the time of the Partition, and they had somehow managed to escape with their lives. Ram-babu was forty-eight years old; Banamali-babu, forty-five. They had lived in this boarding house after crossing over to Calcutta, and worked in a bank. Three years had passed this way.

  They were fond of playing bridge, but had not had an opportunity to play since moving to Calcutta. Bhupesh-babu had made arrangements for bridge in his room a few days earlier, and the evenings had been passing pleasantly since then. Within five minutes of their entering Bhupesh-babu’s room this evening, there was the sound of an explosion in the lane outside … They had been acquainted with Natabar-babu in Dhaka; it had been a slight acquaintance, without any particular closeness. Natabar-babu had worked as an agent for various enterprises in Dhaka. By virtue of living in the same boarding house, they used to meet occasionally; Ram-babu and Banamali-babu would drop in for a chat. They did not know whether Natabar-babu had any other friends … They had seen the man in the brown shawl for a split second in the dim light of dusk at the head of the lane; they would not be able to recognize him again.

  The remaining inmates were unable to reveal anything. A game of dice had been in progress in a room at the other end of the first floor. Four players and four other spectators had been present there; they had not heard the gunshot. No one else in the boarding house had anything more than a nodding acquaintance with Natabar-babu.

  Only the servant Haripada said something that could be either irrelevant or significant. At six in the evening, Suren-babu from the first floor had sent Haripada to the restaurant on the main road to buy some snacks. On his way back through the back lane, Haripada had heard someone murmuring in Natabar-babu’s room. He had been unable to see who was inside because the door had been shut; nor had he recognized the voice. Haripada had noticed this specifically because Natabar-babu did not usually have many visitors. He could not specify the time, but Suren-babu stated clearly that he had asked Haripada to get the snacks at six in the evening.

  In other words, Natabar-babu had had a visitor in his room half an hour before he died. It wasn’t anyone in the boarding house, for no one admitted visiting him. Therefore it had been an outsider. Perhaps it had been the man in the brown shawl. Or some other person altogether; Haripada’s statement proved nothing.

  After he had taken everyone’s testimony, Inspector Pranab said, ‘All of you may leave now, we will search the room. And yes, this is for Ajit-babu and Shibkali-babu—do not attempt to leave Calcutta without my permission until this murder mystery is solved.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘I mean that both you and Shibkali-babu are dressed in brown shawls,’ answered Inspector Pranab. ‘Heh heh. You may leave now.’

  He slammed the door on our faces. We returned to our respective burrows. The game of cards was forgotten.

  The following day passed in inactive tedium. The police made no noise. Inspector Pranab had left the previous evening with some documents after searching Natabar-babu’s room and locking the door. The man was hostile towards us, but he expressed his hostility so courteously that you could say nothing. He knew I had a watertight alibi, but had still used a flimsy pretext to issue instructions forbidding me to leave Calcutta. Since I was a friend of Byomkesh’s, harassing me was his only motive.

  In the morning, the gentlemen at the boarding house all left for their respective offices. No one seemed the slightest bit perturbed. There was no regret amongst any of them for the death by gunshot of a person named Natabar Nashkar, who had lived in the same boarding house for three years. ‘If thou beest born, die thou must’—everyone appeared to harbour a philosophical attitude.

  In the evening I went to Bhupesh-babu’s room. Ram-babu and Banamali-babu had turned up as well. All of us seemed to be lacking in spirit. No one suggested a rubber. Our session broke up after miserably discussing Natabar Nashkar’s death and criticizing the incompetence of the police over a cup of tea.

  As I climbed the stairs, a thought occurred to me. No matter how efficient Inspector Pranab was, he would not be able to solve the mystery of Natabar-babu’s death. Byomkesh wasn’t here; the evening sessions were flagging. It would not be a bad idea to write an account of the entire affair instead of sitting by idly. I would have something to do, and maybe Byomkesh would be able to get to the bottom of the matter if he could read my account when he returned.

  I began writing that very night. Starting at the beginning, I wrote down every last detail from my perspective in a way that would not allow Byomkesh to pick holes in the narrative. I finished writing the next afternoon.

  I may have finished writing, but the story was not finished. Who knew when and where the story of Natabar-babu’s murder would end? Maybe the murderer’s identity would never be known. Feeling somewhat dissatisfied, I had barely lit a cigarette when Byomkesh strolled in holding his suitcase.

  ‘Byomkesh! You’re back!’ I jumped to my feet. ‘So your work’s done?’

  ‘The work’s not even begun,’ Byomkesh said. ‘Two government departments are at loggerheads with each other. Each wants to be the first to lay down its life for the cause. When I saw all this I decided to leave. I’ll go back when they’ve finished battling each other.’

  Hearing Byomkesh’s voice, Satyabati came running, wiping her hand on the end of her sari. They were not newlyweds any more, but even now a joyful light appeared in Satyabati’s eyes when Byomkesh appeared unexpectedly.

  When the couple’s reunion was over I brought up the subject of Natabar’s murder and gave Byomkesh what I had written for him to read. Byomkesh started reading my notes over a cup of tea.

  He returned it to me at six in the evening, saying, ‘So Inspector Pranab has confined you to the city. What the fellow must think of us! We shall meet him tomorrow. Let us go and meet Bhupesh-babu now.’

  I realized the case had intrigued Byomkesh. ‘By all means,’ I said, pleased. ‘We may run into Ram-babu and Banamali-babu too.’

  I took Byomkesh to Bhupesh-babu’s room on the first floor. My assumption had not been incorrect; Ram-babu and Banamali-babu were indeed there. Byomkesh did not have to be introduced to anyone, for everyone knew who he was. Bhupesh-babu welcomed him warmly, and put the kettle on for tea. Ram-babu’s gravity remained intact, but a nervous wariness was occasionally evident in Banamali’s eyes.

  Taking a seat, Byomkesh said, ‘I was once addicted to bridge. Then Ajit taught me chess. But now I no longer enjoy playing.’

  Turning to look at him as he was putting the tea leaves into the boiling water in the kettle, Bhupesh-babu said, ‘Now for only the sport unto death with my life.’

  I was startled to hear Bhupesh-babu quote Rabindranath Tagore. He not only worked at the insurance office but also read poetry!

  ‘Right you are,’ responded Byomkesh quietly. ‘Playing against death all my life has ensured that I can no longer train my mind on light-hearted games.’

  ‘It’s different for you,’ answered Bhupesh-babu. ‘I deal in death too; what else is insurance but the business of death. But I still enjoy bridge.’

  Byomkesh may have been talking to Bhupesh-babu, but his eyes kept drifting towards Ram-babu and Banamali-babu. They sat in silence, unfamiliar with such light but refined conversation.

  Bhupesh-babu brought the cups of tea and a plate of cream crackers. ‘Yours is a different kind of personality too. Bridge is a game for the intelligent; those who are intelligent are naturally attracted to this game. Some people play bridge as a means of respite from the agony of living. Many years ago I knew someone who used to play bridge to forget the agony of his son’s death.’

  Three pairs of eyes turned mechanically towards Byomkesh. No one spoke, all o
f them could only stare in surprise. A heavy silence descended on the room.

  We finished our cups of tea without a word. Then Byomkesh broke the silence and said matter-of-factly, ‘I was in Cuttack, I have only just got back. Ajit informed me of Natabar Nashkar’s death as soon as I arrived. I was not acquainted with Natabar-babu, but the news of his death made me curious. You do not often have a murder on your own doorstep. So I thought of making your acquaintance.’

  ‘How fortunate then that the murder took place,’ said Bhupesh-babu, ‘or else you’d never have graced my room. But I know nothing about Natabar Nashkar. I had never even set eyes on him when he was alive. Ram-babu and Banamali-babu knew him a little.’

  Byomkesh looked at Ram-babu. A shadow of fear seemed to fall over his gravity. He fidgeted, cleared his throat as though about to say something, then shut his mouth. Thereupon Byomkesh turned his glance towards Banamali-babu, saying, ‘I’m sure you know what kind of a man Natabar-babu was.’

  Startled, Banamali-babu stammered, ‘Uh … ar … he wasn’t a bad sort … quite a decent sort, in fact … but …’

  Ram-babu finally regained his power of speech, cutting in on Banamali-babu’s incomplete sentence. ‘Look, we were by no means friends of Natabar-babu’s. But when we lived in Dhaka, he lived next door to us, so we were acquainted. We know nothing about his character.’

  ‘How long ago did you live in Dhaka?’ asked Byomkesh.

  ‘Five or six years ago,’ answered Ram-babu, gulping. ‘Then the Partition riots began, and we came away to West Bengal.’

  ‘So you worked in the same firm in Dhaka?’ Byomkesh asked Banamali-babu.

  ‘Yes we did,’ he answered. ‘You must have heard of Godfrey-Brown; it’s a large British firm. That was where …’

  Before he could finish, Ram-babu suddenly rose from his chair. ‘You haven’t forgotten we have to call on Narayan-babu at seven, have you, Banamali? … We shall take your leave now.’