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 wasmarried 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 wereonce 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
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 wasmarried 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 wereonce 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
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