FOUR

Leaving the house and walking towards the gate, last night’s events came to mind. Dr. Palit’s anxious, searching eyes had followed Shakuntala. He was an experienced doctor; what escaped others’ notice, he had observed. But why had I seen such a shadow of worry and doubt in his eyes? What was he anxious about?

Outside the gate, the doctor was about to get into his car, then—

He returned to us, thoughtful, and said to Pandeyji, “Dipnarayan Babu died by my hand. If you wish to arrest me, I have nothing to say. Now I must go to see my patients. Summon me to the thana whenever you wish, I will present myself.”

Pandeyji said nothing, only smiled a little. The doctor nodded, climbed into his motorcar, and, starting the engine, departed.

Pandeyji glanced at his wristwatch and said, “It’s not yet half past ten. Come, let us go to my house.”

We were about to get into the car when another motorcar pulled up and stopped. An old, rattling Morris, from which alighted the young Dr. Jagannath Prasad. Seeing us, he made a snorting sound, then, frowning at Pandeyji, said, “You here so early in the morning?”

Jagannath spoke lightly, “I was passing this way to see a patient, thought I’d drop in to see Dipnarayanji. How is he?”

Pandeyji replied in an icy, hard voice, “You know very well how he is. Is there any need for this pretense?”

For a moment, Dr. Jagannath was taken aback, then, baring his teeth in an uncivil grin, said, “So what I heard is true—Pannalal Palit gave Dip Babu an injection and killed him.”

Pandeyji, with great effort to control himself, answered in a measured tone, “Dipnarayan Babu is dead. How he died is none of your concern, you are not this house’s doctor. The house is now under police control. Do not attempt to enter without Inspector Ratikanta Chowdhury’s permission.”

Jagannath cast a bold glance at us and said, “I see you too have joined the ranks of the Bengalis. Join if you must, but if you fall ill, don’t go to a Bengali doctor. Remember Dip Babu’s example.”

Before Pandeyji could reply, Jagannath climbed into his own car and, with a rattle and roar, drove away.

I had never seen Pandeyji angry before; now I saw his fair face flush with rage. He made a strangled sound in his throat and got into the car. We followed.

Within ten minutes we reached Pandeyji’s house. He ordered tea, for in the western chill there is no fixed hour for tea-drinking. Then we went to the baithak-khana and took our seats. Pandeyji asked, “What do you think?”

Byomkesh said, “It is murder, certainly—not an accident. The person who did this is extremely cunning. Now the question is, who profits from Dipnarayan Singh’s death?”

Pandeyji replied, “Only Debnarayan stands to gain. Dipnarayan has died without a son, so all the property now goes to him.”

Byomkesh said, “Whether he died without a son is not yet certain—Shakuntala Devi’s child may be his. But perhaps Debnarayan did not know this.”

Pandeyji said, “It is quite possible he did not. Only shortly before his death did Dipnarayan Singh himself perhaps learn the truth.”

Byomkesh shook his head and said, “If he had known, would he have kept quiet? Anyway, let’s suppose he didn’t know, that Shakuntala didn’t tell her husband. Then what does that mean? Debnarayan murdered his uncle out of greed for the entire property. He didn’t do it with his own hands—he doesn’t have the brains for it.”

Pandeyji said, “Last night, when we went to Dipnarayan’s house at a quarter past seven, Debnarayan was at home.”

Byomkesh replied, “With a body like an elephant’s, he surely didn’t go to the doctor’s chamber himself. But someone else could have gone, at the master’s bidding. His cronies—”

Tea arrived. Byomkesh took a small sip from his cup, lit a cigarette, and, his tone tinged with speculative musing, said, “But if Debnarayan didn’t send his uncle on a journey to the Ganges, then who could have done it? Who stands to gain?”

Pandeyji said, “I can’t see anyone else profiting. But that rascal Ghoda Jagannath—there’s nothing he can’t do. They’d do anything to disgrace Bengali doctors.”

Byomkesh smiled. “You seem to have a real grudge against Ghoda Jagannath. They’re all rats and owls, no courage for murder among them. The one who did this has a different nature—bold to the point of recklessness, yet cunning; educated, yet ruthless; versed in science, with some knowledge of medicine—”

Pandeyji said, “Your description fits Ghoda Jagannath to a tee.”

Byomkesh replied, “Ghoda Jagannath’s motive isn’t strong enough. Of course, if he had some other motive, that’s a different matter. Tell me, if you don’t mind—Shakuntala Devi is beautiful and modern, surely she has admirers in Patna?”

Pandeyji said, “Oh, she does. I’ve heard that every evening, two or three wealthy, modern young men would gather for adda at Dipnarayan’s house. Bridge, tea and cake, laughter, songs—that sort of thing. Ghoda Jagannath loves mingling with the rich, he was part of their circle too. But about six months ago, when Dipnarayan fell ill, their gatherings broke up. One or two would drop by now and then to check in. Narmadashankar—”

“Narmadashankar? Who’s he?”

“A rich man’s good-for-nothing son. From Allahabad. Has a zamindari in Bihar. Not just a wastrel—a scoundrel. His name’s in the police records. Once, on a hunting trip, he ran off with a village girl. The affair became quite a scandal, but then he paid off the girl’s father and had the case quashed—”

“Narmadashankar used to visit Dipnarayan Singh’s house?”

“Yes, Narmadashankar is very dapper and polished on the outside, good-looking, smooth talker. But at heart, a thorough rogue.” Pandeyji made a gesture of distaste. “Female independence is all very well, but the trouble is, it’s hard to keep these well-dressed scoundrels at bay.”

“Hmm. Was Shakuntala Devi very close with these people?”