The Rhythm of Riddles: 3 Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Read online

  Ram-babu made a quick exit, with Banamali-babu in tow. Byomkesh turned to watch their act of retreat.

  Bhupesh-babu smiled. ‘Your questions sound innocuous, Byomkesh-babu,’ he said, ‘but Ram-babu’s offended.’

  ‘I cannot understand why,’ answered Byomkesh innocently. ‘Do you have any idea?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Bhupesh-babu shook his head. ‘I was in fact in Dhaka during the riots, but I didn’t know any of them at the time. I know nothing about their past either.’

  ‘You were in Dhaka too during the riots?’

  ‘Yes, I’d been transferred to Dhaka about a year before the riots. I returned after the Partition.’

  Silence reigned for some time. Byomkesh lit a cigarette. Looking at him for a few minutes, Bhupesh-babu asked, ‘Is your story about the man who used to play bridge to forget the pain of losing his son true, Byomkesh-babu?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a true story,’ Byomkesh told him. ‘It happened a long time ago, when I was in college. Why do you ask?’

  Bhupesh-babu did not answer. Instead, he rose and fetched a photograph from his drawer, handing it to Byomkesh. It was a photo of a boy of nine or ten; his face glowing with the brightness of a child. ‘My son,’ Bhupesh-babu mumbled.

  ‘Your son …’ Byomkesh said, raising his eyes from the photograph to look at Bhupesh-babu in anxiety.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Bhupesh-babu shook his head. ‘He had gone to school the day the riots began in Dhaka; he never returned.’

  Breaking the unbearable silence, Byomkesh asked half a question. ‘Your wife …’

  ‘She’s dead too,’ answered Bhupesh-babu. ‘Her heart was weak, she couldn’t bear her son’s death. I neither died, nor succeeded in forgetting. It’s been five or six years, I should have forgotten by now. I go to work, play cards, laugh and joke, but I cannot forget. Is there a medicine to wipe out memories of grief, Byomkesh-babu?’

  ‘Eternity is the only medicine,’ Byomkesh sighed.

  2

  ‘Let us call on Swami Pranabananda,’ said Byomkesh over our morning tea the next day.

  I was already under a pall of gloom after hearing of the tragedy of Bhupesh-babu’s life the previous night; the thought of an encounter with Inspector Pranab depressed me further. ‘Is a meeting with Pranabananda absolutely imperative?’ I enquired.

  ‘Not if you do not wish to be free of police suspicion,’ answered Byomkesh.

  ‘Very well then.’

  Taking the stairs to the first floor at nine-thirty, we observed a lock on Bhupesh-babu’s door. He must have gone to office. Ram-babu and Banamali-babu were emerging from their room in full finery—they retreated on seeing us. Throwing me a sidelong glance, Byomkesh smiled.

  Shibkali-babu was going over the account books in his office downstairs. When he saw Byomkesh he leapt to the door, asking with anguish in his eyes, ‘Byomkesh-babu! When did you return from Cuttack—what time? Have you heard about Natabar Nashkar! And now look, the police have involved me in the case—they’ve involved me.’

  ‘Not just you, they have involved Ajit too,’ said Byomkesh.

  ‘Yes of course, of course. Brown shawl. Ridiculous … ridiculous. You must save us.’

  ‘I shall try.’

  Suddenly stopping on the road, Byomkesh said, ‘Come, let us take a look at the lane.’

  He was referring to the lane that ran past our home, the one down which the man in the brown shawl had escaped after shooting Natabar-babu. It was so narrow that two people couldn’t walk abreast in it. We entered the lane in single file. Byomkesh advanced slowly, his eyes fixed on the paved surface. I didn’t know what he had in mind, but it was rather far-fetched to expect clues to the murder three days afterwards.

  The window to Natabar-babu’s room was shut. Pausing before it, Byomkesh trained his probing eyes on the paved surface of the lane. The window was at a height of four feet from the ground; it would be easy to fire into the room if the shutters were open.

  ‘What’s that stain?’

  Following the direction of Byomkesh’s finger, I observed a discoloured mark on the ground; star shaped, with a diameter of about three inches. The lane was swept from time to time, but despite the urgency of all the cleaning, the stain had not been obliterated. It appeared to be two or three days old.

  ‘What is that stain?’ I asked.

  Without answering, Byomkesh suddenly lowered himself to the ground like someone doing push-up exercises and planted his nose on the stain. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked in surprise. ‘Why are you rubbing your nose on the ground?’

  ‘I was not rubbing my nose,’ said Byomkesh, back on his feet. ‘I was sniffing it.’

  ‘Sniffing it! How does it smell?’

  ‘You can sniff if too if you’d like to know.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Then let us go to the police station.’

  Leaving the lane behind us, we went off towards the police station. I glanced at Byomkesh once or twice out of the corner of my eyes, but it wasn’t clear whether he had discovered anything after sniffing the road.

  Inspector Pranab was lording it over the police station. He was, on the whole, of pleasing appearance, medium build, and not too dark a complexion; the only flaw was that he was barely five feet three inches in height.

  At the sight of Byomkesh walking in, his eyes first expressed surprise, followed by feigned humility. ‘Byomkesh-babu!’ he exclaimed. ‘How fortunate I am to be in your august company first thing in the morning. Hehe.’

  ‘I am no less fortunate,’ countered Byomkesh. ‘The scriptures clearly state the outcome of seeing a dwarf in the morning—you are freed from the cycle of rebirth.’

  Inspector Pranab was taken aback. Byomkesh had always ignored his jibes, but today he was in a different frame of mind. Unprepared for a riposte, Pranab-babu said glumly, ‘I admit my appearance does not resemble a lamppost.’

  ‘You have no choice but to admit it,’ Byomkesh smiled. ‘Lampposts have lights on their heads; that is where they differ from you.’

  Pranab-babu’s face fell. Forcing out a laugh, he said, ‘I can’t help it; not everyone is so bright inside their heads, after all. Was there anything you needed?’

  ‘Of course there is,’ said Byomkesh. ‘First, I have marched Ajit to the police station to prove to you that he is not absconding. You may rest assured that he is under my surveillance; he will not be able to escape under my nose.’

  Pranab-babu attempted a disarming laugh. ‘I do not know what the Commissioner will say if he learns that you have restrained Ajit from leaving the city,’ Byomkesh continued without mercy, ‘but I would certainly like to know. We have courts of law in this country; even police officers can be punished for unnecessarily interfering with individual freedom. But still, all that can come later. My second question is whether you have been able to gather any information concerning Natabar Nashkar’s death.’

  Pranab-babu debated whether to answer this question rudely. But realizing that it would not be wise to antagonize Byomkesh in his current frame of mind, he answered calmly, ‘Do you have any idea of the population of Calcutta, Byomkesh-babu?’

  ‘I have never counted,’ answered Byomkesh contemptuously. ‘Probably five million or so.’

  ‘Let’s say it is five million,’ said Pranab-babu. ‘Is it a simple task to apprehend an individual in a brown shawl from these teeming millions? Can you do it?’

  ‘I might be able to if I have all the information.’

  ‘Although it is against our rules to share information with outsiders, I can tell you all I know.’

  ‘Very well, do so. Has Natabar Nashkar’s family been located?’

  ‘No. We had advertised in the papers, but no one has come forward.’

  ‘What did the postmortem reveal?’

  ‘The bullet penetrated the ribs to enter the heart. The bullet was matched with the gun; it was the same pistol.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He was qu
ite healthy, but on the verge of developing cataract in his eyes.’

  ‘Who’s the owner of the pistol?’

  ‘It’s an American army pistol, available on the black market. There’s no way in which to identify the owner.’

  ‘Did you discover anything significant when you searched the room?’

  ‘All the relevant items are there on that table. A diary, about five rupees in cash, a bank passbook, and a true copy of a court judgement. You may take a look if you like.’

  There was a table in the corner of the room. Byomkesh went up to it, but I did not. Inspector Pranab was not a decent sort; an unpleasant situation would arise if he objected. From my chair, I saw Byomkesh examine the bank passbook, leaf through the diary, and read the court document with the judicial stamp carefully. ‘I have seen all I had to,’ he said on his return.

  By then, the devil in Inspector Pranab had awoken again. Peering at Byomkesh, he said, ‘You saw exactly what I did. Have you got to know the name and address of the culprit?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ Byomkesh told him.

  ‘Really!’ exclaimed Pranab-babu, his eyebrows shooting skywards. ‘So soon! You’re incredibly clever! Would you be so good as to reveal the culprit’s name, so that I may arrest him?’

  ‘I shall not reveal the culprit’s name to you, Pranab-babu,’ Byomkesh said, tightening his jaw. ‘That is my own discovery. You are paid a salary for your work; you will have to find out on your own. But I can offer you some help. Search the lane running beside the building.’

  ‘Has the culprit left his footprint in there! Hehe.’

  ‘No he has left a mark even more incriminating … One more thing. I shall be taking Ajit to Cuttack with me in a few days. Stop him if you dare … Come, Ajit.’

  ‘Have you really identified the culprit?’ I asked in excitement when we left the police station.

  ‘I had identified him even before we came to the police station,’ Byomkesh nodded, ‘but Inspector Pranab is a good-for-nothing. He is not unintelligent, but his intelligence is destructive. He will never be able to get to the bottom of Natabar’s murder mystery.’

  ‘Who murdered Natabar Nashkar? Was it someone we know?’ I asked.

  ‘I shall tell you later. For now, let me tell you that Natabar Nashkar was a blackmailer by profession. You had better go back home, I am going to the city. Godfrey-Brown has a large office here in Calcutta too. I might get some information there. It may be some time before I am back.’ He left with a wave.

  I returned home alone. It was 1.30 by the time Byomkesh came back.

  ‘You have to do something for me,’ he said after his bath and lunch. ‘You have to invite Ram-babu, Banamali-babu and Bhupesh-babu to tea. We shall gather here in this room this evening.’

  ‘Very well. But what’s going on? Why did you go to the Godfrey-Brown office?’

  ‘There was a court judgement among Natabar Nashkar’s belongings at the police station. When I read it I discovered that two brothers named Rashbehari Biswas and Banabehari Biswas were the treasurer and assistant-treasurer, respectively, at the Dhaka office of Godfrey-Brown. They were caught embezzling funds seven years ago. They were taken to court. Banabehari was sentenced to two years’ imprisonment, and Rashbehari, to three. Natabar Nashkar had got hold of this judgement. Then his diary revealed that he used to get eighty rupees every month from Rashbehari and Banabehari Biswas. I went to Godfrey-Brown to verify the misappropriation of funds. It is true. I had no more doubts that Natabar was blackmailing them.’

  ‘But … Rashebehari, Banabehari … who are they? Where will you find them?’

  ‘They aren’t far away; you only have to go as far as Room No. 3.’

  ‘What! Ram-babu and Banamali-babu!’

  ‘Yes. You came close to the truth. They are not just related, they are brothers. To honour the idiom, you could say they are not just brothers-in-arms but also thick as thieves.’

  ‘But … but … they could not have murdered Natabar. When Natabar was killed they were …’

  ‘Patience,’ said Byomkesh, raising his hand. ‘You shall hear the whole story at tea.’

  A variety of snacks bought from the Marwari store and tea had been prepared to entertain the guests. Bhupesh-babu was the first to arrive. Dressed in a dhoti and kurta, he had a folded grey shawl over his shoulder and an eager smile on his face. ‘Have you made arrangements for bridge too?’ he asked.

  ‘We can make arrangements if everyone wants to play,’ Byomkesh replied.

  Ram-babu and Banamali-babu arrived a little later, their coats buttoned up to their necks, their eyes wary. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Byomkesh.

  Byomkesh led a witty conversation over the tea and snacks. I observed after some time that Ram-babu and Banamali-babu had shed their stiffness. Feeling quite at ease, they were participating in the exchanges.

  After twenty minutes or so, when the snacks were exhausted, Ram-babu lit a cigar; offering Bhupesh-babu a cigarette, Byomkesh then held the tin out to Banamali-babu. ‘One for you, Banabehari-babu?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t smoke …’ said Banamali-babu, and turned pale. ‘Er … my name …’

  ‘The two of you are brothers, and I know your real names—Rashbehari and Banabehari Biswas.’ Byomkesh sat down in his chair. ‘Natabar Nashkar was blackmailing you. You were paying him eighty rupees a month …’

  Rashbehari and Banabehari had turned to blocks of wood. Lighting his own cigarette, Byomkesh spoke as he blew the smoke out, ‘Natabar Nashkar was a devil. When he was in Dhaka, he was to all appearances an agent, but behind that façade he was a blackmailer whenever he had the opportunity. When the two of you went to jail, he procured a copy of the court judgement, keeping future possibilities in mind. His plan was to wait till you had got jobs again after your release and then start sucking your blood.

  ‘Then the Partition took place. Natabar could no longer continue his business in Dhaka, he escaped to Calcutta. But he did not know too many people here; there was no opportunity to pursue either his legal or his illegal profession as there was no one suitable for blackmailing. His business reached a low ebb. He took a room in this boarding house, surviving on whatever little money he had managed to bring.

  ‘While he was here, he suddenly saw the two of you one day and recognized you. You lived in the same boarding house. On making enquiries, he discovered that you were working at a bank under false identities. Natabar Nashkar found a channel for earning. God seemed to have trussed up the two of you and delivered you to him.

  ‘Pay up, or else I will reveal your real identities to the bank, Natabar told you. Helpless, you began paying him every month. Not a large sum, admittedly, only eighty rupees. But not bad for Natabar—at least it paid for his accommodation and food.

  ‘So it went on. The two of you had no peace, nor could you escape Natabar’s clutches. Your only hope lay in his death.’

  Byomkesh paused. Breaking the breathless silence, Banabehari burst out, ‘I beg of you Byomkesh-babu, we didn’t kill Natabar Nashkar. We were in Bhupesh-babu’s room when he was killed.’

  ‘That is true.’ Leaning back in his chair, Byomkesh said carelessly, ‘I do not care who killed Natabar. Only the police do. But the two of you work at a bank. If there is ever a discrepancy in the accounts I shall be forced to reveal your true identities.’

  ‘There will be no discrepancy in the bank’s accounts,’ Ram-babu aka Rashbehari-babu finally spoke. ‘We will not repeat our mistake.’

  ‘Excellent. Ajit and I shall remain silent in that case.’ Byomkesh looked at Bhupesh-babu. ‘What about you?’

  A strange smile flitted across Bhupesh-babu’s face. ‘I shall remain silent too,’ he said softly. ‘Not a word shall escape my lips.’

  The room was silent for some time after this. Then Ram-babu rose, speaking with his palms joined together, ‘We shall never forget your generosity. May we leave now? I am not feeling very well.’

  ‘You may.’ Byomkesh saw them to the door, then
came back after shutting it.

  I saw Bhupesh-babu smiling at Byomkesh. Byomkesh returned his smile. ‘I did not know there was an illicit connection between Natabar Nashkar and Ram-babu and Banamali-babu. That is a coincidence. You have probably unravelled everything, have you not?’

  ‘Not everything, but the sum of it,’ Byomkesh sighed deeply.

  ‘Why don’t you tell the story? If I have anything to add I shall do so afterwards.’

  Giving Bhupesh-babu a cigarette and lighting one for himself, Byomkesh looked at me and began to speak, slowly. ‘You wrote an account of Natabar’s death. When I read it, I was struck by a doubt. The sound of a pistol being fired is never so loud. This seemed to be the sound of a shotgun, or a bomb bursting. Yet Natabar had been killed by a pistol shot.

  ‘You had noticed the similarity in appearance between Ram-babu and Banamali-babu. When I spoke to them, they appeared to be concealing something. Since they used to frequent Natabar’s room, I became curious about them.

  ‘But they were in Bhupesh-babu’s room on the first floor when the gunshot was heard. The atmosphere in Bhupesh-babu’s room was peaceful, normal. He was in his own room; at 6.25 Rashbehari and Banabehari came for the game of bridge. But the game could not begin till Ajit had arrived. A couple of minutes later Ajit’s sandals were heard flapping on the stairs. Bhupesh-babu rose and opened the window looking out on the lane. At once there was an explosion. Rashbehari and Banabehari went up to the window. “There … there … he ran out of the lane just this minute, did you see him? He had a brown shawl on …” Bhupesh-babu exclaimed.

  ‘There were several people walking past the lane on the main road. Rashbehari and Banabehari assumed one of them had just run out of the lane. They were left in no doubt that Bhupesh-babu was right. It is possible to induce such mistakes if you want to.

  ‘Later the pistol was found on the window sill of Natabar’s room. Naturally the question arises, why had the assailant left the pistol behind? There was no justifiable reason. I suspected that there was serious deception at work behind this apparently simple occurrence.